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BENTLEY'S 


MISCELLANY. 


VOL.  XVIII. 


LONDON: 
RICHARD     BENTLEY 

NEW  BURLINGTON  STREET. 
1845. 


Stanford  Li-;:r,    !^ 

0^/77 


LONDON : 
I'RINTRD  Ur  R.  AND  J.  BBNTLIT,  WJLSON,  AND  PLRY, 
Baniror  House,  Shoe  Lane. 


13 


tl'r: 


53 


CONTENTS. 


by  William  Jones, 


30,  1S6, 


SB4, 


241 


The  Marchioness  of  Brinvilliers,  the  Poisoner  of  the  Seventeenth 
Century,  by  Albert  Smith,    .  1,  105,  209,  317, 

Literary  Retrospects  by  a  Middle  Aged  Man : — 

Thomas  Campbell, 

John  Gait, 

Dr.  Maiipnn,     . 
Laud  ye  the  Monks, 
Thou  art  sleeping,  brother, 
To  the  Evening  Star, 
Who  loves  thee  not,  Agnes  ? 
I  am  not  always  happy. 
The  Death  of  the  Youngest^ 
Powerscourt,  a  ballad, 
The  old  Farm-house, 
Come  down  in  the  deep  with  me. 
The  ancient  Church, 
The  Sorrows  of  the  Poor, 
The  Flower  of  the  Fold, . 
The  old  Ebn-tree, 
The  withered  Rose, 
Woman, 

The  lone  Churchyard, 
Outpourings,  by  D.  Canter, 
Song  to  the  God  of  Wine,  by  C.  H.  Langhorne, 
Christening  of  the  Villa, 

Early  Years  of  a  Veteran  of  the  Army  of  Westphalia,  45,  203, 
To  the  Spirit  of  the  Flowers,  Ikt,  h  n  ir 

W^hy  is  the  sky  so  brightly  blue  ?  /  oy  n.  u  n.. 

Ennobled  Actresses,  by  Mrs.  Mathews  - — 

The  Countess  of  Derby, 

The  C4>untetiH  of  Craven,   .... 

Lady  Thurlow,  .... 

The  Duchess  of  St.  Albans, 
Sketches  of  Legendary  Cities,  by  Miss  Costello  : — 

Colchester,  ..... 

Derby, ....... 

Recollections  of  Rifleman  Harris,  edited  by  Henry  Curling  :- 

Retreat  to  Corunna,    ..... 
The  old  House  in  the  Gungate,        .... 
Glimpses  and  Mysteries,  by  Alfred  Crowquill : — 

The  new  Neighbourhood,        .... 

The  good-natured  Woman,  .... 

The  Apparition,  ..... 

The  young  Gentleman  who  never  did  anything,  . 

The  Old  Woman  at  the  Corner, 
The  Gaol  Chaplain ;  or,  a  Dark  Page  from  Life's  Volume : — 

Do  the  murdered  rest  ?      . 

The  new  Magistrate,  ..... 

The  Lady  Thief,     ...... 

The  Jew  with  reference  to  Society,    . 

The  Court  Physician,         ..... 

A  trait  of  Sydney  Smith,         .... 

The  resistless  Foe, ...... 

Too  much  Doctor,        .... 

Mrs.  Fry,  ...... 

The  Avenger's  Witness  against  Murder, 


PAGE 

425,529 

17 
285 

.  587 

29 

12.$ 

.  171 

248 

.  255 

271 

.  284 

.  297 

.  316 

372 

.  385 

468 

.  478 

497 

.  508 

586 

376,  477 

37 

38 

509,622 

53 

182 

54 

249 

.  251 

601 

62 
.  341 

74 
80 

90 
266 

.  403 
517 

.  627 

95 
.  191 

310 
.  312 

358 
.  469 

471 
.  560 

561 
.  563 


iv 


CONTENTS. 


jbyW.Y.  B. 


The  Elves  in  Windsor  Forest, 

Ode  to  Love, 

Story  of  a  lecture,  by  Mrs.  Romer,        .  .  . 

Gathering  from  the  Greek  Poets — Endurance, 

by  the  Rev.  W.  B.  Flower 
Mary  Queen  of  Scots  and  Lord  Brougham,       .... 

Summer  Birds,  by  Martingale,         .... 

The  Adept,  by  Dalton,   ...... 

The  Penalty  after  Death,      ..... 

The  Rev.  R.  H.  Barham,  ..... 

As  I  laye  a-thynkynge,  by  Thomas  Ingoldsby, 
A  Curvet  or  two  in  the  Career  of  Tom  ) 

Wilkins,  .  > by  Charles  Whitehead, 

Dick  Sparrow's  Evening ''Out,"  J     . 

Voltaire  to  the  Queen  of  Prussia,  by  G.  T.  F.  . 
Othryades,  by  G.  J.  Barker,  .... 

A  Press-gang  Hero,  by  Robert  Postans, 

To  Janet,  by  Miss  Costello,^  .... 

The  Opal  Set, 

Gaming,  Gaming-houses,  and  Gamesters,  333, 

The  Black  Prophet,    ...... 

The  Mermaid's  Home,  by  R.  F. 

The  little  Velvet  Shoes,  bv  F.  P.  Palmer,    . 

The  Railway  Queen,  by  the  Irish  Whiskey-Drinker,  . 

The  Bridal  of  Manstone  Court,  by  Henry  Curling, 

The  unfinished  Picture,  by  Charles  Kenney,    . 

The  Dream  of  a  Family  Man,  by  Joseph  Mayew,   . 

Young  Ladi^Keir  idiosyncracies,  |  ^^  ^^«"^d  ^Uve, 
Brian  O'Linn  ;  or.  Luck  is  everything. 

by  the  Author  of  Wild  Sports  of  the  West, 
Samuel  Russell,  ....... 

A  Leaf  out  of  my  Book,  by  Trotcosey, 

How  Mr.  Stubby  did  not  dance  with  the  Queen  at  the  opening  of 

Lincoln's  Inn  Hall,  by  a  Law  Student, 
The  Way  of  the  World,  by  J.  W.  Grylls, 
The  King  of  Clubs,  bv  Paul  Prendergast, 
Memoir  of  Albert  Smith, 
Railroads  now  are  all  the  rage. 


PAGE 

121 
373 
143 

156 
157 
167 
179 
183 
198 
201 


.    229 

493 
•     237 

238 
.     256 

265 

298 
489,  593 

353 
.     357 

365 
.     386 

394 
.     411 

445 
.     455 

569 

479,  576 

.     523 

525 


553 
592 
613 
620 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

The  Escape  of  Lachauas^e  prevented  by  Benoit, 

The  Assassination, 

St.  Croix  surprised  by  Ezili, 

The  Story  of  a  Picture, 

Portrait  of  Rev.  R.  H.  Barham, 

The  Death  of  St.  Croix, 

The  Count  settles  with  Mr.  Lazarus, 

The  Arrest  of  Exili, 

The  little  Velvet  Shoes, 

Arrest  of  the  Marchioness, 

Dick  Sparrow's  Evening  out. 

The  Marchioness  going  to  Execution, 

Portrait  of  Albert  Smith,      . 


5  ♦ 
86  * 
112  • 
144* 
198  « 
219' 
304' 
324 
371  * 
442  ' 
504' 
529   • 
619  ' 


BENTLEY'S  MISCELLANY. 


THE  MARCHIONESS  OP  BRINVILLIERS, 

THE  POISONER  OP  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY, 

A  BOMANOE  OF  OLD  PARIS. 

BY  AliBEBT  SMITH. 

[with   ax   illustration   BT  J.  LEECH.] 

CHAPTBB   XIX. 

The  mischief  still  thickens  on  all  sides. 

HcTBRiBDLY  88  Fran9oi8  d'Aubrav  ascended  the  staircase^  yet  the 
others  found  time  to  receive  him  with  due  effect.  Oaudin  retreated 
within  the  lumbering  piece  of  furniture  that  took  up  half  one  side. 
of  the  room ;  Exili  resumed  his  attitude  of  attention  to  the  chemical 
preparations  going  on ;  and  Lachaussee^  burying  his  features  still 
deeper  in  his  capuchin  cowl,  hastily  lighted  a  rude  lamp  standing 
on  a  tripod  near  the  table^  which,  trimmed  with  some  medicated 
spirit,  burnt  with  a  ghastly  flame  that  threw  a  cadaverous  and  al- 
most unearthly  light  upon  the  countenances  of  those  who  turned 
their  faces  towards  it. 

**  I  am  before  my  time,"  said  Francois,  as  he  entered  the  room ; 
"it  yet  wants  a  good  half-hour  to  curfew." 

"We  are  at  your  service,"  replied  Exili ;  "my  assistant  told  me 
we  might  expect  you.  Monsieur  d'Aubray." 

"  You  know  me,  then  !  "  exclaimed  the  other  with  surprise. 

"  'So  more  than  I  am  acquainted  with  every  one  else  who  comes 
to  seek  ray  aid,*'  answered  the  physician  calmly.  "  I  should  lay 
small  claim  to  my  title  of  astrologer,  if  I  could  not  divine  the  posi- 
tion or  desires  of  my  clients." 

"  Then  you  know  my  business  here  this  evening  ?" 

"  Part  has  been  told  me,"  said  Exili ;  "  part,  and  the  most  im- 
portant, I  can  read  here." 

From  a  small  china  cup  he  took  some  noisome  black  unguent, 
with  which  he  smeared  his  hands,  and  held  them  in  the  light  of  the 
coloured  flame.  Then  tracing  (or  pretending  to  do  so)  certain 
things  delineated  on  the  compound,  he  continued, 

"  I  see  Notre  Dame  by  night,  and  a  duel  being  fought  on  the 
Terrain,  between  yourself  and  one  they  call  Gaudin  de  Sainte-Croix. 
You  wound  him  —  he  leaves  with  his  Umoin  in  a  boat,  and  you  re- 
turn to  the  Hotel  d'Aubray." 

"  Well  ?"  asked  Francois,  eagerly  gazing  at  Exili  with  breathless 
attention. 

"  Well,"  echoed  the  physician,  "  your  sister,  Madame  de  Brinvil- 
liers,  is  awaiting  your  return.  You  have  words  together ;  and  she 
is  determined  not  to  give  up  her  lover,  your  late  antagonist " 

"Is  that  known  also?"  asked  Francois  in  a  tone  of  mortification. 

"  More  by  common  report  than  by  my  magic,"  said  Exili.  "  WaWL 

YOI«.  XYIII.  B 


THE    MARCHIONESS   OF    BRINVILLIERS* 


on  the  quays  and  carrefours  and  listen  to  what  the  people  say,  if 
you  doubt  rae." 

''  Go  on — go  on,"  exclaimed  the  other. 

"I  see  no  more,"  replied  the  physician  ;  ''all  else  has  been  told 
me  by  mortal  lips.  You  wish  to  stop  this  liaison,  witliout  totally 
crushing  your  sister  together  with  iL     Is  it  not  so  ?*' 

"  You  are  correct.  1  do  not  wish  IMadame  de  Brinvilliers  to  fall 
so  utterly  ;  but  Sainte-Croix's  influence  with  her  must  be  put  an 
end  to/' 

'*  The  means  are  simple/*  replied  Exili. 

*<  I  know  what  you  would  say,"  interrupted  D'Aubray  ;  "  you 
would  have  me  exercise  the  most  cursed  power  you  have  at  yot>r 
command — that  of  poison.  No,  physician — I  am  no  murderer.  If 
I  meet  Sainte-Croix  aj^ain  in  fair  %ht,  I  might  deal  less  gently 
with  him  ;  but  if  he  fell,  it  should  be  in  equal  combat/' 

"  You  spoke  too  hurriedly/'  continued  Exili.  "  I  would  suggest 
the  glance  of  an  evil  eye,  or  some  philtre  that  might  draw  his  aflec- 
tions  away,  and  disgust  his  present  mistress.  Here  is  such  a  one, 
unless  you  would  have  him  blightud  by  my  glance, " 

He  fixed  his  eyes  upon  D'Atibray  with  such  a  terrible  expression, 
that  Francois  firmly  believed  the  power  rested  in  them  which  he 
vaunted.  He  returned  no  answer,  but  stretched  out  his  hand  Tor 
the  small  phial  that  Exili  held  towards  him, 

"Now,  &eek  the  fairest  dame  galiinte  that  you  can  find,  who  would 
have  an  officer  of  the  Normandy  cavalry  for  her  lover,  and  bid  her 
drink  it — fearlessly,  for  it  is  harmless.  Gaud  in  da  Sainte- Croix  will 
be  in  her  toils  from  that  instant.  The  whirlpool  of  passion  will  drag 
him  round  faster  and  faster  in  its  eddies,  until  he  is  lost ;  for  in  per- 
dition alone  can  an  attachment  formed  on  passion  entl,"  | 

*"  Is  thei^e  any  one  above  another  to  whom  I  should  give  the 
draught?'*  asked  D'Aubray, 

*'  'Tis  immaterial/'  replied  Exili ;  *'  there  is  no  lack  of  such  beau- 
ties at  present  in  our  gay  city.  Seek,  if  to-morrow  be  fine,  and  you 
will  find  a  score  upon  the  Pont  Neuf  to  serve  your  turn.  If  not, 
Marotte  Dupre,  La  Dumenil,  La  Varenne — pshaw  i  even  Monte^pan 
herself,  in  all  the  plumage  of  her  last  triumph,  if  you  choose  to  fly 
at  such  high  game/' 

D'Aubray  placed  some  pieces  of  gold  on  the  table,  and  rose  to 
depart,  taking  the  potion  with  him.  Exili  also  got  up  from  the  seat 
at  the  same  time,  as  he  said, 

'*  Stay — ^let  me  light  you  down.  The  stairs  are  old  and  crumbling, 
and  the  passage  obscure/* 

He  took  the  lamp  from  the  table,  and,  preceding  his  guest,  led  the 
way  down  the  staircase.  As  they  reached  the  street-door,  he  said 
hurriedly  to  D'Aubray, 

"Your  hatred  of  Sainte-Croix  cannot  be  deadlier,  fiercer  than  mv 
own.     Be  satisfied  with  knowing  that,  should  the  philtre  fail,  his 

lys  are  numbered.'* 

He  watched  the  retreating  form  of  Francois  D'Aubray  until  it 
St  in  the  obscurity  of  the  Rue  de  THirondelle,  and  then  re- 
I  back  to  his  apartment, 

ite-Croix  had  emerged  from  his  place  of  concealment,  and  was 
on  versing  with  Lachaussee,  Tneir  talk  ceased  suddenly  as 
entered;  but  there  was  an  air  of  excitement  about  both,  as 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OP    BRINVILLIERS. 


though  they  had  been  engaged  in  a  warm,  though  brief,  argument. 
Gauciin's  face  was  flushed,  his  brow  knit,  and  his  breathing  forcible 
and  hurried;  whilst  Lac  ha  ussee  was  compressing  his  under-lip  forci- 
bly against  his  teeth »  as  he  caressed  the  mastiff  with  his  foot, — 
merely,  however,  with  the  pretence  of  doing  something,  for  his  eye 
Iwaa  fixed  on  Sainte-Croix  with  no  very  blcind  expression. 

The  quick  glance  of  Exili  detected  that  they  had  been  interrupted 
|in  some  earnest  conversation.  He,  liowever,  took  no  notice  of  it. 
6ainte-Croix  took  his  departure  as  soon  as  he  imagined  Francois 
D*Aubray  was  out  of  the  way  ;  and  Exili  extinguished  the  fire  in 
bis  small  furnace,  and  also  prepared  to  leave  the  room. 

*'  I  shall  go  to  rest,"  he  said  to  his  assistant.     ''  The  only  other 
^visitor  we  expect  to-night  will  be  content  with  your  augury.     See 
"  at  he  pays,  however ;  and,  after  you  have  got  all  you  can  by  agree- 
mentj  see  what  else  can  be  wrung  from  him  by  fear." 

He  gathere<l  a  few  articles  together,  and  left  the  chamber,  pro- 
ceeding to  the  one  immediately  over  it»  where  hh  slow  and  measured 
tre&d  could  soon  be  heard  pacing  the  old  and  ill-secured  floor  ere  he 
retired  to  bed. 

Lachaussee  remained  for  a  few  minutes  after  he  left  in  deep  re- 
flection, from  which  he  was  aroused  by  the  sound  of  the  curfew,  as 
the  adjacent  bell  of  Notre  Dame,  on  the  other  side  the  left  branch  of 
the  Seine,  swung  its  booming  echoes  over  the  dreary  precincts  of 
the  Hue  de  THirondelle.  It  had  not  ceased  when  the  restless  man- 
ner of  the  mastilf  betokened  the  arrival  of  another  stranger.  A 
growl  was  followed  by  a  deep  hoarse  bark,  and  the  beaat  rose  from 
his  crouching  position  at  the  feet  of  Lachaussee,  and  shambled 
foond  the  room  with  the  gait  oi'  some  huge  wild  animal ;  his  strange 
1-gear  giving  him  the  appearance  in  the  obscurity  of  a  super- 
ian  monster.  At  a  word  from  Lachaus&ee  the  mastiff'  returned 
and  resumed  his  place  ;  and,  after  a  blundering  noise  up  the  stair- 
case, mingled  with  a  few  oaths  from  the  new  comer,  the  door  opened, 
and  no  less  a  personage  entered  the  room  than  honest  Benoit,  the 
naater  of  the  mi  IK  boat  at  the  Pont  Notre  Dame. 

Ijacbaussee  pulled  his  cowl  closer  over  his  head  than  ever  as  the 
visitor  advanced,  apparently  in  great  awe,  and  making  numberless 
obeisances  as  he  approached. 

•*  You  made  an  appointment  here  this  evening,"  j?aid  Lacliaussee 
in  a  feigned  voice,  *'  touching  some  theft  committed  at  your  mill/' 

*^  I  did,  most  infernal    seigneur/*  replied   Benoit,  searching  for 
Aome  term  of  appropriate  respect.     *'  That  is — my  wife,  Blonsieur — 
'  Mooae^tieur — Bathilde  would  have  nie  come,  and  never  let  me  have 
^  m»f  raat  until  I  did,  though  she  is  not  often  so  fidgety/' 
"  And  wliat  does  she  want  to  know  ?" 

**  Mass  I  she  told  me  to  ask  more  things  than  I  can  recoil trct, 
when  she  found  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  come*  Woman's  cu- 
^  rioaity,  Monsieur — nothing  more.  She  would  have  known  who  the 
young  gallant  is  that  spends  all  his  time  talking  to  the  pretty  wife 
pf  Pierre  Huchet  when  he  is  on  guard  as  a  good  bourgeois  ; — and 
why  the  Veuve  Boidart  always  goes  to  mass  at  St,  Jacques  la  Bou- 
ehrrie,  living,  as  she  does,  in  the  Rue  de  la  Harpe ;— and  if  it  was 
the  students  or  the  Bohemians,  or  botli  together,  who  stole  the 
gilded  weathercock  from  our  mill-boat,  which  was  given  to  me  by 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OF    BRINYILLTEHS, 


Monsieyr  le  Rouge,  and  belonged  to  the  ionreiie  of  the  Grand  Cha- J 

tekt  that  tumbled  down  the  other  day."  j 

•'  You  had  belter  look  for  it  amongst  the  scholars  of  Mazarin  and 
Cluny,  than  in  the  Cours  des  Miracles,"  replied  Lachaussee.  **  But 
this  is  not  all?" 

**  She — in  fact,  I  may  say  rt>e"  continued  Benoit,  "were  moat 
anxious  to  know  what  has  becorae  of  a  fellow-coyntrywoman,  one 
Louise  Oauthier,  who  has,  we  iear,  fallen  into  bad  hands.     She  wa«  I 
living  with  iVfadame  Scarron,  but  has  not  been  beard  of  since  th^j 
fT'te  at  Versailles." 

'*  What  fee  can  you  pay  to  learn ?"  asked  Lachaussee,  "At  thit 
season  the  rulers  of  the  planets  require  to  be  propitiated,  and  the 
sacrifices  are  expensive/' 

**  There  are  two  good  livres/'  said  Benoit,  laying  the  pieces  down 
on  the  tiible.  "  You  should  have  more  if  I  had  earned  them ;  but 
times  are  bad  for  us  poor  workpeople.'* 

"You  have  no  more  than  this?"  imjuircd  Lachaussee. 

"  Not  a  sou ;  and  Bathilde  will  have  to  go  without  her  lace  cap 
against  her  fr^te-day  as  it  is.  If  I  had  more  I  would  give  it  to  you, 
so  long  as  you  tell  me  of  Louise  Ganthier." 

Lachaussee  perceived  the  Languedocian  spoke  honestly.  Convinced 
that  he  saw  the  extent  of  his  wealth  before  him,  he  made  some  pre- 
parations for  his  pretended  incaiitatifm  ;  and,  taking  a  bottle  of  spirit 
from  Exili's  table,  he  poured  it  on  the  expiring  flame  in  the  tripod, 
which  was  leaping  up  in  intermittent  flashes,  as  if  about  to  go  out 
altogether. 

But,  as  he  bent  over  the  lamp,  in  the  carelessness  of  the  moment 
he  used  more  of  the  medicated  alcohol  than  was  needed,  U  fired 
up,  and,  catching  the  vapour  from  the  bottle,  communicated  with 
the  contents,  causing  tlie  flask  to  explode  violently.  Lachaussee 
started  back,  as  a  cloud  of  flame  rose  almost  in  his  face.  As  it  was, 
it  laid  hold  of  his  cowl,  which  was  immediately  on  fire.  Heedless 
of  being  on  his  guard,  in  the  fright  and  danger  of  the  moment  he 
threw  it  off,  and  his  well-known  features  met  the  astonished  gaze  of 
Benoit,  who  was  in  no  less  a  state  of  alarm  than  the  pretended  sor- 
cerer. But,  as  he  recognised  the  ex-superintendent  of  the  Gobelins, 
his  common  sense  came  back  in  great  strength,  to  the  discomfiture 
of  his  belief  in  the  supernatural*  The  alarm  finished  with  the  ex^ 
plosion  ;  but  lienoit  immediately  exclaimed, 

"  I  think  we  have  met  before — in  the  catacombs  of  the  Bievre!  " 

Lachausst'C  had  been  so  taken  by  surprise,  that  for  a  few  seconds 
he  made  no  reply;  whilst  Benoit's  fingers  were  working  as  though  he 
clutched  an  imaginary  stick,  and  intended  to  use  it.  All  his  respect 
for  tJie  magician  had  vanished  in  his  desire  to  chastise  Lacliaussee. 

"Concealment  is  no  longer  needful,"  at  hngth  he  observed. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Benoit,  as  he  swept  the  pieces  of  money  from 
the  table,  and  put  them  in  his  pocket  again.  "  I  know  now  how 
it  was  you  were  not  drowned  in  the  Bievre :  we  shall  see  you  on  the 
gibbet  yet  'Tis  a  pity  your  horoscopes  did  «ot  foretel  this  bad 
chance.     I  wish  you  good-b'ye/' 

"Hold!  'cried  Lachaussee,  as  Benoit  advanced  to  the  door:— 
"you  go  not  so  easily— we  must  understand  each  other  first,'* 

"  It  will  not  take  long  to  do  that,"  replied  the  Languedocian. 
"My  arms  can  speak  pretty  plainly  when  they  are  needed," 


THE   MAKCHTONESS   OF   BRTNVTLLIEKS.  ff 

"  *'  And  so  can  this/'  exclaimed  the  other,  as  he  took  down  a  cum- 
brous old  pistol  fitted  with  a  '*  snap-haunce/*  and  presented  it  at 
the  Languedoeian,  "  Now — yoxi  are  unarmed,  and  the  odds  are 
igainst  you.     We  must  have  a  compact  before  you  leave/' 

fienoit  retreated  before  the  fire-arm,  as  though  intimidated,  until 
he  reached  the  window  ;  this  he  dashed  open  with  his  fist,  and  then 
commenced  calling  for  the  watch  with  all  his  might.  In  an  instant 
Lachaus^e  raised  the  pistol,  and  discharged  its  contents.  But  the 
snap-haunce  was  comparatively  a  ciumsy  contrivance ;  it  hung  a 
second  upon  being  released :  and  Benoit,  perceiving  the  object  of 
the  other,  suddenly  stooped,  so  that  the  charge,  whatever  it  wa«, 
passed  over  his  head  and  through  the  window,  shattering  the  case- 
inent  on  the  other  side  of  the  street 

**  A  miss  again  f  *'  cried  Benoit,  jumping  upright*  "  Bras  d^Acier 
himself  look  no  better  aim  in  the  catacombs,  Att  secours !  ««j  r^o- 
itutt !  Now,  then,  Monsieur  Lachaussee^  look  out  for  yourself. 
Here  comes  the  Guet  Royal,  or  I  am  mistaken/' 

And  ituleed,  as  he  spoke,  the  lanterns  of  the  watch  were  discern- 
ible coming  round  the  street,  attracted  by  the  lusty  lungs  of  Benoit* 
T<#ctf  Mflgee  muttered  an  imprecation  as  he  advanced  to  the  window, 
«nd  observed  them  coming  closer  to  the  door»  Not  caring  to  be 
given  into  custody,  and  perceiving  that  he  could  not  escape  by  the 
>treet.  he  hurriedly  left  the  room,  closing  the  door  al\er  him,  and 
^eard  him  going  up  stairs.  The  mastiff  would,  in  all  proba* 
lave  fajitened  upon  the  Languedocian,  as  he  kept  growling 
m  a  crouching  position,  as  though  preparing  to  spring  ;  but  the  con- 
trivance fastened  about  his  head  bo  effectually  muzzled  him^  that 
Btnoit  was  under  no  apprehensions. 

'*  Ohc !  Atcssieurs .'"  he  shouted  ;  "come  on,  or  the  bird  will  have 
ftown*  Look  out  for  the  roof,  as  well  as  the  door.  He  is  an  active 
ftilovr,  but  no  sorcerer.     You  see  his  familiars  will   not   release 

Aa  be  spoke,  a  cry  from  the  guard  below  called  Benoit's  attention 
Co  lJ»e  direction  in  which  they  were  gazing.  We  have  stated  that 
tbe  Rue  de  I'Hirondelle  was  crossed  by  several  large  black  beams, 
fftmi  tlie  houses  on  one  side  of  the  way  to  those  on  the  other,  that 
the  ruinous  buildings  might  not  fall  upon  the  heads  of  the  passers 
by.  Aa  Benoit  looked  up,  he  perceived  that  Lachaussee  had  emerged 
frofD  one  of  the  windows  of  the  floor  above,  and  at  his  imminent 
peril  was  clinging  to  the  beam,  and  traversing  it  as  he  beat  might, 
to  reach  the  house  opposite.  But,  narrow  as  the  thoroughfare  was, 
before  he  had  half  crossed  it,  Benoit  had  crept  out  of  the  window 
from  which  he  had  called  the  watch,  on  to  another  of  the  supports 
below  the  one  chosen  by  Lachaussee,  and,  telling  the  guard  to  with- 
hold their  fire,  was  in  pursuit  of  his  old  acquaintance.  The  soldiers 
paused  to  watch  the  strange  chase,  and  gave  a  cry  of  admiration  as 
Benoit,  clutching  the  timber  above  him,  by  a  violent  effort  swung 
himself  up  to  ftie  beam  by  which  the  other  was  endeavouring  to 
escape. 

It  waa  a  moment  of  keen  anxiety.  They  were  both  afraid  of 
letting  go  their  hold,  which  was  so  treacherous,  that  the  least 
change  in  their  position  would  have  caused  them  to  overbalance  them- 
selves, and  tumble  down  into  the  street ;  and  so  tliey  remuitied  for 
some  Qiinutes,  watching  each  other  like  two  fencers,  to  be  in  readiness 


0  THB   MARCHIONESS   OF    BRIN VILLI ERS. 

for  any  attack  the  other  was  flbout  to  make*  At  length  L»achaU8s^ 
made  a  creeping  iiioveinent  in  advance;  when  Benoit,  whose  mounte- 
bank engagements  had  given  him  a  certain  kind  ofgynma^tic  supe- 
riority, trusting  to  his  knees  to  keep  him  from  falling,  caught  hold 
of  Lachaussee  by  the  lega.  But  he  lost  his  equilibrium  in  so  doing  ; 
and,  after  wavering  for  an  instant  as  if  in  uncertainty,  he  fell  on 
one  side  of  the  beam, — still,  however,  keeping  hold  of  the  other,  who 
was  now  driven  to  support  both  himself  and  Benoit  by  his  arms, 
half  hanging  from,  half  leaning  over^  the  timl>er. 

"  Look  out,  ttie^  brnves/' gRsped  the  Languedocian,  "and  catch  us. 
Our  friend  won't  hold  long, — No,  no,"  he  continned,  a«  Lachaussee, 
itruggling,  tried  to  free  himself  from  the  grip>  **  you  don't  shake  me 
olT.  I  will  stick  to  you  like  the  hangman  will  some  day, — Come 
under,  and  hold  your  scarves." 

The  guards  were  quick  in  taking  the  hint.  Not  a  quarter  of  a 
minute  had  pa&sed  before  they  had  pulled  off  their  scarves,  and 
some  ten  or  a  dozen  standing  in  a  circle  laid  hold  of  the  different 
ends,  pulling  them  tight^  so  as  to  form  a  sort  of  net-work,  aa  they 
gtoofi  in  a  ring  directly  beneath  Benoit. 

Ill  vain  Lachaussre  tried  to  get  away.  Every  struggle  expended 
what  strength  he  bad  remaining,  until,  unable  any  longer  to  cling  to 
the  beam,  he  fell,  and  Benoit  w^ith  him.  They  came  heavily  down, 
pulling  one  or  two  of  the  watch  to  the  ground  ;  but  the  scarvea 
broke  their  fall  of  some  twelve  feet,  and  the  next  moment  Benoit 
was  on  hia  legs,  whilst  Lachaus^e  found  himself  in  the  custody  of 
the  guard,  at  the  head  of  which  he  perceived  Sainte-Croix.  Gaudin 
had  fallen  in  with  the  patrol  soon  after  leaving  the  hous^e  of  Exili, 
and,  knowing  the  Chevalier  du  Guet  for  the  night,  had  sauntered  on 
m  conversation  with  him  at  the  head  of  the  watch,  until  they  had 
been  attracted  to  the  Rue  de  Tllirondtlle  by  Benoii's  cries  for  «f- 
distance. 

**  To  the  lock-up  with  such  a  gallows-bird  f  cried  Benoit,  "  I  can 
tell  you  as  much  about  him  as  will  lust  until  to-morrow  morning. 
Guard  him  well,  or  the  devil  will  strangle  him  in  the  night,  as  he 
did  the  other  sorcerers.'* 

The  officer  directed  his  party  to  move  on,  guarding  Lachausaee 
between  them,  whilst  Benoit  brought  up  the  rear.  As  they  started 
from  the  Rue  de  THi rondel le  he  looked  up  to  the  house  they  had 
Just  quitted,  and  saw  Exili 'a  vulture  face  peering  from  one  of  the 
windows  at  the  tumult ;  but  of  this  he  took  no  notice. 

On  the  way  to  the  guard-house  Gaudin  approached  Lachaussee, 
at  a  signal  from  the  latter, 

*'  You  can  free  me  if  you  choose,"  said  the  superintendent  shortly. 

"  I  shall  not  interfere  in  the  matter,"  replied  Sainte- Croix.  '*  Only 
be  satisfied  that  you  are  not  a  prisoner  by  m^  agency." 

"If  you  refuse  to  liberate  me,"  returned  the  other,  "the  e^irth 
Piny  tell  some  strange  secrets,  that  you  would  not  care  should  be 
known." 

'*  What  do  you  mean,  cur  ?"  said  Gaudin  contemptuously. 

•*  Civil  words,  Monsieur  de  Sainte- Croix,"  answered  Lachauaiec. 
••  We   have  chemical   compounds  that,  in  the  event  of  M,  Dreux 

'Aubray's  bwly  being  exhumed,  would  bring  every  atom  of  his 

beverage  to  its  simple  elements.     Do  yon  understand  f     There 

be  so  much  difficulty  ae  you  imagine  in  procuring  my  libera* 


THE    MABCHIONESS    OF    BRINVILLIER8.  7 

'*  Silence  1 "  returned  Gaudin  in  a  low  quick  voice  ;  "  silence or 

we  shall  be  overheard." 

**  But  my  freedom  !  "  continued  Laehaussee  in  a  loud  tone, 

*' Wait  until  we  get  to  the  guard-house/'  said  Sainte-Croix,  as  he 
passed  on,  and  was  once  more  at  the  side  of  the  Chevalier  da  Guet. 

They  passed  on  Uirough  some  of  the  narrow  tortuous  streets  that 
lie  towards  the  water  boundary  of  the  Quartier  Latin,  and  at  last 
arrived  at  a  guard-house  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Hotel  Dieu.  Gaudin 
spoke  a  few  words  to  the  captain  of  the  watch  aside,  whjch  the 
other  appeared  to  agree  with ;  they  were  evidently  companions  as 
well  as  acquaintances. 

•'  There  is  some  mistake  here/*  saiil  Sainte-Croix,  "^  I  see  now  the 
prisoner  you  have  captured  is  my  valet.  He  has  been  lunatic 
enough  to  go  and  consult  some  predicting  varlet,  and  met  this  other 
simple  fellow.  They  have  Iiad  a  brawl  between  them  ;  and  whoever 
first  called  the  guard  would  have  given  the  other  into  custody." 

"  PardUu  !**  said  Benoit,  *'  you  great  seigneurs  have  different  no- 
tions of  a  brawl  to  us  artisans.  I  suppose^  if  his  snap-haunce  had 
put  Oie  beyond  ISIaster  Glazer's  gkill,  who  can  cure  anything,  you 
would  have  thought  lightly  of  it." 

**  Silence  !  common  person  \'*  said  the  captain. 

•*  I  mill  speak/'  said  Benoit,  who  began  to  be  very  angry  at  this 
unexpected  turn  that  things  w  ere  taking ;  ''  and  I  am  not  a  common 
person.  Ask  Monsieur  Sainte-Croix  if  he  found  me  so  when  we 
met  one  night  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Neuve  St.  Paul*  I  believe 
that  all  the  Bohemians  and  the  great  folks  in  Paris  are  so  leagued 
together,  that  they  are  afraid  of  one  another,  and  the  people  receive 
all  the  buSfets  of  dieir  disagrceings.  The  man  Lachaussee  there  is  an 
inhabitant  of  all  the  cmrs  des  imracks  in  Paris.  I  know  him^  I  tell 
you." 

"  You  are  at  liberty,  fellow  ;  you  can  depart/'  said  the  officer, 

"  Liberty,  forsooth!  "  continued  Benoit  with  increased  excitement. 
"  Why,  I  have  never  been  arrested.  I  am  the  accuser ;  and  M.  de 
Sainte-Croix  knows  that  Ladiaussee  is  no  more — " 

At  a  motion  from  the  captain  of  the  watch,  two  of  tlie  guard 
seized  Benoit  whilst  he  was  thus  pouring  out  his  anger,  and,  with- 
out allowing  him  to  finish  his  speech,  very  unceremoniou.'ily  turned 
him  out  of  tlie  guard-house,  and  haU-drove,  half-walked  him  to  the 
end  of  the  street,  where  they  left  him  to  go  home  to  the  boat-mill, 
vowing  that  he  would  still  be  even  witli  all  of  them. 


CHAPTER   XX, 


Two  grmt  VilUiua. 

Meanwhtle,  things  being  thus  arranged,  Sainte-Croix  and  La- 
chaussee left  the  guard,  and  proceeded  to  the  Rue  des  Bernardineg, 
where  Gaudin  still  resided.  On  arriving  at  his  chamber,  whither 
tliey  passed  unnoticed,  Gaudin  complained  of  cold  ;  and,  in  effect, 
the  evening  was  damp  and  chilly.  At  his  wish,  the  other  fanned 
the  embers  of  the  fire-place  into  a  flame  with  his  hat,  and  his  so* 
called  master  then  produced  a  flask  of  wine,  which  he  placed  on  the 
table  with  some  glasses. 


8 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OF    BRINTILLIEKS. 


**  There  is  some  of  the  best  hock,"  said  ^he,  ••  that  the  Rhine 
ever  produced.  Drink  ; — you  need  some  wine  after  your  late  ad- 
venture. Fear  not  a  long  draught — a  cask  of  it  would  not  hurt 
you." 

''You  will  drink  with  mc?*' asked  Lachaussee,  as  Sainte-Croix 
filled  a  glass  for  his  companion,  and  then  replaced  the  bottle  on  the 
table. 

*'  Not  now,"  replied  Gaudin.  **  I  have  to  play  to-night,  and  must 
keep  my  head  cool,     A  little  water  will  quench  my  thirst/' 

**  Here  *s  to  our  renewed  acquaintanceship^  then,  tnon  capiiaine** 
said  Lachaussee,  as  he  raised  the  glass.  But  before  touching  its 
contents  with  his  lips,  as  if  struck  by  some  sudden  thought,  he  lield 
the  glass  between  his  eyes  and  the  lamp,  and  then,  replacing  it  on 
the  table,  took  a  small  set  of  tablets  from  his  pocket,  and  pulled 
from  them  a  leaf  of  while  paper. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  inquired  Sainte-Croix. 

"  Nothing,'*  replied  Lachaussee,  "  beyond  using  a  common  pre- 
caution in  uxese  treacherous  times.  I  do  not  mistrust  you  ;  but  you 
know  not  who  is  about  you/* 

As  he  w^as  speaking'  he  dipped  the  slip  of  paper  into  the  wine. 
The  effect  was  instantaneous— the  white  was  changed  to  a  bright 
vcarlet.     Sainte-Croix  uttered  a  feigned  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"  Poison  ! "  he  cried,  as  he  saw  the  change. 

*'Ay — poison,'*  repeated  Lachaussee  calmly,  "Did  I  not  well 
before  I  drank  ?  It  was  doubtless  intended  for  you.  Monsieur  Gau- 
din.  Your  cups  are  evidently  not  of  Venice  glass,  or  they  would 
have  shivered  at  its  contact.** 

•*  This  shall  be  looked  into,"  said  Gaudin,  as  he  threw  the  re- 
mainder into  the  6re-place,  ''  and  closely.  But,  at  present,  to  btisi- 
ness/' 

'*Ay,  to  business/*  answered  the  other,  as  a  most  sinister  smile 
passed  across  his  otherwise  ill-favoured  countenance — the  result  of 
what  had  just  occurred, 

"  I  have  something  to  propose  to  you,"  said  Gaudin,  **  if  you  feel 
inclined  to  join  me  in  the  venture.  We  have  worked  together  be- 
fore^ and  you  know  me.'* 

"  I  do/'  answered  Lachaussee,  with  meaning  emphasis,  as  he 
glanced  at  the  drinking-glass.  **  We  can  both  be  trusted  to  the  same 
extent,  for  we  are  in  each  other's  hands." 

**  You  allude  to  Milan/*  observed  Sainte-Croix, 

"  No/' replied  the  other  coldly  ;  *'  to  the  chateau  of  M,  D'A  ubray 
at  Offemont/' 

"A  truce  to  this  recrimination,"  said  Gaudin.  "Hear  what  I 
have  to  say.  M.  D*Aubray  is  dead — how,  it  matters  not — and  buried. 
One  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  Hvres  were  to  have  been  the  legacy 
to  his  daughter,  Madame  de  Brinvilliers,  and,  what  was  perhaps 
more,  her  absolute  freedom  to  act  as  she  pleased.  The  money  has 
passed  to  her  brothers,  in  trust  for  her,  and  she  is  entirely  under 
their  surveillance.     This  must  be  altered.'* 

"And  you  would  kive  me  assist  you  ?" 
On  consideration  nf  paying  you  one-fif\h  of  whatever  posses- 
light  fall  to  the  iVlarchioness  thereupon.     Do  you  agree  to 

on/'  was  Lachaus84<e'«  reply,  **  and  tell  me  the  means/' 


i 


THE    MARCHIONESS    OF    BRIXVILLIEES.  9 

'« Ay — tlie  means — there  lies  the  difficulty,"  said  Saintc-Croix. 
"What  think  you  of?" 

There  was  &  minute  of  silence^  as  they  regarded  each  other  with 
filed  intensity,  waiting  fur  the  suggestion.  Plunged  as  they  were  in 
the  dregs  of  crime,  they  hesitated  to  unfold  their  plan,  although 
they  knew  there  was  but  one  scheme  intended.  Lachaussee  was  the 
first  who  spoke. 

•*  Dineases  are  hereditary,"  said  he.   "The present  lieutenant-civil, 
d  hia  brother  the  councillor,  might  follow  their  father  to  the  ce- 
letery,  which  keeps  the  secrets  of  its  occupants  even  better  than 
the  Bastille." 

'<  We  are  agreed,"  observed  Gaud  in ;  ''but  some  care  and  patience 
will  be  necessary.  Of  course  there  is  a  barrier  between  the  brothers 
of  3Iadame  de  Brinvilliers  and  myself,  that  must  for  ever  prevent 
our  meeting,  I  will  provide  the  means,  and  you  their  application.** 
**  I  care  not  if  I  do,*'  answered  Lachaussec,  **  But  what  assurance 
have  1  that  you  will  fulfil  your  part  of  our  intent  ?  Our  words  are 
breMhd  of  air— our  souls  are  no  longer  our  own  to  deal  with/* 
I  *'  You  shall  have  a  fair  and  written  compact,  on  your  own  part/* 

I       said  Gaudin ;  **  on  mine,  1  have  still  your  lelter  after  the  affair  at 
I       lliUn.' 

^^  He  rose  to  depart  as  he  uttered  these  words  ;  and,  when  he  had 
^^feuitted  the  room,  Gaudin  threw  himself  into  r  faitieuil,  and  was  for 
^Kil  time  wrapt  in  silence.  Then,  divesting  himself  of  his  upper  gar- 
ments, he  put  on  a  dingy  working-dress,  corroded  into  holes,  and 
black  with  the  smoke  and  dirt  of  a  laboratory,  and  passing  into  an 
adjoining  chamber,  fitted  up  with  a  chemical  apparatus,  as  if  for  the 
ftudy  of  alchemy, — the  outward  pretext  which  most  of  the  disciples 
^  ^Toffana  adopted  to  veil  their  proceedings, — he  applied  himself  to 
"Work  with  the  most  intense  application.  Certain  as  the  action  was 
of  the  poisons  he  had  hitherto  used,  defying  all  attempts  to  trace 
their  existence,  except  of  those  who  had  created  them,  yet  they  ap- 
'ared  too  slow  for  the  projects  he  was  conceiving  ;  and  he  was*  now 
encing  a  series  of  experiments  upon  the  properties  of  the 
lly  elements  in  his  possession,  before  the  results  of  which  the 
•ehievetnents  of  Spar  a  and  ToH'ana  fell  into  insignificance. 


CHAPTKB    XXI. 

The  Dead-house  of  the  HtVtel  Dieui  and  tlie  Hrgy  at  the  U6L«1  «le  Cliiny. 

Thk  autumn  passed  away,  and  winter  came  on  in  all  its  severity. 
The  trees  in  the  gardens  of  the  Tuileries  and  the  Palafs  D "Orleans, 
where  the  parterres  and  avenues  of  the  Luxembourg  are  now  situ- 
ated, rose  naked  and  dreary  towards  tiie  dull  sky  ;  and  the  snow  lay 
dt-ep  upon  the  Butte  St,  Roche,  uncarted  and  un cared  for,  threaten- 
ing to  inundate  the  lower  streets  in  the  vicinity  when  the  thaw 
came.  The  public  places,  too,  lost  their  air  of  life  and  business. 
The  mountebanks,  showmen,  and  dentists  ceased  to  pitcfi  tlieir  plat- 
forms on  the  Pont  Neuf  and  Carrefour  du  Chatelet ;  for,  although 
they  were  individuals  inured  to  cold,  yet  they  found  the  prome^ 
natJers  were  more  sensitive,  and  wotdd  not  stop  to  listen  to  their 
harangues.    The  women  were  less  attractive  to  the  passing  gVance  ot 


10 


THE    MARCHIONESS    OF    BRINVILLIERS. 


the  cavaliers  in  the  streets,  or  the  still  mundane  fathers  in  the 
churches.  No  more  white  shoyltler^Oj  covered  only  by  the  rippling 
curia  of  the  period,  fla&hed  in  the  afternoon  «un-light, — no  more 
dazzling  throats  captured  tbe  hearts  and  the  purses  of  the  suscep- 
tible young  gallants  of  the  palriciuii  iptariicrs,  or  whatever  qualities 
iupplied  the  perfect  absence  of  either  in  the  scholars  of  Cluny,  Ma- 
zarin,  and  the  Hotel  Djeu,  attached  to  the  Pays  Latin.  Sometimes 
an  hour  or  two  of  warm  sun-light  brought  the  gossipers  out  in  the 
middle  of  the  day  to  their  old  haunts  ;  elsewise  they  preferred  as- 
sembling in  the  shops  of  the  most  approved  retailers  of  passing 
scandal,  and  there  canvassing  the  advantages  or  demerits  of  the 
diflferent  characters,  or  the  probable  results  of  the  various  pohtics, 
then  mostly  talked  of  in  the  good  city  of  Paris, 

The  inhop  of  I^Iaitre  Glazer,  the  apothecary  of  the  Place  Maubert, 
was  the  most  favoured  resort  of  the  idle  bourgeois*  They  loved  it 
in  the  summer,  when  the  pure  air  came  through  the  open  front  of 
the  window  to  dilute  the  atmosphere  of  cunning  remedies  that  filled 
it;  and  it  appeared  to  have  the  same  charm  in  the  winter,  although 
closely  shut ;  perhaps  from  the  idea,  with  some,  that  the  inhala- 
tion of  the  air  laden  with  such  marvellous  odours  of  chemicals  and 
galenicals  would  have  all  the  etfect  of  swallowing  the  things  them- 
selves, and  on  a  cheaper  and  less  noxious  plan. 

But,  in  truth,  the  shop  of  JVIa^tre  Glazer  possessed  various  advan- 
tages over  others,  as  a  lounge  for  the  gossipers.  In  his  quality  of 
apothecary  he  was  admitted  to  the  councils,  arrangements,  and  dis- 
putes of  all  the  families  in  the  neighbourhood  ;  and,  not  wishing 
to  favour  one  more  than  another,  he  very  properly  retailed  them  in 
a  circle  from  one  to  the  other,  which  made  bis  society  much  sought 
after:  indeed,  he  was  suspected  of  being  sent  for  sometimes,  when 
the  imlisposition  was  a  mere  pretext  for  convcriiing  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  with  the  apothecary,  at  such  times  as  the  supposed  invalid 
was  dying, — not  in  the  common  acceptance  of  tfie  word,  but  to  be 
satisfied  with  regard  to  any  point  deeply  affecting  some  neighbour; 
and,  as  the  cure  in  these  cases  was  always  very  rapid,  Maitre  Glazer 
got  fresh  honour  thereby. 

But,  just  at  present^  matters  of  deeper  moment  attracted  the  idlers 
to  his  shop  than  the  discussion  of  mere  domestic  affairs.  We  have 
said,  that  his  reputation  stood  well  in  Paris  as  a  talented  compounder 
of  antidotes  to  poisons:  and  the  still  increasing  number  of  mysteri- 
ous deaths  in  the  city  and  faubourgs,  which  so  entirely  baffled  all 
medical  or  surgical  art,  either  to  arrest  the  progress  of  the  disease^ 
or  discover  its  source — although  they  were  all  attributed  to  the 
working  of  poison, — provided  subject  for  conversation  in  the  mouths 
of  everybody.  The  terrible  episode,  which  formed  so  fearful  a  cha- 
racteristic of  the  moral  state  of  the  reign  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth, 
was  now  talked  of  publicly  and  generally  ;  until  the  topic  increaa* 
ing  led,  but  a  very  few  years  al\er  tbe  period  of  our  story,  to 
the  eslablisliment  of  the  **Chambre  des  Poisons,"  ordained  by  order 
of  the  King  to  inquire  into  the  deeds  of  the  poisoners  and  magici- 
ans then  practising  in  Paris,  and  punish  them  if  the  accusfttiaos 
were  brought  home. 

Matlre  Glazer  was  in  his  shop,  and  so   was  his  son  PhiHppe,  to- 

cether  with  ]\Iaitre  Picard^  Jean  Blactjuart  the  Gascon,  and  one  or 

vo  of  the  bourgeois  migfibours,  talking  over  the  events  of  tbe  day. 


THE   HARCHION£SS   OF    BRIKVtLLI£fi9. 


It 


Panurge  was  compminding  medicines  at  lib  usual  post,  and  endea* 
▼ouring  to  outlie  the  Gascon,  according  to  custom  ;  and  9ome« 
tifnes  their  controversies  ran  »o  high,  that  they  were  only  quieted 
when  Philippe  threatened  to  thra^tbem  both  al  once,  or  beat  every 
atom  of  flesh  from  Panurge*5  boneSj  which,  looking  to  his  miser* 
able  condition^  was  certainly  not  a  process  of  any  yery  great 
labour* 

"  I  do  not  believe  in  all  these  stories,"  said  FliiHppe ;  "  they 
frighten  the  city,  but  not  our  profession.  I  admit  that  there  ii  a 
grievous  epidemic  about,  but  the  same  symptoms  attack  those  who 
die  in  and  out  of  our  hospital." 

"Are  the  symptoms  the  ^me  y*  asked  a  neighbour. 

*'  Precisely,"  replied  Philippe  :  *'  there  is  the  same  wasting  away 
of  body  and  spirits  ;  the  same  fluttering  pulse  and  fevered  system  ; 
the  same  low,  crushing  weariness  of  mind*  until  all  is  over.  One 
would  imagine,  if  all  were  true,  that  the  poisoners  were  in  the  very 
heart  of  the  Hotel  Dieu." 

"1  must  have  taken  some  myself,"  said  Maitre  Picard.  ''My 
•pirita  sink,  and  1  have  a  constant  thirst:  my  pulse  flutters  too, 
wonderfully,  albeit  my  body  does  not  waste/' 

"  May  not  Spara's  disciples  have  got  to  the  hospital?''  asked  the 
bourgeois  who  had  before  spoken, 

**  Pshaw  !**  said  Philippe ;  '*  the  sisters  of  chanty  are  the  only 
persons  who  tend  our  sick,  and  we  can  trust  them.  The  Mar- 
chioness of  Brinvilliers  is  amongst  them.  Whatever  her  faults,  her 
kind  words  and  gentle  smile  go  far  to  soothe  many  pain- wearied 
frames  ;  and  yet  she  loses  more  of  her  patients  than  utl  the  others," 

**  I  have  tested  all  the  water  used  in  the  city/'  said  Glaxer,  "but 
found  it  pure  and  wholesome.  And  I  have  made  Panurge  drink 
buckets-full  of  it,  but  it  never  affected  him/' 

"  And  yet  to  any  one  who  cared  to  drug  our  fountains,"  said 
Philippe,  "it  would  not  be  difficult,  at  nightfall,  to  row  along  the 
liyttTy  and  climb  up  the  pillars  of  the  Samaritaine-*  A  potion  in  its 
Tcaerroir  would  carry  death  tolerably  well  over  the  city,  by  the 
next  noontide/' 

'*  It  might  be  done  with  advantage/*  said  a  bourgeois,  "  The 
greater  part  of  its  water  goes  to  the  basins  and  fountains  of  the 
Tuilcries,  and  the  people,  who  pay  for  it,  die  of  drought.  The 
King  cares  more  for  his  swans  and  orange-trees  than  for  his  sub- 
iecu.** 

"  Neighbour  Viot,*'  said  IVIaitre  Picard,  "  I  am  a  public  officer, 
and  cannot  allow  such  rebel  talk/' 

**  Beware  of  secret  hurt  rather  than  open  authority//  said  Glazer. 
*•  Those  words,  so  publicly  expressed^  may  bring  the  Aqua  Tofana 
iilfeojoar  goblet  tbis  very  night." 

T6e  fiice  of*  bourgeois  Viot  fell  at  the  mere  hint  of  impending 

'•  You  surely  do  not  think  so  ?"  he  said. 

*'  I  do  not  say  what  I  do   not  think,"  replied  the  apothecary. 

•  T .  iin£  was  a  lurgc  hydraulic  tnadiiue  just  Wlow  ihe  Pont  Nruf, 

kert  :  Rain*  (it*  Loutnr  are  nnxircd  at  present.     It  wns  a  liouse  crettcd 

pill)  purs.  Ill  tnuiu   somtMvlmt  iiktf  ii  churtJi,  with  a.  cloik  at  one  end.     Having 
Im  ti>  d«aiy«  il  wtia  entirciy  denioli&lied  in  llilX 


12 


THE  MARCHIONESS   OF    BRINTILLTERS, 


'*  If  you  have  fear,  after  promulgating  thepe  rash  sentiments,  take 

some  of  my  antidote  with  you:  it  is  of  rare  virtue/' 

*'  Jt  cured  me,"  said  Pauurge,  **  after  I  had  swallowed,  at  my  tnaB- 
ter's  orders,  a  quantity  of  the  St  Nicholas  manna  enough  to  kill  a 
horse." 

'*  But  an  ass  is  a  different  animal,  Panurge/*  said  Philippe,  as  he 
took  up  his  hat  and  left  the  shop. 

The  humble  assistant  did    not  dare  to  retort,  but  seeing  the  Gas- 
con lau^hinu  at  hhn,  when  Philippe  had  gone,   he  aimed  a  blow  at^_ 
him  with  a  bleeding* staff,  which  woidd  have  hurt  Blacquart  sore1y,^H 
had  he  not  dived  down  and   avoided  it.     As  it  was,  the  staff  de-^^ 
scended  on  the  counter  and  broke  a  bottle,  for  which  he  was  severely 
chidden  by  his  master. 

In  the  meantime  Philippe  Glazer,  leaving  his  father's,  crossed  the 
river  by  the  Petit  Pont,  and  took  his  w*ay  towards  Notre  Dame. 
The  doors  of  the  cathedral  were  6till  open,  and  he  entered  the 
southern  aisle,  now  dimly  li/a^hted  by  a  few  votive  tapers,  which 
were  flfiring  and  guttering  upon  their  rude  iron  stands  in  the  cur- 
rents* of  air  that  swept  through  the  interior.  A  man,  who  was  evi- 
dently waiting  to  meet  him,  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  one  of 
the  pillars  as  he  advanced.  ^H 

''  M.  de  Sainte-Croix  I"  ^| 

*'  Philippe  Glazer  !*' 

**  We  are  truly  met,"  said  the  student.  *'  I  received  your  note 
this  evening,  and  you  can  come  to  the  hospital  with  me/*  jtM 

*•  You  are  obliging  me,"  said  Gaud  in  ;  **  I  am  anxious  respecting  ^^ 
the  health  of  an  okl  servant  of  mine,  now  an  inmate.*' 

*'  Pshaw  !  Captain  Gaudin,"  replied  l^hilipjie,  ** between  the 
'  Gens  de  la  Courte  Epee'  there  should  be  no  secrets*  It  is  a  matter 
of  gallantry,  or  I  am  mistaken:  we  are  freemasons,  you  know,  of « 
certjiin  sort,  and  may  trust  each  other." 

Gaud  in  laughed,  and  made  an  evasive  reply,  as  he  took  Philippe's 
arm  ;  and  the  two,  crossing  the  square  before  Notre  Dame,  entered 
the  Hotel  Dieu.  As  they  ]>ass.ed  the  lodge,  the  porter,  recognizing 
Philippe,  gave  him  a  note,  which  had  l>een  left  for  the  gentleman 
who  was  expected  to  accompany  him.  Gaudin  knew  the  writing, 
and  hastily  opened  it-     Its  contents  were  as  follows; 

*'  Do  not  notice  me   in  the  hospital,  or  suspicion  will  be  aroused, 
and  I  shall  not  come  again.     In  the  J\Iorgue  we  shall  be  free  from        | 
interruption,  and  only  there,     Glazer  will  conduct  you* 

"  Marik.  ** 

•*  Mass  r*  exclaimed  Philippe,  as  Sain te- Croix  mentioned  the  ap- 
pointment, **  a  strange  rendezvous  !  The  lady  has  a  bold  mind 
within  that  delicate  frame/' 

*'  Hush !"  said  Gaudin,  pressing  his  arm  ;  **do  not  t<peak  ao  loud* 
8how  me  where  the  place  is,  and  leave  me/' 

'*  Most  willingly,  if  you  have  courage.  One  might  select  a  live- 
lier place,  however,  than  the  dead-house  of  an  hospital  for  a  tryst- 
ing-place/* 

lie  took  his  companion  by  the  hand,  and  they  advanced  along  one 
uf  the  arched  passages,  which  the  dim  Limps  barely  illuminated,  to 
the  top  of  a  flight  of  stairs.     These  they  descended,  and,  passing 


THE    MARCHIONESS    OF   BRINTILLIERS. 


13 


iilong  another  vaulted  way,  paii«ed  at  a  door  at  the  extreme  end. 
It  was  not  fastened.  Philippe  threw  it  open,  and  they  entered  the 
Morgue  of  the  hospital — the  receptacle  for  such  as  died  within  the 
precincts  of  the  Hotel  Dieu* 

It  was  a  dreary  room,  with  bttre  'white  walls  and  a  cold  stone 

Boor,  lighted  by  one  ghastly  lamp  that  hun«f  against  the  walL     The 

frightful   mortality    for  which   the   hospital   was   then  remarkable, 

llcept  it  well   filled  with   its   silent   inmates.     Some  of  these  were 

Iplaced  upon  the  ground,  enveloped  in   rough  canvas  wrappers, — the 

ily  coffins  allowed  them,^ — in   the  same  state  as  they  may  now  be 

|teen  brought  to  the  Clamart,  and  other  dissecting-schools  of  Paris  ; 

lOthers  lay  ranged  side  by  side  upon  large  oval  marble  slab:*,  capable 

Voi'  accommodating  from  ei^ht  to  ten  bodies  each,  and  these  had 

ely  coarse  sheets,  or  palls,  thrown  over  them.     Over  the  stone 

Boor  a  wooden  trellis  was  placed,  an  inch  or  two  in  thickness  ;  for 

Ithe  floor  wa»  below^  the  level  of  the  turgid  Seine,  which  flowed  imrae- 

liately  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  and  the  reflection  of  the  lamp 

glimmering  through  the  interstices  showed  the  water  already  in  the 

'  salle  de^  cadavres/* 

As  8oon  as  Philippe  Glazer  had  introduced  Sainte-Croix  to  this 

■dreary  place  he  took  his  departure,  and  Gaud  in  wras  left  alone.    The 

light  waved  in  the  draught  of  air  caused  by  opening  and  closing  the 

door  ;  and,  as  it  played  over  the  features  of  some  of  the  corpses, 

they  appeared  to  move,  from  the  different  shadows,  and  then  to  re- 

unic  their  wonted   calm.     In  the  fever  of  his  mi  ml  Gaud  in  would 

almost  have  changed  places  with  them.     He  had  no  nervous  terror 

at  being  alone  in  such  a  dismal  locality  ;  his  only  feelii^g  was  one 

that  approached  to  envy  of  ihelr  repose.     A  minute,  however,  had 

rcely  elapsed  before  the  door  again  opened,  and  a  female,  enve- 

>ed  in  a  mantle  similar  to  those  worn  by  the   sisters  of  charity, 

f  entered.     It  was  the  Blarchioness  of  BriuviUiers,  who  now  came  to 

imune  with  her  guilty  ally. 

They  met  with  perhaps  less  eagerness  than  heretofore^  albeit  they 
iiad  not  seen  each  uther  for  several  days ;  but,  although  their  pas- 
sion had  apparently  decreased,  yet  ties  more  fearful  and  more  en- 
during now  bound  their  souls  together  in  the  common  interest  of 
mutual  guilt.  The  whole  world  was  contracted  to  the  sphere  in 
which  they  both  moved  ;  they  knew  of,  cared  for  nothing  beyond 
it,  except  those  objects  coming  within  the  circle  of  their  dark  in- 
tent. 

Alter  the  first  greetings  had  passed,  Marie  looked  cautiously  from 

the  door  along  the  vaulted  passage.    Satisfied  that  no  one  was  within 

hearing,  she  closed  it,  and  going  to  the  marble  table,  partially  threw 

I  back  the  covering  from  one  of  the  bodies ;  then,  grasping  Sainle- 

*Croix*»  arm,  she  chew  him  towards  her,  saying  in  a  low  voice,  btit 

clear,  and  to  him  distinctly  audible, 

'*  It  has  done  its  work  nobly,  and  baflled  every  physician  of  the 

I  Hotel  Dieu.     This  one  swallowed  it  in  wine,  which  my  ow^n  maid, 

[Fran^oifee  Roussel,  brought  to  the  hospital.     The  girl  would  taste  it, 

she  went,  upon  the   sly,  and  it  well-nigh  cost  the  fool  her  life, 

rhia   one  shows  what  the  confiture  could  do.      lie  lingered  long 

thougli,  and  became  a  skeleton,  as  you  perceive,  before  his  death/' 

Sainte-Croix  was  aghast  at  these  revelations,  although  they  had 
been  anticipated.     But  the  demoniac  mind  of  his  beautiful  comya- 


1%  ¥iK  KlKSffRfEB  or  BBCSTILUSKS^ 


?  grander  and 
IK  tfe  ¥crj  icndishnesi 

'^  Unfarited  wealth,  tin- 

9»v«a  Wt  plar  vp  to  raj  inten- 

t&cj  would  a  way- 


be 
:  X*  wrnk  i 

I  iaeve  wfriil  jhT  tfe  cHiief^*  returned  the 

I  kavw noc  ham  jt  wtH  atfect  laur  own  feriings :  in 

I. 

>  ^parkjed  widk  esz^eflMoa  as  sk  spoke,  and  her  rapidity 

>  racngkd  wick  her  han'iii  hat  irregolar  respira^ 

An  I  ipii  miiiii  passtd  ■ttims  her  five  of  rain^ed  triamph  and 

KtiM.  wUlat  the  ingcrs  of  her  hmad  were  qniddy  working 

the  other. 

^  And  w^  is  that,  Harie  r'  asked  Gaadm,  his  cnriodty  aroused 
Wf  vmt  auoBcr  oc  tne  jaarcBBanesii^ 
**  The  pale^ficed  girL  whose  acqaaintMri  with  ^rooradf  I  became 
» wdwckflr  ari'jo  si—f  d  with  in  the  grotto  of  Thetis — your  Langue- 


^  She  raaat  not  he  injaved !  *  cxdaiaMd  Sainte-Croix  hurriedly. 

**  She  ra^st  die !  '^  rcpBed  the  Marchioness^  with  cold  but  deter- 
rained  f  aiiiiij.  "^  She  lores  too,  and  yon  may  still  care  for  her. 
Yon  ransC  he  aaine,  and  mine  alone,  Gaudin;  your  affections  may 
not  he  participated  in  by  another."* 

**  All  has  finished  between  as,  Marie !  Yon  are  wrong — utterly 
wrong  in  Toor  suspicions.  Yon  sorely  will  not  harm  a  poor  girl 
like  Looiae'r 

**  Gaudin !  **  exdaimed  his  companion,  fixing  her  glance  on  him 
with  that  intense  expression,  against  the  iniocnce  of  which  Sainte- 
Croix's  determination  could  not  preTaO,  **  when  we  have  fallen, — 
atep  by  step,  hour  by  hour, — and  eaHi  time  irrerocably,  to  all  ap- 
pcaranee,  until  a  fresh  abyss,  yawning  beneath  our  presence,  dis* 
dosed  a  still  lower  hell  open  to  receire  us, — ^when  the  sjrmpathies  of 
the  world  have  turned  away  from  us  to  ding  to  fresh  objects,  in  their 
parasitical  attachment  to  the  freshest  and  most  plausible  support ; 
and  our  hopes  and  fears  are  merged  into  one  blank  feeling  of  careless 
determination  by  utter  despair, — when  all  is  given  up,  here  and 
hereafter, — in  sudi  positions  it  is  not  likely  that  we  should  pause  in 
the  career  marked  out  to  be  pursued  by  any  sentiment  of  justice  or 
oonaideration.     I  am  determmed." 

There  was  the  silence  of  some  minutes  after  she  had  spoken, 
broken  only  by  the  laboured  breathing  of  either  party,  or  the  drip 
of  water,  as,  stealing  through  the  walls  from  the  river,  it  fell  upon 
the  noisome  Boor.  £ach  was  waiting  for  the  other  to  speak.  Sainte- 
Croix  was  the  first  to  break  the  pause.  He  knew  that  further  allu- 
lion  to  Louise  Oauthier  would  induce  fresh  recrimination,— -that 
kfarie  would  believe  no  protesUtion  on  his  part  that  the  atuchment 
wkM  <Mrer,— and  that  by  boldly  bearding  her,  in  her  present  access  of 
•alontyi  the  utter  destruction  of  the  poor  girl  would  be  hastened. 
Sm  thtr^fore  endeavoured  to  turn  the  subject  of  their  conversation 
J  channel. 


THE   MARCHIONESS    (^F    BRINVILLIERS. 


15 


**  Where  is  your  brother  ?*'  he  asked.  "  You  can  act  as  you  plessi^ 
towards  the  other  person,  as  you  appear  to  be  beyond  conviction 
froui  anything  I  CAn  urge,  Francois  is  at  present  the  most  im- 
portant object  for  our  vicilance.     Is  he  in  Paris?'* 

"  He  is  not/'  replied  trie  Marchioness.  *'  Both  my  brothers  are  at 
Dffemont^  arranging  the  distribution  of  the  effects  about  the  estate. 
They  will  remain  there  for  some  days,  and  then  depart  to  Vil!equoy. 
Fortunately  Francois  has  discharged  one  of  his  servants,  and  is  com- 
pelled to  look  after  many  of  his  affairs  himself,  the  superintendence 
of  which  would  otherwise  fall  to  his  valet/* 

**  la  he  anxious  to  supply  the  place  of  the  domestic  ?''  inquired 
Gaudin  eagerly. 

^'  lie  is  now  looking  out  for  some  one.  But  why  are  you  thus 
carious  ?*' 

"  Because  I  have  a  creature  in  my  employ^one  who  dares  scarcely 
call  his  life  his  own^  unless  by  my  permission,  who  might  fill  the 
post  with  advantage/' 

*'  I  do  not  see  what  we  could  gain  by  that/*  observed  the  Mar- 
chioness. 

"He  might  wait  upon  his  master  at  table/*  said  Gaudin,  "and 
pour  out  his  drink/* 

He  regarded  his  companion  with  fixed  intensity  as  he  threw  out 
the  dark  hint  contained  in  his  last  words. 

*'  But  would  there  be  no  suspicion  ?"  asked  Marie. 

**  None,"  replied  her  lover.  **  For  his  own  sake,  he  would  keep 
the  secret  close  as  the  grave.  He  has  a  ready  wtt,  too,  and  an  una- 
bashed presence,  that  would  carry  hira  through  any  dilemma.  I 
ought  to  know  it/* 

**Histi  "  cried  Marie;  ''there  is  a  noise  in  the  passage.  We  are 
overheard/* 

''It  is  nothing/*  said  Sainte-Croix.  **The  night-wind  rushing 
Along  the  passages  has  blown-to  some  of  the  doors/' 

The  Marchioness  had  gone  to  the  entrance  of  the  salle,  and  looked 
ilong  the  vaulted  way  that  led  to  it.  A  door  at  the  upper  end  was 
"^stinctly  heard  to  close. 

*'  I  heard  retreating  footsteps  i"  she  exclaimed  rapidly,  as  she  re- 
turned.    "  There  have  been  some  eavesdroppers,  I  tell  you/* 

*'  Pshaw  !'•  replied  Gaudin  ;  "  who  would  come  down  here  ?  It 
might  be  Philippe  Glazer,  who  brought  me  into  the  hospital,  and  is 
anxious  to  know  how  much  longer  our  interview  is  to  last/' 

**  He  does  not  know  me?"  inquired  the  Marchioness,  In  a  tone 
that  led  up  to  the  answer  she  des)ired. 

*•  He  knows  nothing,  beyond  that  I  have  some  idle  affair  with  a 
ireli^cttse,  Pardieu  I  if  every  similar  gallantry  was  taken  notice  of 
I  in  Paris,  the  newgmongers  would  have  enough  to  do/* 

'*  However,"  said  Marie,  ''it  is  time  that  we  departed.  I  must  go 
back  to  my  dreary  home," 

And  she  uttered  the  last  words  in  a  tone  of  well-acted  despon- 
dency, as  she  prepared  to  depart. 

'*  Stay^  Marie  !'*  cried  Gaudin.     "  You  have  said  that  your  bro- 
ibert  are  at  Offemont;  who  else  have  you   to  mind?     There  is  a 
on  of  all  the  best  that  Paris  contains  of  life  and  revelry  in  the 
(  des  Mathurins  this  evening*     You  will  go  with  me?*' 

•'  It  would  be  madness,  Gaudin.  The  city  would  ring  with  iHe 
scandal  to-morrow  morning." 


iiy 


THE    MARCHIONESS    OF    BRINVILUERS. 


"  You  can  mask,"  returned  8ai  11  te- Croix,  '*  and  so  will  I.  I  shall 
be  known  to  all  I  care  about,  and  those  I  ctrn  rely  on,  Marie !  you 
will  come  ?" 

He  drew  a  visor  from  his  cloak  as  he  spoke,  and  held  it  towards 
the  IVIarehioiiess.  The  necessity  for  sudden  concealment  in  the 
affairs  of  gallantry  of  the  time^  made  such  an  article  part  of  the  ap- 
pointraenti)  of  both  sexes. 

Marie  appeared  to  waver  for  an  instant;  but  Gaudin  seized  her 
handjj,  and  whispered  a  few  low,  but  intense  and  impassioned  words 
closely  in  her  ear,  ns  though  he  now  mistrusted  the  very  air  that, 
damp  and  thickened,  clung  around  them.  She  pulled  the  white 
hooil  over  her  face,  and,  takings  his  arm,  they  quitted  the  dismal 
chamber  in  which  this  strange  interview  had  taken  place. 

No  notice  was  taken  of  them  as  they  left  the  hospital.  The  porter 
was  half  asleep  in  his  huge  covered  settle,  still  holding  the  cord  of 
the  door  in  his  hand,  and  he  pulled  it  open  mechanically  as  they 
passed.  On  reaching  the  open  space  of  the  Par  vis  Notre  Dame, 
Sflinte-Croix  hailed  a  imiure  de  reinhe  —  a  clumsy,  ill -fashioned 
thing,  but  still  answering  the  purpose  of  those  w^ho  patronized  it, 
more  especially  as  there  was  but  a  small  window  on  either  side,  and 
that  of  such  inferior  glass,  that  the  parties  within  were  doubly 
private. 

They  crossed  the  river  by  the  Petit  Pont,  and  proceeded  first  to 
the  Rue  des  Bernardins^  wdiere  Sainte*Croix*s  apartments  were  situ- 
ated. Here  the  Marchioness  left  the  dress  of  the  sisterhood,  in 
which  she  had  visited  the  hospital,  and  appeared  in  her  own  rich 
garments ;  the  other  having  been  merely  a  species  of  domino  with 
which  she  had  veiled  her  usual  attire.  The  coach  then  went  on  by 
the  Rue  dea  Noyers  towards  the  hotel  indicated  by  Gaudin. 

"  This  is  a  wild  mad  action,  Gaudin,"  said  the  Marchioness.  **  If 
it  should  be  discovered,  I  shall  be  indeed  lost.'* 

•*  There  is  no  chance  of  recognition,"  replied  Sainte-Croix,  as  he 
assisted  his  companion  to  fastten  on  her  mask.  "  No  one  has  track- 
ed us." 

*'  I  am  not  so  certain  of  that,"  said  Marie.  *'  My  eyes  have  de- 
ceived me,  or  else  I  have  seen,  each  time  w*e  passed  a  tamp,  a  figure 
following  the  coach,  and  crouching  against  the  walls  and  houses,. 
See  !  there  it  is  again  !'' 

Aa  she  spoke,  she  wiped  away  the  condensed  breath  upon  the 
windows  with  her  mantle,  and  called  Gaudin's  attention  to  the 
street. 

*'  There  r'  she  cried :  "  I  still  see  the  aame  figure — tall  and  dark 
— moving  after  us.     I  cannot  discern  the  features," 

*'  It  is  but  some  late  passenger/'  said  Gaudin,  "  who  is  keeping 
near  our  carriage  for  the  safety  of  an  escort.     You  must  recollect  we  ] 
are  in  the  centre  of  the  cut-purse  students." 

The  coach  turned  round  the  corner  of  the  Rue  i\e¥^  ]\Iiilhurin8  as 
he  spoke,  crossing  the  Rue  St.  Jacques,  atid  halfway  along  the 
street  stopped  at  a  fmrU  coc/uhc,  which  was  lighted  up  with  unusual 
brightness*  The  door  was  opened*  and,  as  Gaudin  assisted  the 
Marchioness  to  alight^  both  cast  a  searching  glance  along  the  narrow 
street  in  either  direction  ;  but,  excepting  a  lacquey  attached  to  the 
Hotel  de  Clugny,  where  they  now  got  down,  not  a  person  w*s 
viitible. 


17 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


A  LITERARY  RETROSPECT  BY  A  MIDDLE-AGED  MAN. 

As  I  recall  to  mind  the  eminent  men  whom  I  have  known,  a  form 
arises  at  my  beckoning,  stands  beside  me,  leans  on  my  chair.  He 
is  not  old :  the  shrunken  limbs,  the  hose  a  world  too  wide,  the  feeble 
voice,  the  wreck  of  a  face,  the  wreck  of  a  mind,  denote  noi  age.  It 
is  not  age ; — can  it  be  care  ?  Yes ;  age  has  come  before  its  time. 
Beneath  that  brown  wig,  assumed  in  compliance  with  a  bygone  cus- 
tom, happily  discarded  (for  grey  hair  and  bald  b«ads  are  now  recog- 
nized),  small,  regular,  handsome  features^-eyes  that  wut  nothing  but 
light — a  somewhat  formal  cast  of  physiognomy,  are  turned  towards  me. 
The  last  traces  of  fascination  still  linger  on  that  countenance  at  times ; 
but  there  are  hours  when  all  is  confusion,  all  is  darkness  there. 
Peace,  and  oblivion  to  the  memory  of  his  failings! — ^honour  to  the 
shade  of  him  who  has  bequeathed  to  us  —  not  the  remembrance  of 
errors,  of  which  none  ought  to  estimate  the  extent  until  they  have 
known  the  temptation, — but  the  ennobling  stanzas  of  "  Hohenlinden," 
<'The  Soldier's  Dream,"  ''The  Mariners  of  England,"  the  "Gertrude 
of  Wyoming,"  "  The  Pleasures  of  Hope." 

Thomas  Campbell,  whose  image  memory  thus  calls  to  my  mind's 
eye,  was  the  son  of  a  Scotch  clergyman  somewhere  in  the  north  of 
Caledonia,  and  where,  his  future  biographer  will  doubtless  inform  us. 
Of  his  early  fortunes  I  have  heard  much  from  one  who  knew  him  well, 
when  both  the  poet  and  my  informant  were  climbing  up  the  ascent  to 
fame,  with  veiy  small  refreshment  by  the  way.  But  the  stern  sel5> 
denial  of  the  Scot  knows  no  obstacles;  and  he  can,  like  the  camel, 
subsist  upon  food  at  longer  intervals  than  other  creatures.  Campbell 
went  first  to  college  at  Glasgow;  but  at  the  time  that  his  old  friend 
knew  him  he  was  transcribing,  for  a  consideration,  in  a  writer's  office 
in  Edinburgh.  There,  also,  he  studied  medicine;  or  rather  he  at- 
tended the  medical  classes,  and  supported  himself  by  his  transcribing, 
whilst  he  was  pursuing  the  path  to  science.  Kesembling,  in  this  re- 
spect, another  great  man.  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  he  had,  in  choosing 
medicine,  mistaken  his  vocation.  Sir  James  Mackintosh  also  began 
life  as  a  student  of  medicine,  and  obtained  the  title  of  Doctor.  It  is 
reported  of  him,  by  a  brother  debater  of  the  "  Speculative,"  in  Edin- 
burgh, that  on  one  occasion  he  made  so  eloquent  an  harangue  on  one 
of  the  subjects  which  were  assigned  to  him,  that  the  assembled  lis* 
teners  were  entranced  with  wonder.  *'  Mr.  Mackintosh,"  observed  one 
of  the  judges  who  was  present  to  him,  "  vou  have  mistaken  your 
profession :  it  should  have  been  the  law."  Tne  student  took  the  hint, 
and  the  result  is  known  to  have  justified  the  comment.  Mackintosh, 
nevertheless,  retained,  all  his  life,  a  love  of  medicine  as  a  pursuit ;  he 
not  unfrequently  spoke  of  it  to  practitioners  in  terms  of  scientific 
accuracy ;  and  he  was  fond  of  conversing  upon  the  subject. 

And  what,  may  and  will  be  asked  by  English  readers,  was  the 
Speculative  Society  ?  It  was  a  debating  society,  established  in  1764, 
composed  of  selected  students  of  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  and  an 
admission  into  its  choice  number  was  deemed  an  honour,  and  has  al- 

VOL.  XVIII.  c 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 
[  a  BflB's  pvcCcBSMOS  to  A  d^ree  of  attainment 


n^wiTifMii  ia  ku  daj.     Tbe  list  of  members  in  the  annals  of 
be  SpccoLftCiTe  cootpneft  iLe  gml  names  of  Dogald  Stewart,  of  Ro- 
sa, «^  Sir  Wilder  Scstt.  of  Jefrer,  Brongfaam,  Francis  Horner, 
DttiLer,  Lord  Lassdarae,  and  ooontlcss  ockers.     La  its  meetings 
v;ks  excxted,  talent  df  Tvl^oed,  and  diaracter  strengthened  by 
of  mtial  whk  Kind.     ILinr  an  <vator,  who  has  since  de- 
ami  cdiied  manVrndj.  vas  tjainied  in  the  Specnlative. 
Campbell  w»s  pimr  ;  b«t  fwieitf  in  Edinbor]^,  at  that  pmod>  did  not 
eatsil  the  fsilitiide  gf  tbe  skabbj  lodging,  or  the  exdnsion  firom  all  that 
■as  Atitital  asd  inti^lteetnjd.     In  its  soppeis,  now  declining  even  in 
Edisborgh*  the  Scotch  «f  the  ssetrofnlts  had  retained  a  custom,  per- 
hifs  ocigumllT  b«Tii>wed  &Ma  the  Fresch,  whose  language  and  whose 
tisot^in  are  still  x»  he  traced  tmiwtga  people,  as diFerent  to  their  Gallic 
naighhsnis  *s  the  statdj  head  «f  BenTenne  is  to  the  Champs  Elysees, 
Ali&r  a  day  «f  wTttxagy  Taried  by  atteadanoe  at  the  medical  classes, 
Cimphell  wv  in  the  habit  of  raiting  at  the  boose  of  a  lady,  then  a 
miUawr  in  Edinbnrgh.     Soule  not,  reader ; — this  milliner  was  indeed 
a  lidy  of  an  ancieat  Scuttbh  lineage,  and  of  undoubted  respectability. 
It  wwk  in  Mmer  daysj.  br  no  SMoas  uncomsson  lor  English  families  of 
mspectahility  to  pl»ce  tWeir  pofftionless  daughters  in   business;  for 
tJni^rtfMt  was  atft  the  pcoitaUe  arscation  which  it  has  since  become. 
In  Scutkad  It  wa»  still  mMe  frequently  the  case.     The  pride  of  even 
mMf  Scutt&sh  tutil^etft.  straage  to  say,  was  not  compromised  by  having 
tefatWiw  in  business-     Even  I  can  reasember  wedding-dresses  beiiig 

Moie  tfur  a  Muue  relatWn  of  mine  by  the  Misses  D— ,  who  were 

connected,  sad  that  ciiKely.  with  the  noble  houses  which  glory  in  their 
ancienl  KiOfee :  sad  thetse  excellent  and  respected  ladies  were  visited 
by  their  |evnd  kinito^k,  and  ivgardcd  with  a  consideration  that  did 
ctedil  to  bif4h  the  gn^at  and  the  humble.  A  word  more  about  milliners. 
^*  AsMCig  all  these^  obtserred  a  noted  lady  "  in  business,"  addressing 
ane  of  mv  sifters,  who  had  chanced  to  pass  the  door  of  her  workroom, 
itmi  was  looking  at  a  group  of  poor  giris,  busily  plying  the  needle,  *'  I 
should  say  there  are  not  laro  who  oi^t  to  be  here.  Some,"  she  added, 
as  »he  fm&sed  oa»  '*  are  the  daughters  of  English  dergymen,  others  of 
gCcers ;  four  of  them,  and  the  b(«t.  and  most  pntient,  are  the  daugh- 
tors  of  high  proud  Scotch  families." 

To  prove  my  point  still  further,—- a  lady,  whose  name  stands  high  in 
the  literature  of  our  country,  was  obliged,  by  adverse  circumstances^ 
to  plsco  her  young  daughter  in  one  of  these  establishments  of  business. 
It  w*s  in  thow  times  thought  the  best  thing  that  could  be  done ;  and 
some  sacrifice  of  meons,  aira  abundance  of  fortitude  on  both  sides,  was 
necessary  to  accomplish  it.  For  some  time  everything  went  on  well ; 
but  the  ordeal  was  too  hard^-bad  food,  late  hours,  loss  of  air,  of  hap- 
piness, of  home,  brt^e  the  young  spirit.  The  mother — whose  name  I 
will  not  tell,  for  those  live  whom  the  narrative  may  pain— came  to 
London,  in  time  only  to  see  her  child  expire.  Within  my  own  sad 
experience^— smile  not,  my  sister,  who  may  read  this  retrospect, — ^but 
my  own  experience  could  paint  a  picture  scarcely  less  touching.  Re- 
member you«  my  laughing  nieces,  the  &ir  Scotch  girl  who  came, 
^^l^Kiming  as  yourselves,  and  recommended  to  your  notice,  should  she 
"•et  up  for  herself,"  to  a  certain  fashionable  siodirlr— I  forbear  to 
i^une  heiu^in  this  metropolis?  The  girl  was  innocent,  and  humbly 
'^f  ;  und  there  were  tome  who,  knowing  her  family,  and  pitying  the 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL- 


19 


decree  wljicL  sent  her  here,  thought  it  no  derogation  to  ask  the  poor 
child  to  a  wber  Sunday's  dinner.  It  was  not  everif  Sunday  that  ^fte 
could  come,  ^  Some  Sabbath  days  «he  lay  in  bed,  from  downright  wea- 
noiM  of  spirit  and  flesh  ;  others,  slje  worked  till  noon*  One  lady,  of 
dacal  mnk,  was  in  the  habit  of  sending  orders  for  a  dress  on  S^lurday, 
to  be  ready  by  four  o'clock  on  the  following  Suodtiy.  She  must  not  be 
dtspleasea  i  Annie^  for  so  was  the  simple  one  called,  w^as  detained  to 
furbish  the  dowager.  Day  by  day  her  bloom  lessened,  then  went 
wholly ;  the  clear  fair  skin  became  transparent.  One  Christmas  day 
she  oune  tio  late,  that  my  sister  had  ceased  to  expect  her.  When  she 
did  arrive,  a  burst  of  tears  relieved  her  spirits  :  she  hud  scarcely  been 
in  bed  that  week.  This  is  but  one  instance  of  the  melancholy  truth 
— pardon  the  digression,  and  let  ns  return  to  the  Madame  Carson  of 
Edinburgh, — the  stately,  money-making,  respectable  Miss  — *. 

Her  young  ladies  were  all  of  the  cliiss  which  I  have  described,  and 
among  them  were  some  of  her  own  young  relations.  Guarded  by  this 
excellent  lady,  around  her  supper-table,  therefore,  w^ere  assembled, 
after  the  day's  work  was  done,  not  only  some  of  the  handsomest  bciles 
of  the  Old  Town,  but  the  cleverest  among  the  students  of  Edinburgh 
Collie,  and  amongst  them  the  animated,  though  obscure,  Tom  Camp- 
bell. 1  could  specify  other  names ;  but  I  am  the  sexton  of  literary 
men,  and  meddle  not  with  them  until  they  are  dead. 

Among  the  company  collected  around  the  supper- table  of  Mim , 

Campbell  was  a  favourite.  His  spirits  were  high,  his  wit  sparkling, 
and  he  was  good-looking,  and  kind-hearted.  An  old  associate,  to  whom 
he  tc»ok  a  fancy,  was  the  first  to  discover  this  treasure  of  poetry  within 
die  ndod  of  the  medical  student.     To  this  friend,  also  a  visitor  at  the 

haam  of  Miss ,  Campbell  showed  the  first  skeleton  of  *'  The  Plea- 

iores  of  Hope/'  It  was,  in  that  form,  a  very  short  poem ;  but  the 
^end  to  whom  it  was  read  discerned  its  excellence.  '*  And  now,*' 
said  the  young  poet,  "  whom  shall  I  get  to  publish  it  ?"  The  answer 
irw  a  promised  introduction  to  Manners  and  Miller,  and  the  poet  was 
peraoaded  to  try  his  fortune  there.  A  fortnight  after  the  poem  had 
been  presented  to  these  eminent  publishers,  the  friend  to  whom  1  refer 
met  Campbell  walking  over  the  North  Bridge*  His  hands  were  in 
his  pockets,  his  head  thrown  back ;  he  was  humming  a  tune  pretty 
iond ;  his  whole  appearance  denoted  an  unwonted  elevation  of  spirits* 
His  friend  stopped  him  with  the  polite  interrogation,  "  For  heaven's 
lake,  what  *8  the  matter  with  you,  Tom  ?  Are  yon  mad  ?"  The 
Toung  poet  looked  at  him  as  if  he  were  dreaming,  and,  clapping  hia 
Kind  on  his  coat-pocket,  exclaimed,  "I've  got  it  I  *' — *' Got  what?" 
rejoined  his  friend. — "  T^venty  guineas  1  *'  answered  the  poet,  with  an 
dpreauon  of  rapturous  pride,  '*  twenty  guineas  for  my  poem  I  **  And 
he  reiitmed  his  walk,  or  rather  strut,  down  the  bridge.  "  But,"  ar- 
gued hia  iriend,  following  him,  "though  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  of  it,  I 
think  it  is  too  little.**  Campbell,  however,  informed  his  kind  adviser 
that^  although  the  payment  was  only  twenty  guineas  then,  he  was  to 
make  considerable  additions  to  the  poem,  for  which  he  was  to  have 
arare — ^he  did  not  know  what  But  eventually  he  obtained,  I  think, 
hat  will  not  say  certainly,  the  sum  of  sixty  guineas,  when  oil  waa 
Rnpleted! 

I  cannot  follow  Campheirs  struggling  fortunes  throughout.  These 
ketehea  of  his  early  life  are  *'  retrospections"  of  many  a  lireside  talk 

c  « 


-     ^Z^  T*^  ^^' 
tt.    TWf  htm  m  i 


him  long 

tli«   same 

iBto  ft  Teiy  dJiferent 

ta  hard  Minto  (himself 

» is  tbe  bovse  now  inhabited 

IfeA  m^mm  the  pwoi  of  «^  Iiocliiel '^'  was 

nitteB  iitt,  1^  die  Inei  filled  in  after- 

i  te  m  9Ht  eir  ridrarf,  ■•  be  recited  them 

pa^  tibe  SevttaA  ••ppen  we  renewed  ; 

ibe  MBtk  thi«w  ewB  m  tbe  colder  soil  of 

li«  11  ftBMQil  it  k  daficoll  te  say*  tbou$;h 

r  liiiiie^  ea  m»j  terms ;  but 

tbe  Bflnv*     Invitations  at  « 

iftete,  our  uncertain 

te  hadf  and  fiee  away  ; 

f   Sncwpore  tea-drink- 

re  »pf  it,  the  whole  of 

bttbtr  or  imt  it  really  U 

pi  wna  made,  laat  aeaaon, 

Bpyer»«i  aiflte  e'docic, — the  andadty 

eibf  «f  bottled  beer  were  even  perpe* 

Mt  ^e  fjattdaimi  would  not  under-^ 

«f  ■OTtbiflg  tbai  it  i»ot  in  every  way 

nm,  Ibe  IvzBry  «C  easy  viaiting  it  not 

ia  be  ia  aaoety  at  all ;  and  we  are 

ie  tbe  tmi  lelginij  ef  all  tbe  dii|>lay  and  expense 

wimA  whb  ear  nocturnal  mevt- 


ilftei 


^Tbe  days  are  ga^a  W  wbem  pe«t  iMtt  waeld  walk  quietly  in  to  sit 
a  few  boerv  wi^aet  mlMbi^f  tba  faeOy  «ifaiifeoient«*  They  are 
«ow  wbeLly  devoid  of  tbe  liaiflicity  eftd  needem  ef  the  la&t  century. 
IfiteUeetxial  aaciety  becaiti,  fear  hf  ycar«  aMire  and  more  scarce.  Is 
il  Innry  tbat  baa  iikbHaed  tt  a««T  ^ 

The  traits  whi^  Ibaie  grrea  ef  CbaMpbdl  are  borrowed  ;  they  are 
the  result  of  the  ^qvericnea  ef  etber^  Wbat  I  shall  henceforth  write 
of  him  will  be  my  owm  iSOslkctisM  ef  tbe  |»oet.  Thej  are  botiiid  up 
with  many  a  different  tbeoM  ta  tbe  lef  miij  ef  past  years.  But  I  do 
BOl  mean  to  be  sentisMntal:  aa  a  pieef  ef  H,  my  iist  theme  is^Uam* 
menmith. 

There  is  a  row  of  hotisee  in  Hammersmith  bordering  the  river,  and, 
piany  years  ago,  detached  from  all  other  such  places.  It  formed  a  sort 
ef  terrace ;  the  habitations  were  »mall»  and  i»uited  to  bachelors  of  mo« 
derate  means,  or  to  single  ladies,  or  ti>  tbe  interesting  class  of  widows. 
Each  honae  had  a  long  strip  of  a  gardt^n,  \vhich  was  divided  from  its 
oei^boiir  by  a  low  wall,  generally  covered  u-ith  privet  or  honeysuckle. 
The  garden**  did  not  go  directly  down  to  the  river,  but  all  comin uni- 
fied in  a  walk  common  to  the  whole  terrace*  From  this  walk  stepi 
descended  to  the  water  ;  and  you  might  fish  up  eels ;  or  take  a  bfl«l 
et  high  water  ;  or  sleep,  or  read,  or  count  the  mmutes,  if  you  had  no- 
thini*  el  He  to  do. 

f  i      psirt  of  Haromeramith  wrw  then  "  out  of  town  ;"  and  those  who 

,  i.umi5what  my  juniors  can  ill  conceive  how  pretty  and  sunny  the  ter- 

wit  — as  quiet  as  you  could  wish;  the  gardens  fragrant  with 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL. 


21 


lowers,  and  bird-cages  hung  out  beueath  the  drawing-room  wmdowi«^ 
wd  a  great  deal  of  boating  and  Hirting  was  going  on  between  the 
denizens  of  the  terroce. 

They  mostly  knew  each  other,  fcir  the  common  walk  at  the  end 
tflbrdea  opportunities  of  introduction*  Mj  impression,  however,  h, 
that  the  houses  belonged  to  one  owner,  who  was  particular  in  keeping 
the  inhabitants  select.  The  place  exists  Ktill^  I  have  h'ttle  doubt.  I 
have  not  seen  it  these  thirty  year«*  I  dare  say  it  has  deteriorated 
greatly.  Clothes,  I  have  every  reason  to  conclude,  may  be  hanging 
0Ot  to  dry  on  the  privet  hedges  ;  cigars  taint  the  walk  at  the  end  ;  I 
"Will  engage  there  are  tea-gardens  near ;  steamboats  with  incessant 
baods  passing  to  and  fro ;  Lord  I^Iuyor's  barges ;  roiving  matches^  and 
the  eternal  green  veils  of  the  1'hames  tilling  up  the  intervals. 

There  were  no  8teaml>oat8  then  ;  all  was  serene,  except  the  plash- 
ing of  the  occasional  oar  (one  gentleman  in  the  terrace  had  his  boat)j 
and  the  gentle  triumph  of  the  anglers,  or  the  warbling  of  the  gay  ca- 
naries in  the  sun* 

There  was  one  family,  and  one  only,  who  mingled  not  with  the  com- 
munity of  the  terrace,  but  who,  though  unknowing,  were  not  unknown. 
This  was  Thomas  Campbellt  and  his  wife,  and  son,  hh  wife*8  sister, 
and  his  wife's  sister's  husband. 

They  lived  in  a  house  at  the  end.  Mr.  and  Mrs-  Weiss,  or  WisSj 
Mrs,  Campbeirs  brother-in-law  and  sister,  were  sometimes  seen  ;  JVfra. 
Campbell  and  her  husband  never,  Mrs.  Wiss  had  been,  and  indeed 
then  was,  beautiful.  I  speak  from  report — as  a  boy,  passing  a  few 
dull  weeks  of  vacation  with  some  dull  old  friends  of  my  family,  I  was 
touch  more  taken  up  with  the  beauty  of  a  gudgeon  than  with  the 
good  looks  of  anv  woman  j  but  I  heard  IVfrs.  WissS  spoken  of  aa  a 
beanty,  and  I  solemnly  hope  Mrs.  Campbt^ll  was  also.  Could  she  be 
the  **  Caroline **  addressed  in  those  beautiful  lines  ending,  "To  bear 
is  to  conquer  our  fate,'*  and  be  plain  ?     I  will  not  believe  it. 

Yoang  as  I  was,  and  seated  all  day,  with  the  bearish  inconsiderate- 
nen  of  boyhood,  on  the  very  centre  of  tlie  middle  step,  with  my  great 
fcet  nn  the  lower  one,  my  stupid  eyes  fixed  on  my  line, — thoughtless  as 
I  wai,  I  had  experienced  a  momentary  entliUHianm  over  the  line,  '*  And 
mmn,  the  hermit,  pined, — till  woman  smik^d.*'  I  had  learned  some 
pigeji  of  '*  The  Pleasures  of  Hope  ;"  I  was  actually  fired  with  a  wish 
10  aee  the  author  of  the  pK>em.  To  justify  my  chronology,  I  must  here 
9Mf  thmt  "  The  Pleasures  of  Hope  "  was  published,  I  rather  think, 
bdfSore  I  iras  born.  Campbell  himself  said  to  me,  one  day,  speaking  of 
a  gentleman  who  wished  to  pay  him  a  compliment,  "  And  what  do  you 
ihaak  it  was  ?"  said  he,  '*  The  man  had  the  barbarity  to  nny  to  me, 
'Mr,  Campbell,  mtf  father  courted  my  mother  out  of  **  The  Pleasures 
of  Hope/**  And  this,"  added  the  poet,  with  one  of  his  ineffable  looks, 
frmn  m  penon  far  past  the  first  bloom  of  youth,  I  do  assure  you.  Cruel, 
w«t  it  not  K 

Well,  therefore,  and  I  look  around  me,  as  I  pen  the  truth,  upon 
greftt  grown-np  men,  who  will  not  believe  me^ —  well  then,  I  iiad  read 
•'The  Pleasures  of  Hope,"  but  in  vain  did  I  try  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
writer.  He  went  into  London  early,  every  day,  and  came  home  late, 
O1166  or  twice  I  saw,  in  the  dusk  of  evening,  a  short  and  somewhat 
m%  figure,  seated  in  a  boat,  rowed  up  to  the  stairs  at  the  other  end  of 
the  terrace,  1  ran  for  my  life;  the  neatly  chiseled  protile  was  all  I 
could  perceive— it   was,  to  be  sure,   Mr.  Campbell,   but  he  moved 


THOdCAS  CAJCPBSLL* 


MiiAr  hte  Ike  §iiiif»  aid  I  liad  aoC  tbe  coaiage  to  watch  him  evea 

TW  tcwjcg  Aiya  «a«  In^  mov  >a^  I  ^m^  *  diniag-out  cbancterj 
lad  Wd  fa— J  «vcnl  «f  th«e  frinidshlps  and  coanaiions  to  which 
it  ham  hetm  mj  fleHsre  tm  wthr,  wliea,  ooe  ereoingj  an  acqaabtance 
vte  ««i  gjBJ^  t»  the  MMC  Ul  with  me,  said   to  me,  "  Will  you 

all  lor  BK  H  jm  fam  ikmm^ Street  ?     I  dine  there — I  will  not 

keep  fis  §;wmwamBim^ — do  coBaew"  1  went;  I  waited  more  than  fire 
wiwwtei;  Wt  joit  OS  I  oad  mj  hodoieT-cooch  had  revived  to  drive 
OB^  oat  COBO  nj  &irad:  o  gcptlemon  came  with  him.  Said  my  ac- 
mmaaaaaam^  '^Bmwm  jam  xaaa  tfaete?  We  can  just  set  Mr.  Campbell 
down.  I  knew — I  was  ane»*  be  odded  in  o  whisper,  *'you  wouldn't 
oljecf— 'lit  Ton  CmaajIbtSL*  Of  eonne,  I  said  all  that  was  civil. 
llr.  C^mpbdl  jnaipod  ni»  be  wao  tJien  niddk^Bged  and  active,  and  we 
divte  OD.  Tbooe  woe  tbe  dajm  of  potieace  and  slowness — the  coach 
pwccedcd  alewly.  Mr.  Ckmpbeli  aod  I  tat  side  hy  side,  tny  friend 
OfUMtite*  I  was  tgaia  daappointedt  for  Campbell  never  turned  his 
fcei  teie  I  taw  nothing  bnt  the  lianltkaa  and  beautiful  outline  of 
liit  proiJr.  He  must  kave  been,  on  a  sasall  scale,  a  very  good-looking 
man.  His  fignre  wm  at  that  period  neat  and  tight — ^he  then  wore  the 
wig,  and  a  very  candid  wig  it  was.  His  manner  was  a  little  quick. 
He  had,  I  was  told,  been  the  life  of  the  party  which  he  had  just  left, 
telling  capital  anecdotes,  and  flattering  and  being  flattered  by  youth 
mad  beanty.  I  ranember  one  trait  which  was  very  unlike  the  gene- 
ions  feeling  of  his  general  character :  the  remark  seemed  to  escape 
bim  in  a  moment  of  petulance*  **  Do  you  know  so  and  so  ?"  asked 
my  fnend,  alluding  to  a  gentleman  (a  writer)  whose  company  they 
bad  just  quitted.  **  No,  replied  Mr  Campbell  hastily,  *'  1  never 
have  anything  to  do^  if  I  can  help  it,  with  second-rate  authors/' 

My  interview,  if  it  could  be  so  called,  in  the  gloom  of  London  and 
oiMit  lamps,  led  at  that  time  to  no  acquaintance;  and  I  set  the 
poet  of  all  modern  poets  down  as  one  whom  1  should  never  know  ;  and 
report  whispered  that  his  days  were  overcast  with  the  deepest  gloom  ; 
bis  wile  had  died,  his  sod — but  let  me  leave  such  themes  of  sorrow 
to  hands  which  will,  I  trust,  touch  gently  the  chorda  that  tell  of  so 
much  woe. 

Meantime,  I  had  not  lost  my  interest  in  Campbell.  In  London  I 
met  him  not.  The  world  makes  no  allowance  for  the  fallings  of  the 
gifted.  I  cannot  agree  in  the  opinion  given  by  a  great  authority,  I 
believe  Lord  Brougham,  who  expresses  himself  in  hi»  Essay  on  the  Life 
of  Burke,  in  the  Edinburgh  heikfv,  to  this  effect; — speaking  of 
Burke's  debts,  "  We  are  bound,''  he  says,  "  to  afford  to  a  man  of 
genius  just  as  much  excuse  for  his  pecuniary  embarrassments  as  we 
give  to  others,  but  no  more."  I  quote  from  memory*  1  am  very  sure 
that  I  do  not  give  the  turn  of  the  expression ;  but  of  the  meaning  and 
substance  of  the  passage,  I  am  certain. 

It  is  a  stem  decision:  the  diction  of  a  man  who  does  not  know 

pecuniary  distress.     I  venture  to  differ  from  it :  not  that  I  am  by  any 

means  disposed  to  give  to  genius  all  the  lalitude  on  this,  and  other 

Joints,  that  she  is  ever'so  ready  to  take  ;  but  I  beg  humbly  to  plead  for 

this,  thut^  she  ought  to  Iiave  some  one  to  look  after  her  iiffairs, 

are  is  thut  in  the  imaginative  mind  that  revolts  against  the  details 

At  every-day  economy ;  and  it  is  the  disregard  of  these  details,  more 

a  greater  offences,  which  beget  difficulties  and  ruin. 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


2S 


From  this  species  of  trouble   Mr.  Campbell,  if  he  suffered  at  all, 

iulfered  from  his  good-nature  to  otbers,  by  whom  the  liberality  of  his 

conduct  waa  t  alt  en  advantage  of  to  hrs  detriment.     But  this,  endowed 

UA  he  was  with  the  pension  originally  conferred  by  Clmrlea  James 

FoJt,  was  noi  the  dark  shadow  which  followed  his  course  through  life. 

It  WM  one  which  the  righteous  might  have  ventured  to  pity,  the  rigid 

to  forgive*     It  was  the  fatal  etfecl  of  a  sensitive  mind  too  severely 

tried;  it  was  the  remnant  of  old  conviviality,  the  sources  of  which 

were  poisoned,  and  were   converted  into  'lelf-indulgence.     It  was  an 

,  «rril,  a  curse^ — resisted  when  too  lute — destroying  by  inches  the  fine 

lintellect^^-eating  into  the  constitution^  sparing  nothing  save  the  kind^ 

tafflicted  heart*     It  was  a  vice — yes,  I  grant  it^-a  vice  produced  by 

I.  long  anxiety>  by  campanionless  care,  and  increased  by  the  neglect  and 

desertion  of  old  friends  who  might  have  solaced,  have  warned,  have 

controlled.      It  was  a  vice  which  society,  disgusted   and  sorrowings 

^  wmXs  once,  and  never  withdraws  her  ban. 

But,  in  despite  of  it,  the  integrity  and  honour  of  the  poet  stood 
no j( allied  to  the  last.  He  was  severely  dealt  with  by  an  exaggerating 
world* 

Al  length,  after  hearing  little  of  Campbell  for  some  ttmej  I  not  only 
nw,  but  heard  him.  Who  does  not  remember  that  dinner  of  the 
Literary  Fund  over  which  Prince  Albert  presided,  supported,  on  the 
one  hand,  by  the  Marquis  of  Lansdowne,  on  the  other  by  the  Duke  of 
Cleveland.  There  was,  on  that  occasion,  a  confluence  of  litemry  men, 
never  before,  I  fancy,  assembled  in  that  dingy  room  at  the  Freema- 
aooft*^  where  antiquarian  cobwebs  must,  I  should  conceive,  have  accu- 
miilated  over  the  heads  of  tens  of  thousands  of  statesmen,  philan- 
thropists, pf>ets,  and  clergymen,  public  singers,  and  waiters.  It  was 
in  that  room,  where,  on  a  platform,  I  had  beheld  Edward  Irvine,  the 
idolized  preacher,  touched  by  the  eloquence  of  Brougham,  give  his 
w^tch  in  pledge  of  his  subscription  to  the  cause  of  Anti-slavery, — his 
deep  Toioe  echoing  up  to  the  very  gallery,  his  eye  (both  never  accord- 
ed) sparkling  already  with  that  fearful  light  which  seems  a  prelude 
i  lothe  darkness  of  the  tomb.  It  is  there  that  I  have  mourned  with  the 
'  accomplished  Lord  Caernarvon  over  the  monstrous  cruelty  of  the  dog- 
cart ;  and  my  blood  has  boiled  at  the  recitals  in  the  Cruelty  to  Ani- 
mals' meetings.  It  is  there  that  Sussex  was,  and  Cambridge  is,  peren- 
nial chairman.  It  was  there  that  this  far-famed  literary  dinner  took 
place.  1  crept  in  among  the  humble.  After  the  dinner  there  was 
every  species  of  eloquence.  Prince  Albert's  foreign,  neat  harangue ; 
the  Marquis  of  Xansdowne's  happy  address;  the  Duke  of  Cleve- 
land's remarks — all  went  off  welL  There  we  had  episcopal  oratory 
— the  impassioned  harangue  of  the  Bishop  of  Norwich,  the  graver 
speech  of  Archbishop  Whately,— we  had  the  earnest  appeal  of  Lord 
Ashley,  born  to  serve  and  to  save,  and  the  elegance  of  Lord  Dudley 
Stuart.  Surely  these  two  noblemen  are  suflicient  to  rescue  an  aristo- 
cracy from  the  coarse  invectives  of  those  who  do  not  reflect  how 
little  could  be  done  by  plain  Mr.  Ashley,  or  hottest  Mr.  Stuart.  Then 
we  had  a  redundance  of  literary  merit  and  renown.  Hallam  at  the 
head — Lord  jMahon — ^loore — 1  leave  out  a  long  list  which  I  might 
enumerate, — James — Lever — Ainsworth — Croly^-CampbelL  I  leave 
out  in  this  summary  sketch  an  untold  number  of  county  members  and 
I  acientific  professors ; — but  take  them  ail  for  granted. 

Prince  Albert  had  modestly  begun^  and  elegantly  ended  his  part— 


i^^mi 


9«  iflmw  as 
I  flvM  "  Geo- 
l»  gf  Ettgkad, 

M^  «»  Uk  l«g  JiiiMij  Mik  Mr.  Gmp- 

I  Jwwr,  McGMpUi  ^  «^  toretttm 

M§mm  wm;hmi^km  fiiifni  wm^  piodted, 

wrr.    TW  ajj^i  ^^  wfJ      H«  Imhi 

^^  ^ii«;  tfa^  y,y»  wi  ckar, 

Ihafuicy  and 
"^  he  broke 
niHin  waa  reiteittt- 
¥v  livibt.    Ob!  Wibaold  have  been 
ei.'     Wa  jM  bdicw  it?      The  people 
asf&sFKtif  BrilMiCiw«toi«BtWaaesd  of  his 
■g^tfi^M  dMim,  ^vaMit  dMdktrf  £m  m  evvrj  rude  and 
■■■is^    A  bm  «f  cImb  i^p»ed  lJi«  IvnUlity,  and 
hmt  it  warn  tm  kte^foUe,  long  retir-* 
1  pnfectlT  able  to  com* 
»lj  put  opoQ  his 
Af^er  a  tnoment 
d  aat  down.     In  a 
hm  TO  ^c^f  vouoded  by  the 
ed  ti  hia  leeiiiig»— *he  went  out. 


I  saw 


pose  ''the  Poets  of  Ire- 
ere  the  footsteps  of  the 
I  of  the  hooie,  he  dir^ged  from 
I  s  grsoeful  and  beautiful  euLogium  on 
e,  bat  it  was  heard  not  by  him  whom 


*1T^,  and  Ifr  Mwttic  ,"  tet  h 

Mt  b^  pnMdy  Med  tke  I 

If^ttDd  is  Sesdukd^  Mid  fa 

Msv  CkmpbelL     It  was  well 

it  most  ooBeemed.     Wheo«  duriBg  our  after  aoquaintaBce,  I  told  the 

poet  of  it,  he  said  gently,  **  It  wma  rery  kind.     They  might  hare  let 

me  alon«;  had  I  had  fire  aunutes  to  recorer  myself — but  who  could 

ataod  sttcb  a  noise?     And  then  my  friend  UjUkm^  too,"  he  added, 

a  smile  paasiM  over  hia  Tarying  countenance,  '*  why !    how  old  he 

ntsJtes  me !     Why  could  he  not  say  '  thlrtr'  years  ?     But  he  s  so  chro- 

mdogicaL'* 

But   a  short  interTal    was   there  between  my  acquaintance  with 

Campbell  and  his  last  removal  to   Boulc^ne,  where  he  died.     I  saw 

him,  towards  the  clo»e  of  his  residence  in  England,  Kurrounded  by 

the  friends  of  his  happiest  days — Rogers  among  tbeni.     I  saw  him 

happy  with  her  to  whom  he  was  an  indulgent,  liberal  fatlier,  his  niece. 

Her  hands  tended  his  death- bed,  her  kind  voice  cheered  his  decline. 

He  was  not  desolate.     The  heart  that  had  felt  so  deeply  for  others, 

was  not  chilled  by  the  measured  services  of  the  hireling.     A  friend,  a 

ilergymun,  hastened  from   Knglund  to  administer  the  lust  solemn  sa- 

rameuts  for  the  dying,      Campbell   sunk   into  his  grave,  humbled, 

nitent,  gruleful,  believing,  and  hoping.     Never  did  a  more  benevo^ 

*»  *piiit  rise  from  the  prison  of  humanity  to  the  freedom  of  the  just. 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


u 


Hin  errors  were  not  of  tbe  dark,  unsocial  kmd ;  no  calJout^nesft  follow* 
ed  Ui€9e  frrors*  Those  wbo  knew  him  intimately  loved  him  to  tbe 
ImU     Great  is  tbe  sentimentj  so  hackneyed  tbat  we  prize  it  not — 

**  No  futber  seek  hit  meriu  to  ditdoae^ 
Nor  draw  hit  frailties  from  their  dread  abode,—" 

and  greater,  because  it  was  penned  by  one  who,  leg^  than  most  men, 
required  the  indulgence  which  be  gave. 

I  have  described  Campbeirs  early  abode  where  I  first  sawblm — let 
me  draw  a  little  picture  of  his  last,  in  this  country.  Behind  Ara> 
bella  Row,  near  Buckingham  Palace,  is  a  small  square^  in  a  sort  of 
corner,  as  if,  modestly,  it  meant  to  be  unknown*  But  no?  It  bears 
tbe  bigh-iounding  appellation  of  Victoria  Square  ;  a  figure  of  Victoria, 
with  a  globe  in  her  hand,  graces  the  centre  of  tbe  ^uore.  la  this  re- 
tired spot  Campbell  Jived.  I  remember,  when  I  last  visited  it»  and 
Ibund  tbe  house  closed,  tbe  poet  gone,  I  augured  that  he  would  return 
no  more  to  bis  native  land.  Perhaps  no  British  pi>et  has  ever  writ- 
ten, (I  do  not  mean  to  expatiate  on  his  genius,)  so  unexcepttonably. 
There  is  not  a  line  for  a  reviewer  to  cavil  at  in  his  earlier  and  more 
6nisbed  poems.  I  can  remember  Gertrude  of  Wyoming  comino'  out, 
and  its  being  much  criticised.  But  who  can  criticiHe  it  now?  Who 
can  read  it  without  a  painful  sense  of  tbe  deterioration  of  poetry  in 
our  own  day.  Campbell  was,  I  have  heard,  very  careful  and  fastidi- 
ous. His  smallest  sonnets  were  touched  and  retouched  xvith  a  pruning 
hand.  He  was  one  of  the  few  poets  wbo  bad  no  reason  to  complain  of 
public  ingratitude.  Tbe  pension  to  which  I  have  referred  was  double 
the  usual  amount,  and  the  poet  rose  to  the  height  of  his  fame  after 
the  publication  of  his  first  work. 

Tbe  prose  works  of  Campbell  add  little  to  his  fame  :  it  rather  makes 
one  melancholy  to  think  that  be  should  have  been  induced,  or  con- 
detuned,  to  write  a  page  that  one  could  not  read.  His  Life  of  Mrs. 
8iddoo8v  although  generally  reckoned  poor,  pleases,  nevertheless,  from 
iti  absence  of  pretension,  its  simple  exposition  of  the  greatest  actress  in 
ber  everyday  oress.  Tlioae  letters  in  uhich  slie  breathes  her  anxiety 
about  her  daughter — the  darling  of  her  noble  heart — the  doomed  one 
who  was  afterwards  snatched  from  her  mother  by  consumption — are 
d^fplv  affecting.  The  chain  of  narrative  was  supplied  with  a  gentle  and 
IrtatfUy  band  by  Campbell.  We  see  the  gifted  mother  journeying  from 
pUoe  to  place*  assuming  every  possible  form  of  human  woe,  carrying  it 
mio  tlie  very  hearts  of  those  who  heard  her,  whilst  her  own  tliroba  with 
1  stirraw  unutterable — ^a  consuming,  constant  care.  When  the  blow 
came,  it  was  well  borne;  but,  in  the  midst  of  her  proud  lot,  tbe 
in  within  her  was  chastened.  Her  triumphs  elated  her  not^ — her 
\  apirit  was  never  sullied  by  the  dangers  of  prosperity-  The  mo- 
tJMr't  beart  was  wrung,  and  whilst  tbe  world  worshipped,  sbe  was 
feimUed  and  sorrowing.  How  singular  were  her  fortunes  I  1  knew 
a  lady  who  frequently  saw  IMrs.  Siddonst  after  her  performances,  and 
who  assured  me  that  the  great  actress  was  often  led  off  the  stage  after 
h^  itDpasiioned  acting  in  the  Gamester,  or  any  of  her  favourite  parts, 
in  strong  hpterics.  This  is  related  of  one  to  whom  all  the  world 
attributed  a  want  of  sensibility  ;  for  the  world  is  always  suspicious  of 
those  who  have  the  power,  either  in  literature  or  in  their  dramatic 
pcrfbrmances,  to  work  upon  its  isympathies.  How  erroneously  does 
St  judge  I     How  n'ittily,  yet  how  untruly  was  it  said  of  Byron,  "that 


Sn-  Waher  Soatt's^  wmd  wkw  ber  eat 

;  wrr  fikeiT,  «■  ^Mf  to  the  tlie»- 

-zxt  idinjuM^  -at  lajtm  jkt  aeta^  «f  Ifiiiirfi  n'  '^  TW  vkale  andienoe 

mjwM,  I  ooold 

'  «f  Vuei  Wc^*    I  caqperieDoed  the 

ML  ft  lajfCL  jAu  the  epen,  deroaring 

l^Mefir  tarn^  m  bt  can.     It  was 

«f  t^  '^^V'^™^  llafifann  calliog 

im  let  kenelf  down  to 
"Mzi^^iMmi  Bt  aatnre  she 
asLy  aa  tike  dedne  af  ide,  wlien  she 
tike  stoee-  She  aras  then  Tiaiting  at 
'.  starinfT  with  the  reiy 
&  ^^  the  haii  W«at  Aif  ifiiined  in  the  hum- 
r )  sanL  I  \jmm  a  ^entleaaan  whoae  mother 
cwii  haait  «^  harii^  been  carried  in 
XrTs^S«aiiii»^  jtsb.  ^aes  a  inmniL  Uii^^h  the  walks  of  Gny's  Cliff. 
£b«w  fcioeiy  wu&e  ^fie  in«  u.ur,  irr  have  iaahtd,  as  die  penunbnlated 
ae  vqMft  ic  :^«c  eai^iErBise  7uve !  T^hinjt  wwi  then  oomparativelj 
CTmL  imL  Mbtt^  «a  a«  dhf.  avvniiiked  the  widened  stream  of  the 
Avio^  Ttml  tM  Titfw  ww»  nmsaBttini  hr  aae  abfect — a  milL  Often 
^YY  I  sOMiL  in  wisosr.  9»  jptae  :qwa  the  frsaen  mill-dam,  and  to 
nnei  fa  taif  s^ttt  ^  taie  idioiH.  nedeitiaji  the  beams  of  the  noon-day 
sex.  T>«  ^MOMorca  aa^abttuBCs  iK  G«t  s  CHC  ■•ble  in  descent,  nobler 
still  ax  thecr  virtam^  dtecenttd  die  mcnt  and  the  talents  of  Miss 
Kcmbtte :  Ae  bccaoe  theor  m<wi.  Her  best,  and  that  of  her  brother, 
anf  t»  be  seen^  scnl^cni«d  bv  the  Hm^  Mrs^  Dtuaer,  among  the  other 
abfgcts  «£  iateretit  in  a  pcsce  wheie  die  ere  is  riveted,  the  heart  is 
tan-hcd  nst  bv  the  ^bledieats  ipf  de  g^ga[jticQ«3r— not  by  the  holes 
which  he  scraped  with  his  BEaik  in  the  waditane — not  by  the  traces  of 
the  gmt  and  gifted  who  hsTe  been  there, — but  by  the  portrait  of  the 
Ta«ng  and  ncsnsyJiihitd  sen  «£  those  who  were  the  friends  of  Mrs. 
^isnii  That  DKtnre  can  nrrer  be  lofgoltcB.  It  is  the  self-drawn 
resemblance  af  the  ye«s^  heir  of  Gn?  s  Cliff,  the  painter  of  several 
pfamiiin^  pictnies-  He  died  in  the  bloom  of  yonth,  abroad,— leaving 
to  his  parcnto  the  remembcance  of  their  loves  and  hopes,  and  one 
hifimt  oui^ter  to  nerpetnato  h»  memory. 

Amid  thewreeaUectisas  stands  the  bnst  of  Mrs.  Siddons ;  beside  it, 
Ikt  a  Rmnaa  Knater,  that  of  John  Kemble.  I  am  glad  that  I  lived 
let  aofteiently  in  hia  day  to  hear  the  little  gosaiping  stories  which  were, 
:  donbt  not,  sprad  aboot  of  his  coldness  and  his  avarice,  hot  which 
'are  mterred  with  his  bones."  I  am  glad  I  never  had  the  bloom  of 
r^  I  of  him  rabbed  off  by  contemporary  slander.    I  can  think 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


27 


of  bim  now  as  the  Dore/orih  of  Mrs*  Inchbaldj  who  drew  that  cha- 
racter from  John  Kemble,  She  miist,  I  am  convinced,  have  been  in 
loFe  %rjth  him  ;  it  was  not  in  her  nature  to  help  it  And  what  a  pic- 
ture drawn  by  her  dull  biographer,  Boaden,  of  the  Kemble  family, 
without  knowing  it !  Mrs*  Siddons,  after  her  rejection  at  Drury  Lane» 
dutifully  ironing  her  husband's  shirts  ;  John  Kemble  studying  to 
prepare  himself  for  the  Roman  Catholic  priesthood  :  and  herself — the 
**  Simple  Story  "  in  her  desk,  rejected  also — present ipg  a  singular 
compound  of  literature  and  love^  romance  and  meannessj  beauty  and 
untidiness. 

I  bad  beard  much  of  Mr;.  Siddons  from  my  earliest  childhood. 
Some  tged  relations  of  mine  were  fond  of  talking  of  the  days  when 
Sl  John's  Wood  rras  sl  wood,  ar*d  when  Lisson  Grove  was  a  grove. 
In  those  times,  there  was  an  old  iVIanor  House  in  St.  Jtjhn'i^  Wood, 
which  the  usual  course  of  changes  in  this  mundane  state  had  reduced 
to  a  form  house.  The  fanner,  or  his  wife,  let  off  some  of  the  rooms 
into  lodgings.  The  old  couple,  to  whom  I  have  referred^  were  iti  the 
babit  of  taking  apartments  during  the  summer  months  at  the  Manor 
House.  It  stood  quite  in  the  country,  and,  as  fate  would  have  it,  old 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kemble,  the  parents  of  the  immortal  trio,  (for,  though 
last  and  least,  the  present  survivor  was  a  great  actor,  and  m  an  accom* 
plished  man,)  had  lodgings  there  also,  1  have  heard  my  relations  say 
—and  they  were  no  orainary  judges — that  there  never  was  a  more 
perfect  gentleman  than  old  Mr.  Kemble ;  nor  a  finer  woman,  nor  a 
more  excellent  being  than  his  wife.     Buth  were  singularly  handsome. 

Mra.  Siddons  had  by  thtit  time  given  up  ironing  her  husband's  shirts, 
and  waa  in  the  zenith  of  her  fame  at  Drury  Lane.  Her  proud  mother 
was  always  talking  of ''Sally  ;"  and  occasionally  the  magnificent  "Sally" 
•wept  across  the  Manor  House  garden,  and  bowing  her  lofty  head, 
Mia  fleeting  visits,  coming  in  her  own  carriage,  to  her  parents*  Mrs. 
Kemble  was  very  desirous  of  shewing  *^  SalJy"  to  Iier  friends  and 
fellow-lodgers;  day  after  day  she  promised  to  do  so ;  but  Mrs,  Siddons 
never  could  or  would  wait  for  the  display.  One  morning,  my  old  lady 
friend  heard  an  altercation  between  mother  and  daughter  on  that  very 
point*  Mrs.  Kemble  persisted ►  '*  Well  then,"  replied  the  haughty 
Sarab,  '*  Madam,  I  wait  your  plensure.*'  The  mother  retired,  and 
stationed  her  friend  in  the  hall,  where  she  could  see  the  immortal 
Sarah  returning.  In  a  few  minutes  Mrs.  Siddons  came  out,  precedbtg 
ber  mother — a  fatal  blemish  in  manners.  She  moved,  my  friend  said, 
as  if  she  would  scarcely  deign  to  touch  the  earth  ;  and,  with  a  distant 
oourtesy,  passed  on.  But  her  dress,  her  walk,  her  grand  beauty,  then 
in  ita  prime,  were  long  the  theme  of  my  old  friend's  talk ;  while  the 
words  *'  Madam,  I  wait  your  pleasure,"  were  given  by  her  in  that 
deep,  distinct  tone  which  none  who  had  ever  heard  Mrs.  Siddons 
could  fail  to  recognize, 

I  had  seen  that  splendid  specimen  of  humanity  in  her  principal 
cbaracters,  when  it  was  my  fortune  to  meet  with  her  once,  and  only 
0iicei  in  private.  Her  acting  had  left  that  grand  but  indefinite  im- 
pression on  my  mind  which  the  dim  remembrance  of  a  solemn  cloister, 
or  the  awful  fall  of  an  avalanche,  would  make  upon  my  memory ;  but 
I  could  neither  recal  nor  criticise  its  details.  I  recollect  seeing  her 
perform  Elvira  with  one  hand  bound  up  (from  a  cut  finger);  but  even 
with  only  one  arm,  her  action  was  perfect.  Under  a  very  different 
aspect  did  I  behold  her  in  the  year in  a  Leamington  ball-rtwm. 


S8  THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 

WIio  remembers  the  first  introduction  of  ouadrilles  in  place  of  ooontrj- 
dsDces*  or,  ss  they  began  to  be  called,  "  Kitchen*'  dances  ?  Alas !  I  do : 
manr  do»  if  thej  would  own  it.  I  was  passing  through  Leamington, 
then'  a  rrrj  humble  and  much  desfHsed  halNsister  of  Cheltenham 
(fashioB  united  to  hrpoehondriacismy  their  common  parents,)  when  I  was 
eutked  into  attendmg  (me  of  the  balls.  Thej  were  weekly  meetings, 
and  were  usuallr  indifferentlj  attended. 

TWre  w«s  aa  admiraUe  master  of  the  ceremonies  at  Leamington  in 
thase  dai^  I  liear  W  is  dead ;— could  he  die  ?  Could  anything  so 
puiiadkedJ  sad  so  perfect,  be  mortal  ?  He  had  the  blandest  smile,  the 
maat  bewitthxa^  tecdw  the  iaest  Icfs,  an  iBeomparahle  bow,  a  temper 
«t  a  pufeevc  perflKxple^  smd  miad  eaiisgh  to  acquit  himself  of  the  fiinc- 
taawW  ^  iEftnk  sftee.  He  wm  hiadsamr,  lus^  had  been  in  the 
tS.  nai.  iadhsit.  dii|ilaTcd  the  pcHMtioo  of  all  out- 


bit  set  of  faadriOes— that  set  which 

ioe-«mjast  farmed.    Mr.  H 

a^    Jks  he  laaked  at  the  dancers, 

cet  ^kasagh  it,*  his  attention  was 

tkeiaoaL     I  aoCcd  not  the  rest ; 

he  w»  amodaoed  u  Mr.  H , 

m.^.1-,^-^  -^  ,5= - jnynamd  thea  dMVt  sixtY  years  of 

«Si^     Jt^  i^  ^QB  ^aner  daa  I  hod  CKpected:  it  was  large  and 
i^,«.     ii^  iir  ^«Jt  iicaltfc  the  CadktFime  ^fJUrmm^  as  I  remem* 
Bcr  laee  ■■!     ahsYl  I  adkaowk^  it?— 


«c^   ^ihj;     sa«  «MTa«»^  ^sondL  I  hal  kasd  say  foher  describe  as  (he 

V*%-i    i»^  •  .*-t!f«wt   «  HEML  awe  wfaiied  and  marked :  it 

*«s  ^  j^T^mn:^  ^'  i«nn     Itac  ^mt  ant  imiidDim  itmadness,  and 

?^-  Taii«(iM«^  «■««*  «  iB«^K-  ra«  anoec  a»  t^  mstiaa.    J^e  was  led  to 

t«^:  «^  «-   u«  ^v^^Mb    aac:  ^mml  aaaw  libp  miHoaacT  of  the  neigh« 

VixiiM-wg"     i>*~  lucixnL   siizif^i9'     Aat  sas  kifian  the  quadrilles — the 

\phNi-  «ttjaitTt  n  Z^xinmsftm.     Z  ssaJl  MimA  impt  thsu    The  ladies 

dw.  w^.     iHC  ia»  ssaitgsRffL  — ^sat^  3ae  aematt  each  other,  turned 

tt^  wmat  lacTBssiJ  itKmm  ranmmd.  an^'W.  aadAamefiaxd,  and 

4«iIim:  UL^ft  ucii:  iDsmM.  lUwrnCMo;.      Fmair  a  art  of  fox-hunters 

jrtiuadiiy  -aipr  wvj  -i^rmoti  L*  PimW  : — tecr  tk  Fastsrsle !    The 

«teiQs>^  ogn  atr^aLev  jl  anrriikitav :  ^aitfa  a  2itde  msa,  an  attorney 

4e'  ;di^  iiuiLlft— I  "iiiPi  ame  iir«nne  it  dial  ■iiaaiapir  (vhat  else  can 

^>«I  mrfm  Ptan.V     He  aa.  ke  c^veed.  he  praaeCted ;— the 

iMtiaii  sad  the  Starr  of  ti«hcAed  beef  ^^Lmdaaadditisnal  iUus- 
maak    Mbe  laafM  aacil  she  cried.     TW  tears  were  absolutely 

\dbana  km  eh«Hbi:  she  ilmiir  w«at  iato  hrsterics,  and  was 
ia  Mifra  fa  tfrdur  ta  raoaver  her  LisMuwank  *  Afler  this,  fancy 
lvteMfa.HalJcrl 

maraMf  hMre  been  the^ troubles  of  her  life  in  iu  noonday 
^  lar  ead  was  poaef.     "  Serer,"  said  an  excellent  cJergyman, 
«|  Hid  ta  her  aad  risfited  her  during  her  last  long  pmod  of 
ajOB,  **  aerer  did  I  attend  a  more  hnmUe,  a  more 
than  Mrs*  Siddona."    Noble  and  excellent  creature ! 


1 


S5' 


\  eonld  sully,  whoae  greatness  no  prea- 
ireooU  crush. 


29 

LAUD  YE  TH£  MONKS  I 

BT   WILLIAM  JOWBtf. 

Laud  ye  the  monks  ! 

They  were  not  men  of  a  creed  •ustere, 

Who  frownM  on  mirth,  and  forbade  good  cheer  ; 

But  joyous  oft  were  the  brotherhood. 

In  the  depths  of  their  sylvan  solitude. 

The  rulnM  abbey  hath  many  a  tale 

Of  their  gay  conceits  and  deep  wassail ; 

The  huge  hearth,  left  to  the  wreck  of  time, 

Hath  edioed  of  erst  the  minstrel^s  chime ; 

The  caves,  despoilM  of  their  goodly  store. 

Have  groan 'd  'neath  their  weight  in  days  of  yore ! 

Laud  ye  the  monks  ! 

The  wanderer  was  their  welcome  guest, 
The  weary  found  in  their  grey  walls  rest ; 
The  poor  man  came,  and  they  scom'd  him  not. 
For  rank  and  wealth  were  alike  forgot ; 
The  peasant  sat  at  the  plenteous  board 
With  the  pilgrim  knight  and  the  feudal  lord  ; 
The  feast  was  spread,  and  the  foaming  bowl 
Gave  freshened  life  to  the  thirsty  soul ; 
Round  it  passM,  from  the  prince  to  the  hind, 
The  fathers  adding  their  greeting  kind  ! 

Land  ye  the  monks ! 

Many  a  blazonM  scroll  doth  prove 

The  pains  thev  took  in  their  work  of  love  ; 

Many  a  missal  our  thoughts  engage 

With  scenes  and  deeds  of  a  bygone  age ; 

Many  a  hallowing  minster  still 

Attests  the  marvels  of  olden  skill ! 

The  broken  shaft,  or  the  altar  razed. 

The  mould*ring  fane,  where  our  sires  have  praised. 

Are  beautiful,  even  amidst  decay, 

Blessing  the  men  who  have  passed  away  ! 

Laud  ye  the  monks ! 

For  they  were  friends  of  the  poor  and  weak. 
The  proud  man  came  to  their  footstool  meek, 
And  many  an  acre  broad  and  good 
Was  the  forfeit  paid  for  his  curbless  mood  : — 
The  penance  hand,  and  the  peasant's  ban. 
Would  make  him  think  of  his  fellow-man ; 
The  mass  and  dirge  for  his  parting  soul 
Would  wring  for  the  needy  a  welcome  dole. 
The  cowl  bow'd  not  to  the  noble's  crest, 
But  kings  would  yield  to  the  priest's  behest  1 

Laud  ye  the  monks  ! 

Tranquil  and  sweet  was  monastic  life. 
Free  from  the  leaven  of  worldly  strife; 
The  desolate  found  a  shelter  there, 
A  home  secure  from  the  shafts  of  care  ! 
Many  a  heart  with  sorrow  riven 
Would  learn  to  dream  of  a  shadeless  heaven  ! 
And  plenty  smiled  where  the  convent  rose. 
The  herald  of  love  and  deep  repose  ; 
The  only  spot  where  the  arU  gave  forth 
The  hope  of  a  glorious  age  to  earth  ! 


so 

OUTPOURINGS. 

BY   D.   CANTER. 

LIBATION   THB    THIRD. 

Private  theatricals.— Mathew8*B  eDthu8ia8m.->Li8ton^  tang  frcid, — Their  playing 
together Mathews  and  Little  Fanny. — First  represenution  of  <*  The  Sleep- 
walker.**— Mr.  Oakley. — His  liberality. — His  mystifying  Thompson. — Kemble. 
— Incledon. — Sewing  up  the  Governor. — Cooke*s  compelling  Indedon  to  sing 
«  The  Storm.'* — Whimsical  instance  of  the  latter*s  jealousy  of  Braham.— Sheri- 
dan.—  His  anomalies. —  ••The  School  for  ScandaL** — Pizarro. — ElUston— His 
tact — His  egotism — His  skill  as  a  Manager  —  His  intemperance. — *'*'  George 
Barnwell.** — Harry  Harris. — His  pugilism. — Murray:  ludicrous  Anecdote. 

I  HAVE  said  Mathews  was  an  enthusiast  in  his  art.  Boaden  has 
happily  seized  on  this  characteristic  In  his  picture  of ''  An  Author 
reaaing  his  Piece  in  the  Green  Room/'  he  has  represented  Mathews 
in  the  act  of  applauding  what  the  rest  of  the  performers  listen  to  with 
professional  inaifference.  I  saw  "  this  ruling  passion "  strongly  de- 
veloped one  evening  at  the  private  theatricals  in  Tavistock  Place. 
The  play  was  "  Measure  for  Measure ;"  Angela,  Mr.  Oakley  ;  Lucio, 
Mr.  Britton  ;  Isabella,  Miss  S.  Booth,  a  charming  little  actress,  then 
in  her  zenith.  Mathews  and  Liston  were  both  present.  The  latter 
looked  on  with  a  most  lugubrious  aspect,  wishing  himself,  no  doubt, 
anywhere  else,  as  most  professionals  under  similar  circumstances 
would;  but  Mathews,  he  was  all  life  —  animation.  I  question  if  he 
did  not  enjoy  the  performance  more  than  any  other  person.  He  took 
an  interest  in  everything,  entered  heart  and  soul  into  the  business  of 
the  evening,  and  invariably  led  the  applause.  Liston  applauded  too ; 
•^ut  Liston  was  a  sly  dog,  a  wicked  wit.  He  possessed  the  faculty  of 
laughing  in  his  sleeve  to  perfection. 

Pardon  me,  dear  Liston,  should  this  meet  your  eye.  But  you  were 
not  always  the  grave,  serious  gentleman  you  now  are. 

Oh  !  it  was  ^orious,  exquisite,  to  see  these  two  highly-gifted  sons 
of  Momus  in  one  of  Hook's,  or  one  of  Kenny's  farces.  Tney  rushed 
into  their  parts  to  their  very  linkers'  ends.  It  was  a  labour  of  love,  an 
intellectual  gladiatorship,  in  which  they  luxuriated  with  a  zest  and  an 
abandon  inconceivable  in  these  water-drinking  days.  This  "keen 
encounter  of  their  wits "  elicited  a  thousand  whimsical  conceits,  a 
thousand  humorous  unpremeditated  sallies.  Liston  I  dear  Liston !  it 
must  be  confessed  you  sometimes  took  strange  liberties ; — ah,  but  then 
it  was  you,  you  know,  and  we  were  always  uie  gainers  by  it. 

Mathews  was  exceeding  wrath  at  the  liberties  the  press  took  with 
him.  One  day  he  met  an  American  gentleman  as  he  was  driving  in 
from  Hampstead.  ''  Dear  me  !  is  this  you,  Mr.  Mathews  ?"  exclaimed 
the  latter ;  '*  why,  you  're  the  last  person  I  expected  to  see !" — *'  In- 
deed !  why  so  ?" — '^  Because  I  've  just  read  your  death  in  the  news- 
paper."—  "What!  those  infernal  penny-a-uners  have  been  at  me 
again,  have  thej  ?  I  '11  tell  you  how  they  do  it.  You  don't  under- 
stand these  thm^.  '  Want  six  lines  for  the  end  of  this  column,' 
shouts  the  compositor  down  his  d— d  trump^^*    '  Will  a  murder  do?' 


OUTPOURINGS. 


31 


bawls  a  penny-a-liner  '  No  I' — '  Then  kill  Maiftnts  /'  So  I  'm  kilJ'^ 
ed  I  Hb,  ha .'  must  be  a  cursed  cowurd  to  die  so  many  deathjiy  eb  ? 
Good  moruing  I" 

Matbews  frequently  dined  in  Tavistock  Place.  A  congeniality  of 
ttitet  —  for  both  were  devoted  Shaksperians  —  led  to  an  intimacy  be- 
tween Air.  Oakley  and  our  great  monologist,  which  only  terminated 
with  the  death  of  the  latter.  Like  Pope,  Mathews  was  extremely 
pattiai  to  little  Fannv,  whose  naive  surprise  at  his  ventriloi^uism 
highly  amused  him.  I'lacing  Fanny  on  one  knee,  his  handkerchief 
twisted  up  into  a  doll  occupying  the  other,  Mathews  would  throw  his 
Toice  into  the  latter,  to  the  great  astonishment  of  the  child,  who,  after 
iiUnng  at  the  doll,  and  then  at  3Iathews,  would  exclaim,  '*  Why,  it 
don't  talk,  does  it  ?" 

Mr.  Oakley,  with  a  large  party,  occupied  one  oF  the  stage  boxes^  the 
first  night  I^Iathews  played  Sofnnio,^  in  which  he  afterwards  became  so 
ptypular.  Gradudly  approaching  the  box  in  the  course  of  his  imita- 
tions, he  suddenly  turned  to  hi»  friendi  and  fixing  his  eye  on  him, 
exclaimed,  from '*  The  Jealous  Wife/'  **Oh,  Mr.  Oakley !  is  that 
Jim?"     The  latter's  confusion  may  be  imagined. 

Perhaps  no  individual  ia  more  to  be  envied  than  an  English  gentle- 
man, of  cultivated  mind,  domestic  habits,  high  moral  feeling,  and 
refined  tastes,  whoae  position  exemptis  him  from  the  necessity  of  con- 
forming to  fashionable  observances,  yet  leaves  him  at  liberty  to  select 
hiss  own  associates,  and  indulge  in  pursuits  most  congenial  to  his  in- 
clinations. In  all  respects  my  friend  Oakley  was  this  enviable  iudivi- 
duaLt  He  dedicated  his  leisure  hours  wlioUy  to  his  family,  his  ease, 
literature,  and  the  society  of  a  few  friends  distinguished  cliietiy  fur 
their  talents  and  acquirements.  He  was  a  muniticeut  patron,  consi- 
dering his  means.  When  **  All  the  Talents"  deprived  the  elder  Dib- 
din  of  bis  pension,  Mr*  Oakley  stit  a  subscription  on  f»wt  for  the  relief 
of  thl«  veteran  vocalist,  heading  it  with  a  donation  of  one  hundred 
ptmnds.  Mr.  Oakley  not  only  possessed  a  strong  feeling  fur  the  arts, 
but  was  no  contemptible  artist  hiaiself.  A  picture  by  Thompson, 
which  that  artist  considered  his  masterpiece,  hung  over  the  mantel- 
pieoe  in  Mr.  Oak  lev's  dining-room.  One  evening,  as  these  gentle* 
men  sat  over  their  Falernian,  Mr.  Onkley,  to  Thompson's  great  aslon- 
iibaieQt,  begttn  abusing  this  performance. 

**  Why,  what  s  the  matter  with  it  ?"  said  the  artist,  starting  up, 
md  throwing  the  light  on  the  picture. 

*'  Oh,  I  *m  dissatisfied  with  it  altogether/*  replied  Mr.  Oakley. 
**  That  arm  there's  out  of  drawing;  those  shadows  are  too  opaque; 
nd  as  for  the  colouring — ** 

**  Well  1"  interrupted  Thompson,  with  great  energy,  •'  if  that  arm  *s 
out  of  drawing,  Mr.  Oakley,  I  *m  — —  I  The  shadows  too,  if  any- 
thing, are  too  transparent;  and  here  —  only  look,  only  look!  Why, 
my  good  sir!  what  the  devil  would  you  have?  why,  the  colouring 
looks  as  fresh  as  if  it  had  been  put  on  only  ten  days  ago  !*' 

*•  Ves,  that's  about  the  lime,"  said  Mr  Oukley,  sipping  his  wine. 

*'  What  do  you  mean?"  inquired  the  astonished  artist, 

•  In  "  The  Steep-walker/* 

f  Tim  LiUrary  G^M€lU  of  Saiurday«  April  the  27 cb,  10-14,  contmns  a  nodoe  of 
'^thift  gentleman  of  the  goud  uli]  English  school^*"  v<ifUo  dietl  at  ins  limine  in  .Sluane 
ffimf  on  the  VJtii  of  th^t  manUi.  Mr.  Oiikley  was  a  oiemi»er  of  the  Athecin>umy 
mi  osftuy  years  audiLor  of  Dniry  I^ane. 


3S 


OUTPOURINGS. 


'*  Simplyt  that  you  've  been  praising  a  vopy  htf  myself  all  dm  time-** 
Mr.  Oakley  ha^  a  mortal  aversion  to  every  species  of  affectatiou  or 
dandyism.  One  evening  he  was  exaniinitig  one  of  Erat's  new  harps, 
at  a  friend's,  when  a  compound  of  these  obnoxious  qualities  louof^g 
up,  drawled  ont,  **  A  fine  harp  that^a  —  an  Erard-a,  I  perceive  I" — 
'^  No-a/'  replied  Mr. Oakley,  adopting  his  drawl*  ^'  that's  &n Erat-a  J" 
This  gentleman  is  author  of  *'  Selections  from  Shakspeare/*  which 
he  dedicated  to  Mrs.  Siddons^  of  whom^  and  her  brother  John,  he  was 
an  enthusiastic  admirer-  This  latter's  convivial  propensities  are  well 
known.  He  enjoyed  the  reputation  of  being  ahle  to  carry  off  a  j^^reater 
quantity  of  wine  than  any  of  his  contemporaries,  which  excited  Incle^ 
oon's  jeahmsy  so  much,  that  lie  invited  the  tragedian  to  dinner,  for  the 
purpose  of  deciding  which  was  the  better  man. 

**  M*e  11  teadi  you  to  drink  deep  ere  you  depwri  i  ** 

exclaimed  Incledon,  as  soon  as  the  cloth  was  removed.  Accordingly 
burgundy  was  the  word  for  eight  whole  hours  hy  Shrewsbury  clock- 
Day  dawned,  cocks  crew :  still  the  representative  of  Macbeth  roomed 
to  cry 

*-'-  Hold  !  enough  1  " 


The  vocalist  became  anxious.     Strong  internal  evidence  convinced 

him  he  could  not  sustain  the  contest  much  longer. 
"  Half -pint  bumpers  I"  he  vociferated  wildly, 

"  Lay  on,  Macduff !  '* 

cried  John,  heroically,  holding  out   his   tumbler,  which    he   had 
sooner  drained  than  he  fell  under  the  table.  ^ 

"  Bt'€-c-low  f"  sang  Incledon,  in  triumph  ;  then  seizing  one  of  tlie^ 
candles,   he    staggered   off,   exclaiming,   "  Sewed   up    the   Governor, 
by^l" 

But  there  is  "in  the  lowest  depths  a  lower  still."  Incledon  was  no 
match  for  Cooke.  One  night  theiie  two  worthies,  after  performing  at 
the  Richmontl  Theatre,  returned  to  the  Castle  Hotel  to  sup.  One  — 
two  boomed  from  the  old  church  tower,     Incledon  rose  to  retire. 

"Sit  ye  down,  man  I  sit  ye  down,  Charley  !**  said  Cooke;  "well 
have  another  bottle," 

"  No,  no,  not  to-night,  my  dear  fellow  ;  not  to-night,''  persisted  In- 
cledon :  "  it  \  late.  Besides,  I  Ve  to  sing  before  the  King^  and  the 
Queen,  you  know,  to-morrow  night  at  Coven  t  Garden  The-a-torr»  and 
I  must  be  careful  of  my  voice." 

"^  Phoo  !  phoo  I  sit  ye  dowuj  man  ;  sit  ye  down  —  another  bottle.** 

"  No,  no,  not  to-night ;  not  to-night,  my  dear  boy.     I  tell  you  I  've 
to  sing  before  the  King,  and  the  Queen,  and  all  the  maids  of  honourf^_ 
and  — "  ^H 

*'  Weil,  sing  me  *  The  Storm  ;'  sing  me  '  The  Storm*  before  foS^ 
go,  my  bully  boy  I"  urged  Ciwkei  who  dreaded  being  left  alone. 

•'  No,  no,  not  to-night ;  not  to-night.     I  really—" 

*'  You  iekail,  though  ;  you  shall  sing  me  *  The  Storm*  before  mom* 
ingt  Charley  V  said  Cooke  ;  and  Incledon  retired. 

lie  had  not  been  asleep  long  when  he  was  seized  by  two  constables. 

*'  What  d'  ye  mean,  ye  rascals  ?"  cried  Incledon,  struggling. 


OUTPOURINGS. 


33 


•*  Van  'd  l>ettor  come  quietly,  Muster  Sinitli/*  said  the  ConstAble^ 
em^^ef,  giving  him  a  shake. 

**  Muster  SmiUi !" 

**  Ay,  you  see  we  knows  you,  ^o  it  s  no  use  y«ur  kicking  up  a  bob- 
bery- Bless  you  i  we  knows  all  ab*Kit  that  bit  nf  business  on  the  groeit 
yonder,  when  you  and  your  pak  there  robbed  that  ere  poor  uman  of 
ber  bundle,  and  — ** 

"  Robbed  f  pals  I  bundle  T*  iterated  the  astonished  vocalist :  •*  why, 
I'm  Cljarlt*^s  Incledun — Charleet  Incledon^  the  Native  Melodist,  ye 
rue^U  1      I  Ve  to  sin<;  before  the  King,   and  i/te  Queen,  and  all  Ike 

inasdai  of  honour^  to-morrow  night  at  Cuvent  Garden  The-rt-torr  ! ay, 

by— f   BUS  I  m  I'M  trouble  you   to   take  your  knuckles  out  of  my 
ihfoet,  and  not  spoil  my  voice  by  your  violence." 

**  I  tell  you  that  gammon  won't  pass  with  mel"  cried  the  Constable, 
clutching  him  stilJ  tighter ;  ''  so  come  along  ;  put  on  your  toggery  this 
instant,  or — " 

*'  I  tell  you  I  *m  Charles  Incledon  V  persisted  the  enraged  vocalist. 
"  Tb«re  's  my  friend  Cooke  ;  the  great  George  Frederick  ;  he  'a  now 
la  the  bouse  ;  we  '11  call  him>  and  — '* 

•'  Muster  Cooke  I  why,  ihat  V  the  geneiman  aw  in/armed  agaiml  ^ou, 
Howsommever,  if  you  're  Charles  Incledon,  you  know^  you   can   sing 

•  The  Storm/  " 
The  word  storm  recalled  Incledon  from   the  stupor  Ctioke's  |»erfidy 
'  tbrtjwn  him  into. 

Sins'  *  The  Storm*!"  repeated  lie  indignantly;  "here!  «tai)d  aside, 
ye  rascals  ;  give  me  room,  and  I  '11  soon  show  you  whether  I  can  sing 

•  The  Storm  '  or  not." 

And  clearing  his  pipes,  Incledon  went  through  ihia  celebrated  ditty 
in  h\%  henX  style,  at  the  conclusion  of  which  Cooke  thrusit  his  head  from 
behind  the  curtain,  and  nayinjr,  **  /  told  t/uu  t/ott  Afwtthi  sing  me  *  Thk 
Stoem  *  heforemorn'iu^t  CkarUif"  left  him  to  liis  repone. 

Incledon  might  well  be  careful  of  his  voice — tht  rtnest  that  an  English 
ttog^  crer  boasted  o(,  particularly  in  the  lower  notes.  Nevertheless, 
til  spfte  of  an  oc^raHioiial  tlalnessj  Bruham  Har|ia8sed  Inclt^lon^  or  per- 
\mm  any  other  vocalist  our  stage  has  ever  produced*  His  superior 
•eieac*^  ta*te,  spirit,  feeling,  and  more  than  all»  tjtpreuum^  placed — 
aajft  wonderful  to  say,  still  f daces  htm^  after  n  lapse  of  more  than 
iixty  years,  at  the  head  of  the  English  school.  A  Mroni^  jt-aliiusy  sub- 
•isC#d  between  these  two  singers.  Tlie  very  sight  ui  his  more  popular 
rrnd  was  wormwood  to  Incledon.  Ojie  morning  this  hitter  ami  Powor 
Wtre  breakfasting  with  Stmt  at  Brighton,  when  Braham  dru[tped  in. 
Ifkd«il«ll  sat  sullenly  discus^sing  hiii  prawns  aud  bohea  ;  aud  when 
bfetk^i^  was  over,  took  Puwer*i$  arm,  aud  Jed  liim  down  to  the  beach. 
Here  ib^y  walked  in  silence,  until  Incledon,  suddenly  disengaging  his 
arm*  uplifted  his  hands  over  the  waters*,  and  peeled  forth,  **  The  Lord 
JrkotmJk  /  "  at  the  full  extent  of  his  magniticeut  voice.  *'  There !"  ex* 
datmed  be,  triumphantly,  **  let  the  little  Jeu-bt^y  do  tliatT' 

And  atnit  ive.  in  this  our  catalogue  of  conviviaiists,  immortal  Brins- 
\ey.  whfi  t<i  the  graces  of  Anucreon  united  the  elotjumce  of  Marcus 
'^   '  ith  the  voluptuouttuess  of  Peironius,  and   the  in^providepce 

e»?  Bftcchus — Monms — Mercury  forbid  I  What  a  coui- 
TMmiii  N^iiat  .in  anomaly  I  We  feel  at  a  loss  which  to  wonder  at 
SMMt^  Sberid^i's  talents  or  his  indolence,  his  procnisti nation  or  his 
tiurg^  I  the  reckledttue&s  with  which  he  plunged  into  ditEculties,  or 


#* 


OUTPOURINGS. 


his  dexterity  in  getting  out  of  them.  His  political  conduct  ap 
even  mtire  eixigmalical,  for,  with  a  total  want  of  principle  in  private, 
as  a  public  man,  wonderfijl  to  say,  Sheridan  stands,  literally,  Jtwr 
macule !  rising  in  this  superior  to  Mirabeaii,  whom,  in  some  respects, 
he  resembled.  **  It  is  easy  for  yon  to  plume  yourselves  on  your  con- 
ftistency,  gentlemen/'  said  the  ex-Treasurer  of  the  Navy,  bitterly,  to 
the  Dulce  of  Bedford,  and  other  wealthy  colleagiieR,  on  resigning  office^ 
*'  but  mine  is  ruin  to  me."  And  so  it  was.  Yet  the  oian  who  made 
no  scruple  in  swindling  a  tradesman,  never  swerved  from  his  political^ 
integrity.  Had  he  no  inducemeiit?  It  is  dilhcult  to  suppose  thii^| 
possible*  So  low  wan  Sheridan's  credit  when  he  lived  near  Dorkingi^^ 
that  his  butcher  absolutely  galloped  over,  and  seized  a  leg  of  mutton 
in  the  pot,  because  it  had  not  been  ptiid  for  on  delivery*  Like  Man- 
chester, his  **  School  for  Scandal"  is  *' a  great  exploit,"  There  is  a 
brilliancy,  a  polish,  an  air  of  refinement  in  this  celebrated  composition*^! 
which  invests  it  with  a  charm  that  is  indescribable,  and  which  ii«3i^^ 
other  comedy  in  our  own,  or  perhaps  any  other  language,  poissesses. 
Nor  is  the  interest  it  inspires  less  peculiar  and  dtdightful.  We  in- 
stantly place  the  Surface*  family  on  the  list  of  our  acquaintance's ;  nor 
do  we  ever  strike  them  olf  again.  Moore,  in  publishing  all  the  manu- 
scripts relating  to  this  extraordinary  production,  has  enabled  us  to 
trace  it,  step  by  step,  through  all  its  modifications  and  changes,  from 
the  first  crude  conceptions  of  the  author,  down  to  his  last  finishing 
touches  —  one  of  the  most  interesting  studies  the  history  of  literature 
presents.  Contrast  this  elaboration  of  rinish  with  the  hasty,  imperfect 
version  of  **  Pizarro,*'  by  the  same  author.  It  is  an  abmjhite  and  well- 
authenticated  fact,  that  when  the  curtain  drew  up  the  first  night 
this  play  was  performed,  Sheridan  was  actually  arranging  the  last  act 
in  one  of  the  dressing  rooms.  Mr.  S,  Rnssel,  who  played  the  Seniitie(% 
himself  assured  me,  that  when  he  came  to  the  theatre  to  dress,  he  had 
not  even  seen  hix  part !  f  Mrs.  Siddons  received  Ehira's  concluding 
speech  wet  from  the  author's  pen  in  the  beginning  of  the  fifth  act. 
The  tag,  as  it  is  technically  termed,  was  sent  about  the  same  time  ta 
Powell,  who  performed  Ataiaha.  This  latter,  who  was  what  is  called 
a  slow  Mtifi^f  instantly  ran  up  to  Sheridan  in  a  great  fright,  and  repre- 
iented  the  utter  impossibility  of  his  getting  the  words  into  his  head 
in  time  to  speak  them.  **  Well,  well,**  said  John  Kemble,  who  wa» 
standing  by,  "  we  must  do  without  the  tag."  Accordingly,  the  pluy 
concluded  as  it  now  stands.  But  Sheridan  was  ever  anomalous,  ever 
in  extremes;  and  his  sceptre  descended  to  one  who,  in  many  particu- 
lars, resembled  him. 

Elliston  ! — what  pleasurable  associations  arise  with  that  name ! — 
the  laughing  eye — the  jocuiul  smile — the  courtly  ease — the  buoyant 
gaiety — the  untiring  spirit — the  broad  rich  tones  f — who  that  remem- 
bers these  can  forget  Elliston  l  He  presented  a  rare  union  of  the  re- 
quisites indispensable  to  form  that  most  di  lb  cult  of  all  stage  assump- 

•  The  custom  of  making  namctt  exponents  of  clmrBctcrji  ha»  here  led  Sheridan 
into  an  absurdity.  The  Sur/acft  are,  no  iioy!>t,  Lntlehted  toJoteptt  for  thin  designa- 
tlon.  which  ii  a  dotmri^ht  Ub«l,  an  far  ai  CharUA  and  Old  Noll  are  concerned. 

t  Thi*  is  literally  tnie,  *•- The  fact  is,"  said  Mr.  Riis*el/'  my  part  wii*  pur- 
po»gip  wiihheid.  Mr,  Sheridan  kne^v  1  was  a  quick  studicr.  He  alaii  knew  i  should 
have  thrown  up  tlie  part  if  1  bad  had  tt  in  lime  to  have  doup  ao.  But  I  wus  a 
rising  actor  j  it  wa*  of  importftooo  to  hare  my  name  in  the  I* ills,  as  it  materially 
•trengihened  the  cast     Thus,  thoof h  I  wan  told  At  every  rehearsal  what  I  ' 

fiOf  I  eould  never  Bod  out  what  I  hitd  io  ftfy.'* 


OUTPaURINC»$- 


s& 


tionSf  a  fine  gentleman.  Off  the  stage,  too,  who  could  be  more  eourteoas, 
more  considerate,  more  fascinating  I  Who  ever  boasted  a  nicer  tact»  a 
finer  perception  of  what  would  be  most  gratifying,  most  suti.sfactory, 
mcksl  consolatory*  to  alt  with  whom  be  came  into  contact  ?  Who  could 
emploj  these  rare  qualifications  with  so  much  effect  when  he  chose  f 
It  was  a  positive  pleasure  to  be  refused  a  request  by  EUiston.  The 
raaiiner  in  which  he  conveyed  a  negative  impressed  you  with  an  idea 
that  be  was  conferring  a  favour  on  you :  it  was  tJie  sting  of  the  bee 
drowned  in  its  honey.  With  what  seeming  sympiitby  be  condoled 
with  you  1 — with  what  affectionate  fervour  he  squeeeed  your  band  I — 
the  tears  glistened  in  his  eyes  as  be  took  leave  of  you — -you  felt  be  waa 
the  aincerest  friend  you  had,  and  would  have  made  any  sacrifice  to 
aerre  him*  True,  this  was  all  manner— true,  he  did  not  care  five 
fu^ings  for  you  !  He  would  have  beard  of  your  death  without  enio- 
tkm;  iftill  yon  were  indebted  to  bim  for  his  consideration  ;  it  pleased, 
it  consoled,  it  soothed  you;  it  beguiled  you  of  your  disappointment, 
reconciled  yon  to  the  failure  of  your  hopes,  and,  more  than  all^  poured 
a  balm  on  your  wounded  vanity. 

£Uiiiton  was  the  vainest  of  theatrical  potentates.  It  was  rich  to  see 
the  ^eat  Robert  William  in  one  of  his  grandiose  humours.  No  one 
CDuld  be  more  ludicrously  pompous,  more  maudlinly  dignified,  more 
bombastically  imperious:  —  it  was  Aranza  metamorphosed  into  ifie 
mock  Duke,  He  was  the  most  absolute  of  autocrats.  '*  Get  off  my 
benchest  si^  ^ "  ^^  would  exckim  to  some  tyro  in  the  pit^  in  the  middle 
of  hi*  performance.  He  felt  in  the  climax  of  his  glory  when  addrets- 
mg  an  audience,  which  he  sought  every  opportunity  of  doing,  to  the 
iafinite  amusement  of  the  box-lobby  baunger  and  'Mialf-priee  clerk," 
vho  made  a  nightly  practice  of  calling  upon  EUistun  for  a  speech  at 
the  conclusion  of  the  first  piece,  when  his  egotism  proved  most  di-^ 
verting. 

EUiston  was  an  excellent  manager,  shrewdy  bustling,  indefatigable, 
Ibriile  in  expedients,  a  thorough  adept  in  the  art  of  puthng,  and  could 
gull  an  aadience  to  perfection*  Latterly,  bis  habits  were  anything  but 
foipccUble*     He 

<^  Put  an  enemy  into  his  mouth  that  Btole  away  hit  brains,*" 

until  it  became  bis  "custom/'  not  only  *'of  an  afterno^in,"  but  at  all 
times.  He  was  once  sent  up  to  London  by  coach,  quite  insensible, 
with  the  following  label  on  his  button  : — **  Robert  William  ElUston. — 
To  he  delivered  at  Stratford  Place  immediately" 

Elltston  was  once  playing  George  Barnwell  in  the  country.  The 
khh  act  had  begun,  but  there  was  no  Uncle, 

'*  Here !  get  on  a  black  coat,  Sctitt,"  cried  EUiston  to  an  old  sailor 
who  worked  the  flies ;  **  you  must  go  on  for  the  Uncle" 

'*  Me,  sir?  Lord,  sir,  I  never  was  on  the  stage  in  all  my  life !  "  said 
tlie  num,  frightened  out  of  bis  w^its.  Besides,  I  don't  know  a  word  of 
the  pan,  and — " 

**No  matter.'"  interrupted  Elliston  ;  "get  your  coat  on — quick. 
m  speak  all  your  speeches  for  you/*  —  which  he  did,  prefacing  each 
with  -^  **  Stop !  I  know  what  you  are  about  to  say,  my  venerable 
DeUtive,  You  were  about  to  observe  so  and  so ;"  or,  '*  Ab !  your  eye 
IpciiVt     1t  says/'  &c.  &c.,  and  so  forth. 

Ellwlc^n  read  incomparably.  I  attribute  the  failure  of  so  many  new 
fvtom  donng  his  management  to  his  excellence  in  this  particular.    He 

n  *2 


OUTPOURINOS. 


iiifiised  80  much  spirit  &nd  so  tnach  humour  into  the  pieces  he  read  in 
the  greearoqat,  thai  neitber  he  himself,  nor  those  who  heard  himi  had 
anj  idea  hour  vspid  muiy  of  these  were,  until  the  hisses  of  the  audience 
rather  dimgrggaMy  ooDTinoed  them  of  it.  Like  Mathews,  Ellifiton 
was  an  enUmaiMl  tm  his  art,  and  liberally  encouraged  talent  whenever 
be  liad  it  in  his  power. 

Harrj  Harris,  the  riral  manager,  boasted  much  proliciency  in  the 
fislicart, — a  fact  not  deducible  either  from  his  manners  or  appeiiraoce  ; 
ftr,  though  strong  and  well-knit,  his  voice  was  elfeminate,  while  his 
drat  amadked  of  dandyism.  One  momingt  as  he  was  picking  his  way 
westward,  a  carter  splashed  him.  The  manager  remonstrated.  The 
carter  grew  insolent,  and^  on  Harris's  calling  him  '^  a  rascal/'  la^shed  the 
latter's  light  silk  pantaloons  with  his  long  dirty  whip,  until,  to  uKe  the 
manager's  own  enpreeion^  '*he  had  made  a  perfect  zebra  of  hum* 
'*  Stop  a  minutet  fellow  \ "  lisped  Harris ;  and,  going  into  a  s!mp»  he 
very  deliberately  divested  himself  of  his  coat,  waistcoat,  and  neckcluth, 
and  returning,  gave  the  carter,  to  his  great  astonishment,  a  thrashing. 
Harris  was  very  intimate  witli  ^loore,  the  hatter,  who  was  an  excel- 
lent judge  of  ivhdt  would  succeed  on  the  stage.  Harris  submitted 
most  of  the  pieces  sent  to  Covent  Garden  theatre  to  Moore's  perusal. 
In  those  days  dramatists  were  at  a  premium.  Morton  and  Col  man 
regularly  received  a  thousand  pounds  for  a  first  piece* 

Murray,  the  father  of  Mrs.  Henry  Siddons,  belonged  at  this  lime  to 
Harry  Harris's  company.  One  night  this  actor  played  the  OfiOAt  in 
**  Hamlet-*'  As  a  considerable  interval  occurs  before  the  apparition 
makes  its  second  appearance.  I^Iurray  threw  off  hin  ghor^tly  gear  at  the 
oondusion  of  his  first  scene,  and  slipped  over  to  some  brother  cttnmve*^ 
who  were  enjoying  themselves  at  the  Garrick's  Head.  Here  the  mi- 
nutes passed  so  pleasantly,  that  Murray,  on  constiking  his  watch, 
found  he  had  overstayed  his  time.  He  had  barely  time  to  rt^tiirn  to 
the  theatre,  throw  off  his  coat  and  waistcoat,  don  tht*  upper  portion  of 
his  ghostiv  attire,  and  caution  the  carpenters  to  wind  him  only  half 
*ray  up,  wlieu  his  cue  was  given.  These  latter,  however,  either  mis- 
taking his  directions,  or  for  the  jokes  sake,  wound  the  trap  tip,  as 
usual,  to  the  level  of  the  Mtage^  exhibiting  to  the  astonished  audience 
the  Ghost  of  Hamlet's  father  accoutred  in  a  helmet,  cuirass,  nankeen 
imeJtpressibUs,  and  a  pair  of  top-lioolM  !  Murray  had  formerly  btn^i  in 
the  navy.  He  was  accustomed  to  draw  a  long  Hmv,  When  Bacchi 
plenus,  be  would  Htrike  his  fnat  u|m>ii  the  table  and  suy,  **  Yes,  sir,  in 
that  engagement  I  lost  this  right  arm  f  ** 


S7 

SONG  TO  THE  GOD  OF  WINE. 

BT   C.   HARTLEY   LAVOHORKK. 

Come  along,  oome  along,  to  the  Foioe  of  our  song, 
And  list  to  our  carol  the  rintage-night  long ! 
The  maid  will  be  there  with  her  bright  sunny  hair, 
And  the  pard  and  the  lion  will  soon  quit  their  lair  ; 
And  the  Uger  as  well  will  bow  to  thy  spell. 
And  crouch  at  thy  feet  in  our  violet  dell ; 
And  all  that  is  beauteous,  and  brilliant,  and  gay, 
Will  greet  the,  Psilas  I     Come  away  I  come  away ! 
Then  fill,  fiU,  fiU  to  him  still. 
By  the  lentisk  oopse^  and  the  vine-ooverM  hill. 
The  sweet  lily  beds,  and  the  dancing  lill, — 
FiU,  fiU ! 

Let  the  smiles  of  thy  face,  with  their  wild  lovdy  grace. 
Cast  joy  and  contentment  on  all  in  the  place ; 
Let  the  vineyard  be  blest  where  thou  takest  thy  rest, 
And  the  corn-field  and  garden  thy  foot  may  have  prest ; 
Come,  God  of  the  Wine,  with  the  aspect  divine. 
And  Helios  himself  will  forget  how  to  shine ; 
Come,  sport  with  us  here  *neath  the  welkin  so  clear, 
And  Selene  will  soon  jilt  her  Latinian  fere, 
And  fly  to  us  here,  and  fly  to  us  here. 
Then  fill,  fill,  fill  to  him  still. 
By  the  lentisk  copse,  and  the  vine-cover*d  hill, 
The  sweet  lily  beds,  and  the  dancing  rill, — 
Fill,fiU! 

Greatest,  omnipotent,  mightiest  power  ! 
This  is  the  moment,  this  is  the  hour, — 
Visit  thy  son  in  his  own  Chian  bower. 
Where,  crown*d  with  the  myrtle,  and  ivy,  and  vine. 
He  holdeth  high  rites  to  the  God  of  the  Wine  -, 
Revel,  and  song,  and  proud  festive  glee, 
Such  as  is  meet  for  a  god  like  thee. 
Then  leave  the  cliffs  on  the  Nazian  strand. 
And  bless  with  thy  presence  Oenopion's  land  ! 
Then  fiU,  fiU,  fiU  to  him  stiU, 
By  the  lentisk  copse,  and  the  vine-cover*d  hill. 
The  sweet  lily  beds,  and  the  dancing  rill, — 
FiU,  fiU  t 


38 


CHRISTENING  THE  VILLA. 

"  HuBBiNs,  1},  High  Street/'  was  the  most  prosperous  grocer  in 

the  town  of  S ,  if  we  might  judge  from  the  consignments  he 

weekly  received,  of  which  he  made  no  secret,  but  advertised  them 
to  all  the  town.  He  sold  more  tea  than  could  be  consumed  by  the 
whole  county  of  Lancaster.  He  was,  indeed,  a  new-light  grocer; 
none  of  your  slow-and-sure  family-trade  men  i  he  was  a  go- with- 
the-spirit-ofthe-age  man  ;  the  old-fashioned  maxim  about  good  wine 
needing  no  bush  had  no  influence  upon  him.  He  was  a  liberal, 
and  professed  to  give  the  good  wine,  and  the  bush  also. 

A  few  years  ago  Mr.  Hubbins  had  been  troubled  with  an  occa- 
sional attack  of  bill-fever;  but  his  attacks  had  become  less  and 
less  frequent,  until  he  had  now  entirely  shaken  them  off.  Mr. 
Hubbins  had  been  relieved  by  copious  printing.  When  the  fit  was 
upon  him  the  strongest,  the  more  he  printed.  He  brought  hand- 
bills and  posting-bills  to  bear,  with  potent  influence,  upon  bills  of 
exchange.  The  more  he  promised  to  pay  to  his  debtors,  the  more 
he  promised  to  sell  to  his  customers;  until  in  the  public  mind, 
through  the  public  eye,  the  words  "Hubbins,  1^,  High  Street," 
and  "  Grocery,'*  became  a  concrete  unity  ;  and  "  Hubbins  "  always 
came  before  '*  Grocery,"  and  "  Grocery  "  aJways  followed  Hubbins 
in  the  imagination  of  every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  the  great 

town  of  S .     The  ultimate  effect  of  all  which  was  seen  in  Hub- 

bins's  brimming  tilL 

Mr.  Hubbins  was  a  great  favourite  with  Adolphus  Smooth,  Esq., 
the  manager  of  the  Union  Banking  Company.  Mr.  Smooth  had  an 
objection  to  have  the  notes  of  the  bank  at  home ;  or  the  gold  of  the 
bank  from  home.  Two  classes  of  his  customers  were,  therefore,  al- 
ways in  favour  with  Mr.  Smooth.  First,  those  millers  and  maltsters 
who  paid  the  notes  which  the  bank  issued  to  farmers,  to  be  locked 
in  a  strong  box  until  rent- day ;  and,  secondly,  those  shopkeepers 
who  brought  back  on  a  Monday  morning  the  hard  cash  which  nad 
been  paid  over  the  bank  counter  for  manufacturers'  wages  on  the 
Saturday  before.  Heretofore  Mr.  Hubbins  had  been  what  is  some- 
times  rudely  called,  under  the  thumb  of  the  bank.  It  had,  in  fact, 
often  happened  that,  to  avoid  a  paroxysm  of  the  bill.fever,  Mr. 
Smooth  had  administered  temporary  relief.  Afler  that,  for  a  long 
time  the  balance  had  passed  from  right  to  left  of  the  bank  ledger,  as 
bills  were  advised,  or  receipts  came  in,  regular  as  the  oscillations  of 
a  pendulum  ;  but  for  some  time  past  it  had  remained  on  the  credit 
slue.     Mr.  Hubbins  had  now  nine  hundred  pounds  in  the  bank ! 

Although  prospectuses  of  joint-stock  companies  to  do  everything 
by  steam  and  Indian-rubber,  and  make  fortunes  at  a  railway  pace, 
were  bestrewed  upon  the  bank  counter ;  although  plans  of  building- 
lots  of  various  colours,  with  imaginary  crescents  regularly  built, 
fountains  in  full  pUy,  and  trees  of  half  a  century's  growth,  adorned 
the  walls,  Mr.  Hubbins  had  shewn  no  disposition  to  speculate.  This 
was  a  state  of  things  of  which  Mr.  Smooth  did  not  entirely  approve. 
The  Union  was  not  the  only  joint-stock  bank  in  the  neighbourhood ; 
and,  as  long  as  Mr.  Hubbins  had  such  a  balance  at  his  disposal,  he 
was  open  to  the  temptations  which  any  rival  establishment  might 


CmUSTTENIKG   THE  TILLA.  39 

luM  OQt.    lake  a  good  manigcr,  Mr.  Smoodi  took  wmA  !■■#*■■  V^^^ 
as  were  necessaiy  under  the  arcamfltanoeiL 

One  Monday  momii:^  Hablmis  walked  into  the  bank,  widb  kis 
red  canvas-bag  hearier  than  osoaL  He  had  placed  it  span  the 
counter,  with  a  daodedmo  bound  in  parchment,  and  marked  "  F.  fiiu 
157,"  bj  its  side  ;  and  was  locAii^  roond  with  an  air  so  Imll  of  aetf- 
importance,  that  the  atmosphere  of  the  bank  alone  pteiented  its 
heightening  into  a  swagger,  when  Mr.  Smooth  raised  lus  head  above 
the  green  curtain  whidi  sarroonded  his  desk. 

Mr.  Smooth  vras  the  bemm  idrml  id  a  bank-manner^  pale  and 
thoughtful,  — a  mixtnre  of  scdemnitj  and  canning,  —  the  Jeuat  of 
crommeree.  Upon  dose  examinaticn  it  was  foand  to  be  a  mock  so-> 
lemnitj,  whidi  came  from  dealing  with  large  items  not  his  own  ; 
whilst  his  cunning  was  the  resolt  of  an  intimate  armiaiKsnce  with 
everybody's  busiMss,  and  his  habit  of  sitting  "  tmA  daj  fivn  ten 
until  four  "  learning  fiicts  which  he  most  not  mmmanicate.  In  ac- 
tivity cunning  predominated  ;  hot  in  repose  he  wore  the  < 
of  a  man  oppressed  with  secrets. 

The  last-mentioned  was  the  expresaon  vpon  Mr.  Smoothes 


when  he  first  caught  the  eye  of  Habbins.   In  a  uMwient  it  was 


and  Mr.  Smooth  looked  the  happiest  of  men.  He  shook  Habbns 
by  the  hand  most  cordially,  and  smiled  gafly,  and  talked  of  the 
weather,  — for  when  Mr.  Smooth  meant  to  be  gay  he  eonld  sasiie  at 
anjTthing.  He  was  such  a  perfect  master  of  bank  coortesica,  that  he 
had  been  known  to  prop  a  doubtful  credit  by  a  skilful  display  ^i 
politeness  to  a  tottering  speculator  before  a  bankful  of  customcra. 
Upon  this  occasion  he  invited  Hubbins  into  the  bank  parlour  with 
such  an  air  of  condescension  that  it  prodaimed  to  the  other  pmims 
at  the  counter  that  Mr.  Hubbins  was  taken  into  the  bank-parkmr  as 
a  friend  ;  and  not  for  the  purpose  of  making  any  unpleasant  private 
inquiries  of  a  pecuniary  nature.  In  fiict,  his  manner  was  a^aut  to 
be  a  dedaration  that  he  was  not  going  to  shampoo  the  afnrfsriif 
Hubbins. 

^  When  in  the  room  together  Mr.  Smooth  began  by  asking  a  qnea- 
tion  touching  the  credit  of  a  sugar  houae  at  BristoC  of  which  Bub- 
bins  knew  but  little,  and  Smoodi  wanted  to  know  nothing.  Hab- 
bins being  once  seated  at  his  ease  in  the  chairman's  ample  chair  be- 
fore the  &re.  Smooth,  who  sat  opposite  him,  ifid  not  allow  his  atten- 
tion to  flag ;  but  with  a  manner  of  gentle  dalKanre  changed  the 
subject  to : — 

''  By  the  way,  we  were  talking  of  yim  yesterday  after  the  board 
broke  up ;  they  say  you  are  going  to  build  a  couutiy -house— eh?" 

''  Me  start  a  country  houae  r  cxdaimed  Hubbins.  ''Why,  how 
could  there  be  such  a  report  about  me  .^ 

"  Well,  I  assure  you,"  said  Smooth  in  a  soothing  ton^  "there 
were  four  or  five  of  the  directors  fvesent.  Mr.  Auger  even  mid  he 
should  like  to  sell  you  a  site  in  the  Addaide  Road." 

Smooth  observed  that  Hublnns  was  astonished  more  than  dis- 
pleased at  this  sally.  Indeed,  his  answer,  ''Oh I  it  will  be  time 
enough  for  me  to  think  of  getting  out  ci  businem  in  ten  years  to 
come,"  had  more  of  boast  than  contadiction  in  it. 

Mr.  Smooth  followed  it  up  with,  —  ''I  should  think  not,  indeed, 
with  such  a  trade  as  your's;  making  money  as  fiut  as  you  do,  would 
tempt  any  man  to  be  a  drudge.     I  <ian't  think,  though,  that  you 


40 


CHRTSTEKfNG   THE   VILLA. 


would  get  over  less  work  for  sleeping  in  the  country  air,  and  having 
a  twfvmile  drive  before  business.     He&ides,  it  would  be  »o  pleassant  I 
for  Mm.  Hubbins  and  ilie  children  :  and  not,  perhapt,  more  expen-  | 
«ive.  when  you  come  to  consider  all  things." 

With  this,  and   like  combinations  of  flattery  and  persuaftion  wu 
Hubbins  plied  by  the  ingenious  JVIr.  Smooth,  until  he  had  not  only 
looked  over  a  litliographic  plan  of  the  land,  and  given  an  opinion 
which  was  the  be,<it  site  ;  but  hrtd  also  learnt  that  to  auch  a  respect*  ^h 
able  etjstoiner  as  Mr,  Hubbina  there  would  be  no  objection  to  letting  ^| 
the  money  remain  on  security  of  the  land  for  any  length  of  time.  " 
Matters  had  gone  so  far  before  the  two  parted  that  Hubbins  h^d 
actually  promised  to  come  up  after  bank  hours  some   fine  afternoon 
during  the  week — perhaps^   Thursday, — ^and   lake  a  drive  in  Mr       , 
Smooth's  phneton,  ju«;t  to  look  at  the  place,  and  drop  in  to  take  A^ri 
glass  of  wine  with  Mr.  Auger;  but  this  was  to  be  quite  in  a  cnm*W 
panionable  spirit,  and  not  to  be  considered  as  a  meeting  of  the  par*  ~ 
ties  in  the  relation  of  buyer  and  Keller* 

This  was  not  the  fir4>t  lime  that  Hubbins  had  been  spoken  to  upon 
the  subject  of  a  new  habitatiim.     Another  party  had  pleaded  ll»c 
same  cause  with  an  earnestness  proportioned  to  her  interest  in  the 
subject ;  and  with  an  eloquence  which  little  domestic  annoyances       i 
alone  can   inspire.     This  was  IVlrs.  Hubbins,     Every  day — ^nay,  nl«^| 
most  every  hour,  she  was  increasing  her  husband's  information  as  to^B 
the  inconvenience  of  dieir  house.     Nor  had  Mrs.  Hubbins  failed  to 
impress  upon  her  husband  the  necessity  of  getting  their  daughter 
into  society  as  &he  grew  up.     All  the  particulars  she  had  yet  de- 
scended  to   iipm   this   subject  were,    morning  calls,  and  evetung- 
partiesi  with  an  occasional  hint  at  a  private  governess. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  Mrs  Hybbius's  ideas  of  social  advance- 
ment had  risen  cpiite  as  fast  as,  and  perhaps  a  little  faster  than,  her 
husband's  means.  Wluit  he  was  as  a  tradesman,  she  was  aa  a  wife; 
they  both  actetl  under  the  stimulating  influence  of  a  competitive 
spirit.  If  B.  and  Co.  had  window-panes  three  feet  wide,  Hubbini 
wanted  his  three  feet  and  a  half.  If  Mrs.  A.  had  a  feather  a  foot 
high,  Mrs.  Hubbins  pined  for  one  of  the  altitude  of  two  feet ;  and 
this  without  reference  to  the  other  proportions  of  the  two  shops,  or 
the  figure  of  either  lady  to  carry  a  feather  of  any  size  w^hatever. 
The  cJlorts  of  Mrs.  Hubbins  to  get  into  what  she  called  "genteel 
society  "  were  quite  as  great  as  her  husband's  had  been  to  get  cus- 
tom to  his  shop.  She  pursued  the  puffing  system  with  quite  as 
much  vigour,  although  her  efforts  had  not  yet  been  crowneci  with 
eipial  success  ;  which  (as  her  manner  and  temper  were  of  course 
faultless)  she  attributed  to  the  insigniticHnce  of  her  residence.  It  is 
true  lihe  had  occasionfilly  seen  compuny  in  High  Street  ;  but  this, 
fir  from  satiating^  had  only  whetted  fier  appetite  for  such  like  social 
gaiety. 

Of  all  tliia  and  much  more  Mr.  Hubbins  had  been  made  painfully 
acquainted.  He  had  hitherto  resisted  the  importunities  of  his  wife 
upon  this  subject  ;  for  he  did  not  observe  the  difference  between 
her  wanting  a  new  house,  and  any  of  the  hundred  other  wants  with 
which  she  teased  him.  The  only  diffc-rence  which  I^Ir.  Hubbins 
bad  ever  been  able  to  observe  in  the  wants  of  his  helpmate  was, 
that  when  her  desire  was  within  the  range  of  a  sovereign,  she  began 
her  request  with   **  Hub/'   and   looked  all  tenderness ;  when  they 


CHRI8TENINQ   THE  VILLA.  41 

were  above  that  sum,  she  was  wont  to  assume  an  air  of  something 
between  offended  dignity  and  injured  innocence,  and  begin,  '*  Mr. 
Hubbins  ;  sir — ."  He  had  treated  his  wife's  wants  touchmg  a  new 
abode,  as  best  he  could,  like  the  difficulties  of  the  hour. 

Hubbins  was  a  vain  man.  He  had  now  been  approached  through 
his  highest  business  connexion.  His  having  a  country-house  had 
been  recommended  by  Mr.  Smooth ;  the  subject  had  been  canvass- 
ed, and  evidently  approved  by  the  assembled  bank  directors.  He 
had  money  enough  to  build  himself  a  house — was  getting  money 
fast.  His  name  had  been  associated  with  that  idea  at  the  bank ; 
and  his  not  building  would  look  something  like  a  drawing  back — a 
thing  he  could  not  bear  to  think  of. 

TJius  mused  Mr.  Hubbins,  as  he  walked  from  the  bank  to  1^, 
High  Street,  on  that  Monday  morning.  He  did  not  see  anything 
on  his  way  ;  and,  although  his  shop  was  full  of  customers  when  he 
entered,  he  noticed  no  one,  but  took  his  seat  at  the  little  desk,  a 
thoughtful  man. 

Of  Hubbins's  present  abode  it  is  literally  true,  that  he  found  it  of 
brick;  and  that  when  he  left  it,  he  would  leave  it  of  ^painted) 
marble.  It  was  also  true,  as  Mrs.  Hubbins  had  so  frequently  urged, 
that  everything  was  sacrificed  to  the  shop.  It  was  all  shop, — and 
the  shop  was  all  window, — and  the  window  was  as  much  street  as 
the  corporation  would  allow.  Another  move,  and  there  would  have 
been  no  house  at  all.  At  the  last  change  the  shop  had  taken  in  the 
back  parlour ;  upon  which  occasion  there  had  been  a  liberal  promo« 
tion  of  rooms  all  the  way  up.  The  back  kitchen  had  been  boarded 
over  and  raised  to  the  rank  of  a  parlour  ;  (it  was  called  the  "  sit- 
ting-room*' at  home,  and  the  "  dining-room*'^om  home ;)  the  coal- 
hole took  the  rank  of  wine  cellar,  and  the  stable  became  a  cooking 
kitchen  by  the  same  brevet.  There  was  a  room  over  the  shop 
which  was  dignified  by  the  name  of  "  the  drawing-room ;"  but  as 
the  staircase  had  been  driven  away  by  the  last  encroachment  of  the 
shop,  the  access  to  it  was  too  intricate  for  the  inexperienced  tra- 
veller to  venture  upon  exploring  without  a  guide.  That  room 
which  was  now  called  the  dining-room,  was  under  the  influence  of 
a  partial  eclipse  from  a  superannuated  malthouse,  which  stood 
about  four  feet  from  it.  Notwithstanding  Mrs.  Hubbins's  entrea- 
ties this  was  allowed  to  remain ;  for  it  could  not  be  dispensed  with. 
A  signboard  at  the  entrance,  announced  that  it  was  the  '<  Ware- 
house." In  this  place  the  mysteries  of  the  trade  were  carried  on, 
and,  if  confidenti^  confessions  can  be  believed,  the  profit  was  made. 
It  was  here  the  sugars  grew  pale — the  sting  of  tne  mustard  was 
blunted — ^the  tea  was  rendered  less  enervating,  and  even  sober  cof- 
fee fell  into  strange  company.  Hubbins  himself  was  the  presiding 
genius  of  this  establishment.  It  was  here  that,  enveloped  m  mystic 
robe  from  chin  to  toes,  he  performed  the  tripple  witcheries  of— 
mingle,  mingle,  mingle. 

It  has  been  alreaidy  hinted  that  Mrs.  Hubbins  was  a  lady  whose 
wants  were  of  exotic  growth,  and  ripened  very  fast.  The  effect  of 
her  husband's  interview  with  Mr.  Smooth  may  be  soon  told :  her 
desire,  already  warm,  blazed  like  a  straw  fire.  Day  by  day  the  in- 
convenience of  her  house  became  less  and  less  bearable  ;  until  at  the 
end  of  a  week  the  idea  of  a  country-house  had  become  part  of  her 
very  being ;  she  seemed  to  talk,  think,  and  dream  of  nothing  else. 


42  CHRISTENING   THE   V|LLA. 

In  a  fortnight  after  Hubbins  had  narrated  his  conversation  with 
Mr.  Smooth^  she  had  positively  aU  the  old  house,  and  sat  all  daj  in 
the  drawing-room 

It  was  not  long  before  Mr.  Shallow,  the  architect,  was  displaying 
to  the  admiring  eyes  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hubbins,  drawings  of  viUss 
of  various  shapes  and  sizes.  It  was  a  most  difficult  thing  to  choose, 
they  were  all  so  pretty  ;  the  trees  were  all  alike  graceful,  the  flowers 
were  all  in  full  bloom,  the  lawns  were  all  so  very  green,  and  the 
carriage-drives  were  all  so  very  red. 

"  1  think  I  like  this  Vandyke  pattern  the  best,"  said  the  lady, 
taking  up  the  drawing  of  a  smart  gothic  cottage. 

''  Very  elegant  taste  indeed,  but  only  suited  to  a  small  family. 
Large  houses  in  that  style  are  so  costly — we  generally  find  the 
Grecian  or  the  Italian  composite  styles  preferr^.  They  always 
look  well,  and  you  get  large  rooms  and  convenient  offices  for 
the  same  money  as  a  mere  cottage  in  the  gothic,"  answered  Mr. 
Shallow  ;  who,  whilst  he  was  giving  this,  his  often-repeated  ad- 
vice ''to  persons  about  to  build,"  had  carefully  selected  the  only 
three  plans  he  was  able  to  carry  out. 

"  There  certainly  seems  more  for  money  in  these,"  said  Hubbins. 

The  lady  did  not  seem  so  much  struck  with  the  difference ;  but 
Mr.  Shallow  placed  before  her  the  easiest  to  get  up  of  the  favoured 
three, — ^being,  in  reality,  the  one  upon  which  there  was  likely  to  be 
the  most  profit,  and  continued — 

"  You  see,  Mem,  in  this,  which  I  consider  the  handsomest  ele- 
vation of  them  all,  you  would  have  a  noble  hall  and  staircase, 
dining  and  breakfast  rooms,  spacious  and  convenient  butler's 
pantry  ;  besides  a  well-arranged  suite  of  kitchens  on  the  ground- 
floor.  An  elegant  drawing-room  and  boudoir,  with  too  state  bed- 
rooms, with  dressing-rooms,  out  of  the  corridor  on  the  first-floor ; 
and  comfortable  lodging-rooms  above — all  independent  of  the  ser- 
vants* apartments,  to  which  there  would  be  a  separate  staircase." 

Before  the  architect  had  finished  his  description,  Mrs.  Hubbins's 
election  was  made.  '*  Butler's  pantry"  had  almost  lifted  her  from 
her  seat ;  but  "  boudoir," — she  could  not  withstand  it.  She,  how- 
ever,  concealed  her  feelings,  and  did  what  she  thought  was  the  ne- 
cessary quantity  of  lady-like  coquetry  about  the  other  plans.  Mrs. 
Hubbins  might  have  been  as  genteely  fastidious  as  she  pleased, 
there  was  no  danger  of  Mr.  Shallow  weakening  the  impression  he 
had  already  made  by  describing  the  interior  arrangements  of  the 
other  plans, — he  did  not  know  them  ! 

•  •••♦#• 

On  that  day  six  months,  Mrs.  Hubbins  was  seated  in  the  break- 
fast parlour  of  her  new  house. 

The  only  party  who  had  fulljr  accomplished  his  purpose  by  the 
change  was  Smooth.  Mr.  Hubbins  was  beyond  the  reach  of  any 
temptation  which  might  be  held  out  to  him  to  change  his  banker. 
He  was  afflicted  i^ain,  poor  man,  with  his  old  complaint — the  bill 
fever.  The  printing  press  again  swung  its  giant  limbs  to  impress 
his  name  upon  the  party-coloured  sheet;  but  his  dignity  sat  ill  upon 
him,  and  he  spoke  to  Smooth, 

''  With  bated  breath. 
And  in  a  bondiman*!  key*** 


CHRISTENING   THE  VILLA.  48 

As  the  truth  must  be  confessed,  Mrs.  Hubbins  was  as  little  satis- 
fied with  their  new  possession  as  her  husband.  The  furniture,  and 
even  the  very  dresses  which  had  been  quite  in  harmony  with  the 
old  house,  looked  out  of  place  in  the  new  one.  The  low  windows, 
threw  too  much  light  upon  the  stockings  and  feet  of  Mrs.  Hubbins, 
and  made  the  floor  feel  like  transparent  ground,  and  this  was  a  fair 
type  of  what  she  felt  in  everything.  It  was  her  own  house,  but  she 
was  not  at  home  in  it ;  she  was  never  what  she  called  "  snug" :  ele- 
gance was  not  comfort  with  her ;  and  she  felt  that  little  strain  which 
is  *so  fatal  to  contentment.  In  High  Street  she  had  been,  and  felt 
that  she  was,  a  rich  grocer's*  wife,  and  occupied  a  high  position 
as  one  of  the  first  of  her  class  ;  but  now  she  had  unsettled  herself 
so  much  that  she  was  like  one  playing  a  character  in  the  drama  of 
life  in  which  she  had  not  made  herself  perfect ; — as  unsteady,  and 
as  little  confident  as  a  cavalry  recruit  in  the  riding-school,  and  as 
much  wanting  in  vigour  as  a  tree  which  is  transplanted  too  late. 

The  old  house  was  not  enough  for  her  imaginary  wants, — the  new 
one  was  too  much  for  her  real  ones.  She  had  touched  the  end  of 
her  husband's  means,  and  it  had  startled  her.  A  dread  that  her  po- 
sition was  not  real  lurked  in  her  conscience ;  and  this,  with  her 
acute  sense  of  ridicule,  gave  such  a  preponderance  to  her  fear  of 
doing  wrong,  that  it  limited  her  ability  to  do  right.  All  things  con- 
sidered, she  was  at  least  as  happy  in  High  Street. 

Here,  however,  she  was,  as  has  been  said,  seated  in  the  breakfast- 
room  of  her  new  mansion.  Many  things  were  yet  unfinished,  and 
there  was  an  uncomfortable  air  of  newness  and  squareness  about  all. 
Outside  the  house  the  carriage-drive  was  yet  very  soil,  and  the  lawn 
was  still  rather  muddy ;  the  shrubs  seemed  to  have  forsaken  their 
own  party-colours,  and  joined  the  ever-browns ;  whilst  the  young 
trees  looked  as  curly  as  the  little  Hubbinses  after  the  barber's  visit  on 
a  dancing  day.  Inside,  the  kitchen  smelt  of  brick  and  mortar,  and 
the  parlours  of  French  polish ;  the  hall  was  damp,  and  the  dining- 
room  chimney  refused  to  draw  unless  the  door  was  lefl  open. 

To  add  to  Mrs.  Hubbins's  discomfiture,  she  could  not  find  a  suit- 
able name  for  the  new  villa.  She  had  puzzled  herself  night  and  day 
for  months ;  she  had  baited  in  every  direction  to  get  a  name,  but 
had  not  succeeded.  Every  tree  in  the  forest  had  already  its  patro- 
nymic in  the  neighbourhood, — "  The  Ashes,"  *'  The  Elms,"  "  The 
Birches,"  *'  The  Beeches," — the  everything.  Even  the  shrubs  had 
stood  godfathers  to  a  whole  race  of  villas, — "  The  Laurels,"  "  The 
liilacs,"  ''Rose  Cottage,"  ''Heath  House,"— and  so  on  to  the  end  of 
the  horticultural  catalogue.  She  saw  the  fashion  was  to  have  names 
chosen  from  the  vegetable  creation.  They  were  certainly  unexcep- 
tionable ;  and,  besides,  it  was  so  easy  to  attach  the  name  by  planting 
a  quantity  of  the  particular  thing  to  catch  the  eye.  Was  she,  then, 
to  descend  a  step  lower  in  the  scale  of  vegetation,  and  take  a  name 
from  the  herbs?  She  thought  of  *•  Mignionette  Park,"  and  prettily 
it  sounded ;  but  a  vision  of  window-troughs  dispelled  the  thought. 

It  must  be  a  name  of  sufficient  dignity  to  appear  respectable,  and 
yet  not  so  much  as  to  border  upon  pretension.  It  must  neither 
be  too  high  nor  too  low ;  it  must  sound  well  and  look  well,  and  yet 
not  seem  studied ;  it  must  be  suitable,  and  that  from  some  intrinsic 
quality,  not  depending  on  fashion,  which  might  change  ;  it  should 
neither  be  too  long  nor  too  short, — and,  to  make  it  remembered,  it 


44 


CHRISTENING   THE   VILLA. 


must  be  Btriking  ; — lastly,  there  must  be  a  reason  for  it,  which  was 

the  moat  {)o7.zling  ofzilL 

By  degrees  she  fretted  herself  into  a  nervousneBs  about  the  name. 
It  was  ii  matter  which  every  day  became  more  pressing,  and  must 
be  decided  ;  for  if  she  did  not  name  the  house,  some  one  else  would, 
IWr.  TibbSj  the  brass  founder,  had  inadvertently  neglected  to  name 
his  beautiful  house  as  soon  as  it  was  finished,  and  what  was  the  con- 
sequence?—it  was  called  '*  Candlestick  Hall ;"  and  the  ingenuity  of 
his  six  fascinating  daughters  hatl  been  upon  the  rack  these  ten  year^ 
to  get  it  registered  with  the  public  as  **  Byron  Cottage,"  without 
effect,  for  it  was  Candlestick  Hall  stilL  Poor  Mr.  Bines,  again,  who 
built  such  a  smart  place,  wnth  verandahsi  and  balustrades,  and  bal- 
conies, adorned  it  with  a  fountain,  and  made  it  all  so  beautiful, — he 
fell  into  that  unfortunate  indilference  about  a  name,  and  the  place 
was  even  now,  although  he  had  been  dead  so  many  years,  called 
Bincs's  Folly  !  Some  profane  wretch  might  have  the  impudence  to 
call  the  place,  which  had  cost  her  husband  so  much  money,  and 
herself  so  much  care,  Treacle  Hall,  and  the  name  would  stick  to  it 
lor  ever. 

The  only  way  to  prevent  any  unpleasantness  was  to  christen  the 
house  forthwith.     What,  then,  w^x  the  name  to  be? 

In  the  midst  of  Mrs.  Hubbins's  reverie,  Mr.  Smart,  the  surgeon, 
was  announced. 

She  was  so  filled  with  the  subject  of  naming  the  villa,  that  Mrs. 
Ilubbins  could  talk  of  nothing  else,  and  so  she  freely  unbosomed 
herself  to  him.  He  was  a  man  of  the  world,  and  could  tell  the  di^ 
rection  of  her  inclination,  aftur  hearing  a  few  sentences,  as  well  as 
he  could  have  told  the  etate  of  her  circulation  by  a  touch  of  the 
wrist. 

"  Is  it  possible/'  said  he,  *' you  can  be  at  a  loss  for  a  name?  Call 
it  Poplar  House-  You  have  a  fine  poplar  at  the  gate — I  admire  it 
every  tinje  I  come,  it  grows  so  fast  and  so  tall/' 

**  Capital! — capital,  doctor  f  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hubbins,  walking 
to  the  window  to  look  at  the  horticultural  wonder.  '*  Two  heads  are 
better  than  one*' — Poplar  House  ! — eh  ! — -what  a  lucky  thought  I — 
Poplar  House^it  's  just  the  very  thing  ! — Poplar  House — How  stu- 
pid I  must  have  been  * — Poplar  House — Quite  a  nice  name! — Pop- 
lar House  I  '* 

'*  PorLAH  H0U8B,"  thought  Mr.  Smart,  as  he  stepped  into  his  gig, 
**  is  an  appropriate  name.  It  gets  height  before  it  has  strength,  and 
bends  to  every  influence.  It  soon  starts  up,  is  little  regarded,  and 
soon  decays.  Getting  up  in  the  world  seems  to  absorb  all  its  ener- 
gies. It  bears  neither  fruit  nor  flowers,  and  yet  presumes  to  throw 
from  its  unsteady  height  a  blighting  shade  over  trees  more  generous 
and  shrubs  more  fragrant  Without  dignity,  it  tries  to  rank  with 
forest-trees,  by  liiding  in  a  profusion  of  foliage  its  want  of  solid 
substance.  Its  true  position  h  to  be  grouped  with  its  kind ;  for  it 
seems  only  in  place  when  it  stands  one  in  a  row.  Yes,  Mrs.  Hub- 
bins,  PoFLAB  House  is  an  appropriate  name." 


45 


EARLY  YEARS  OF  A  VETERAN  OF  THE  ARMY  OF 
WESTPHALIA, 
BETWEEN  1805  AND  1814. 

An  accident  caused  by  the  explosion  of  the  powder  magaxine 
at  Luxemburg,  became  the  subject  of  many  a  joke-  An  old  woman 
had  set  up  at  the  gate,  in  a  niche  once  ornamented  by  a  statue  of 
the  holy  Nepomuk,  a  fruit-standing,  which  now  found  room  and 
shelter  in  what  was  formerly  the  saint's  chapel;  she  was  sittii^ 
there  comfortably,  and  in  good  plight,  when  the  explosion  took 
place,  by  which  a  huge  stone  was  impelled  right  before  the  entrance 
to  the  fruit-shop,  closing  it  up,  and  with  Uie  precipitated  rubbisb 
hiding  the  poor  old  woman  completely,  who  remained  three  whole 
days  walled  up  in  her  sanctuary,  until  the  workmen  employed  in 
clearing  away  came  to  this  spot,  from  whence  a  fidnt  cry  of  ^  Help ! 
help  ! "  called  for  their  speediest  assistance.  Nearly  dead  with  fear, 
but  otherwise  uninjured,  our  old  woman  came  at  length  from  her 
tomb,  and  continued,  I  was  informed,  to  sit  manj  years  after  that  in 
her  chapel,  firmly  persuaded  that  the  sanctity  ot  the  place,  and  of  its 
former  inhabitant,  had  saved  her  from  certain  death. 

We,  poor  fellows !  shut  up  in  the  citadel,  thought  that  nothing  less 
than  the  end  of  the  world  was  come.  We  were  at  table  when  tl^  ex- 
plosion happened  ;  and  it  struck  me  at  first  that  it  was  an  earthquake. 
The  windows,  which  were  open  on  account  of  the  heat,  were  torn  off 
their  hinges ;  the  door  was  split  in  two  from  top  to  bottom,  and  our 
plates  and  glasses  flew  about  as  if  they  had  wings.  We  were  soon  in- 
formed of  the  melancholy  cause  by  a  stream  of  inhabitants  passing 
by,  all  hastening  to  offer  their  speedy  assistance ;  and  he  wno  had 
himself  escaped  the  calamity  hurried  to  assure  himself  of  the  fkte  of 
his  friends  and  acquaintance.  It  is  unaccountable  that  the  magaxine 
was  not  provided  with  a  single  conductor,  or  this  dreadful  catastrophe 
might  have  been  averted. 

After  the  lapse  of  two  or  three  months  I  petitioned  the  commandant. 
General  Vimeure,  for  an  interview,  which  was  accorded  in  the  kindest 
manner.  I  represented  to  him  how  tormenting  my  situation  was  in 
being  deprived  of  all  freedom,  and  having  no  occupation ;  whereupon 
he  very  obligingly  permitted  me  to  rove  about  from  morning  till  even- 
ing retreat,  within  half  a  league  of  the  fortress ;  and  gave  me  leave 
besides  to  read  the  newspapers  in  his  orderly-room.  Who  then  was 
happier  than  I  ?  As  a  bird  into  the  ether,  so  plunged  I  into  the  ver- 
dure of  the  ramparts,  which  till  then  I  durst  not  tread,  and  visited  with 
Monsieur  Cherron  his  small  inheritance,  which  was  partly  laid  out  in 
pleasant  gardens,  partly  devoted  to  rural  establishments.  From  dawn 
till  dewy  eve  I  was  on  my  feet ;  and  when  General  Vimeure  surprised 
me  by  a  free  ticket  to  the  theatre,  hope  somewhat  returned  to  my 
heart,  and  I  acknowledged  in  these,  to  me  great  changes,  the  mutabi- 
lity of  fortune. 

Meantime,  however,  I  perceived  with  great  concern  the  progress  of 
events  in  my  fatherland,  and  the  more  so  as  some  newly-obtained  ad- 
vantages of  our  enemies,  the  French,  occasioned  loud  repoicings  around 
me.     To  the   battle  of  Friedland,   with  which   vanished   unhappy 


^A3SJT    YTa^^   or   A   TTTOLAS 

B  die  nnniHwi:  j«ke,  noceeded  the 

3D«K  v^xteLf  m  is  v«il  known,  there 

B^  Fradoick  WUliaiin.  but 

e£t  spaB  the  most  oppressire, 

wh&m  the  Emperor  of 

e,  aad  who  wms  charm- 

1 1.  LLtMi  «f  peaee,  so  sdrmatageous 

^  W  IK  ad  of  cnce.    Our  con- 

;  cQt  me  to 

,  and  yet 

>mimw  good  Monsieur 

iCiL  uifiii  Uhirtr  than  befiare,  could 

WiiiL  tfe  iifintt  fmetiSm  to  the  French^  he 

wj  mrJanrholy^  and 

I  nid  |[rathade.    To- 

Hcasian  officers 

k  »I  minn  »e  ike  a  thnnderbolt  that 

;  with  them,  but  was  to 


.c  ~ec  jam^rx^    L  aofcaMK  aM  ■■»  mj  nnhappj  position ; 

defctrea   from   day 

length ;   added 

from   my  beloved 

I  well  knew  the 

At  JmMf  one  erening,  between 

the  *^***»  entered  my  room,  in 

ni  F«EHBr  wiag  ^  ^  loud  voice, 

Iiham  r    It  ia  h^ood  my  power  to 

'Thm  wci«  in  it  hope  and  good 

>  a£^  it  prwuacd  me  a  return  to  my 

L  «anift  ouK  pact  fMi  thuae  who  had  been  so 

t  «mBOBB»  and  when  I  saw  the  moist  eyes  of 

The  conditions  under 

.  sf  JiMECr  gFMdy  dfminishfd  the  pleasure  of  it ;  fur, 

"~      tor  I  h^  amigned  Cassel  as  my  birth- 

mailf  tibcfc  fiwthwitb,  in  order  to 

.  ««»  »  i«c  if  i«£  inr  in  chn  iiifig>nrr  fiir  Treves ;  but  previously 
^  ttwiA^  «nM^M  a  Jtoin  a^^  which  went  off  very  agreeably.  We 
Jt^MK  »   «r  Mw*  3MeQi^  mmL  thai  my  hnto  accompanied  me  in  a 

"^Svfe^  V  ai^wf  tf^  ^«UMtoOni3g9'  which  had  commenced  so  sorrow* 
•vO  ^f>4^%M.  w  :to  wQifthHt  wwna^  and  I  have  often  called  this  to 
«  T^  vHn  :  sap«  t  neui^  sntor  wr  difccnt  djrcamatancea. 

Ar-rw  s^  r^«s««^  ^  sMiML  aat  the  mndir  (d  tiavclliag  would  suit 
w^  m  MMv«r  JM-  v^  TtAto  wm  ii*!— Hfrd  I  theietee  committed 
■Lv  McoMiMwa  9i  the  4£u^^Y.  soii  set  <Mt  on  fool,  hnt  this  time  un- 
^HMHM.  HTlKidf  nr  M«««t  halt. 

tV  inM«  sfnevnf  1  w^as  ifc'iyhi,  to  he  on  my  way,  the  more  vividly 

1  fajtoiol  to  mpaca'^  the  asiient  when  I  ihsnld  enter  my  mother's 

ailKeg^  ami  aMt  in  her  tpndtr  cares  a  recompense  for  all  passed  d&< 

MMM^     lij  cmctotiani  raae  with  every  step;   and  when,  at 

1^  nihcr  a  hii|^  dsy  a  maich,  1  reached  the  bridge  over  the  Rhine 

loe^  m  kncea  ncnrly  £uled  under  me  with  weariness  and  agiU- 

^    Am  ncunaintanre  pawed  by,  a  tow9sman«  who  lived  near  my 


OF    THE    ARMY    OF    WE8TPIIAUA. 


47 


mother  J  I  rushed  towards  him,  tind  inquired  after  her  ;  with  gr^ai  com- 
liseration    my  acquaifitance    infurmed   me  that  she  had  died  some 
[weeks  before. 

I  leave  it  to  the  feeling  reader  of  th*?se  pages  to  represent  my  situa- 
Qn  to  himself  in  order  to  conceive  the  desolation  of  it*     I  haa  hoped 
tiat  my  dear  mothers  look  would  yet  a  few  moments  repose  on  me. 
That  Itwk,  50  full  of  Irfcj  stood  clearer  than  ever  before  the  mirror  of  my 
1 !  How  exultingly  she  would  have  received  her  son,  upon  whom  she 
bad  such  reliance  !     It  was  some  time^  however,  hefore  I  had  a  full 
Lvense  of  my  mi&fortuue  ;   for,  at  the  reception  of  the  unlucky  tiding», 
I  which  penetrated  like  an  electric  shock  through  my  head  and  heart,  I 
I  fell  fainting  to  the  earth,  and  first  revived  to  consciousness  through  the 
Iftttentions  of  the  fjerson's  family  who  had  imparted  to  me  unguardedly 
jihe  distressing  intelligence.     Sly  stay  on  the   to  me  desert  spot  was 
libiirt;  for,  without  seeking  my  acquaintance,  I  went  on  to  I^Iun&ter  in 
deriohold  converse  with  my  guardian,  from  whom   I   invariahly  re- 
el ved  counsel  and  assistance.     Afterwards^  since  no  choice  remained 
||i»iii«  as  to  mv  new  path  in  life,  I  went  on  to  Casselj  where  I  arrived 
January  1808,  and,  according  to  instructions  from   Paris,  obtained 
|»  commission  in  Uie  guards  in  a  light  cavalry  regiment,  one  of  the 
""aest  in  the  newly-erected  kingdom.     Here  a  new  era  began  for  me, 
land  I  felt  myself  quite  at  my  ease  in  this  free  and  independent  life, 
'ter  the  subjection  under  which  I  had  till  then  lived.     The  service 
pal&o   guaranteed   many  advantages ;    promotion   \vi\^    rapid>    and   one 
might  hope  a  great  deal  from  the  future. 

Soon  after  my  entrance  into  the  regiment.  King  Jerome  travelled  to 
Magdeburg  to  inspect  thefi>rtificatic)ns,  accompanied  by  several  ofheers 
Iff  the  crown  and  generals;  four  officers  of  the  Gardes-du-corps,  and 
I  four  of  the  light  horse  were  put  in  orders  for  escort.     I  was  one  oi 
klhem;  and  thus  had  the  honour  to  attend  his  Majesty  upon  his  first 
I  royal  progrei^s.     It  was  of  a  very  fatiguing  sort,  and  resembled  flying 
Ifaiher   than    riding.     Arrived  at  the   post-house,   we  were  ourselves 
'  to  take  off  our  saddles  and  bridles,  to  be  thrown  upon  the  fresh 
I  which  stood  there  in  readiness  for  the  continuation  of  our  jour- 
[ney,  while  a  hundred  bands  were  occupied  in  getting  the  King's  car- 
tilage ready.    We  flew  on  thus  to  Magdeburg,  and  there  once  more  our 
j  kopea  of  repose  and  refreshment  were  deluded,  as  that  very  night  the 
larrivaJ  of  a  courier  extraordinary  obliged  the  King  to  set  off  again  at 
[dawn  of  day.     We  returned  to  Gottingen  with  as  much  speed  as  we 
lud  left  it,  and  here  a  guard  stood  ready  to  attend  the  King  back  to 
the  capita],  and  relieved  the  escort,  the  greater  part  of  which  was  in 
Jtry  bad  plight.     One  had  a  maimed  arm,  another  a  bruised  footi  and 
ill  Were  so  exhausted  that  we  ainicist  fell  from  our  horses.     We  were 
quartered  in  the  best  inns,  allowed  f(>rty-eight  hours'  repose,  and  then^ 
went  back  to  Ca&sel  in  the  royal  carriages.     Here,  besides  eight  days' 
leave,  we  were  granted  a  considerable  suna  in  money,  and  our  wounded 
were  healed  at  the  King's  cost. 

A  short  time  afterwards  the  Emperor  Napoleon  was  to  go  to  the 
eongretsi  at  Erfurth,  and  our  regimeiU  received  orders  to  march  to 
Badi  and  Hesse  Rothenburg,  through  which  places  his  Majesty  was 
to  paM.  While  we  were  in  expectation  of  his  arrival,  we  had  much 
'  on  our  hands  ;  and,  before  long,  in  the  council- cellar  of  Hesae 
Lirg  a  circle  of  young  people  assembled,  who,  as  it,  ah\sl  but 
too  often  happens,  prefer  the  gaming  table  to  every  other  amusement. 


EARLY   YEARS   OF    A    VETERAN 


I  play^  hazarri  here  for  the  first  tifne^  had  much  tjf  my  own  and  some 
of  other  people's  money  about  me,  and,  carried  on  by  the  passion  of 
gaming,  which  hud  hold  of  me  with  all  its  strength  fur  the  first  time, 
I  played  all  away. 

Words  would  fail  to  describe  tny  state  of  tnind.  I  have  never  since 
felt  such  an^ish ;  but  despair  made  me  seize  the  only  means  left 
me,  and  which  might  destroy  me  quite,  or  relieve  me.  In  my 
writing-deak  at  my  quarters  were  tno  newly-coined  Jerome-d*«rs, 
which  1  had  never  liked  to  part  with,  and  1  hastened  to  fetch  them. 
With  apparently  calm,  but  aouaking  heart,  I  staked  the  first — and  lost. 
But  now  one  was  left  mel  rortune,  who  had  before  quitted  me  as  a 
warning  for  my  good,  now  came  back  to  me,  and  I  saw  myself  saved  ! 
In  a  don^right  transport  I  played  on.  When  the  fearfuf  agony  was 
taken  otf  my  heart,  I  resembled  a  person  in  a  fit  of  catalepsy.  I  saw, 
I  heard  little  or  nothing  that  was  passing  around  me ;  but  C4)ngra- 
tulations  pouring  upon  me  from  all  sides,  awakened  me  from  my 
lethargT'  I  swept  off  my  mone^v  gave  a  handful  of  it  to  the  marker, 
and  rushed  out  of  the  hellie^h  abode,  which  had  caused  me  more  anguish 
than  all  the  events  of  my  life  put  together,  with  a  loud  asseveration 
and  the  firm  purpose  never  to  play  again ;  and  I  kept  it.  Never  could 
persuasion,  or  my  own  wish,  induce  me  to  try  my  luck,  and  I  was  per- 
fectly cured  of  that  passion. 

Meantime  oar  hoped-for  review  by  the  Emperor  Napoleon  came  to 
Bolhing.  He  was  in  too  great  haste,  and  we  saw  him  only  fleelingly 
pftss  by  in  the  carriage,  imd  evt^n  that  luck  was  only  the  lot  of  a  few 
sentinels.  Discontentedly  we  returned  back  to  Cassel  to  our  monoto- 
nous duties  and  our  parades.  However,  the  n^ xt  year  was  to  do  mure 
than  compensate  us  for  our  disappointed  hopes,  brin^^ing  with  it 
events  so  xealously  desired  by  young  military  men.  A  report  nas 
spread  abroad,  in  the  siiring,  of  an  im|>end]ng  war,  and  we  impu- 
tientJy  awaited  further  indications  of  it.  I  had  retunit-d  one  evening 
from  Cntherinen  Thai,  the  Queen's  residence,  w*iih  my  guard  and 
ovei^fatigued  horsea.  All  slumbered  in  the  barmcks  ;  and  we,  too,  gave 
ourselves  up  to  reposey  when  suddenly  the  alarm  was  beaten,  which, 
since  it  could  only  be  by  the  King's  command,  indicated  that  some- 
thing extraordinary  must  have  occurred.  In  great  hoKte  the  various 
corps  assembled  at  their  alarm-{H)Sts,  and  there  received  their  orders. 
Kach  gate  of  the  town  was  guarded  by  a  battalion  of  infantry  and  two 
cannon  ;  the  cavalry  rode  with  drawn  swords  and  loaded  pistols  among 
the  city  patrole,  with  orders  to  fire  upon  any  group  of  persons  who 
might  assemble  together,  and  to  allow  no  individual  to  pass  without 
the  ^vatchwcM^, 

No  man  knew,  or  could  divine  what  had  given  occasion  for  these 

stringent  measures.     All  the  public-houses  were  closed,  and  scarcely  a 

towns-pen»on  dared   to  bhew  himself.     I  saw  but  little  of  what  was 

doing,  l>eing  left  with  my  wearied  men  at  the  barracks;  and  yet  it  fell 

to  my  lot  to  take  a  part  at  the  most  decisive   moment.     It  might  be 

About  four  in  the  mnrning  when  I  received  orders  to  turn  out  with  my 

guard,  and  march  to  the  Frankfort  gate.     Here  I  met  two  companies 

'  the  guards  and  tAvo  cannon,  and  was  comnmnded  by  General  D'Ai- 

'^nac*  t»  whom  I  reported  myself,  to  form  immediately  the  advanced* 

ird.  It  l>egan  to  dawn  as  we  marched  in  upon  the  '*  c/iahssee,*'  and  the 

•»nd  there  being  entirely  broken  Uji,  the  infantry  and  artillery  foi- 
ls alowly.     We  had  been  directed  to  pay  doee  attention  to  any 


OP   THE  AKMY    OF    WESTPHALIA.  49 

saspidous  movement  oil  the  road ;  and  with  the  first  light  I  remarked 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  so-called  Knall-hntte  (a  small  public- 
house  near  a  brick-kiln )>  a  throng  of  country-people,  and  great  running 
hither  and  thither  behind  the  above-mentioned  building.  Sending 
forward  a  patrol,  I  reported  immediately  to  the  General,  who  quickly 
came  up  with  the  rest  of  the  detachment ;  and  I  then  first  learned 
through  them  that  the  district  was  in  open  revolt,  prompted  and  car- 
ried on  by  General  von  Thornberg,  commanding  the  chasseur  battalion 
of  the  guards.  I  could  hardly  believe  my  ears,  having  seen  the  (General 
a  few  days  previously  on  parade,  apparently  so  busv  and  zealous  in  the 
royal  service,  and  particularly  since  two  compames  of  his  battalion 
were  at  present  with  our  detachment,  and  whose  duty,  therefore,  it 
would  be  to  fight  against  their  commander. 

At  our  advance  the  assemblage  of  peasants  quickly  dispersed  ;  but 
in  a  sortie  made  by  twelve  of  our  men  we  took  many  of  them  prisoners, 
from  whom  we  discovered,  after  a  few  admonitions  from  the  flat  of  our 
salires,  that  considerable  masses  of  country-people  were  on  the  advance 
towards  us.  After  precise  instructions  from  the  General,  we  continued 
our  march^  and  in  about  half  an  hour  saw  a  glistening  and  gleaming  in. 
the  sunshine,  which  we  soon  discovered  to  proceed  from  the  scythes, 

E  itch  forks,  and  pikes,  with  which  a  body  of  peasants  of  from  eight 
undred  to  a  thousand  men,  who  were  now  near  us,  had  armed  them- 
selves. At  their  head  were  people  provided  with  guns  and  other  arms ; 
then  came  on  the  irregularly- formed  division,  opening  out  on  the  cA/im- 
s6e,  although  on  the  right  and  left  there  was  a  free  field  for  their  ex- 
ploits. At  the  sight  of  us  there  was  an  evident  commotion  among 
them ;  they  appeared  to  be  wavering,  and  many  deserters  were  seen  in 
the  backgrouna  running  as  fast  as  their  legs  could  carry  them.  The 
General  sent  me  orders  to  ride  after  them,  and  ask  them  in  the  King's 
name  what  they  wanted ;  but  I  obtained  no  answer,  though  I  repeated 
my  inquiry  three  times ;  so  I  turned  back  to  report  to  the  Generai.  It 
18  remarkable  that  the  peasants  did  not  fire,  although  I  distinctly  heard 
the  cocking  of  their  muskets.  Meantime  the  infantry  was  drawn  up 
obliquely  along  the  high-road.  I  was  on  the  right  wing  with  my  detach- 
ment, and  behind  me  were  the  two  cannon,  which  were  not  to  be  used, 
for,  when  the  peasants  had  arrived  within  musket-shot  they  received 
a  volley  from  the  infantry,  which  dispersed  them,  after  a  short  resist- 
ance. They  only  fired  at  us  once ;  then  they  fled  in  all  directions, 
and  we  pursued  them.  Our  orders  were  precise,  only  to  strike  with 
the  flat  of  the  sword ;  but  as  my  soldiers  did  this,  the  weapons  got 
entangled  in  the  long  hair  worn  by  the  country-people,  and  in  that 
way  did  them  more  harm  than  on  their  backs*  Each  of  these  heroes 
was  famished  with  a  haversack,  so  well  filled  with  bread  and  black- 
puddings  as  to  make  it  a  tolerable  burthen,  which  they  speedily  freed 
themselves  from  that  they  might  run  the  faster.  They  were  spread 
over  the  field,  and  our  men  made  a  good  booty  of  them,  and  regaled 
themselves  when  the  pursuit  was  at  an  end. 

I  was  close  behind  one  of  the  poor  runaways,  attracted  by  his  ap- 
pearance, for  he  wore  the  uniform  of  the  Hessian  guards,  and  was 
adorned  with  a  very  well-dressed  pigtail.  He  ran  faster,  too,  than 
the  others,  notwithstanding  his  more  heroic  appearance.  He  only 
owed  his  escape  from  a  few  blows  to  a  new  apparition,  which  drew  my 
attention  on  itself.  Across  my  road,  through  which  went  a  deep  fur- 
row, and  half-buried  io  the  same,  lay  stretched  a  tall,  meagre  man, 

VOL.  ZVIII.  * 


l^m^mw.    0^ 


hm  to  tKe 
meA  tke  parmit  of 
m  ^e  acemingly 
■Mft  m  MTirif  or 
■wftikHKonife 
an  ^tagtei  op,  snd 
IstsYof  dttUi  in 

ht  wpmd  if  he 

I  wr  him 

_  out  of 

dootit  he  ^vajf 

ptnaners,  of  whom 

lint  the  principal 

»  it  fell  to  the  lot 

•hliaitgh  much 

tud  FeUberg, 

itedf  between  woods, 
m  wcm  lhgiefi>te  obHged  to  use 
;  (t^mVi  to  tie  mtUtarr  tactics  of 
Wmm  m  numg  gjnmna  we  6tw  a 
TW  ciOQoQ  fi*ere  pointed ; 
with  our  opponents, 
lA  «i  mm  dvieiw  t^  tf^—*g»l  pm  iJuji  tm  tre.  This  time  it  ap- 
Mmi  th«l  tfe  ftcioBd  acs  w«re  in  £t«at»  lor  the|  stood  five  Tolleys 
umm  m»,  w%atk,  k»w«vcr,  t— irWd  itrnm  m  ooosiaerable  number  of 
tkem  ;  tkcj  l^ea  look  to  their  W<U  m  vdl  wm  their  predecessors. 

Hb  BMi^  havTT^tMtm  mJk  plWf  We  returned  to  CasseJ»  being 
fdBcfvd  lisr  a  partT  of  mhmtrf  and  ettwAjt  which  amv^ed  too  late  to 
sfliit «%  Mid  which  renained  seoie  tine  en  bifooac,  for  the  purpose  of 
father  ob«mtioii.  The  nwoh  pvl  dafwii,  some  of  the  nngleadera 
were  thot,  man  j  imprMied,  er  othenrise  ponished,  and  some  set  at 
lib^tT* 

A  M.  Von  der  Al-b-g,  who  had  heedlessly  ioipli(^ted  himself  in 
these  prtx«edina:s»  being  so  onlackj  as  to  he  taken  prisoner,  and  con- 
victrd  of  his  participation  in  them,  was  condemned  to  death.  His  wife, 
however,  found  an  opportunity  of  throwing  herself  at  the  King's  feet,  a 
supplicant  fur  her  husband's  life  ;  and  Jerome,  touched  by  her  misfor- 
tune, granted  her  prayer,  but  confined  M.  Von  der  M — b — g  for  life 
within  the  boundaries  of  his  own  estate.  M.  Von  der  M— b — g  was 
tfie  last  of  an  ancient  race ;  his  marriage  (in  all  other  respects  a  happy 
one)  had  brought  him  no  children ;  and  it  occasioned  him  great  con- 
cern to  think  that  his  large  property  was  entailed  upon  a  very  distant 
eoJJAterrjl  brniicb*  At  length »  in  the  year  1814,  a  son  was  tjorn  to  the 
happy  man,  whiljit  Jerome  resided,  as  Duke  of  JVIontfort,  in  Wurtem- 
burg.  In  ibr  joy  of  Lis  heart,  and  in  well-founded  gratitude,  he  in- 
tretited  iho  Unkis  to  be  sponsor  to  this  child.  Jerome  consented,  and 
stood  god  father  to  M.  Von  der  JM — b^ — g's  son  ;  but  a  suit  at  law  was 
comnu'necd  against  this  son  and  heir  on  the  part  of  the  Elector  of 
i\  which  the  tribunals,  as  may  be  easily  supjioaed,  decided  in  &- 
M.  Von  der  M — b— g. 
9  month  of  June  several  Westphalian  and  Saxon  regiments 


OF    THE    ARMY    OF    WESTPHALIA. 


were  assembled  nt?ar  Leipsic,  ntxder  the  appellatiun  of  the  tenth  coqis 
d' a rmee,  in  or (li^r  to  take  part  in  tlie  campaign  against  Austria;  and 
our  regiment  was  one  of  those  nominated  ti*  this  dutj-.  The  first  hos- 
tilities took  place  between  Waldheim  and  Nossen* 

1  bad  the  ilUluck  in  this  engngement,  where  we  fell  into  an  amhu»- 
cade  of  the  Austrian  cavalry,  to  receive  a  smart  blow  on  the  head, 
which  would  have  finished  my  adventures  if  the  temples,  against 
which  it  was  directed,  had  not  been  protected  by  my  helmet  and  shell- 
chains  ;  so  the  whole  danger  consisted  in  a  considerable  Ins«  of  blood, 
which  in  those  young  days  I  was  well  able  to  support;  only  the  first 
Rniart  and  the  dressing  made  me  giddy-  But  I  was  soon  in  action  again 
with  my  companions.  We  repulsed  the  assailants,  set  the  road  free, 
and  shortly  after  entered  Dresden,  welcomed  by  young  maidens  dress- 
ed in  white,  and  wearing  garlands,  who  threw  flowers  on  the  path  of 
the  Tictors*  We  brought  the  King  of  Baxony — ^who  on  the  approach 
of  the  Austrians  had  fled  to  Konigstein, — back  in  triumph  to  his  capi- 
tal;  aod  afterwards  fared  sumptuously  during  our  three  days'  abode  in 
ma^mficent  Dresden. 

And  here  it  occurs  to  me  to  describe  rather  a  laughable  scene,  al- 
though it  really  took  jdace  partly  at  aii  earlier,  partly  at  a  later  period 
than  I  am  now  writing  of.  On  the  road  to  Leipsic  is,  or  was  formerly, 
an  inn  called  The  Black  Bear,  near  which  during  the  march  I  was 
phiced  with  the  advanced  guard.  As  we  had  not  any  fodder  for  our 
boi^es,  I  was  commanded  to  have  the  clover  cut  down  which  was  grow- 
ing  rich  and  ripe  in  the  contiguous  field*  We  did  not  spare  it.  Un- 
luckily the  mistress  of  the  inu  was  also  proprietor  of  this  clover  ;  and, 
on  becoming  aware  of  the  depredation  committed  in  it  by  my  men,  she 
stood  in  the  doorway,  and  abused  us  to  the  best  of  her  ability.  The 
more  the  scolded  us,  the  more  loudly  we  laugli|*d,  which  increa-sed  her 
ratj^  but  did  not  diminish  the  cause  of  it.  Nine  years  afterw^ards, 
vlieo  I  had  returned  with  my  regiment  from  France,  I  was  once  more 
in  those  environs  ;  and,  as  it  appeared  in  orders  that  the  regiment  was 
to  be  drawn  up  next  morning  near  the  inn  called  The  Black  Bear,  I 
recalled  that  ^ene  and  my  angry  hostess  to  mind,  and  proposed  to  the 
officers  of  my  troop,  after  telling  them  my  story,  that  we  should  ride 
over  very  early  in  the  morning  before  the  troops  marched  off,  and  see 
whether  my  enraged  landlady  of  former  times  was  still  owner  of  The 
Bear- 
No  sooner  said  than  done-  We  arrived ;  and  the  first  object  which 
struck  my  eyes  was  my  ancient  landlady-  I  knew  her  at  once,  though 
»he  had  considerably  increased  in  rotundity.  Upon  this  occasion  she 
itood,  quite  beaming  with  satisfaction  at  our  visit,  before  the  door,  I 
ordered  a  slight  breakfast,  and  while  we  were  partaking  of  it  I  began 
to  chat  with  her,  and  asked  whether  she  had  been  many  yenrs  mistress 
of  that  inn-  She  replied  in  the  affirmative.  Upon  which  I  observed : — 
"  Then  you  were  here  as  far  back  as  180l>,  and  must  have  had  the 
Weslphalians  here  ;  and  you  found  theai,  I  am  sure,  good  sort  of  peo- 
ple.    Was  it  not  so?" 

**  Ah  I  the  saints  preserve  me !  *'  cried  she,  with  a  gesture  of  abhor- 
rence, *' those  rascals  cut  down  all  my  clover." 

We  all  laughed  in  chorus,  which  made  her  stare*  She  looked  at  me 
over  her  shoulder,  and  I  know  not  whether  she  liad  not  some  sliglit  re- 
niiniiicence  of  my  person  ;  but  we  had  had  the  joke  we  expected,  and 

returned  back  to  our  post. 

K  2 


52         EARLY  YEARS  OF  A  VETERAN,  ETC. 

And  now  to  the  campaign.  Our  regiment  marched  from  Dresden  into 
the  Voigtland,  where  we  joined  the  other  diirision  of  the  corps  ttarmee 
near  Schlewz ;  and  here  we  were  made  aware  that  the  enemy  was  in 
our  front.  A  battle  was  every  moment  looked  for ;  and  we  were  full 
of  joyful  expectation  of  being  for  the  first  time  in  a  serious  engagement. 
Instead  of  that,  a  courier  arrived  with  news  of  the  battle  of  Wa« 
gram,  and  the  conclusion  of  a  truce.  Another  quickly  followed,  inform- 
ing us  that  the  Duke  of  Brunswick-Oels  was  excluded  from  it.  He 
was  hotly  pursued;  but  had  made  good  use  of  his  time,  and  turned 
towards  the  coast  by  Halberstadt  and  Brunswick.  The  Dutch  under- 
took to  follow  him ;  and  after  numerous  marches  and  counter-marches 
we  got  back  to  Cassel. 

Thus  ended  a  campaign  from  which  we  had  expected  so  much,  with- 
out our  seeing  more  of  the  enemy  than  at  the  skirmish  between  Wald- 
heim  and  Nossen,  or  obtaining  any  of  the  results  we  had  looked  fiDr- 
ward  to — ^honour,  military  renown,  and  promotion. 

Our  regiment  was  augmented  at  Cassel  by  several  souadrons,  for 
which  reason  the  duty  became  more  onerous.  It  was  diligently  exer- 
cised, the  regulations  were  strictly  enforced ;  and,  in  short,  the  mono- 
tonous peace-going  life  took  its  ol^  course.  My  share  of  ennui  was  di- 
minished by  my  being  sent  to  Hanover  to  purchase  horses,  thereby 
Erocuring  me  six  weeks  of  active  employment^  during  which  I  receivea 
oapitality  in  the  house  of  old  Eicker,  a  man  grown  rich  by  large  pur- 
chases of  horses  for  the  French  army.  I  obtained  some  remarkably  fine 
horses ;  bought  others  on  my  own  account,  and  sold  some  of  the  hand- 
somest advantageously,  and  met  with  great  approbation  on  my  return 
to  Cassel. 

About  this  time  the  King  travelled  through  the  Harts,  and  as  far 
as  Osterode  in  a  carriage ;  but  from  thence,  on  account  of  the  narrow, 
mountainous  path,  he  proceeded  on  horseback.  On  this  tour  also  I 
had  again  the  good  luck  to  attend  him  with  an  escort  On  Jerome's 
reception  at  Clausthal  and  Cellerfield,  arches  and  walls  of  yew,  with 
other  green  branches,  were  erected  to  do  him  honour.  Upon  suitable 
elevations  stood  the  miners  and  waggoners,  —  the  latter  in  their  blue 
frocks,  —  also  the  mine-apprentices,  in  their  holiday-dress,  to  welcome 
the  King ;  and  upon  this  occasion  the  carmen  or  waggoners  performed 
s  concert  such  as  I  had  never  before  heard,  nor  ever  shall  again. 

Their  singularly  plaited  whip-thongs  were  the  instruments  with 
which  this  concert  was  performed ;  and  it  commenced  by  flourishing 
them,  with  a  slight  cric-crack,  the  tones  growing  stronger  and  stronger, 
until  at  length  the  bass  swelled  out  the  whole  to  such  a  dang,  that 
our  horses  reared  bolt  upright.  Still  it  was,  so  to  say,  a  species  of 
music ;  the  tones  rose  ana  fell ;  and  it  was  particularly  interesting  to 
try  and  find  out  from  whence  exactly  proceeded  those  softer  or  louder 
sounds.  So  much  I  was  able  to  ascertain,  that  the  tenderer  tones 
were  brought  forth  by  a  higher  flourish  of  the  whips ;  but  the  ioui  en- 
aemble  was  so  skilfully  managed,  and  with  such  execution,  that  one 
could  not  follow  it  quick  enough  in  detail. 


53 


TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 


Spirit  of  floral  beaaty !  where 
Hast  thou  thy  dwelling  ?     In  the  air  ? 

Or  in  some  flow'ret's  cell  ? 
Or  lingerest  thoa  in  leafy  bed. 
Where  the  young  violet  droops  its  head, 
Mliich  on  the  breeze  such  fragrance  shed. 

Or  in  the  lUy^s  beU  ? 

Speak,  fairy  spirit !  is  thy  form 
With  life  instinct,  with  feeling  warm  ? 

Or  has  all4xwnteous  hearen 
A  dewy  essence  from  on  higfa^ 
Inrisible  to  mortal  eye, 
Yet  sweeter  than  the  west  wind*s  sigh. 

To  human  weakness  given  ? 

Ah  no !  for  angels  loudly  sung, 
Mlien  first  thy  beauty's  rays  were  flung 

On  Eden^  sinless  bowers ; 
For  in  those  joyous  primal  days 
Both  earth  and  heaven  were  joined  to 


One  universal  hvmn  of  praise. 

As  sprung  tne  laughing  flowers  ! 

When  mom,  with  golden  sandall'd  feet. 
Comes  forth  the  dewy  earth  to  greet. 

Thou  floatest  swift  along, 
And,  by  a  sunbeam  borne  on  high, 
C4ireerett  through  the  rosy  sky, 
Unmindful  of  the  tempest  nigh. 

To  join  the  lark*s  sweet  song  I 

Then  through  the  long  sweet  summer 

hour 
Thou  waotonest  from  flower  to  flower, 

Unwearied  as  the  bee  ; 
The  nectar'd  honey- drops  which  dwell 
Within  the  fair  narcissus^  bell, 
Or  in  the  woodbine's  fragrant  cell, 

He  gladly  shares  wiUi  thee  I 

If  chill  the  breeze  of  evening  blows. 
Thy  form  is  folded  in  the  rose. 

And  through  the  livelong  night, 


On  silken  oouoh  of  beantv  rare, 
Curtain'd  with  crimson  drapery  fair. 
Secure  from  harm  thou  slumberest  there, 
'Mid  dreams  of  soft  delight. 


Bright  spirit !  from  mjr  childhood's  hour 
A  secret  spell  of  soothing  power 

Thou  laid'st  upon  my  heart ; 
And  now  that  in  maturer  life 
The  storm  and  tempest  still  are  rife. 
And  never-ending  seems  the  strife, 

I  could  not  say,  (' Depart ! " 

I  woo'd  thee  in  the  sylvan  glade. 
Where  hawthorn  sweet  a  temple  made 

For  such  as  loved  the  spot. 
And  in  the  garden's  trim  retreat, 
And  by  the  winding  hedge-row  sweet, 
Where  carpet  sprung  beneath  my  feet 

Of  blue  <<  Forget-me-not." 

And  when  the  mighty  forest-trees 
Were  bending  in  the  autumn  breeze, 

Oh  !  then  in  greenhouse  fair, 
A  cherished  and  a  favour*d  guest, 
'Mid  courtly  beauties  gaily  drest. 
In  azure  zone  or  crimson  vest. 

Fair  queen !   I  sought  thee  there  I 


And  thou  can'st  hallow *d  feelings  bring, 
And  softest  recollections  fling 

O'er  pensive  memory. 
The  rose-buds,  stain'd  with  many  a  tear, 
I  laid  upon  each  little  bier 
Of  some,  the  beautiful,  the  dear. 

Too  early  lost  to  me ! 

Oh  !  evermore  in  rural  dell. 
In  flow'ry  grot,  in  mossy  cell, 

Wherever  springs  a  flower, 
An  altar  will  I  raise  to  thee, 
And  faithful  bend  a  willing  knee 
At  shrine  of  thy  divinity, 

And  own  thy  mysUc  power  ! 

H.  B.  K. 


r^z  :::cy^iS^  of  derby. 


'  ^^'^   r  j"g!»f  Lfc  x?^  -fc  raiBEK.  sm  ^h  ii  ■■  Vr  nidi  r-ijesw »•  &>C  obIt  to  be 

vices  out  of  CDOD- 

'  m  c&ctaaD  J  exposed 

■HMOt  diildren  of 

Amk  vfaat  nritber 

^  jf  dtai  EaM  *  cnold  etfect, — 

'  %  v^uK.  mi  aaAe  vs  forget  the 

.  vlio  had  lost  an 

of  driicacy  worthy  of 

i  feibiet  of  oiners 

^nier  Tic«k  A  baccnphcr  is  more  espe- 
Ttfrmxtisdx  or  ^fiAaiw  jv«r.  ni&ra  jes  caoral,  the  moral  ble- 
A*HXvs  4c'  ;ais  .SaKSCKr  imxer  innpe^EaDt  nocice:  tach  partiality 
'^iviii  3«  infuse  jou  3r!f?uini=al  ^  taie  wend,  which  looks  into  the 
xv3-.>.  ,i  -rsssimSLiiiitt  md  A^edraofd  vin^*«  &r  eithu  an  example  or  a 
wac-T;i:^  jim.  Ata%iu^^  w\i  wwulti  3uc  Ik  cUaaed  with  those  Tenal 
^Azrbciir:^  ^T95Qir*TA.'tiunisi&  w^  j«Kk  x&efr  *ir=cfr  amongst  the  dead, 
mu  ir;^  '3t-  2ur-«-x  inm  t3««r  ^£«c  rccfng»place  i»  in  order  to 
vaii5  sv'rx:^  >-'  ci«£*r  c-jmuccOd.  v«  ^•2d  it  fur.  and  at  the  same 
:mi«f  it«9fttu/\k  or  ^vcKCr  jt  ^arxtf.  -fi^  ^  sbctsI  anatooBist,  to  dissect  the 
iufr;t*r2*  a'«ri.l7  ^*aof.-  ?**iijnr  1:$^  imi  t*  acparate  and  lay  bare  the 
»vr-?si:  i>  'V'iT  *4s  -Je  s.'am«r  pvrticc*  cf  departed  humanity,  for 
aif  Hi^.i-Tuacua  i^iii  ><«rtfdc  ./c  t!ics«  w!h>  «ttcceed.  Notwithstanding 
a>rs*f  ^fs-lrurs.  isil  .-ctc.cotk  rc  ^i?  w^  nskUCtuKv,  in  the  preceding 
pfcirticn  vC  ctt-  is^\ri«^  ^isk.  t^ac  ia  tiie  htV*  history  of  her  whose 
jcracci-ctf  t«ItffrC5  w^re  saiii  t;»  luie  ataoe  **  Rich  Gajf,  and  Gay  Rich," 
we  TifK^aleJ  xhn  <c<  ^sirk  Set  v^-h  ssllied  an  otherwise  unble- 
K&s&:ifti  p«£«.     6a;  tr*^!^  ac«£  cir^Hir  dnaanded  this  violence  to  our 


0JLf ftly.  mere  p«rt«ct  illustratioos  of  our  theme  follow  to  refresh 
the  BL-zidWthe  bereTcIect  reader :  and  it  is  with  pleasure  and  pride 
that  wiE  cow  reoard  the  ^nces  and  Tirtues  of 

THE  COUNTESS  OF  DERBY. 

Tbe  frther  of  the  above  lady  was  a  surgeon  at  Cork,  of  great  re- 

spcctabOitT,  bat  of  improvident  habits,  who  dying  prematurely, 

bcftve  his  niTish  disposition  had  allowed  him  to  make  due  provision 

Us  ftottlj,  left  a  young  widow  and  several  small  children  in 

-ftmcrs  hmdeonate  to  their  future  subsistence.     Thus  sud- 

"^CMt  upon  the  world's  wide  stage/'  Elisabeth  Fnrren,  the 

of  this  brief  memoir,  from  motives  highly  creditable  to  her 

ncl0«  determined,  young  as  she  then  was,  to  try  her  abili- 

D  actress.    Oral  accounts  have,  however,  diflered  from  this 

t  in  one  respect;  —  by  such  it  has  been  asserted  that  IVlibs 


ENNOBLED    ACTRESSES, 


55 


Farren's  parents  were  iheAtrical,  and  that  almost  from  infancy  she 
wa«  trained  by  them  to  the  stage.  It  matters,  however,  little ;  either 
account  is  honourable  to  the  exertions  of  the  young  iady  as  regards 
her  family  ;  and  the  origin  of  distinguished  individuals  occupies  so 
transient  an  interest  in  the  minds  of  even  the  most  inquisitive  into 
inch  matters,  and  is  so  little  dwelt  upon  by  the  liberal-minded  in 
after  tinies^  that  the  more  material  question  then  is,  not  how  auch 
persons  entered  upon  the  worlds  but  in  what  manner  they  conducted 
Ibeouelves  while  in  it, — where 

''  HuDours  be«t  thrive 
When  rather  horn  mir  ocu  we  them  derive 

Thmx  OUT  foregoer'i." 

The  authority  first  quoted  declares  that  Miss  Farren's  provincial 
fame  ushered  her  upon  a  London  stage  at  the  early  age  of  fourteen. 
It  18  quite  certain  that  at  a  very  juvenile  period  she  appeared  at  the 
Haymarket  Theatre,  in  the  character  of  Mis^  Hankastk,  in  Gold- 
smith's charming  comedy  of  ''  She  Stoops  to  Conquer/'  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1777  i  a^n  epoch  memorable  in  dramatic  history  for  intro- 
ducing to  the  public  Edwin  (who  made  his  first  appearance  in  Tony 
Lumpkin,  on  the  same  night  with  Miss  Farren),  Henderson,  and 
"The  Farren," — three  of  the  moHt  perfect  performers  that  ever  at^ 
tracted  a  London  audience. •  Miss  Farren  had  previously  been  act- 
ing at  Liverpool,  under  the  management  and  fatherly  support  of  the 
then  aged  Blr  Younger,  at  whose  suggestion,  when  he  recommended 
hcT  to  Mr.  Colman,t  hi^  fair  protegee  waived  all  immediate  claim  to 
salary,  on  condition  of  being  permitted  the  choice  of  parts  in  which 
the  thought  it  advantageous  to  her  to  appear.  Amongst  other  cha- 
racters attempted  at  Liverpool,  Miss  Farren  had  played  Rmettaj  in 
the  opera  of  "Love  in  a  Village/'  which  she  repeated  several  times 
afterwards  in  London,  with  creditable  eflect.  But,  although  in- 
dulgently received  in  every  effort^  great  allowance  being  made  for 
her  youtli  and  inexperience,  no  very  deep  impression  remained  of 
her  abilities,  which  indeed,  at  the  most,  bore  but  the  evidence  of  a 
promising  quality.  The  young  actress  was,  in  fact,  merely  noticeable 
al  that  time  as  a  pretty,  delicate  girl,  with  a  prepossessing  face  and 
figure.  It  was,  however,  soon  understood,  from  the  report  of  those 
who  knew  her  intimately,  and  saw  the  gradual  development  of  her 
private  character,  that  the  rigid  discharge  of  her  relative  duties,  her 
domestic  virtues,  her  fond  attention  to  her  mother^  and  ztflectionate 
interest  in  her  sisters,  entitled  her  to  a  higher  title  to  general 
admiration  than  her  talents  had  yet  inspired;  and  her  merits  as  a 
daughter  and  sister,  together  with  her  undeviating  personal  pro* 
pricty,  proved  eventually  no  inconsiderable  recommendations  to 
public  favour,  even  before  her  latent  talents  were  vividly  percep- 
tible. Hitherto  IMiss  Farren  had  only  represented  characters  that 
had  been  better  performed  by  other  actresses,  who  had  set  their  own 
peculiar  stamp  upon  them  ;  and  it  may  be  observed  that,  even  where 
actval  and  superior  talents  are  manifest,  few  performers,  however  they 
Diay  have  the  appearance  of  success,  really  eistjtblish  themselves  with 
the  town  until  some  original  character  has  given  them  the  opportunity 

*  The  two  fonutjr  died  iu  the  nieridlim  of  their  Mvei  sod  f«mu« 


^  lan^OBLED   ACTRESSES. 

i  effects  by  tlieir  own  untutored 

■nitj  hsppily  was  afforded  Miss  Farren 

In  the  August  of  L780  Miss 

'  «f  «  The  Chapter  of  Accidents  "  was 

CtfdBaa.  when  the  native  gracefulness  of  Miss 

ST  «Ki  to  tlie  judicious  manager  as  a  fitting  repre- 

iC  attf  kenaue  of  the  piece,  and  the  part  of  Cecilia  formed 

dT  the  Toung  actress's  after-fame.     Her  nice  con- 

cttDfiuit  jt&i  jfc^tftisxm'of  that  interesting  character  surprised  even 

ur  ^JMCasc  ASainen :  the  sensibility  she  evinced,  and  the  pathos 

soe  rsou&rai.  tiMBcbcd  ail  hearts ;  her  affecting  demeanour  under 

fttf   .Dfwfsiszu:  crramstanoes  of  the  scene,  the  exquisite  sense  of 

w^juizoA*  3UOAC7  azad  moral  dignity  in  all  the  vicissitudes  of  the 

dtairaAer.  ccv  v^  i^uki  tike  author  and  actress  possessed  congenial  feel- 

5Eiir^  'TC  rettuexMsit.   Tliis  coatedy,  in  which  Miss  Farren's  individual 

jwcon»  n&Med  Smt  aso  general  ^dmadon,  had  a  lengthened  run,  and 

kcpc  ic»  3KrEttd  p^acif  in  public  favour  for  several  successive  sea- 

tofiik*     Tbae  fine  part,  however,  which  proved  indisputably  Miss 

F4rr«i*5  p*»w>Br »  a  first>nte  actress  was  that  of  Lady  Tomnbf,  which 

«ae  >■  Jdi  KXC&  difideoce  attempted,  at  the  instigation  of  that  unri- 

«!iZ!ec  cwhK^iia.  Mr.  Psrscos,  who  took  Gibber's  comedy  of  '*  The 

?S?«vjiis%£  Hi:»biasvi"  tbr  his  benefit.     The  experiment  lustified  in 

^  T«sult  ti«  c\j*meia3*s  anticipation ;  the  audience  and  the  actors 

Y«:re  jx  *trc&rvs  «ic^  the  young  lady's  performance,  and  her  success 

.It  :aA^  iidkrult  part  was  so  rapid,  that  she  was  immediately  after 

<tT^;;^tM  JC  >ici!i  the  winter  theatres,  to  play  alternately  in  comedy 

jou  ira^:^^^^.   jc   Dturr  Lane  and  Covent  Garden, — an   unprece- 

vaittct^i  tftie?ic«Kizt.    At  the  latter  theatre  she  acted  in  tragedy 

«-.ct  X.r   l>^^^^:«s.  lOki  at  Drury  Lane  she  continued  to  hold  tlie 

ra^f ;l  «ic  int  ^tra^ecT  actress  until  the  secession  of  Mrs.  Abington 

^a  ir^  v^^  *^   c\rrscuu<nce  of  a  dispute  with  Mr.  Sheridan, 

wirct  o««r  to  Co\ec:  Gjrwn.  whcin  Miss  Farren  took  possession  of 

*  I:  s  A  mu7«A>uf  ^*^  ^jas  :a*»  cadniun;i;  snd  popular  comedy  met  with  greet 
^<d»crrjctu.'e:»  ;..*  i^  >;.ro:  pix^'jA.xtMs.  Ms^  Lee  first  offered  it  to  Mr.  Harris  of 
CoTva;  Iv&riBec  T^^turr,  «h».*  nKvnmiafa«i««l  her  to  convert  it  into  an  opera.  She 
cMSMn^rsectly  «rx<  9k-«cik  u«  ::«  Si:  Xr.  Hjrrb  stiU  made  objections  to  bringing  it 
4US  ;  A:ui  :t  va»  aitcrvands  ka^wu  Ubst  be  had  at  the  time  a  play  in  his  hands, 
«n:wc  hy  Mr.  Macklic^  founded  «m  £#  i^irt  ,iu  FttmUie  of  IhtUrol^  from  which 
t>^  c^i&rarter  of  the  C^^rmM-  ia  Mw  L««'s  anaedr  was  confessedly  taken.  Mr. 
HATTCk  f««iinj|:  himself  shackled  hv  it*  Lrun  |Cra»p  ^'  Macklin,  naturally  dreaded  a 
<\<«t7v<Tvr>r  «ith  a  man  «ho  t'tftea  pubjiciy  tH.«sted,  and  pravedy  that  **  he  cmM 
iitwajy  M  'f««rTW  i^ittr  lica  mmf  ma%J^  U  &4kiwed  that  Miss  Lee,  tired  of  Mr. 
Harry's  crasivw».  to^ik  her  opera  oNaa^y  ftvm  Corent  Garden,  and  sent  it  anony- 
Wki%u2v  to  Mr.  C4]ihBaa.  who  found  u^t  mudi  pwiint  and  substance  in  the  dialogue 
lo  sulfier  the  ptew  U»  rvmaxn  in  an  «,«peratic  form,  and  advised  its  author  to  omil 
tW  aoi^a. — advicv  t«v  well  in  aoAwtUnce  with  her  own  taste  not  to  be  gUdly  fol- 
loved  ;  mad,  as  we  hare  said,  toe  play  succeeded  eminently. 

Unfc^pilr  the  above  is  not  a  solitary  case  u>  be  cited,  by  which  the  falUu^y  of 
■aaoRerial  judgment  has  been  shown.  It  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that 
Mrs.  Centlirrre's  cunedv  of  **  The  Busy  Body  *'  (a  superior  version  of  Moliire's 
lint  drmma^  '•  L'EUmrdi  ^)  was  brought  before  the  public.  The  manager  treated 
It  with  indifference,  and  ITilks  threw  down  his  character  in  it  with  disgust,  when 
Che  fair  author  fdl  upon  her  knees  and  wept,  and  her  tears  gained  for  her  what 
iT "  °!^/"*«^  •**  obtain.  Another  more  recent,  and  very  striking  case,  may  be 
recollected,  in  ropect  to  Mr.  Tubiu's  play  of  "  The  Honeymoon,*'  the  manuscript 
of  -  - -ui»iected  until  the  death  of  iu  author  divw  it  fnmi  oblivion.     It 

^  died  in  order  that  hit  work  might  live. 


ENNOBLED    ACTRESSES. 


57 


all  that  great  actress's  raii^^e  of  characters  in  comedy,  and  with  such 
extraordinary  ability,  that  she  was  considered  second  only  to  the  ad* 
[inirable  model  which  shefollowed, — not  servilely^  but  by  judiciously 
^•dopting  and  engrafting  upon  her  own  inexperience  a  more  ready  air 
of  nuiturity.  Mhs  Farren,  as  it  afterwards  proved,  needed  no  guide 
r  to  excellence  but  her  own  judgment;  and  it  may  be  questioned 
twhether,  in  point  of  personal  elegance  and  innate  refinement,  *'  The 
^farren  "  did  not  greatly  excel  **  The  Alnngton"  The  former  was 
kindeed  of  the  favoured  few  who  may  be  termed  Nature's  nobility, — 
riite  gcnllefpcfffmn  was  perceptible  in  every  inflection  of  voice,  in  every 
Vexpression  of  face  ;  and  her  every  gesture  might  aptly  be  termed  "  the 
I  poetry  of  motion."  Equal  in  grace,  superior  in  beauty  to  her  ac- 
[compjished  predecessor,  she  possessed  all  her  power, — if  we  except 
of  reflecting  vulgar  life,  to  which  Aliss  Farren's  natural  refine- 
could  not  have  accommodated  itself^^ — her  delicacy  could  never 
tve  merged  into  the  coarseness  of  a  **  Hodden/'  nor  debased  itself 
^into  a  •'  Scrtibr^ 

At  this    period,  at  which  Miss  Farren    had    reached  the   acme 
of  her    dramatic    fame,  the   attention    of  the    greenroom    was   ar- 
■  rested  by  the  fretjuent  visits  and  pointed  attentions  of  a  very  dis- 
P'tinguished  personage;  and  soon  the  undoubted  devotion  of  Charles 
James  Fox  to  Miss  Farren  became  a  matter  of  notoriety  within  and 
without  the  walls  of  the  theatre  ;  in  the  latter  it  was  perceptible  that 
Ithe  object  of  these  assiduities  received  her  illustrious  lover  with  mo- 
ndest  welcome, — which,  however^  could  not  be  misconstrued  into  any 
undue  encouragement  of  a  sentiment  which  w^as  naturally  flattering 
to  her  pride,  even  had  her  heart  remained  unmoved.    This,  as  it  was 
believed^  m*//Wfl/  attachment  became  the  topic  of  general  interest,  and, 
upon  the  supposed  threshold  of  the  event,  expectatitjn  stood  on  tiptoe 
for  the  moment  when  it  should  be  proclaimed  that  the  British  De- 
mosthenes had  given  his  hand  where  he  had  so  evidently  bestowed 
his  heart.     But,  alas !  in  such  cases.  Eight  Honourables  are  not  al- 
ways right,  or  honourable  ;  and  it  was  at  length  understood  that  the 
Ipcnator's  intentions  were  not,  as  at  first  supposed,  in  accordance 
rttb  the  unyielding  purity  of  the  lady  of  his  love,  and  that  he  was 
LUktmately  compelled  to  abandon  his  long  misunderstood  pur^^uit. 

Not  very  long  after  the  termination  of  Mr.  Fox's  hopes,  tht^  Earl 
wf  Derby  became  the  professed  patron  of  this  fascinating  woman- 
He  introduced  her  to  his  family,  and  to  many  ladies  of  rank  and 
character,  who  were  thenceforth  to  be  seen  amongst  her  moat  stre- 
fluous  supporters  both  in  her  public  and  private  life.  They  received 
|»nd  visited  her  upon  the  most  familiar  terms  of  friendship,  and 
l^iaily  extended  the  circle  of  her  distinguished  friends,  amongst  whom 
his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Richmondj  at  whose  house  in  Privy 
jens  Miss  Farren  presided  over  a  series  of  dramatic  perform- 
s,  in  which  Lord  Derby,  Lord  Henry  Fitzgerahl,  the  Honourable 

Mt%*  Ahington  (the  origin  nl  performer  of  Ladj^  Teaxk)^  in  the  latter  port  in  tx 

IT  dramatic  life,  wa*  tempted  to  throw  aside  feminine  fn"ac«  a^<^  delicacy  m  far 

Idhibit  herself  as  Scrub  in  the  **  Btfaux  Stratagem,*'  for  her  (pecuniary)  be- 

\  J  a  churaiter  which,  it  mmy  be  said,  she  mtetl  but  tQO  %celi.     Urott'squi?  ptir- 

\  of  her  AS  t})i»  Man-(^f-att  ttork  mrc  L'xtAnt,  and  which  might  p4ib»  for  iulcrablo 

euei  iif  our  inimitable   List<jit  hi    the  tmme  ehamcter.      i^t'  niz  re.'rottsst^ 

hwhlth  in  ^'KuiLalaua  "  ca|itiv^ated  tljt*  hive  <>f,  and  tditarned  unlimited  empire  ovur 

I  tht  itmpoik  »ultJin,  Sttltfman^  failed  Lo  trmmph  over  heariA  hi  the  mttM^uliue  gui&e 

af  dawniih  igaorsuce. 


■r?=B  raimmBsmm  adoec  n^  Mis  FBrren's  noble  mnd  high-bred 
■■■iir  iiii^  ^viiui  fii^  lEirair  sod  pafaiic  estimation  naturally  en- 
mmBBSL  tarn  twf  -  of  hit  moHiccn,  whoae  interests  were  so  de- 
■  mwiT  umoL  ttsr  HXiasDiiiL  vindi  was  in  proportioo  to  her  general 
nmaasiam  mxu,  m  JumnanOLT  cbbjohs  vas  this  saperior  woman 
n  ■■    iff.    Assaeif  a  imLt  ptaat  accnnpfidiment,  and  so  successful 

JjttK  r  aapr  xr  uukl^ill,  sIhk  tkf  iirtimari  between  Lord  Derby 
JBK  Jlijs-  ?■  iTi  jfciL^.  3L  107-  Hond,  gatv  lite  to  the  slightest  sus- 

SMOEiat  m  lEsm  TmLim^  \at  I^tr^tka^'*  cfaaracCer,  and  his  conduct 
■m«mm>  nf  iand^.  ix»  JiCJMUtewB  of  ber  into  the  most  distin- 

Tmrs^  K  2ttsr  aioiiaL  iutlii^i.  mnd  bebavioiir,  which,  indeed,  neither 
derF7  iMT  sails  fzsnutei  to  ^fCort.    There  was  also  to  be  seen 

^■M  *■  r  ]«  Tar  VlfcsiMaL  shdcIt,  an  anxious  and  scrupulously 
^11  ^■■■i  'Tliiiiii  '  Kr^  Fktbb  nerer.  either  in  society  or  in  pub- 
jc  ssLsac  wUBL  xo«iK  ii»  <we.)  quitted  the  presence  of  her 
^■ES&fl*  Miin^wwp  '  l^u  laitmrr*^  Tig;ilance,  it  may  be  assumed, 
WBV  s  -n— »>•'  Mt  jumtsjibk  bamer  against  any  pretence  for  scan- 

rW   n^.^^ts'  flc  *^"^  TfJSM  was  perhaps  the  most  celebrated  of 

TMHT  monmBst  'rm  Kw  I'Krm.    Sa  cnspMely  had  she  made  it  her 

^^r:x.  TT^  3e  jHcmcmc  |m_  ftiiiia^T  of  it  almost  obliterated  the 

^snesomcs  nf  :tte  oofin^  ,1111  <raarinn  of  the  part.    Miss  Far- 

^itn  ^  TMurm  <^«9«KC.  rWDK  W  ber  ixitnaale  association  with  haul 

;.«.  mu  ^■miiat-cj  wrct  3B»  swcs^  resMkrrdber,  without  the  trouble 

ji  ■i>aiiiiiriin    Z3V  TvoifiKii  iair  i^  jfiyeircd  upon  the  stage, — and 

t  9««  ^  %A^  .-cwr^«ri.  thix  i  3f  tbe  absence  of  this  requisite  in- 

acsvsmr^*  joti  4.t».*w  ^i,c-  liis  »  cetm  mkes  oar  stage^nobiiUy  such 

•  awfnsaers  ^  a*f  '^^ij.^meTtxT  w>cv>i  ne'er  iaw ;"  for  how  can  any 

jotf  wikT  btf'  3«««r  j««s:  V-c^^Hfr  b«t  from  an  occasional  furtive 

^«3er  JC  a  yrti^e  S?x.  i^  |yeiared  to  describe  accurately,  if  at  all, 

^  nr  sou  <^ir»r»r<2<fc5  o<  foa  ttm .'    To  hare  merely  mixed  in 

^^iiot<<.  wv-ncCT  w£II  Sr  isRiSdcnt  to  a  £uthfiil  portraiture  of  the 

hyii<r  c^tank— 4ffikL  ivr  tSe  same  mfco  that  we  apply  to  a  fashion- 

^J2t  WiNr  wb(«i  wir  wvaki  hare  a  ^shionable  coat,— an  initiation 

^1^  tjbt  «^5tim»  «M  i^a&bcd  manners  is  indispensable  to  a  just 

*  t%t*fc>>"*V  »■»  *«  liMiT  oCif'ria^  ^  Lord  Dferty's  mnae,  dedicattfd  to 
^l^^i^nnpSfliiMr  «cc:iimw  s  w  cx^irn^Tr  of  the  nDdeviasing  tenummt  which  was 
^^  ^q^piter  iW  ^M4«r  MLUMr"»  istxaurr  with  his  prtU^ty  that  we  cannot  deny 


^  Wir  «vMiVta^  azkjPtb.  as  ther  lookM  from  high, 
\>^MW^W  Ouw  aWm  with  an  hcAr  sigh, 
tV  tlMM  a  Wv%t  rsahndl  senph  siid,~ 
«  IMmw^  •»<  iW  <\wi4oct  of  th*  exalted  maid  ; 
W  WivV  »be  |^M«^  her  tie|»  can  never  stray  ; 
l^wii^iM  walis^  OMBfaaion  of  her  way. 
SImt  |BM«  «ilK  rrvrr  Tirtuous  thought  impressed, 
iHipfM  ^Mft  her  lace,  and  heaven  within  her  breast.**' 


ENNOBLED    ACTRESSES. 


59 


resemblance  of  them,  &ince  to  the  casual  observer  there  is  no. 
thing  in  effect  tangible  in  the  exterior  of  high-bred  people — but 
their  dress.  Our  ordinary  performers,  in  representing  huut  km,  are 
apt  to  mistake  and  substitute  mufincr  Jhr  manners  ;  and  thus  mcrlatf 
their  subject,  they  do  loo  much  ;  there  is  generally  something  inex* 
pUcable  about  them,  some  redundancy  not  observable  in  the  class  of 
persons  they  would  be  Liken  for,  ft  lounge — a  drawl — ^  si  a  re — an  eye* 
glass  too  much  ;  in  short,  they  effect,  and  hon-ton  has  no  affectations. 
There  ia  more  simplicity  and  (if  we  may  borrow  such  a  word)  natu- 
raliitf  in  the  per^sonal  manners  of  high  life  than  most  people  unac- 
quainted with  it  imagine.  It  was  Miss  Farren's  perfect  intimacy 
with  the  better-born  that  made  her  the  accomplished  woman  of 
faahioti  fihe  represented  —  of  which  Laii^  Teazle  was  a  finished 
fpeciroen  of  the  datf, — for,  be  it  remembered,  that  fashionable  de- 
portment \&  **  not  for  all  times ;"  it  is  neither  immutabte  nor  tra- 
ditional,— ^the  grace  of  one  period  is  not  the  grace  of  another,  any 
more  than  is  the  elegant  dress  of  one  age  the  elegance  of  the  next ; 
indeed,  it  is  seldom  the  same  to-day  as  yesterday.  Miss  Farren 
was  par  excellence  the^fine  ladtf  of  her  time,  and  therefore  she  made 
Lad^  Teazle  the  same;  yet  it  n^ay  be  questioned  whether,  when 
Mr.  Sheridan  wrote  **  The  School  for  Scandal,"  he  intended  his 
heroine  to  be  represented  as  the  elegant  and  refined  person  that 
Miss  Farren  and  a  celebrated  actress  of  the  present  day,  have  made 
ber.*  An  audience,  however,  generally  expects  to  behold  her  ac- 
cording to  her  existing  rank,  rather  than  in  reference  to  that  from 
which  she  has  been  so  recently  raised  ;  though  the  account  given  of 
her  earlier  habits  and  tastes  affords  no  just  warrant  for  such  expec- 
tation. The  "  girl"  whom  Sir  Pcicr  describes  as  having  been 
**  bred  wholly  in  the  country,  and  never  known  luxury  beyond  one 
<ilk  gown,  nor  dissipation  beyond  the  annual  gala  of  a  race  ball  ;" 
who,  until  within  the  last  six  months,  was  "  content  to  ride  double 
behind  the  butler  on  a  docked  coach-horse,"  must  have  possessed 
more  than  the  admitted  tact  of  womanhood  in  adapting  herself  to 
any  novel  position  in  life,  if  in  so  brief  a  time  she  could  polish  off 
the  rust  contracted  by  her  whole  previous  existence.  Besides,  it  does 
not  appear  that  in  her  new  society  she  has  any  very  shining  model 
0f  refinement  before  her,  her  only  titled  acquaintance  being  the 
widow  of  a  City  knight,  Ladtf  Teazle's  general  tone,  language, 
and  behaviour, — ^her  boisterous  mirth  in  public,  her  ill-mannered 
ridicule  of  the  absent,  would  not  have  admitted  her  to  any  distin- 
gilUbed  place  in  polite  society  uf  a n^  period,  and  at  best  give  indica- 
lumaonly  of  a  high-spirited,  vivacious  young  creature,  elevated,  even 
to  folly  and  extravagance  by  her  recently  acquired  title  and  for- 
tune ;  reckless  of  both  words  and  actions,  and  utterly  deficient  in 
delicate  feeling  and  regard  to  ferDinine  scruples,  as  her  flirtation 
with,  and  afler-visit  to  Joseph  Surface  sufficiently  prove.  If  we  do 
DOC  view  her  as  an  untaught,  thoughtless  character,  we  must  ne- 
ce^aarily  consider  her  a  very  base  one.  Ladjj  Teazle's  prominent 
Faults  arise  out  of  ambitious  vanity.  Not  love,  but  the  love  of  being 
beloved,  induced  her  to  marry  Sir  Peter  ;  and^  without  malice,  her 
finity  places  her  at  the  head  of  a  scandalous  clique ;  and  finally, 

*  Madme  Vestrts  is  perhapa  tUe  only  performer  of  ihin  chamcter  %\nc^  Mian 
ftfVSk  who  hat  realixod  to  ber  autlicnw  Uie  grace  and  tHrntQu  of  pidatini^mtttiuer^. 


13W, 


i  ci  m  seducer.     Her 

ilie  is  behind  tbe 

I  of  her  neglected, 

liowever,  would  not 

alter  so  flagrant  an 

and  tbe  world's  good 

m  Mi,  tlui  tW  Tvew  taken  by  Mn.  Jordan  of 
( the  gaiiiyje  one ;  and  were  we  required 
I  wamAti  Sm-  8hcridm*a  hemDe,  we  ahould  say  that  JUiss 
ilkm  ^mm  slie  ■miied  Mr.  Coutts,  was  in  all  txiemals  (and 
a)  tk  bmm  id^  of  wbat  Lmdjf  Teazlt  ought  to  ap. 
,  glowmg  bauHj,  endued  with  great  natit- 
~  liradtjr ;  bot  with  all  these,  bear- 
i  taaticity  of  air  and  manners. 
Farreii  oontiDQed  with  unbroken  success 
■ntfl  tbe  decease  of  the  Countess  of  Derby 
had  kept  her  many  years  in  painful  re- 
dicilcd  from  Lord  Derby  a  more  pointed  display  of  in- 
MIm  Fartcn,  and  led  gradual ty  to  the  general  under- 
liiat  tbls  ferotirite  of  Thalia  was  reserved  for  a  higher 
MB  liuil  of  the  Bkimic  lady  of  ton.  On  the  7th  of  April, 
r  tsiok  her  final  leave  of  the  stage  in  the  above-named 
p  befart  m  faahinnible  and  crowded  audience,  at  Drury  Lane 


I 
i 


It  hai  beoi  joatly  observed,  and  we  can,  perhaps,  all  bear  wit* 
W/tm  to  tbe  troth  of  the  remark,  that  no  one  does  anything 
ptnfffmmily  for  the  kjf  time  without  some  feeling  of  regret ;  but 
few  cm  comprehend  how  severe  a  pang  it  is  to  the  long^cherished 
mU  of  the  public  to  relinqui&h  all  at  once  those  flatt^^ring  mani*  j 
flMalkios  oi^  popular  admiration  and  interest  for  an  untried  future. 
It  waa  remarked  that  31is«  Farren  had  never  performed  with  greater 
•fumation  and  better  spirits  than  on  this  occasion ;  nor,  until  the 
play  drew  near  to  its  close,  was  the  least  alteration  observable  ;  her 
manlier  then  visibly  changed— indeed^  she  became  unable  to  con< 
cttl  bow  deeply  she  was  affected.     Her  concluding  word*  (for  such 

a  proved)^  which  conveyed  Lad^  TeazU'x  valedictory  address  to 
r  SMferweii,  the  latter  portion  of  which  might  seem  applicable  to 
htfTprtatnt  situation,  were  delivered  by  Miss  Farren  falter ingly.        ^m 
««  ——Let  me  also  request,  Lady  Sneerwell,  that  you  will  make  ^M 
nij  Vfsptcts  to  the  scandalous  college  of  which  you  are  a  member,       i 
alfed  mfarm  ibetD,  that  LaJy  Teazle,  licentiate,  begs  leave  to  return 
the  iMttlfffft  they  granted  her,  as  she  tmves  off  practice,  aftd  kiih 

A  pmaiao^tt  burst  of  tears  here  revealed  the  sensibility  ol  the 
a|>efLkcT :  while  a  stunning  burst  of  a  more  cheering  though  not 

•  A  Ki*.i»  ,ncntiiiliitpnrv  iind  over*iphl  wcinu  in  lii*  crkbraied  s<<en«  (tliO 
'*  ftcfvrn  *e€H**  ),  which  il  »s  fuipritin^  nevir  stnick  the  author  and  |«erfonner«|  1 
,u\d  iii»toiu  hnt  i>iM|>i3tiiittiMj  the  error.  Whmi  lattjf  Teaxtr  i»  atiDtninerti  «l  Ja-j 
,  t,AS  hnii)ii%  he  ordvm  hifr  6<TvnuL  tu  dmw  the  M.'Jt<t'ii  t««;fWe  xhv  wttiduw^  tu  urfli^l 
III  f>,itTlr  ihti  prying  vf  mi  opjiOKttv  iit<i||(hljour^  whom  he  dvu'nlm'ji  ma  ^*h  maufm  tattffA 
irt  A  rdriiMiA  temper/*  unit  uiwr  ihia  ^iiM'^iiiUioii  he  HiUiWA  /.M</y  7*atzM:  tu  plttovj 
tii-iM^lf  3*t  ihut  vtTV  wiiiihii^  liihiitil  thu  iuft'ii.— *tltht>ii^4i  Uirit*  U  A  iiiurr  ;c<-ura| 
i^-plutc  ttt  htttal^— of  viiudi  ;ifu'iifjitd»  ^ir  PfUr  mvjuJ&  hunvdl* 


ENNOBLED    ACTRESSES. 


m 


le&a  feeling  nature,  from  the  midience,  follawetl.  and  no  more  of 
the  play  was  listened  to.  Mr,  Wroughton  arlvanced  to  speak  a 
few  lines  written  for  the  occasion,  doring  which  the  interesting 
subject  of  thera  experienced  so  much  emotian  that  she  leaned  for 
support  upon  the  arm  of  Mr.  King,  the  Sir  Ptirr  of  the  play  ;  while 
acclamatinns  re«»ounded  from  every  part  of  the  house,  accompanied 
by  the  universal  waving  of  hats  and  handkerchiefs,  Fimdiy,  ciies 
of  triumph  mingled  with  regret,  reached  the  cars  of  those  upon  the 
st^e,  as  the  curtain  slowly  and  reluctantly  fell  before  the  distin- 
guished object  of  the  night  ;  who*  blinded  by  her  tears,  was  led  by 
her  future  husband  from  the  scene  of  her  many  brilliant  triumphs, 
in  the  zenith  of  her  personal  charms,  and  unimpaired  in  her  dra> 
math  attractions,  to  become  Countex^  —  a  character  she  al\erwards 
supported,  both  as  a  wife  and  widow,  without  a  blemish- 
On  the  8th  of  May  following  I\Iiss  Farren  was  united  to  the  Earl 
of  Derby  by  special  licence,  at  his  Lordship's  house  in  Grosvenor 
Square,  and  duly  presented  at  Court,  (the  fastidious  Court  of  Queen 
Charlotte  !)  and  formed  a  graceful  addition  to  the  procession  at  the 
marriage  of  the  Princess  Roi/al  to  the  Dtde  of  Wirtcjnimrg,  From 
this  period  the  greater  portion  of  the  time  of  the  noble  pair  was 
spent  annually  at  their  country  seat  in  Cidm  and  rational  enjoy- 
ment ;  and  it  may  be  added,  without  a  quibhle^  that  they  furnished, 
in  their  inseparable  union  of  sentiment,  tastes,  and  pursuits,  a  high- 
life  illustration  of  Darbtf  and  Joan,  giving  their  tenantry  and 
neighbouring  poor  cause  to  bless  the  day  that  conducted  this  peer- 
less actress  to  the  honour  of  the  peerage. 

Lady  Derby  made  several  additions  to  Lord  Derby's  previous 
ftmily,  and  idthough  she  no  longer  exists,  her  virtues  yet  live  in 
bcr  daughter,  the  present  Countess  of  Wilton- 

As  we  have  only  spoken  in  general  terms  of  Miss  Farren's  per- 
lonal  charms,  some  more  definite  description  may  be  deemed  ac- 
oepCsble ;  we  therefore  transcribe  from  an  account  given  of  this 
men  "  glftss  of  fashion  and  mould  of  form  "  by  one  of  her  contem- 
poriries  just  before  her  retirement  from  the  stage, 

**  Her  figure  is  consideraby  above  the  middle  height,  and  is  of 
tiMI  slight  texture  which  allows  and  requires  the  use  of  full  and 
§BWWg  drapery.  Her  face,  though  not  regularly  beautiful,  is  aui- 
aatcd  and  prepossessing  :  her  eye,  which  is  blue  and  penetrating, 
h  a  |»owerfuI  feature  when  she  chooses  to  employ  it  on  the  public, 
md  either  flashes  with  spirit  or  melts  with  soilness,  as  its  mistress 
ifecides  on  the  expression  she  wishes  to  convey.  Her  voice  we 
lever  thought  to  possess  much  sweetness,  but  it  is  reJined  and 
fiBttbdoie;  and  her  smiles  fascinate  the  heart,  as  her  form  delights 
the  eye.  In  short,  a  more  complete  exhibition  of  graces  and  accom- 
plkhmenU  never  presented  itself  for  admiration  before  the  view  of 
an  audience/' 

There  is  a  charming,  and,  we  believe,  faithful,  portrait  of  Miss 
Farren  in  private  life  extant,  by  Sir  Thomas— /Aen  Mr.  Lawrence, 
fro«&  which  a  very  fine  engraving  was  taken. 


62 


CV  UBBSKDAHY  CITIES  AND  TOWNS, 
■r  Mmmt^  wtvart  costkllq. 


H  M  iMeer,  as 
L     nil  ^bt 


COLCHESTER. 

i|H  in  England  a  more  remark&hle  town  than 
at  it  is  with  Roman  remaiits  dear  to  tlie  aiiti«| 
to  Uie  lover  of  the  picturesque.  Its  massive] 
a  proud  front  in  the  centre  of  the  building 
of  old,  protects;  it  standi  on  n  command- 
I,  overlooking  from  its  towers  the  country  for  mil  en 
£^in^  or  one  still  older,  was  formerly  called  The 
I  Cod,  a  tnonarcb  who  may  be  the  identical  hero  of  nur- 
,  £unotis  for  the  entertainnient  he  gave  to  min:>trels. 
heard  of  Old  Kisig  Cokf  but  to  few  has  it  occurred 
knag  and  Tenenible  towers  which  form  one  of  the  boasts 
sa  liiiiilf  i  ^m  amialile  aonsrei^  who  loved  to  surroand 
|Mili  waA,  ■—iriai,  and  causea  those  balls  to  echo  with 
^ife  af  wimtBixf  and  coitTivialjty*  That  the  Castle  is 
ilevr  G^  be  iia  donbl :  some  attribute  a  Roman, 
la  it;  aa^  aaiiqae  as  the  appearance  of  the  pre* 
ab  &  iif«a^  m  «H|Hmaa  of  the  first  foundation, 
fas  SMBa  af  Imtaaa  aae  ude  of  what  was  formerly '^ 
■^  viiA  odkacd  ife  CMftle  square,  with,  probably^  a 
\  flife  ^rf  alAs'  ^tmmm  dffenrfjt  to  this  important  for- 

tW  town  and  neighbourhood 

demmuDations. 

Inrwaf ,  formed  of  a  circular 

_r,  Mppoted  to  be  of  later  date 

MU«r  ;  iv  m  law  dbar  in  the  northern  wall^  now 

%  wkicfa  the  knights  and  wax^ 


Onile  there  is 
That  which  re 
F  aa  aov  af  |;^«and :  in  m 
Ne  sad  alt  tea  leet  thick. 
■as%  aod  at  one  is  a  hnce  \ 

Several  bands  of  R«maji 
tW  mhiSk  bollding,  and  the  soli- 
i  9i  tttme  aad  iBD|»  Md  together  by  very  hard 
M&e  wmd  ihmi  a  drmperv  of  ivy  adorns  the 
fm«  md  gives  it  beantr  ;  tat  it  is  rather  from  tts  grandeur  than  iU 
pietsreaqtie  efRect^  that  Ctdcbeater  Castle  strikes  the  eye  with  admira- 


lur  tawer  af  very 
WkitanHK  vn  appi 
dltyafttawalkl 


There  are,  within,  a  great  number  of  vatdts  and  passages,  which 

littd  to  mysterious  distances,  but  to  little  discovery,  although  conjec- 

liire  ts  continually  busy,  forming  guesses  respecting  a  certain  chapel 

^d  to  have  been  reached  by  a  subterranean  way   from  the  castle. 

Thi«  chapel  is  attributed  to  St.  Helens,  the  mother  of  Constantine,  of 

h  Colchester  claims  the  honour.     Excavations  are  at  this 

ing  made  in  several  directions,  in  order  to  discover  the 

sae  traditions.     On  many  occasions,  either  by  accident  or 


COLCHESTER. 


63 


design,  passages  and  vaults  connected  with  each  other  have  been 
found,  some  of  which  were  filled  with  sand,  which  it  was  necessary  to 
clear  away  in  large  quantities.  A  well,  also,  has  been  hit  \i\you,  from 
wbicli  vaults  diverged,  and  there  js  no  end  to  the  wonders  beneath  the 
castle,  which  time  may  some  day  bring  to  light,  but  that  the  labour  of 
finding  them  is  too  great  to  allow  of  many  attempt-*.  The  enormous 
quantities  of  coins  and  large  portions  of  tessalated  pavements  con- 
tintmlly  dug  up  in  the  neighbourhood,  nevertheless,  repay  the  ex- 
plorers, and  excite  fresh  desire  to  go  on  in  the  career  of  searching 
curiosity. 

The  chapel  of  the  castle  is  still  entire,  and  so  solid  and  massive  is 
ibe  architecture  that  it  would  seem  as  if  recently  built ;  the  roof  is 
strongly  arched,  and  the  five  windows  arc  high  and  fine.  The  propor- 
tions of  this  chamber  are  extremely  perfect.  In  a  niche  stands  a  very 
targe  vase,  between  four  and  five  feet  high,  of  pale  coarse  clay^  c|uite 
entire;  it  is  said  to  be  capable  of  containing  twenty  gallons,  and  might 
perhaps  be  employed  to  hold  corn  or  oil,  although  it  is  generally  con-* 
sidered  as  a  sepulchral  urn,  though  its  great  size  would  scarcely  lead 
an  ordinary  observer  to  such  a  conclusion*  Urns  and  vases  of  the 
planted  red  ware,  so  precious  to  the  collector,  have  often  been  dug  up  at 
C'olchester ;  but  the  most  startling  relic  of  pagan  worship  is  that  found 
on  digging  the  foundation  of  the  present  hospital*  The  workmen 
turned  up  a  strange  image,  the  sight  of  which  must  uot  a  Itttle  have 
startled  them  ;  it  was  a  stone  figure  of  a  sphinx,  sitting,  with  half  ex- 
pVMled  wings,  over  the  mangled  remains  of  a  human  victim,  which  lie 
■Cittered  about  on  the  pedestal,  where  the  ferocious  monster  is  resting. 
She  grasps  the  head  of  her  prey,  in  the  face  of  ivhich  is  an  expression 
of  great  pain,  and  one  of  his  hands  is  beneath  her  body.  Her  form 
teems  gracefully  dilineated,  and  her  features,  though  rather  defaced, 
tbow  a  calm  contempt  and  satisfied  cruelty,  aa  she  desists  from  her 
woric  of  destruction. 

Was  there,  then,  a  temple  dedicated  to  this  hideous  deity,  to  whom 
hmnaii  victims  were  sacrificed? — for,  close  by,  on  the  same  spot,  lay 
embedded  in  the  earth,  where  perhaps  Christian  indignation  had 
hurled  them  both,  another  bronze  sphinx,  with  the  legs  of  a  lion, 
Woking  equally  malevolent  and  horrihle.  What  brought  these  Egyp- 
tian idols  to  the  coasts  of  Essex  }  and  how  came  inscriptions  in  Arabic 
Qrcr  certain  doors  in  the  town  ?  Were  we  overrun  once  by  the  children 
•f  Phamoh  and  the  tribes  of  Africa,  or  must  we  he  satisfied  to  believe 
that  the  Romans  brought  to  Britain  all  that  startles  and  amazes  the 
minds  of  those  who,  in  turning  up  the  ground  of  their  native  market- 
town  €T  peaceful  village,  come  upon  frightful  '*  monsters  that  the 
vorld  ne'er  saw,"  and  go  to  bed  to  dream  of  horrors  hitherto  uuima- 
Wd? 

Bid  Shakspeare  fancy  that  Cymbeline  bad  any  dealings  with  the 
\pktitxf  Yet  on  a  coin,  out  of  many  of  his  found  here,  appears  that 
•trmge  creature  with  the  mysterious  motto  Tacio,  Did  Leonatus 
famg  this  medal  from  Italy,  and  was  it  a  love-token  between  him  and 
IMS  unogeu,  the  motto  of  which  should  be  read  '*  ahi  I  tace  i"  to  express 
Ike  secret  of  the  loves  of  the  too  jealous  warrior  and  the  tme  and 
Wv^y  princess? 

With  respect  to  the  Arabic  inscriptions  over  doors  in  Colchester, 
Uiey  are  supposed  to  indicate  a  date  which  some  read  1490,  others 
lOMU,  but  the  resemblance  of  the  characters  to  numerals  is  not  conclu- 


*•         SKETCHES   OF   LEGENDAST   CITIES   AND   TOWNS. 

mw^  to  a  fAiTctfiil  miad,  and  an  awuttenr  of  antiqoitT  may  be  perhapa 
liemitted  to  specnlate  widel?  though  perhaps  wUdly  on  the  subject. 
la  one  of  these  hooses  marked  with  strange  letters  lired  Endo  Dapiier^ 
a  chief  of  the  time  of  the  Conquest ;  his  house  stood  in  the  High 
Street,  nearlj  opposite  the  Mote  or  Moot  Hall,  but  both  that  and  the 
picturesque  hail  are  now  removed,  and  a  modern  dwelling  replaces  the 
Norman's,  and  a  fine  new  building  of  ambitious  architecture  raises  its 
smaraented  Grecian  bulk,  shaming  the  gable  ends  and  antique  projec- 
tisBS  round  and  about  it. 

In  the  court  of  the  castle  of  Colchester  before  the  days  of  railroads, 
when  spirits  had  power  orer  sublunary  things,  it  was  believed  that 
there  existed  a  spot  on  which  no  grass  would  grow.  Certain  it  is  that 
even  now  I  could  obsenre  a  fairj  ring  amongst  the  verdure  near  the 
place  nsuallT  indicated.  Here  were  executed  two  loyal  commanders 
who  suffered  for  their  attadiment  to  the  cause  of  Charles  the  First. 
Tlttir  story  is  told  in  the  epitaph  which  was  placed  over  their  bodies 
hi  St.  Giles's  Church,  Colchester,  and  which,  cut  in  large  and  deep 
characters,  ran  as  follows : — 

**  Under  this  marble  lie  the  bodies  of  the  two  most  valiant  captains. 
Sir  CharWs  Lucas  and  Sir  George  Lisle,  knights,  who,  for  their  emi- 
■mt  WakT  fe»  their  sovereign,  were,  on  the  %th  d:iy  of  August, 
ItMfi^  by  tbe  commaad  of  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax,  the  general  of  the  Par- 
Bnaeat'army.  in  cold  blood,  barbarously  murdered." 

It  »  said  that  George  Villiers,  Duke  of  Buckingham,  who  married 
Ltni  Fairfax's  saly  dugfater,  considering  that  this  epitaph  reflected  on 
kb  &chRwa-^w  VuMHMry,  applied  to  his  considerate  friend,  Charles  the 
Secoai^  to  b:Te  it  cAcedL  Thk  he  probably  would  have  done  to  save 
kioMeif  SAT  farther  troabie  oa  the  occasion,  if  not  with  a  more  Chris- 
t&ta  uMtxve :  bat  the  aiBwer  of  Lord  Lucas,  to  whom  he  was  obliged  in 
^■<acT  t»  refer  the  qaessiso,  suited  his  humour  so  well,  that,  instead 
of  e4^i^  the  ittscripdoii.  ke  ordered  it  to  be  restored  and  cut  in  deeper 


Ltfffd  Lacas  cosUy  leiaarked,  oa  his  coosent  being  asked,  that ''  he 
aaald  aot  obfect  to'hts  Majesty's  wish  if  be  would  be  pleased  to  per^ 
■at  kim  tcft  replace  the  origmal  epitaph  by  the  fcdlowing : — 

^'^  Sir  CkarWts  Lucas  and  Sir  George  Lisle  were  Wbanmsly  mur- 
flered  lor  their  Uyalty  to  King  Charles  the  First;  and  his  sea.  King 
Ckarles  the  Seeoad,  ordered  t£p  former  meuKHrial  to  their  honour  to  be 


The  danu^  doae  ta  Cokhester  and  its  castle,  during  the  siege  laid 
ta  it  by  Fairfix»  was  imuwase,  and  much  of  its  antmuity  disappeared 
ia  the  rain  his  caaaon  aiade.  The  thick  Roman  wall  wnich  formerly 
iadosgd  the  town  ia»  however,  even  now,  entire  in  places,  and  it  is 
carions  to  M)ow  its  oourse  along  the  streets  by  which  it  runs.  Through- 
aat  the  leaath  of  what  is  callea  Balkeme  Lane,  part  of  which  occupies 
wkm  was  &e  outside  moat,  the  huge  walls,  with  their  turrets  and 
Wiili«ii%  tta  aeen  between  the  houses,  from  space  to  spaceb  One  of 
ibt  hrgcst  of  the  projections  was  called  the  Balkon  or  chief  bastion, 
ettd  Ike  lane  kenoe  had  its  name.  Roman  bricks,  in  herring-bone 
Mttern*  ^mw  red  amongst  the  flint  and  cement,  and  singularly 
fxbibit  the  immense  strength  of  the  defences  so  often  assailed.  A 
Krilidi  fert>  geRertUy  known  as  Colkynge's  Castle,  or  the  Castle  of 
1^  tradition  says  stood  here»— one  perhaps  of  many  towers  be- 
hat  tributary  monarch. 


COLCHESTER.  65 

Close  to  the  church  of  St.  Bfaij  at  the  Walk,  it  aa  eoomiaos  bloek 
of  building,  pierced  by  an  arch  of  brick,  and  this  k  no  doubt  a  portioa 
of  the  huge  gateway  of  Colkynge  Castle,  which  formerly  occupied  thk 
spot.  The  tower  of  thk  church  k  curiously  ornamented,  only  a  lew 
yards  from  the  ground  by  a  belt  of  trefoil  arches  containing  shields,  the 
bearings  of  which  are  defaced.  There  is  here  a  pleasant  walk  in  the 
churchyard,  formed  by  rows  of  fine  lime  trees,  mudi  resorted  to  by 
the  inhabitants  of  the  town. 

The  family  of  Orimstone  possess  a  burial-place  in  thk  chnrch,  ai 
which  race  was  that  baronet  with  the  barbarous  name,  who  so  distin- 
guished himself  during  the  calamitous  period  of  Charles  the  First's 
contentions.  Sir  Harbottle  lired  at  a  house  which  was  originally  a 
convent  for  crossed  or  crutched  friars  of  the  order  of  St.  Augustine, 
which  was  founded  in  1244,  and  which  underwent  all  sorts  of  changes 
of  inhabitants  and  destinations,  till  it  became  a  parish  workhouse,  and 
has  at  length  disappeared  :  it  stood  on  the  London  road. 

The  town  of  Colchester  appears  to  hare  had  a  trade  in  wool  from 
▼ery  early  times,  and,  in  that  of  Elizabeth,  a  company  of  Flemings 
established  themselves  here,  and  became  celebrated  for  a  manufJEictory 
of  hay  or  bniTx,  Their  hall  was  a  very  curious  building,  in  their  own 
style  of  architecture,  and  was  for  a  long  time  a  remarkable  object  in 
the  High  Street ;  but  it  was  unfortunately  destroyed  in  a  great  fire 
which  swept  away  many  of  the  ancient  houses  of  the  place.  These 
Flemings  had  fled  from  the  persecutions  of  the  Duke  of  Alva,  and 
came  for  protection  to  England,  where  their  lives  and  consciences 
were  both  safe ;  although  they  could  not  escape  the  impertinent  jea- 
lousies of  those  amongst  whom  they  settled,  and  the  ma^strates  were 
frequently  obliged  to  interfere  to  protect  them  from  annoyance  or 
injury. 

The  corn-market  now  stands  where  the  Red  Row  or  Dutch  Bay 
Hall  was  seen ;  and  near  this  once  stood  King  Coel's  pump,  by  which 
it  seems  that  he  who  ''  called  for  his  bottle  and  his  glass"  may  after  all 
have  been  a  cold*water  drinker.  The  well,  which  had  once  refreshed 
the  thirsty  traveller  after  toiling  up  the  steep  ascent  to  the  town  of 
Colchester,  exists,  and  a  pump  is  still  on  the  same  spot ;  though  nei- 
ther cross  nor  chapel  are  erected  near  the  spring. 

There  are  still  many  churches  here :  one  retains  the  name  of  a 
saint  whose  legend  is  as  singular  as  his  name.  St.  Runwald  was  the 
son  of  a  pagan  king  of  Northumberland  and  a  Christian  princess  of 
Mercia.  When  their  child  was  bom,  no  sooner  had  he  drawn  his  first 
breath,  than  he  called  out  in  a  manner  to  amaze  the  bystanders,  "  I 
am  a  Christian."  He  then  proceeded  at  once  to  make  hk  confession 
of  faith,  and  desired  to  be  baptized,  at  the  same  time  naming  th'ise 
be  wished  to  become  his  godfathers,  and,  in  order  to  avoid  all  mistakes, 
mentioning  that  he  required  to  be  called  by  the  name  of  Runwald. 
He  next  pointed  with  his  finger  to  direct  the  attendants  where  to  find 
a  krge  hollow  stone  which  was  to  serve  as  a  font ;  but  in  vain  did  the 
servants  attempt  to  move  it,  till  the  two  priests  whom  be  had  named 
as  hk  sponsors,  having  touched  \t,  they  were  instantly  able  to  carry  it 
from  the  spot  where  it  seemed  fixed.  After  his  baptism,  the  little 
saint  discoursed  for  three  days  most  eloquently,  very  much  to  the  edi- 
fication of  the  hearers. 

He  requested  before  he  died  that  his  body  might  be  left  at  King's 
Sutton,  where  he  was  bom,  for  one  year ;  at  Blackby,  for  two ;  and  at 

VOL,  XYIII.  ^ 


66         SKETCHES   OF   LEGENDARY   CITIES   AND   TOWNS. 

Buckingham  ever  after  ;  after  which,  he  expired.  He  was  chieOy  ho- 
noured at  Bexley  in  Kent,  but  at  Colchester  his  church  was  of  consi- 
derable importance,  Of  the  driginal  structure  nothing  remains,  and 
the  modern  church  is  by  no  means  ornamental,  and  stands  in  a  most 
inconvenient  situation  close  to  the  new  Town  HalL 

The  church  of  St.  Nicholas,  or  the  Dial  Church,  so  called  on  account 
of  the  dial  of  ite  clock,  which  projects  from  a  wooden  tower  into  the 
street,  presents  a  most  extraordinary  effect,  being  in  great  part  a  ruin 
scattered  over  the  churchyard,  with  its  yawning  clefts  and  dismantled 
windows  peering  into  the  street,  and  exhibiting  their  Roman  brick- 

work  in 

'*  Most  admired  confusion.'* 

There  are  eight  parish  churches,  most  of  them  handsome  stmctures. 
There  are  no  remains  of  the  Grey  Friars  which  existed  in  what  is  now 
the  High  Street,  and  was  formerly  called  Frere  Street  from  the 
circumstance.  St.  Anne's  Chapel,  on  a  rising  ground  not  far  off,  was 
anciently  a  place  of  great  sanctity ;  and  here  officiated,  in  the  time  of 
Henry  the  Third,  a  recluse  called  the  Hermit  of  St.  James's,  whose 
fEune  was  at  least  equal  to  that  of  "  I'Hermite  de  la  Chaussee  d'Antin" 
of  more  modem  times.  It  belonged  to  St.  Botolph's  priory,  but  has 
long  since  been  turned  into  a  barn ! 

St.  Botolph's  and  St.  Julian's  priory  is,  in  its  dilapidation,  one  ci 
the  chief  attractions  of  Colchester,  and  is  a  most  curious  and  interest- 
ing  ruin  of  a  very  unusual  description.  It  stands  beside  the  new 
church  in  striking  contrast :  dark,  red,  and  rugged, — a  skeleton  of  its 
former  self,  with  all  the  face  of  its  pillars  and  arches  worn  away,  and 
the  rough  Roman  brickwork  conspicuous  among  the  flints,  sea-sand, 
stones,  and  shells  which  compose  its  walls.  There  is  some  resemblance 
in  its  form  to  St.  Alban's  Abbey,  and  the  only  doorway  still  left  is 
handsome  and  finely  decorated  with  zig-zag  ornaments  elaborately 
carved ;  the  columns  that  support  the  circular  arch  have  capitals  of 
animals  and  involved  knots,  and  possess  considerable  beauty.  The 
numerous  arches,  and  loophole^  ana  crumbling  walls,  some  hung  with 
ivy,  have  a  venerable  effect ;  and  the  two  tiers  of  intersectiue  arches 
above  the  doorway  present  an  imposing  appearance.  The  walls  are  in 
some  parts  eight  feet  thick,  and  the  circular  pillars  between  the  nave 
and  the  aisles  are  five  feet  and  a  half  in  diameter.  Until  the  unfortu- 
nate affair  of  the  siege  of  Colchester,  this  fine  priory  church  was  entire; 
but  its  situation  exposed  it  to  the  cannon  of  Fairfax,  and  its  antique 
walls  were  battered  into  their  present  condition. 

The  next  most  interesting  relic  of  the  times  of  monastic  away  is  the 
ruin  of  the  once  powerful  Abbey  of  St.  John's,  of  which  nothing  is  left 
but  the  gate.  Eudo  Dapifer,  who  built  much  in  Colchester,  erected 
this  abbey  amongst  other  princely  acts,  and  it  was  of  great  beauty,  as 
the  small  remains  of  it  prove. 

£udo,  a  confidential  friend  and  favourite  of  the  Norman  conqueror, 
haying  fixed  his  residence  at  Colchester,  became  aware  that  a  hoij  spot 
existed  where  Siric,  a  priest,  had  retired  to  a  cell,  and  passed  his  fife  in 
prayer.  The  cell  was  tenantless  at  the  time  of  Eutto's  arrival ;  but, 
on  many  a  dark  night,  when  not  a  star  was  in  the  sky,  heavenly  lights 
were  seen  to  glimmer  above  the  hermit's  former  abode,  and  angelic 
voices  were  heard  singing  a  melodious  chorus  in  the  small  wooden  cha- 
pel dedicated  to  St.  John  the  Evangelist.    One  day,  when  mass  was 


COLCHESTER.  6/ 

being  performed  there^  it  happened  that  "a  certain  man  who,  by  the 
King's  command,  was  kept  in  irons  and  maintained  by  the  citizens, 
being  there  present  amongst  many  others  on  the  Feast  of  St.  John, 
the  bolt  of  his  fetters  suddenly  flew  off  as  far  as  the  fourth  or  fifth 
person  that  stood  by,  and  the  fetters  breaking  with  a  noise,  the  man 
was  left  loose."  Here  then,  after  experiencing  some  difficulties  in  his 
purpose,  £udo  succeeded  in  establishing  his  monastery,  and  endowed 
It  richly.  At  his  death  he  is  recorded  to  have  left  to  it  ''his  gold  ring 
with  a  topaz,  a  standing  cup  with  a  cover  adorned  with  plates  of  gold,* 
together  with  his  horse  and  mule."  The  founder  died  at  Preaux  in 
Normandy,  but  his  body  was  conveyed  to  this  spot  and  here  buried. 

The  once  stately  monastery  of  St.  John  at  Colchester,  the  pride  and 
boast  of  the  country,  has  long  since  been  destroyed  except  the  gate- 
way, which  is  of  a  much  later  date  than  the  abbey  itself,  the  work  of 
£udo  Dapifer  in  1097-  This  is  very  gracefully  built,  and  the  whole 
structure  must  have  been  a  fine  object  from  the  town,  as  it  stood  on  an 
eminence  without  the  walls.  The  gateway  is  on  St.  John's  Green,  a 
rugged  irregular  area,  the  appearance  of  which  might  lead  one  to  sup- 
pose that  there  was  a  mass  of  ruin  beneath  the  grass  which  covers  it. 
ihe  statues  which  once  adorned  the  niches  are  all  gone,  and  the 
oocketed  pinnacles  are  sadly  broken ;  but  there  is  enough  left  of  the 
workmanship  and  form  to  shew  that  the  building  was  once  very  rich : 
ikve  is  no  Roman  brick  in  its  construction,  and  it  cannot  be  earlier 
than  the  fifteenth  century.  The  roof  is  beautifully  groined,  and  has 
been  much  ornamented  with  bosses,  and  figures  in  niches  supported 
the  palm-like  groups  of  springing  stems  which  formed  the  interseo* 
tiooa.  Behind  the  gateway  is  a  large  market  garden,  the  site  of  the 
monastery :  there  are  no  doubt  vaults  beneath,  and,  it  may  be,  sub- 
terranean chapels ;  but  the  earth  covers  all,  and  flowers  spring  where 
onaons  were  said.  Here  the  stately  abbot  of  St.  John's,  one  of  the 
twenty-eight  permitted  to  wear  the  mitre  and  to  sit  in  the  upper 
house  of  parliament,  held  his  state,  and  from  hence  every  vestige  of 
kit  pomp  18  effaced.  In  vain  did  Coeur  de  Lion  grant  privileges  to  the 
Mey,  immunities  from  taxes,  a  sanctuary,  and  all  sorts  of  power ; — in 
vain  all  the  miracles  wrought  on  this  spot  where  angels  sung  and 
■dnts  abode :  the  stroller  in  Colchester  may  now  enter  the  garden 
where  it  stood,  and  eat  strawberries,  without  even  bestowing  the  alms 
flf  a  thought  on  all  the  gorgeous  churchmen  once  so  proud  and 
powerful. 

St.  John  the  Evangelist  is  a  favourite  patron  in  Colchester,  and  indeed 
tbronglhout  the  county  of  Essex.  At  Havering  Bower,  the  church  is 
dedicated  to  this  saint,  and  the  legend  respecting  it  runs  thus : — 

As  the  church  was  being  consecrated.  King  Edward  the  Confessor, 
tiding  that  way,  alighted,  out  of  devotion,  in  order  to  be  present  at  the 
ceremony.  During  the  procession,  a  fair  old  man  came  to  the  king 
and  begged  alms  of  him  in  the  name  of  God  and  St.  John  the  Evan- 
gdist.  The  King,  having  nothing  else  to  give,  as  his  almoner  was  not 
it  hand,  took  the  ring  from  his  finger,  and  gave  it  to  the  poor  man. 

Some  years  after  this,  two  English  pilgrims  were  travelling  in  the 
Holy  Land,  and  had  lost  their  way,  when  they  saw  a  company  clothed 
in  white,  with  two  lights  carried  before  them,  and  followed  by  a  fair, 

*  As  he  was  cap-bearer  to  William  the  Conqueror,  this  bequest  had  probably 
)  to  hit  state  and  position. 

t  2 


68         SKETCHES   OF   LEGENDARY   CITIES   AND   TOWNS. 

ancient  man.     The  pilgrims  joined  the  party,  and  the  old  man  jn- 

auired  who  the  travellera  were,  and  whence  they  came.  After  hearing 
beir  story,  he  brought  them  into  a  fine  city,  to  a  house  furnished 
richly,  containing  choice  delicacies.  Here  they  refreshed  themseWes, 
and  rested  all  night ;  at  parting,  the  old  man  directed  them  on  their  way» 
and  thus  addressed  them : — "  Say  ye  unto  Edward  your  King,  that  I 

freet  him  well  by  the  token  that  he  gave  to  me  this  ring  with  his  own 
ands,  at  the  hallowing  of  my  church,  which  ring  ye  shall  deliver  him 
again.  And  say  ye  to  him  that  he  dispose  his  goods,  for  within  six 
months  he  shall  be  in  the  joy  of  Heaven  with  me,  where  he  shall  have 
his  reward  for  his  chastity  and  for  his  good  living." 

On  their  return  from  Palestine  the  two  pilgrims  sought  the  king  at 
his  bower  or  palace,  and  delivered  to  him  the  ring  and  message ;  from 
which  event  the  place  came  to  be  called  Have-rine. 

This  legend  was  wrought  in  bas-relief  in  the  chapel  of  Edward  the 
Confessor  at  Westminster ;  the  statues  of  the  kii^  and  the  pilgrims 
were  also  placed  over  the  courts  of  the  King's  Bench  and  Common 
Pleas  in  Westminster  Hall,  and  over  the  gate  leading  into  Dean's 
Yard.  In  a  chapel  at  Romford  the  legend  was  painted,  and  in  some 
others ;  but  the  identical  ring  presented  to  the  King  by  St.  John  was 
kept  with  his  other  relics  at  Westminster  Abbey,  and  an  indulgence  was 
granted  to  those  who  visited  the  ring  for  six  years  and  three  hundred 
and  sixty  days. 

The  legend  of  Havering  goes  on  to  say,  that  the  beautiful  spot  where 
the  king's  bower  stood  abounded  so  with  nightingales  that  they  dis- 
turbed him  at  his  prayers  with  their  continual  warbling ;  in  consequence 
he  earnestly  desired  of  Qod  that  they  should  be  banished,  since  which 
time  no  nightingale  has  been  heard  to  sing  in  that  park,  although  there 
are  many  without  the  pales  and  in  the  vicinity. 

After  the  dissolution,  the  monastery  at  Colchester  was  bought  by 
one  of  the  ancient  family  of  Lucas,  and  a  splendid  mansion  rose  from 
its  ruins,  which  was  pillaged  by  the  mob  at  the  time  its  owner  was  im- 
prisoned in  1()42;  not  a  trace  of  that  house  remains.  Sir  John  Lucas 
was  preparing  with  ten  or  twelve  horse  and  some  arms  to  ioin  the  royal 
party  in  the  north,  when  he  was  seized  by  the  townspeople  of  Colches- 
ter, who  were  disaffected,  and,  after  their  having  committed  great 
cruelties  in  his  family  and  scattered  to  the  winds  the  ashes  of  his  an- 
cestors in  the  church  of  St.  Giles,  they  carried  him  off  prisoner  to  Lon- 
don, together  with  his  chaplain. 

Colchester  supported  the  popular  cause  throughout  the  struggles 
between  King  and  Parliament,  and  advanced  large  sums  of  money  at 
the  solicitation  of  Oliver  Cromwell  and  the  Earl  of  Essex,  whose  letters 
are  very  urgent  that  supplies  should  be  obtained  from  the  '*  religious  " 
inhabitants.     The  following  letter  of  the  General  is  characteristic : 

"  To  the  Mayor  of  Colchester,  &c 
*'  Gentlemen, — I  thought  it  my  duty  once  more  to  write  unto  yon 
for  more  strength  to  be  speedily  sent  unto  us  for  this  great  service.  I 
suppose  you  hear  of  the  great  defeat  given  by  my  Lord  Fairfax  to  the 
Newcastle  forces  at  Wakefield ;  it  was  a  great  mercy  of  God  to  us,  and 
had  it  not  been  bestowed  upon  us  at  this  very  present,  my  Lord  Fair- 
fax had  not  known  how  to  have  sulisisted ;  we  assure  you  should  the 
force  we  have  miscarry,  expect  nothing  but  a  speedy  march  of  the 
enemy  up  unto  you ;  why  you  should  not  streni^^^^'^  us  to  make  us 


COLCHESTER.  69 

ftuYjsist,  judge  you  the  danger  of  the  neglect,  and  how  inconvenient 
this  improvidence  or  unthrifty  may  be  to  you.  I  shall  never  write  but 
according  to  my  iudgment ;  I  tell  you  agam  it  concerns  you  exceedingly 
to  be  persuaded  by  me.  My  Lord  Newcastle  is  near  six  thousand 
foot  and  about  sixty  troops  of  horse.  My  Lord  Fairfax  is  about  three 
thousand  foot  and  nine  troops  of  horse,  and  we  have  about  twenty-four 
troops  of  horse  and  draggoonert.  The  enemy  draws  more  to  the  Lord 
Fairfax.  Our  motion  and  yours  must  be  exceedingly  speedy,  or  else  it 
will  do  you  no  good  at  all.  I  beseech  you  hasten  your  supply  to  us ; 
forget  not  monetf.  I  press  not  hard,  though  I  do  so  need  that  I  assure 
you  the  foot  and  drnggooners  are  ready  to  mutiny ;  lay  nut  too  much 
upon  the  back  of  a  poor  gentleman  who  desires  without  much  noise  to 
ky  down  his  life  and  bleed  the  last  drop  to  serve  the  cause  and  you.  I 
ask  not  your  monev  for  myself,  if  that  were  my  end  and  hope,  (viz.  the 
pay  of  my  place,)  t  would  not  open  my  mouth  at  this  time.  I  desire 
to  deny  myself,  but  others  will  not  be  satisfied.  I  beseech  you  hasten 
your  supplies.  Forget  not  your  prayers, — Gentlemen,  I  am  your's, 
"May  28,  1643.  "  Olivbb  Cbomwbll." 

After  a  long-continued,  gallant  defence  of  Colchester  in  1648  by  Sir 
Charles  Lucas  and  his  friends,  unable  longer  to  contend  with  superior 
power,  and  the  indisposition  of  the  townspeople  to  assist  the  royal 
cause,  they  were  compelled  to  surrender  on  condition  of  ''  fair-quarter,*' 
whidi  the  besiegers  chose  to  interpret,  when  they  had  the  place  in 
their  hands,  as  they  best  pleased.  The  consequence  was,  that  sentence 
was  passed  on  three  of  the  brave  defenders,  who  were  ordered  for  im- 
nediate  execution  ''  as  an  example  to  others."  Sir  Charles  Lucas,  Sir 
Oeoise  Lisle,  and  Sir  Bernard  Gkiscoigne  were  chosen  as  victims,  and 
the  &rce  and  stern  republican  leaders  refused  them  even  the  boon  of 
a  short  delay,  that  thev  might  prepare  for  their  last  journey. 

Colonels  ireton,  Ramsborowe,  and  Whaley,  with  three  files  of  mus- 
keteers, made  themselves  ready  in  the  castle-court,  and  the  noble  cap- 
tives were  brought  forth. 

Sir  Bernard  Oascoigne  was  saved  through  the  pusillanimity,  not  the 
pity,  of  the  conquerors ;  he  was  of  Florence,  and  a  subject  of  the  Grand 
Duke ;  be  spoke  scarcely  any  English,  but  requested  pens  and  paper  that 
he  might  write  to  his  sovereign,  relating  the  manner  of  his  death,  in  order 
that  hia  heirs  might  not  suffer.  A  council  of  war  was  held,  in  which  it 
WIS  resolved  that  as  Sir  Bernard  was  a  foreigner,  ill  consequences 
Mi^i^t  ensue  from  his  execution,  not  only  to  those  concerned  in  his 
death,  but  all  belonging  to  them :  it  was  therefore  expedient  to  release 

Sir  Charles  Lucas  died  bravely  as  he  had  lived ;  when  brought  forth, 
he  amid:  **1  have  often  looked  death  in  the  face  in  the  field  of  battle, 
you  fJHill  now  see  how  I  dare  die."  After  a  few  moments'  prayer,  he 
rase  from  his  knees,  bared  his  breast,  and  called  out  cheerfully  ''  See, 
I  am  ready  for  you,  and  now,  rebels,  do  your  worst."  As  he  spoke, 
they  fired,  four  balls  entered  his  body,  and  he  fell. 

Sv  G«orge  Lisle  came  next  to  the  scene  of  slaughter,  and  stood  on 
the  spot  were  his  gallant  friend  lay  murdered.  He  kissed  the  corpse, 
diHiiDiitcd  all  the  money  he  had  aoout  him  to  his  executioners,  and  to 
■a  old  aervant,  desiring  that  some  gold  pieces  should  be  taken  to  his 
liieiida  in  London,  as  a  memoritd  of  him  ;  then  spoke  a  few  words  to 
tha  spectators,  looked  at  the  file  of  soldiers,  and  desired  them  to  ap- 


70 


as   OF    LEGENDARY    CITIES    AND   TOWNS. 


proacli  nearer  to  liim :  on  whicli  one  of  tliem  said :  '*^  1*11  warrant  you. 
Sir,  we'll  bit  you."  Sir  George  replied  smiling:  "I  bave  been  nenrer 
you,  frienda,  and  you  have  missed  me." 

He  tben  knelt  and  prayed,  and  rising,  said:  "I  am  ready  now, 
irmtoniij  do  your  worst."  The  next  moment  the  bloody  deed  was  ac- 
complished, and  these  *' religious'*  and  honourable  men  satisfied  ! 

^\'hen  Fairfax  was  accused  of  severity  in  this  aflFair^  he  answered 
amongst  other  remarks : 

'*  For  this  I  need  say  no  more,  seeing  I  may  as  well  be  (jnestioned 
for  the  articles  of  Bristol,  Oxford,  Exeter^  or  any  other  acuon  in  the 
war  as  this/' 

The  hardships  endured  during  the  siege  of  Colchester  were  very 
creat ;  it  is  recorded  that  "horseflesh  began  to  be  as  precious  to  the 
distressed  royalists  as  the  choicest  meats  before.  The  soldiers  in  gene- 
ral and  nil  oncers  and  gentlemen,  from  the  lords  to  the  lowest  degree 
or  quality,  eating  nothing  else,  unless  cuts  and  dogs.  And  so  great 
were  their  necessities,  that  the  horses  could  scarcely  be  secure  in  the 
Bt^bles ;  but  every  morning  some  stable  or  other  was  robbed  and  the 
horses  knocked  on  the  head  and  sold  in  the  shambles  by  the  pound. 
Nor  was  there  in  a  short  time  a  dog  left,  for  it  was  the  custom  of  the 
soldiers  to  reserve  half  their  ammunition  loaf,  and  in  a  morning  walk 
the  streets,  and  if  tlrey  discovered  a  dog  to  drop  a  piece  of  bread  and 
so  draw  him  on  till  within  their  reach ;  then  with  the  butt-end  of 
their  muskets  kill  him  and  carry  him  to  their  qimrters.  Six  shillings 
was  known  to  be  given  for  the  side  of  a  dog,  and  yet  but  a  small  one  i 
neither."  I 

After  the  surrender  the  inhabitants  of  Colchester  had  no  particuhir 
reason  to  congratulate  themselves ;  they  were  treated  with  great  rigour, 
and  a  fine  imposed  on  them  of  fourteen  thousand  pounds.  The  town 
remained  a  heap  of  ruins;  the  tine  church  of  8t-  Botolph,  long  their 
pride,  was  destroyed;  houses  without  number  smoking  in  ruins,  and 
great  part  of  the  walls  battered  to  the  ground.  When  Evelyn  visited 
Colchester,  he  describes  it  as  **ii  fairc  towne,  but  now  wretchedly  de- 
molished by  the  lute  siege,  especially  the  suburbs,  which  were  all 
burnt,  but  were  then  repairing.  For  the  rest/'  lie  continues,  *'  this  i« 
a  r«igf;ed  and  factious  town,  now  swarming  with  sectaries," 

Colchester  was  once  in  the  hands  of  the  French,  when,  after  the 
contentions  of  King  John's  time,  tlie  Barons  invited  Louis  the  son  of 
Philip  the  Second  to  become  their  sovereign.  On  the  submission  of 
these  chiefs,  however,  to  the  new  King,  Henry  the  Third,  the  French 
prince  retired,  and  some  privileges  were  granted  to  the  town. 

Catherine  of  Aragon,  when  on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  shrine  of  our 
Lady  of  Walsingham,  paid  a  visit  to  ColcJiester,  and  was  received  with 
great  honour,  and  a  purse  containing  forty  good  pounds  presented  to 
her  by  the  mayor  and  corporation;  notwithstanding  which  courtesy, 
the  king's  *'  conscience  when  it  had  crept  too  near  another  lady"  al- 
lowed him  not  only  to  destroy  the  abbeys  on  which  so  much  of  the 
support  of  the  town  depended,  but  a  tale  is  told  of  cruel  treachery  to 
the  last  abbot,  proving  that  the  King's  pieti^  was  more  remarkttble 
than  his  pity. 

John  Beche,  the  last  abbot  of  St.  John's,  was  invited  by  the  bailiffs 
of  Colchester  to  a  feast,  where  he  tho tight  he  was  in  all  friendliness 
and  safety,  although  he  could  not  recognize  the  new  head  of  the  church 
imposed  on  him*     While  he  was  still  sitting  at  the  lioard,  a  warrant 


9. 

d. 

39 

0 

48 

0 

9 

2 

12 

1     . 

4 

0 

2 

4 

9 

4,&c. 

C0LCHE8TEK.  71 

was  presented  to  him,  by  virtue  of  which  he  was  condemned  to  deaths 
sod  instantly  hurried  off  to  execution. 

The  unfortunate  Jane  Grey  found  no  friends  in  Colchester ;  and  in 
reward  of  the  fidelity  to  her  cause  which  had  been  shown  there.  Queen 
Mary  honoured  the  town  with  a  visits  and  obliged  the  loyal  citizens  by 
accepting  twenty  ^unds  in  gold  and  a  silver-gilt  cup  and  cover.  They 
were  put  to  consiaerable  charges  in  entertaining  her,  as  the  following 
items  show : 

"  Thirty^ght  doxen  of  bread. 
Fifty-nine  gallons  of  claret- wine, 
A  quarter  of  beef,  weighing  five  score  and  ten  pounds, 
A  side  of  beef,  weighing'seven  score  and  five  pounds, 
A  veaiy  ••..,, 

Haifaioeai, 
Two  muttons,  ..... 

Even  at  this  period,  Colchester  was  distinguished  for  the  number  of 
sects  it  encouraged ;  and  one  of  the  leaders  of  novel  doctrines  was 
Vitels,  a  disciple  of  the  founder  of  a  set  of  persons  calling  themselves 
''the  Family  of  Love."  This  man  came  over  from  Delft,  and  spread 
his  "  straunge  opinions"  far  and  wide  in  this  part  of  the  country.  He 
found  the  trade  more  productive  than  that  of  joiner,  which  he  aban- 
doned to  become  a  teacher  of 

"  Predous  stuff. 
For  fools  to  thrive  by." 

Colchester  is  described  as  so  holy  a  place  that  ''it  became  like  a  city 
on  a  hill  and  a  candle  on  a  candlestick,  giving  light  afar."  Several 
martyrdoms  were  enacted  here  during  the  time  of  Mary ;  and  at  length 
the  gracious  and  gorgeous  Elizabeth  came  herself  to  visit  and  relieve 
her  good  city ;  and  it  may  easily  be  imagined  that  she  did  not  depart 
without  a  gift  from  her  adoring  subjects,  who  all  made  themselves  as 
smart  as  possible  to  shine  in  her  beautiful  eyes.  There  was  no  lack  of 
satin  or  damask,  scarlet  gowns,  silk  cassocks,  and  velvet  tippets ;  and 
her  Majesty  was  "  gratified"  by  an  offering  of  a  cup  of  silver  double^ 
gilt,  valued  at  twenty  marks,  with  forty  angels  in  the  same ;  add  to 
which  the  recorder  made  her  an  oration.  Sir  Francis  Walsingham 
being  the  happy  man  to  compliment  the  "  divine  perfection  of  a  wo- 


Amongst  the  few  old  houses  of  any  interest  in  the  High  Street  of 
Colchester,  I  was  struck  with  a  wooden  doorway  at  the  entrance  of  the 
Lion  Inn.  It  has  evidently  been  elaborately  carved  on  the  different 
stories  all  over ;  but  very  little  of  its  adornment  remains.  The  span- 
drels of  the  arch  have  a  representation  on  one  side  of  a  dragon,  huge 
and  grim,  and  on  the  other  of  a  knight  on  foot,  with  an  immensely 
long  spear,  tilting  at  the  monster.  Whether  there  is  any  tradition  of 
the  country  having  been  devastated  by  such  a  creature,  I  could  not 
learn  ;  but  such  a  legend  generally  exists  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
marshes,  and  Colchester  is  not  very  distant  from  the  sea  at  Harwich, 
whence  might  have  arisen  some  strange  creature  of  the  deep,  which, 
nurtured  in  the  salt  marshes,  might  have  played  a  part  with  some 
knight  of  old. 

Colchester  has  a  great  renown  for  its  fine  oysters,  which  were  consi- 
dered so  great  a  delicacy,  that  it  has  even  been  asserted  that  they 


72        SKETCHES   OF   LEQENDARY    CITIES  AND   TOWNS. 


templed  Julias  Casar  to  invade  Britain.  The  genuine  sort  are  so 
■ladi  esteemed,  that  a  present  of  them  has  often  been  thought  fit  for 
the  highest  personages.  The  chief  are  the  Pye-fleet  oysters,  which 
are  small  and  thick,  with  a  transjp«irent  shell ;  but  there  are  other 
torts  considered  as  great  dainties.  The  green  tint  which  distinguishes 
the  finest  oysters  is  not  produced,  as  has  been  supposed  and  feared, 
horn  copperas ;  but  there  exist  pits  in  the  salt  marshes  which  are  oyer- 
iowed  only  at  spring  tides-  The  salt  water  is  partly  excluded  after 
m  time  from  these,  and  the  oysters  placed  there  will  in  a  short  time 
become  green.  In  two  or  three  days  they  acquire  this  hue,  and  in  six 
weeks  will  become  of  a  very  dark  green.  It  is  curious  that  some  pits 
dose  by  those  called  '^ greening  pits"  have  not  the  same  property. 

Besides  the  oysters,  Colchester  is  famous  for  sweet-meats  made  of 
the  eringo-root,  which  have  long  been  thought  peculiarl?  excellent. 

The  names  of  the  streets  are  somewhat  barbarous  and  startling  to  a 
stranger's  ear :  Cat  Lane,  Cow  Lane,  Duck  Lane,  Gutter  Street,  Butt 
tmmit,  Grymes  Ditch,  Black-Ivy  Lane,  Hog  Lane,  are  somewhat  un- 
poeikal  and  inharmonious,  although  expressive.  Crouch  Street  is  so 
called  from  the  Crossed  or  Crutched  Friars'  mcmastery ;  Culver  Lane 
firom  m  religious  establishment ;  as  well  of  St.  Mary  s.  Church,  and 
ether  lanes.  The  Old  Hithe  or  harbour.  Battle  Brook,  Bone  or 
Benme  Pond,  Eld  Lane,  &c.,  explain  themselves.  Such  appellations 
aa  BuUock  Wood,  Bemuv'-Oak  Heath,  Gallows  Green,  Skipping 
Stivet,  Cfoies  Ditch,  IJoBe  Mill,  and  Blobber  House,  are  rather  in 
Dutch  or  Danish  style,  or  might  suit  our  neighbours  across  the  Atlan- 
tic, who  delight  in  great,  big,  little,  dry,  and  similar  cognomens. 

Colchester  boasts  of  some  learned  men ;  amongst  them  is  Dr.  Wil- 
liam Gilb^,  author  of  a  work  on  the  load-stone  and  its  properties : 
ke  w«s  considered  a  man  of  great  attainment  in  the  sciences,  travelled 
modi,  and  studied  mores,  and  was  chief  physician  to  Queen  EL'sabeth, 
who  allowed  him  a  pension  to  assist  his  researches.  He  died  at  Col- 
chester, and  was  buried  in  the  chancel  of  the  church  of  the  Holy  Tri- 
nity. His  portrait  is  in  the  Schools'  gallery  at  Oxford,  f^id  he  left 
his  instruments  and  manuscripts  to  the  College  of  Physicians  in 
London. 

The  history  and  antiquities  of  his  native  county  were  written  by 
Philip  Morant,  M.  A.,  rector  of  St.  Mary's,  Colchester,  and  are  very 
lull  and  valuablcb 

Dr.  Harsnet,  archbishop  of  York,  was  bom  here :  he  was  a  man  of 
great  learning  and  ability.  His  work  on  *'  the  deceitful  trade  in  these 
bitter  days  of  casting  out  devils,"  might  throw  some  light  on  the  mes- 
meric practices  of  our  own.  He  left  his  valuable  library  to  the  town 
of  Colchester,  on  condition  that  a  decent  room  should  be  provided  to 
set  them  up  in,  and  that  the  clergy  of  the  town  and  other  divines 
might  have  £ree  access  for  the  reading  and  studying  of  them.  Accord- 
in^y,  the  magistrates  agreed  in  Nov.  1631  to  appoint  a  librarian,  who 
was  no  other  than  a  learned  barber  of  the  town,  whose  salary  was  ^xed 
at  forty  shillings  per  annum,  paid  quarterly ;  and  the  place  fixed  on  as 
the  library  was  over  the  Red  Row  called  Dutch  Bay  Hall.  They 
were  removed  from  thence  afierwardsi,  or  would  have  perished  in  the 
fire  which  destroyed  that  venerable  building,  and  are  now  in  a  room 
in  the  castle.  Anmnest  them  are  the  fine  Antwerp  Polyglot  Bible, 
and  Hes^chius,  with  Isaac  Casaubon's  MS.  notes. 
The  nelds  and  lands  near  Colchester  retain  their  antique  names. 


A    LITTLE    while!  73 

which  are  very  peculiar^  and  sound  strangely  in  modern  ears.  Fur 
instance,  some  of  them  are  thus  called  :— The  Fields  of  £dynelonde> 
Aylwynemer,  Otyenesslade ;  and  a  croft  called  Portespyghtel,  which 
are  as  grotesque  as  any  words  to  be  found  in  the  Basque  Country,  and 
might  as  reasonably  be  supposed  to  have  been  transplanted  from  the 
islands  of  the  South  Sea. 

Some  of  the  villages  and  seats  in  this  part  of  Essex  have  appella- 
tions apparently  the  same  as  in  the  Danish  and  Saxon  period.  Mistley 
Hall  at  Maningtree  is  otherwise  called  Sciddinchore  Hall.  The  word 
mistley  is  said  to  mean,  in  Saxon,  a  pasture  of  the  herb  basil,  which 
abounds  here ;  but  what  the  other  word  indicates,  I  have  not  dis- 
covered. 

In  many  places  on  the  Continent  as  well  as  at  home,  certain  towns 
and  villages  have  the  reputation  of  producing  peculiarly  simple  or 
stupid  persons,  who  are  the  subject  of  constant  jokes.  Essex  is  not 
behindhand  in  this  respect ;  and  the  butt  of  the  county  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Colchester  appears  to  be  a  place  about  ten  miles  off  Uo^ 
geshall,  where  once  stood  a  fine  abbey,  of  which  a  few  walls  remain. 
The  inhabitants  of  this  town  are  supposed  to  be  remarkable  for  blun- 
ders and  bulls,  and  so  awkward,  that  if  anything  is  ill-done,  it  is  com- 
mon to  say  of  a  person,  "  he  has  indeed  made  a  Coggeshall  job  of  it !" 
Yet  here  some  Roman  noble  had  a  villa,  and  powerful  monks  had 
jurisdiction.     Such  is  the  end  of  the  world's  glory ! 


A  LITTLE  WHILE  i 


BY   WILLIAM   JONES. 


A  LITTLE  while  !  a  little  while  !  The  eyes  are  lustreless  and  dim, 

In  that  brief  space  the  tear  and  smile  And  nenreless  is  the  pliant  limb. 

Alternate  come  and  go ;  IXeath's  signet  marks  the  brow  I 

The  heedless  laugh,  the  lone  heart's  sigh, 

The  hope  one  moment  raises  high,  ^  little  while,— and  vain  we  trace 

The  next,  sinks  deep  in  woe  !  The  lines  of  some  remembered  face. 

The  well -beloved  of  yore  ; 

A  Httle  while !     It  seems  an  age  The  haggard  mien,  the  locks  of  grey. 

To  those  whom  painful  thoughts  engage,  Chide  mournfully  the  bygone  day 

A  span  to  careless  mirth  ;  That  veil'd  those  features  o'er  I 

*Tis  fraught  with  strange  event  to  some. 

To  others  scarce  observed  doth  come,  A  little  while  !     The  flow'rs  we  knew, 

Whose  souls  are  knit  to  earth.  g^  g^^et  and  glorious  of  hue, 

Ghive  earth  an  £den*s  bloom, 

A  Uttle  whUe  !     Within  that  hour  A  litUe  whUe,  and  none  survived. 

It  may  be  love's  absorbing  power  No  green  leaf  left  to  tell  they  lived, 

dath  stole  upon  thebreast,  ««-.  trembhng,  bless  their  tomb  I 

Unknown,  unfelt  in  former  years. 

But  waking  now  a  thousand  fears,  ^  little  while  I     The  lapse  we  feel. 

That  else  had  been  at  rest !  ^s  new  and  changeful  objecU  steal 

Our  visions  from  the  past, 

A  little  while,  and  manhood's  prime  We  seem  to  fill  another  sphere, — 
Hath  yielded  to  the  touch  of  time,  To  know  that  peace  is  only  where 

And,  wreck'd,  is  drooping  low ;  The  beautiful  can  last ! 


74 


THE  RETREAT  TO  CORUNNA. 

FROM   THE   RECOLLECTIONS   OF    RIFLEMAN   HARRIS. 


BY  HENRY  CURLING,  E8(i. 

Many  trivial  things  which  happened  during  the  retreat  to  Co- 
runna,  and  which  on  any  other  occasion  might  have  entirely  passed 
from  my  memory^  have  been  as  it  were  branded  into  my  remem- 
brance^ and  I  recollect  the  most  trifling  incidents  which  occurred 
from  day  to  day  during  that  march.  I  recollect^  amongst  other  mat- 
ters, that  we  were  joined,  if  I  may  so  term  it,  by  a  young  recruit, 
when  such  an  addition  was  anything  but  wished  for  during  the 
disasters  of  the  hour.  One  of  the  men's  wives,  (who  was  strug- 
gling forward  in  the  ranks  with  us,  presenting  a  ghastly  picture 
of  illness,  misery,  and  fatigue,)  being  very  large  m  the  nunily- 
way,  towards  evening  stepp^  from  amongst  the  crowd,  and  laid 
herself  down  amidst  the  snow,  a  little  out  of  the  main  road. 
Her  husband  remained  behind  with  her;  and  I  heard  one  or 
two  hasty  observations  amongst  our  men,  that  they  had  taken 
possession  of  their  last  resting-place.  The  enemy  were,  indeed, 
not  far  behind  at  this  time,  the  night  was  coming  down,  and 
their  chance  seemed  in  truth  but  a  bad  one.  To  remain  behind  the 
column  of  march  in  such  weather  was  to  perish,  and  we  accord- 
ingly soon  forgot  all  about  them.  To  my  surprise,  however,  I, 
some  little  time  afterwards,  (beine  then  myself  in  the  rear  of  our 
party,)  again  saw  her.  She  was  nurrying  with  her  husband  after 
us,  and  in  her  arms  she  carried  the  new-bom  babe  she  had  just 
given  birth  to.  Her  husband  and  herself,  between  them,  managed 
to  carry  that  infant  to  the  end  of  the  retreat,  where  we  embarked. 
God  tempers  the  wind,  it  is  said,  to  the  shorn  lamb;  and  many 
years  afterwards  I  saw  that  boy,  a  strong  and  healthy  lad.  The 
woman's  name  was  M*Guire,  a  sturdy  and  hardy  Irishwoman ;  and 
lucky  was  it  for  herself  and  babe  that  she  was  so,  as  that  night  of 
cold  and  sleet  was  in  itself  sufficient  to  try  the  constitution  of  most 
females.  I  lost  sight  of  her,  I  recollect,  on  this  night,  when  the 
darkness  came  upon  us  ;  but  with  the  dawn  to  my  surprise,  she  was 
still  amongst  us. 

The  shoes  and  boots  of  our  party  were  now  mostly  either  de- 
stroyed or  useless  to  us,  from  foul  roads  and  long  miles,  and  many  of 
the  men  were  entirely  barefooted,  with  knapsacks  and  accoutrements 
altogether  in  a  dilapidated  state.  The  officers  were  also,  for  Uie  most 
part,  in  as  miserable  a  plight.  They  were  pallid,  way-worn,  their 
feet  bleeding,  and  their  faces  overgrown  with  beards  of  many 
days*  growth.  What  a  contrast  did  our  corps  display,  even  at  this 
period  of  the  retreat,  to  my  remembrance  of  them  on  the  morning 
their  dashing  appearance  captivated  my  fancy  in  Ireland  !  Many  of 
the  poor  fellows,  now  near  sinking  with  fatigue,  reeled  as  if  m  a 
sUte  of  drunkenness,  and  altogether  I  thought  we  looked  the  ghosts 
of  our  former  selves;  still  we  held  on  resolutely:  our  officers  be- 
haved nobly  ;  and  Crawfurd  was  not  to  be  daunted  by  long  miles, 
fatigue,  or  fine  weather.    Many  a  man  in  that  retreat  caught  courage 


THE   RETREAT   TO   CORUNNA. 


75 


from  his  stem  eye  and  gallant  bearing.  Indeed,  I  do  not  think  the 
world  ever  saw  a  more  perfect  soldier  than  General  Crawford.  It 
might  be  on  the  night  following  the  disaster  I  have  just  narrated 
that  we  came  to  a  hall  for  about  a  couple  of  hours  in  a  small  village, 
and,  together  with  several  <?thers,  I  sought  shelter  in  the  stable  of  a 
sort  of  far ra- house,  the  first  roof  I  saw  near.  Here,  however,  we  found 
northing  to  refresh  ourselves  withj  by  way  of  food,  but  some  raw 
potatoes  lying  in  a  heap  in  one  of  the  empty  stalb,  and  which,  for 
want  of  better  rations,  we  made  a  meal  of,  before  we  threw  ourselves 
down  upon  the  stones  with  which  the  place  was  paved.  jMean while 
others  of  the  men,  together  with  two  or  three  of  our  officers,  more 
fortunate  than  ourselves,  had  possession  of  the  rooms  of  the  adjoin- 
ing building,  where  they  found  at  least  a  fire  to  warm  themselves 
before.  Lieutenant  Hill  had  a  black  servant  with  him  in  this  re- 
treat, a  youth  he  had  brought  with  him  from  Monte  V'ideo,  wliere, 
I  heard,  the  Rifles  had  found  him  tied  to  a  gun  they  had  captured 
there.  This  lad  came  and  aroused  me  as  I  lay  in  the  mule-stable, 
and  desired  me  to  speak  with  his  master  in  the  adjoining  room.  I 
found  the  lieutenant  seated  in  a  chair  by  the  fire  when  I  entered* 
He  was  one  of  the  few  amongst  iis  who  rejoiced  in  the  possession  of 
a  tolerably  decent  pair  of  boots,  and  he  had  sent  for  me  to  put  a  few 
stitches  in  them,  in  order  to  keep  them  from  flying  to  pieces.  I  was 
so  utterly  wearied^  that  I  at  first  refused  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  them  ;  but  the  officer,  taking  off  his  boots,  insisted  upon  my 
getting  out  my  waxed  threads  and  mending  them  ;  and  himself  and 
servant,  thrusting  me  into  the  chair  he  arose  fi-om,  put  the  boots 
into  my  hands,  got  out  my  ehoemaking  implements,  and  held  me  up 
as  I  attempted  to  cobble  up  the  boots.  It  was,  however,  in  vain 
that  I  tried  to  do  my  best  towards  the  lieutenant's  boots.  After  a 
few  ttitcheSj  1  fell  asleep  as  I  worked,  the  awl  and  wax-ends  falUng 
to  the  ground,  I  remember  there  were  two  other  officers  present  at 
the  time^  Lieutenants  Molloy  and  Keppel,  the  latter  of  whom  soon 
afterwards  fell  dead  from  fatigue  during  this  retreat.  At  the  pre- 
sent time,  however,  they  all  saw  it  was  in  vain  to  urge  me  to  mend 
Lieutenant  Hill's  boots.  He  thereibre  put  them  on  again  with  a 
woeful  face  and  a  curse,  and  dismissed  me  to  my  repose.  Our  rest 
was  not,  however,  of  long  duration.  The  French  were  upon  our 
trail,  and  before  long  we  were  up  and  hurrying  onwards  again. 

As  the  day  began  to  dawn,  w*e  passed  through  another  village — a 
long,  straggling  place-  The  houses  were  all  closed  at  this  early 
hour,  and  the  inhabitants  mostly  buried  in  sleep,  and^  I  dare  soy, 
unconscious  of  the  armed  thousands  who  were  pouring  through 
tljeir  silent  streets.  When  about  a  couple  of  miles  from  this  village, 
Crawford  again  halted  ns  for  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  It  ap- 
peared to  me  that,  with  returning  daylight,  he  wished  to  have  a 
good  look  at  us  this  morning,  for  he  mingled  amongst  the  men  as 
we  stood  leaning  upon  our  rifles,  gazing  earnestly  in  our  faces  as  he 
passed,  in  order  to  judge  of  our  plight  by  our  countenances.  He 
himself  appeared  anxious,  but  full  of  fire  and  spirit,  occasionally 
giving  directions  to  the  different  officers,  and  then  speaking  words 
of  encouragement  to  the  men.  It  is  my  pride  now  to  remember 
that  General  Crawford  seldom  omitted  a  word  in  pas.sing  to  myself. 
On  this  occasion,  he  stopped  in  the  midst,  and  addressed  a  few 
words  to  me,  and  glancing  down  at  my  feel^  obs^erved; 


76  THE   RETREAT   TO   CORUNNA. 

**  What !  no  shoes^  Harris,  I  see,  eh  ?" 

"  None,  sir/'  I  replied  ;  "  they  have  been  gone  many  days  back." 
He  smiled,  and  passmg  on,  spoke  to  another  man,  and  so  on  through 
the  whole  body. 

Crawfurd  was,  I  remember,  terribly  severe,  during  this  retreat,  if 
he  caught  anything  like  pilfering  amongst  the  men.  As  we  stood, 
however,  during  uiis  short  halt,  a  very  tempting  tomip-field  was 
close  on  one  side  of  us ;  and  several  of  the  men  were  so  ravenous, 
that  although  he  was  in  our  very  ranks,  the^  stepped  into  the  field 
and  helped  themselves  to  the  turnips,  devouring  them  like  famishing 
wolves.  He  either  did  not  or  would  not  observe  the  delinquency 
this  time,  and  soon  afterwards  gave  the  word,  and  we  moved  on 
once  more. 

About  this  period  I  remember  another  sights  which  I  shall  not  to 
my  dying  day  forget ;  and  it  causes  me  a  sore  heart,  even  now,  as  I 
remember  it.  Soon  ailer  our  halt  beside  the  turnip-field,  the  screams 
of  a  child  near  me  caught  my  ear,  and  drew  my  attention  to  one  of 
our  women,  who  was  endeavouring  to  drag  along  a  little  boy  of 
about  seven  or  eight  years  of  age.  The  poor  child  was  apparently 
completely  exhausted,  and  his  legs  failing  under  him.  The  mother 
had  occasionally,  up  to  this  time,  been  assisted  by  some  of  the  men 
taking  it  in  turn  to  help  the  little  fellow  on ;  but  now  all  further 
appeid  was  vain.  No  man  had  more  strength  than  was  neces- 
sary for  the  support  of  his  own  carcass,  and  the  mother  could  no 
longer  raise  the  child  in  her  arms,  as  her  reeling  pace  too  plainly 
shewed.  Still,  however,  she  continued  to  drag  the  child  along  with 
her.  It  was  a  pitiable  sight,  and  wonderful  to  behold  the  efforts 
the  poor  woman  made  to  keep  the  boy  amongst  us.  At  last,  the  lit- 
tle fellow  had  not  even  strength  to  cry,  but,  with  mouth  wide  open, 
stumbled  onwards,  until  both  sank  down  to  rise  no  more.  The  poor 
woman  herself  had,  for  some  time,  looked  a  moving  corpse ;  and 
when  the  shades  of  evening  came  down,  they  were  far  behind 
amongst  the  dead  or  dying  in  the  road.  This  was  not  the  only 
scene  of  the  sort  I  witnessed  amongst  the  women  and  children  dur- 
ing that  retreat.  Poor  creatures!  they  must  have  bitterly  re- 
gretted not  having  accepted  the  offer  which  was  made  to  them  to  em- 
bark at  Lisbon  for  England,  instead  of  accompanying  their  hus- 
bands into  Spain.  The  women,  however,  I  have  often  observed, 
are  most  persevering  in  such  cases,  and  are  not  to  be  persuaded  that 
their  presence  is  oflien  a  source  of  anxiety  to  the  corps  they  be- 
long to. 

S^me  of  our  men  were  now  becoming  savage  and  reckless  of  life, 
I  observed,  and  it  required  all  Crawfurd's  strictness  and  manage- 
ment to  keep  them  together.  I  have  heard  many  blame  him  for 
too  much  harshness  and  severity  in  this  retreat,  I  myself  think 
he  saved  the  force  under  his  command  by  such  measures  from  de^ 
struction.  He  was  marching,  at  this  time,  in  the  midst  of  us  on 
foot,  close  to  the  part  where  I  myself  was  trudging  along,  when 
I  heard  a  man  named  Daniel  Howans  say  in  a  loud  voice,  and  appa*. 
rently  on  purpose  for  him  to  hear : 

*'  ty  him  I  he  had  much  better  try  and  get  us  something  to 
eat,  than  continue  to  harass  us  to  death  like  this." 

No  sooner  had  Howans  uttered  the  words,  than  Crawfurd  turned 
and  sprang  upon  him,  and  seising  the  rifle  from  his  hands,  in  an 


THE   RETREAT   TO   CORUNNA.  77 

instant  felled  him  to  the  ground  with  the  butt-end.  He  then  halted 
the  brigade,  called  a  drum-head  court-martial  on  the  instant,  and 
Howans  was  sentenced  to  receive  three  hundred  lashes  on  the  spot. 
At  this  time,  however,  it  was  growing  too  dark  to  punish  Howans, 
and  Crawfurd,  therefore,  as  soon  as  the  sentence  was  awarded,  or- 
dered us  on  again. 

He  marched  amongst  us  all  that  night,  and  every  short  halt  we 
made,  he  looked  sharply  as  the  darkness  would  allow  to  observe 
how  the  men  were  keeping  together.  I  surmise  this,  from  his  pass- 
ing where  I  myself  was  standing  on  such  occasions,  and  regarding  us 
steadily  as  he  did  so.  When  morning  dawned,  he  again  called  m 
halt,  and  forming  a  hollow  square,  desired  the  culprit  to  be  brought 
into  it  without  delay,  and  delivered  himself  of  a  short  speech,  of 
which  I  can  at  this  moment  remember  almost  every  word. 

"  I  will  not,"  he  said,  "  sacrifice  one  jot  of  my  duty  to  my  King  and 
country.  Rifles,  for  the  good  opinion  of  either  officer  or  soldier  in 
this  force.  The  orders  I  issue  are  for  your  own  good,  and  those 
who  disobey  them  may  expect  the  consequences  of  their  disobe- 
dience.    Tie  up  Daniel  Howans  for  punishment." 

I  remember  that  the  white  morning  frost  was  sticking  upon 
Crawfurd's  hair,  beard,  and  eyebrows,  as  he  spoke  on  this  morning, 
giving  him  quite  an  aged  look. 

This  was  indeed  no  time  to  be  lax  in  discipline,  and  the  General 
knew  it.  The  men,  as  I  said,  were,  some  of  them,  becoming  care- 
less and  ruffianly  in  their  demeanour ;  whilst  others,  again,  I  saw 
with  the  tears  falling  down  their  cheeks  from  the  agony  of  theiv 
bleeding  feet,  and  many  were  ill  with  dysentery  from  the  effects  of 
the  bad  food  they  had  got  hold  of  and  devoured  on  the  road.  Ouv 
knapsacks,  too,  were  a  bitter  enemy  on  this  prolonged  march. 
Many  a  man  died,  J  am  convinced,  who  would  have  borne  up  well 
to  the  end  of  the  retreat,  but  for  the  infernal  load  we  carried  on  our 
backs.  My  own  knapsack  was  my  bitterest  enemy  ;  I  felt  it  press 
me  to  the  earth  almost  at  times,  and  more  than  once  felt  as  if  I 
should  die  under  its  deadly  embrace.  The  knapsacks,  in  my  opinion, 
should  have  been  abandoned  at  the  very  commencement  of  the  re- 
trograde movement,  as  it  would  have  been  better  to  have  lost  them 
altogether,  if,  by  such  loss,  we  could  have  saved  the  poor  fellows 
who  as  it  was  died  strapped  to  them  on  the  road. 

To  return,  however,  to  Daniel  Howans :  he  received  his  punish- 
ment without  a  murmur ;  and,  when  it  was  over,  his  great-coat  was 
put  on,  his  wife  carried  his  accoutrements  for  him,  and  forward  we 
went  once  more.  On  the  same  day,  I  remember,  the  general  found 
it  necessary  again  to  address  the  men,  as  they  seemed  still  inclined 
to  stray  away  into  the  open  country  on  either  side  the  road ;  and 
two  more  of  the  Rifles  were  tried  by  drum-head  court-martial,  and 
sentenced  to  receive  a  hundred  lashes  each. 

Towards  evening  on  this  day,  we  came  to  a  part  of  the  country  of 
a  yet  wilder  and  more  desolate  appearance  even  than  that  we  had 
already  traversed ;  a  dreary  wilderness  it  appeared  at  this  inclement 
season ;  and  our  men,  spite  of  the  vigilance  of  the  General,  seemed 
many  of  them  resolved  to  stray  into  the  open  country,  rather  thwi 
traverse  the  road  before  them.  The  coming  night  favoured  their 
designs,  and  many  were,  before  morning,  lost  to  us  through  their 
own  wilfulness.    Amongst  others,  I  found  myself  completely  bewil- 


78 


THE    RETREAT    TO    CORUNNA. 


dered  and  lost  upon  the  heath,  and  should  doubtless  liave  perished 

had  I  not  fallen  in  with  another  of  our  corps  in  the  same  situation. 
Ab  soon  as  we  recognized  each  other,  1  found  my  companion  in  ad- 
versity was  a  strapping  resolute  fellow  named  James  Brooks,  a 
nortli  of  Ireland  man.  He  was  afterwards  killed  at  Toulouse,  by  a 
mufiket  ball  which  struck  hira  in  the  thigh.  He  wits  delighted  at 
having  met  with  me,  and  we  resolved  not  to  desert  each  other  dur- 
ing the  night.  Brooks,  as  I  have  said,  was  a  strong,  active,  and 
resolute  fellow,  as  indeed  I  had,  on  more  occasions  than  one,  wit- 
nessed in  Portugaj.  At  the  present  time,  his  strength  was  useful  to 
both  of  us. 

"  Catcli  hold  of  my  jacket,  Harris,"  said  he  ;  ''the  ground  here  ii 
soft,  and  we  must  help  each  other  to-night^  or  we  shall  be  lost  in 
the  bogs." 

Before  lonijj  that  which  Brooks  feared,  happened  ;  and  he  found 
himself  stuck  so  fast  in  the  niorass,  that  although  I  used  my  best 
efforts  to  draw  him  out,  I  only  shared  in  the  same  disaster ;  so  that, 
leaving  him,  1  turned  and  endeavoured  to  save  my  own  life  if  pos* 
sible,  calling  to  him  to  follow  before  he  sank  over  head  and  ears. 
This  was  an  unlucky  chance  in  our  wearied  state,  as  the  more  we 
floundered  in  the  dark,  not  knowing  which  way  to  gain  a  firmer 
foundation,  the  faster  we  fixed  ourselves.  Poor  Brooks  w^as  so  dis- 
heartened, that  he  actually  blubbered  like  a  child.  At  length,  dur- 
ing a  pause  in  our  exertions,  I  thought  I  heard  something  like  the 
bark  of  a  dog  come  dow^n  the  wind.  I  bade  Brooks  listen,  and  we 
both  distinctly  heard  it  —  the  sound  gave  us  new  hope,  just  as  w^e 
were  about  to  abandon  ourselves  to  our  fate*  I  advised  Brooks 
to  lay  himself  as  flat  as  he  could,  and  drag  himself  out  of  the  slough, 
as  I  had  found  some  hard  luAs  of  grass  in  the  direclioo  I  went; 
and  so,  by  degrees,  we  gained  a  firmer  footing,  and  eventually  suc- 
ceeded in  extricating  ourselves,  though  in  such  an  exhausted  state, 
that  for  some  time  Me  lay  helplessly  upon  the  ground,  unable  to 
proceed* 

At  length,  with  great  caution,  we  ventured  to  move  forwards 
in  the  direction  of  the  sounds  we  had  just  heard.  We  found,  how- 
ever, that  our  situation  was  still  very  perilous  ;  for  in  the  darkness 
we  hardly  dared  to  move  a  step  in  any  direction,  without  probing 
the  ground  with  our  rifles,  lest  we  should  again  sink,  and  be  even- 
tually smothered  in  the  morasses  we  had  strayed  amongst.  On  a 
sudden,  however,  (as  we  carefullv  felt  our  way,)  we  heard  voicen 
shouting  in  the  distance,  and  calling  out,  "  iUt  a  lost  1  me  ft  lost  I  " 
which  we  immediately  concluiled  were  the  cries  of  some  of  our 
own  people,  who  were  situated  like  ourselves. 

After  awhile,  1  thought  I  saw,  far  away,  something  like  a  dancing 
light,  w^hich  seemed  to  flicker  about,  vanish,  and  reappear,  similar 
to  a  Jack-o'-lanltTn,  I  pointed  it  out  to  Brooks,  and  we  agreed  to 
alter  our  direction,  and  move  towiirds  it.  As  we  did  so,  the  light 
seemed  to  approach  us,  and  grow  larger,  and  presently  another  and 
another  appeared,  like  small  twinklinf;  stars,  till  they  looked  some- 
thing like  tlie  lamps  upon  one  of  our  London  bridge's,  as  seen  from 
afar.  The  sight  revived  our  spirits,  more  especially  as  we  could 
now  distinctly  hear  the  shouts  of  people,  who  appeared  in  search  of 
the  stragglers,  and,  as  they  approached  us,  we  perceived  that  such 
was  indeed  the  case.     The  lights,  we  now  discovered,  were  furnish- 


THE    RETREAT    TO    CORUKNA. 


etl  by  bundled  of  itraw  and  dried  twigs,  tied  on  the  ends  af  long 
|K>le5,  and  dipped  in  tar.  They  were  borne  in  the  bandit  of  several 
Spanish  peasants,  from  a  village  near  at  hand^  whom  Crawfurd  had 
thus  sent  to  our  rescue. 

He  had  discovered,  on  reaching  and  halting  in  this  village,  the 
number  of  men  that  had  strayed  from  the  main  body,  and  imme- 
diately ordering  the  torches  I  have  mentioned  to  be  prepared, 
[be  collected  together  a  party  of  Spanish  peasants,  and  obliged 
em  to  go  out  into  the  open  country,  and  seek  for  his  men,  as  I 
ve  said  ;  by  which  means  he  saved  (on  that  night)  many  from 
death. 

To  retorn  to  my  own  adventures  on  this  night.  When  Brooks 
and  myself  reached  the  viUage  I  have  mentioned,  we  found  it  filled 
witfi  soldiers,  standing  and  ly^*^^'  huddled  together  like  cattle  in  a 
fair.  A  most  extraordinary  sight  it  appeared,  as  the  torches  of  the 
peasants  flashed  upon  the  way-worn  and  gaunt  figures  of  our  army. 
The  rain  was  coming  down,  too,  on  this  night,  I  remember;  and  soon 
;er  I  reached  our  corps,  I  fell  helplessly  to  the  ground  in  a  miser- 
able plight*  Brooks  was  himself  greatly  exhausted,  but  he  behaved 
nobly,  and  remained  beside  me,  trying  to  persuade  some  of  our 
fellows  to  assist  him  in  getting  me  up,  and  gaining  shelter  in  one  of 
the  houses  at  hand.  **  ]\Iay  1  be  d— d  !"  I  heard  hira  say,  ^'if  I 
leave  Harris  to  be  butchered  in  the  streets  by  the  cowardly  Spa- 
niards the  moment  our  division  leaves  the  town/'  At  length 
Brooks  succeeded  in  getting  a  man  to  help  him,  and  together  they 
supported  me  into  the  passage  of  a  house,  w  here  I  lay  upon  the  floor 
for  some  time.  After  awhile,  by  the  help  of  some  wine  they  pro- 
cared,  I  rallied  and  sat  up,  till  eventually  I  got  once  more  upon  my 
l^s,  and,  arm  in  arm,  we  proceeded  again  into  the  streets,  and 
joined  our  corps.  Poor  Brooks  certainly  saved  my  life  that  night. 
He  was  one  of  the  many  good  fellows  whom  I  have  seen  out,  and  I 
often  think  of  him  with  feelings  of  gratitude  as  I  set  at  my  work  in 
Richmond  Street,  Soho, 

When  the  division  got  the  order  to  proceed  again,  we  were  still 
linked  arm  in  arm,  and  thus  we  proceeded.  Sometimes,  when  the 
day  appeared,  stopping  for  a  short  time  and  resting  ourselves,  and 
then  hurrying  on  again. 

1  remember  Sir  Dudley  Hill  passing  me  on  a  mule  this  day*  He 
wore  a  Spanish  straw-hat,  and  had  his  cloak  on.  He  looked  back 
when  he  nad  passed,  and  addressed  me.  "  Harris,"  said  he,  '*  I 
see  you  cannot  keep  up."  He  appeared  sorry  for  me,  for  he  knew 
me  weU*  '*  You  must  do  your  best,"  he  said,  "  my  man,  and  keep 
with  us,  or  you  will  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy  "  As  the  day 
wore  on,  1  grew  weaker  and  weaker ;  and  at  last,  spite  of  all  my 
efforts,  I  saw  the  main  body  leave  me  hopelessly  in  the  lurch. 
Brooks  himself  was  getting  weaker  too  •  he  saw  it  was  of  little  use 
to  urge  me  on,  and  at  length,  assenting  to  my  repeated  request  to 
be  left  behind,  he  hurried  on  as  well  as  he  was  able  without  a  word 
of  farewell.  I  now  soon  sank  down  in  the  road  and  lay  beside  an- 
other man  who  had  also  fallen,  and  was  apparently  dead,  and  whom 
I  recognized  as  one  of  our  sergeants  named  Taylor,  belonging  to 
the  Honourable  Captain  Paken ham's  (now  General  Sir  Hercules 
"  '  enham)  company. 


80 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  IX  THE  GCXGATE. 


^E0  mf  tmrn  hats  or  qusxn  akihi, 
.4JC   IMJXWWmATWOm    ftx  jobk    lkscb. 


itkei 


ft  mitiiidpal  b&Il 


m&tictp 


recoUecied.      It 


■1  Jiififiii  wm 


bj  s  nev  opulent  Imendnpers 


not  an 


tlie 


tavern 
Ikuidful  of  spifcti-* 
m  is  the  dnmB^-rooiii  nf  tfce  chief  attorney, 
lei  €if  tfee  *  exdiisiTe'*  bigb  bailiffs  lad j. 
fmty^wigged  aldmneii ;  the  squire  and  town 
the  manorial  kfd, — alt  tint  was  worthy  and 
'  aolemnly  to  fnmish  the  neces- 
and  wben  at  last  the  thing  '^  came 
^ke  0erj  «f  die  IvirBslup,  the  oonTersadoa  of  the  county, 
dalr  aiad  iiR«tlj  repraKBted  m  the  pages  of  local  pubJica- 
Oii  Jtew  Year's  Eve,  la  the  year  of  oar  Lord  IJ^j  the  newly- 
Tawn  Hall  of  Tamworth,  in  Wamrickshire,  was  hrightly  illii- 
k^jMed,  aad  due  l%bt  of  iniiaBierabte  torches  and  gorgeous  eh  and  e- 
^^Ki  pflBCtmicd  Ibe  windoirs,  OBftaliied  with  the  most  rigorous  crim* 
^^^k  mmtmm^  aad  attn^led  ibe  eyei  of  the  nnoccopied  and  holiday- 
^^fknif  Mifibi  I II  of  tbe  ae&le  ooiiiBRiiiDtT  to  the  fbcns  of  the  festival, 
in  wbi^  an  an  early  boor,  (saeb  as  would  he  laughed  at  uow-a-daytiO 
wvre  iBiTrcmblrd  tbe  magnates  of  tbe  bonmgh,  with  their  wives,  sons, 
nod  daacbterB ;  tbe  bi^  aqatrea  and  dames  and  '*  carriage- folk"  of 
tbft  ▼kinityt  and  tbe  enstamary  influx  of  dainty  bachelors,  old  and 
wbo  tben,  aa  wH  tbe  present  date,  set  distance  and  dithculty 
deiance  to  acoomplbb  oertain  lavonr  with  beauty,  and  to  be  re^ 
vcnbered  thenceforth  in  tbe  chaste  saecltision  of  the  hearts  of  prudent 
flMKieyed  matrans  and  simple  w^-conditioned  children  of  yeomen^ 
snd  susceptible,  mischief-making,  laughter-loving,  fox-hunting  village 
beifvsiies.  The  d^mcing  was  <^)edSent  to  the  inspiring  music  of  harp 
and  violin  and  the  thrilling  fiute ;  and  scarcely  had  old  philosophiciil 
Mr,  Webb,  the  non*c(mform!ng  watch* maker,  the  most  anchoritical 
disciplinarian  in  the  borough,  closed  his  iron-bound  shutters  in  the 
Market-place  at  half-past  seven  of  the  evening,  before  the  imprisoned 
minstrelsy  grew  progressivdv  louder  and  more  violent,  and  shadows  df 
slender  girls,  and  feathereJ  dames,  and  burly  beaux,  everv  instant 
changed  places  upon  the  glowing  curtains  of  the  old  Town  Hall,  and 
jigged,  and  circled,  and  approached  each  to  the  other  with  grotesque 
indination.  Could  amiable  old  Mr.  Guy  have  witnessed  the  affection 
of  the  parties  therein  engaged,  or  surveyed  the  smiles  of  the  vener- 
able men  who,  in  their  buckled,  short-<iuartered  shoes,  tripped  down 
the  mid  hall,  with  their  diapered  and  brocaded  dames,  to  the  lilting 
tunes  of  **  Green  Sleeves'*  or  *' Grey  Peas  upon  a  Trencher,"  he 
would  certainly  have  left  the  South wark  Borough  Hospital  a  thou- 
sand pounds  minus,  and  established  therewith  a  new-year's  festival 
fund  for  the  fine  old  pen  pie  of  his  native  town  of  Tarn  worth.  Never 
mind!     He  built  them  ulms^houses  and  the  Town  Hall,  and  his  name 

k~  wniembered  with  blessings  in  after  years.  What  throngs  of  sturdy 

iU%  And  gaping  artisans  were  in  the  mid'Street  until  late  in  the 
log  !      What  exquisite  grace  and  politeness  held  dominion  within 


THE  OLD  HOUSK  IN  THE  G UNGATE. 


81 


Lhut  dvic  cynosure !     David  Baylej,  the  senior  alderman,  in  his  sixty- 
r  sixth  year,  figured  away  in  a  new  tie-wig,  pearl  buckles,  and  a  suit  of 
Unrivalled  iVIalmf*bury  puce  with  silvered  trimmings*     Paul  Hewitt, 
the  "literary  tobacconist/*  drew  vast  attention    and   commendation, 
figuring  away  i^i^th  his  lame  wife's  niece  Dorothy,  in  an  entire  enve- 
tfepe  of  celestial  blue,   with  transcendnnt  ruffles  of  Elizabethan  family 
ilftoe;  and  then   every  man,  and  maid,  and   wife  of  the  select,  wore 
ti  fiomething  assimilating   to  the  last  new^  mode  at  the  lost  court   ball, 
I  ta  imported  to  the  midlands  of  the  country  in  an  invaluable  fourpenny 
[^mpnlet  entitled  *^Th€  World  Wdl-drcxscd ;  or,  a  Pefj)  at  St.  James's,'' 
To  the  inquiries  made  at  the  break  fast- table  the  next  morning,  *'  fVlw 
nns  ike  hellt  of  the  rt^ming  ?*' — there  w^as  not  a  dissentient  voice  or 
^opinion.     Kate  Harding  was  the  belle  of  the  evening  1  the  acknow- 
beauty  of  the  assembly.     She  ivas  the  only  eliild  of  a  wealthy 
fier  at  a  distance  of  some  few  miles  frtim  that  borough,  and  for  the 
Irst  time  he  had  permitted  his  graceful  and  educated  girl  to  delijjht 
*  erself,  with  her  more  experienced  town  cousins,  at  the  cheerful  an* 
aal  jubilee-     At  the  ball  were  present  some  distinguished  patrons 
otn  the  Castle^   honourable  Christmas  visitors  to  the  family  resident 
Here;    and  amon|»8t  them,  was  a  young  gentleman,  of  good  family 
knd  estate,  from  Essex,  of  the  name  of  Bedingiield,  who  hud  lately 
retttmed  from  a  tour  in  Italy  with   his  tutor.     He  was  an  amazing 
Civoiirite  wheresoever  he  was  known,   for   the  gentleness  and  gene- 
rous humility  of  his  behaviour,  and  the  fascination  of  his  conversa- 
tion, which  was  enlivened  with  a  sportive  wit,  and  illuminated  with 
fteneral  knowledge  of  remarkable  extent  and  most   ready  application. 
If  Kate  was  the  helle  of  the  room,  he  certainly   was  the  beau^   and 
their  reign  was  united,  pre-eminent,   and  undisputed.      It  was    his 
lot  to  have  the  noble  girl  (ttofile  from   her  goodness  and  beauty)  for 
bis  partner  at  the  commencement  of  the  ball,  and  more  frequently 
»t  his  own  earnest  solicitations,  towards  the  conclusion  of  the  evening's 
tmosement ;  and  so  much  had  he  gained  her  thoughts  and  won  the 
fervour  of  ht*r  parting  glances,  that  he  became  in  truth  and 
stness  her  very  obedient   and  captive  squire,  and  set  every  cau- 
lioai  word  of  others  advice  for  nothing,  visiting  her  devotedly  whilst 
•be  remained  with  her  friends  in  the  old  borough,  and  subsequently 
Appefiring  as  the  necessary  and  indismissible  guest  upon  her  return 
t<>  iier  bomely,  grey-haired,  honourable  father,  at  the  rural  Grange- 
Krery  one  knew  he  was  in  love  with  her,  and  only  a  few  froaen- 
hwuted  people  wished  that  he  could  be  separated  from  the  girl  beloved 
•o  tenderly  and  so  dearly.     Soon,  before  the  blushing  girl,  the  timid, 
weeping  old  father,  and  the  astonished  relfitives,  the  Squire  vowed  his 
heart  to  her  for  ever,  and  threw  himself  and  his  riches  at  her  feet, 
And  was  betrothed  to  her  ;  and  then,  because  she  loved  him  with  an 
e^oal  affection,  her  father  blessed  them,  and  accompanied  her  on  a 
vmt  to  her  lover's  kindred,  and  there  she  was  married  to  him,  and 
never  bad  she  reason,  for  his  altered  love,  to  say,  she  rather  would  have 
tarried  a  ^tntpie  vlltage  maid,    "  It  is  hard,"  says  the  ordinary  remark, 
*''  la  have  every  one's  good  opinion.*'     In  a  short  time,  to  her  uneasi- 
ncxn,  Kate  found  it  so;  for  she  was  much  persecuted  by  one — the  only 
one  in  tlie  world  %vho  detested  her ;  and  the  peace  of  her  young  hus- 
Ijand  and  her  own  happiness  were  injured  by  vulgar,  unlimited,  anony- 
mati«  Migge^tions,  and  calumnious  reproaches.     This  was  the  reason* 
When  Kate  was  at  her  earlier  home  in  Warwickshire,  in  the  pretty  ae- 
vou  jtviii.  o 


82 


THE    OLD    HOUSE    IN   THE  GUNGATB. 


eluded  Till  age,  she  was  like  a  sister  to  the  girls  of  the  reverend  vicar's 
family  at  tbe  viciiraeet  x^hicli  was  near  to  her  father's  residence  ;  and  as 
they  were  accomplished  and  diligent  ladies,  they  persuaded  Kate  Hard- 
ing, who  had  remarkable  genius  and  ability,  to  unite  in  their  class  for 
the  acquirement  of  foreign  hinguages,  viz,  the  French,  Italian,  and  Span- 
ish, under  superintendence  of  a  refugee  from  Sicily  named  Casella^ 
who  was  much  supported  and  entertained  by  the  gentry  of  the  neigb- 
binirhcmd  for  his  educational  tact  and  intelligence,  and  his  personal 
elegances.  This  fervent  and  capricious  nursling  of  the  sunshine 
soon  entertained  an  undue  regard  for  his  pretty,  amiable  pupil,  the 
graxier's  daughter.  He  probably  would  have  succeeded  in  obtaining 
the  hand  of  Kate^  but  he  was  incautious^  seliish,  and  intolerably  vain  ; 
and  a  vulgar,  interested  observation  which  he  made  respecting  the  girl* 
property  having  been  conveyed  to  the  **  vicarage,"  was  repeated  in  the 
country,  and  in  time  led  to  his  dismissal  and  rejection  by  the  pupil, 
and  to  his  utter  disgrace  and  discountenance  wheresoever  he  had 
previousily  heen  accepted  in  the  same  district.  In  the  course  of  a 
hingle  twelremoTith,  he  found  contempt,  desiitution^  and  a  gaoh  From 
the  latter  durance  he  was  released  a  few  days  previous  to  the  ball  io 
question,  having  been  supplied  with  a  subscription  gift  of  forty  pounds, 
Kate  Harding  sent  the  money  to  him  by  a  female  in  the  occasional 
service  of  her  own  father  in  their  household  duties,  and,  as  *Ap sup- 
posed, with  secrecy  as  to  its  origin  and  provision  ;  but,  unfortunatdji 
the  bearer  was  a  woman  of  light  and  treacherous  disposition,  and  said 
many  things  to  the  prisoner  which  excited  him  to  the  belief  that  he 
had  still  the  fortune  before  him  of  regaining  influence  av«r  the  simple, 
kind,  and  disinterested  maiden.  But  for  a  violent  fever  which  assail- 
ed him,  upon  release  from  durance,  he  w^ould  certainly  have  been  pre- 
sent as  her  shameless  suitor  at  the  festivity  of  the  Town  Hall  ujhju 
the  New  Year's  Eve.  When  the  courtship  of  young  Bedingfield  was 
mentioned  to  him  upon  his  recovery »  and  next  the  wedding  of  the 
happy  couple,  he  was  furi<»u9  und  intemperate  of  speech;  afterwards 
he  grew  sullen,  bitter,  and  reserved.  In  a  sad  humour,  when  ili- 
health  increased  upon  him,  he  was  heard  to  say,  *' revenge  to  an 
Italian  bore  the  same  fruit  late  or  early  ;"  and  '^rnany  a  man  stepped 
over  his  grave  at  the  new  moon,  who  fell  into  it  before  the  moon  was 
old,"  and  so  forth  ;  and  then  he  merged  into  dissipation  and  base 
society,  during  which  time,  as  it  was  half  proved,  he  wTote  many  ca- 
himnious  and  shameful  letters  to  his  rival  and  his  innocent  foe.  All 
at  once  he  disappeared,  and  his  name  was  forgotten.  So  the  traveller 
shudders  at  the  viper  in  his  pathway  amongst  the  autumnal  leaves, 
and  soon  sees  springs,  and  cheerful  skies,  and  Eathera  fresh  lowers, 
and,  hearing  the  gushing  song  of  birds,  utterlj  forgets  that  there  has 
bcL^n   danger  in  his  path. 

Duys  were  merry  indeed  at  the  old  IHanor  Hall  in  Essex,  and  the 
ytiuthful  Sqiiire  and  his  lovely  bride,  living  in  pure  felicity  together, 
endeared  tfiemselves  by  an  undeviating  generosity  to  the  rich  and  |>oor 
of  tlie  land  more  and'  more  every  day.  As  the  repreatntative  of  an 
ancient  and  celebrated  house,  he  excelled  in  honour,  just  dealing,  in 
frank  hospitality,  in  liberal  and  true  feeling  of  his  own  station  in  so- 
ciety, und  in  cheerful  beiiefoctions  to  the  unfortunate  and  afflicted. 
The  virtuous,  tlje  poor,  and  the  simple  ignorant  people  were  her  espe- 
cial regard;  and  to  these  she  gave  her  leisure,  her  bountiful  means, 
and  her  rich  and  eloquent  stores  of  mind  and  information.     Bolh^  in 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  IN   THE  GUNGATE.         83 

the  usual  respectable  applicadon  of  the  word,  were  "  eood  Chrisdaiis,* 
but  far  beyond  the  accustomed  standard.  In  accordance  with  sudh 
feelings,  young  Bedingtield,  about  twelve  months  after  his  wedding, 
sought  by  all  possible  means  to  reconcile  to  himself,  and  to  regain  in 
former  friendliness,  a  college  companion  who  had  been  bitterly  es- 
tranged from  him  by  the  m^inations  of  relatires  upon  either  side. 

It  seems  to  me,  from  what  I  have  heard,  that  young  Basset,  the 
friend  mentioned,  had  obtained,  in  a  purchase  firom  a  poor  and  unprin- 
cipled member  of  his  rival's  femiily,  evidences  of  an  important  nature, 
and  conclusive  in  settling  claims  upon  property  advanced  by  the  elder 
branches  of  the  Basset  funily  against  the  inheritors  of  the  Bedingfield 
property.  It  was  by  a  mere  chance  that  such  evidence  was  procmred  ; 
but  so  it  was,  and  the  mischief  occasioned  by  malice  and  expenditure 
of  wrath  was  fuT  more  considerable  than  the  loss  depending  upon  the 
ultimate  decisions  of  a  legal  court,  and  the  forfeiture  thereby  renuired 
of  lands,  &c.  hitherto  re^irded  as  secure,  by  deficiency  of  recoros  and 
titles,  from  all  such  alienation.  I  believe  some  evil  words  spoken  in  a 
rash  mood  by  the  elder  Bedingfield,  and  repeated  by  the  son  at  his 
father's  funeral,  were  reported  to  young  Squire  Basset,  who  was  then 
on  business  in  the  States  of  Germany.  Before  he  could  return  home- 
ward, Bedingfield  was  upon  his  tour  in  Italy,  or  a  duel  would  have 
been  the  sure  termination  of  the  uncharitable  and  hostile  feud.  The 
^ardian  to  the  last-named  gentleman  was  a  rancorous  promoter  of  the 
ill-understanding ;  but  he  died  by  a  shocking  accident,  and,  repenting 
in  the  last  few  moments  of  his  life,  he  implored  his  pupil  to  abandoo 
the  quarrel,  and  declared  to  him  how  much  he  was  the  creature  of 
wicked  contrivances.  So,  in  spite  of  allied  endeavours,  especially  those 
of  the  aged  uncles  and  aunts  on  either  side,  a  reunion  was  effected. 
Young  Bedingfield's  letters  of  apology  had  too  much  of  the  Christian 
and  the  gentleman  in  them  to  be  vain  or  useless.  Basset  was  equally 
generous :  he  accepted  them  in  a  good  spirit,  and  promised  to  ratify 
the  conciliation  by  an  immediate  visit  to  the  Hall  in  Essex.  When  he 
knew  his  old  friend  was  married,  much  they  had  talked  of  in  other 
days  came  home  again  to  mind.  If  thus  the  argument  and  concession 
of  our  hero  prevuled,  much  more  was  the  good-feeling  enhanced  by 
the  frank  ana  virtuous  conduct  of  Kate  Bedingfield,  who,  at  the  first 
introduction,  fervently  claimed  to  be  confirmer  and  participator  in  the 
welcome  pacification.  Poor  Younz  Mr.  Basset  intended  to  share  in  the 
festivities  at  the  Hall  for  several  days.  Strangely  enough,  he  arrived 
a  single  day  before  the  appointed  time,  taking  advantage  of  a  vehicle  to 
convey  his  luggage  over  the  cross-country  roads:  consequently  the 
Essex  friend  was  all  alone  to  receive  his  northern  friend.  The 
meeting  was  in  gladness,  with  a  few  swift  tears  of  emotion  and  re- 
pentance ;  and  to  these  followed  the  mid-day  fervour,  the  evenine 
peace,  the  twilight  communing,  and  a  dark — dark  night!  —  filled 
with  mysteries  and  horror,  dolefully  inconceivable,  and  never  to  be  ob- 
literated ! 

Young  Basset  arrived  at  the  Hall  of  the  Bedingfields  (after  a  te- 
dious journey  and  a  broken  night's  rest)  early  in  the  morning.  The 
same  evening,  was  a  most  sultry  evening  in  the  scorching  month  of 
August.  The  fair  lady  of  the  mansion,  from  a  periodical  attack  of  in- 
disposition, aggravated  by  the  torrid  condition  of  the  atmosphere,  had 
been  compelled  to  retire  early  to  her  chamber.  The  Squire  and  his 
guest,  who  had  tdcen  some  repose  after  the  fatigue  of  the  journey,  had 

o  « 


84 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  IN  THE  OUNGATB, 


dined  somewhat  later  than  was  authorized  by  the  mode  of  ihose  dayikj 
About  an  fjour  after  sunset.  Squire  Basset,  like  a  thirsty  young  fox-  J 
hunter  as  he  professed  to  he,  proposed   a  cooling  draught  of  claret ;  [ 
and  ati  both   hud  imbibed  upon  the  exultation  of  the  moment  some- 
thing    all    too   feverish    for   sobriety,    they    forthwith    directed    the! 
servant  in  attendance  to  place  a  rtask  upon  t!ie  table,  and  to  retire  | 
and   not  by  any  meanti  to  permit  intrusion    to   the  wainscoted  par- 1 
lour  into  which  they  chose  to  retreat  from  the  more  sultry  and  heated  j 
dining  apartment.     They   closed  themselvea    quietly    up  in    a    small] 
room,  in  part  fitted  out  as  a   H!)rary*     The  panelled  wulls  were  ar- 
rayed with  l>ooks,   and  at  iritervals  were  yellow  prints  and  primeval 
portraits^  and  quaint  brackets  supporting  ornaments   of  classical  de- 
sign*    The  old  weapons  used  in  the  civil  wars  decorated  the  pilaster* 
of  tlie  bookcase,   and  over  the  scroll-work  pediments  of  the  entrancea 
to  the  side  closets  were  reared  mighty  wassail-bowls  gilded  and  ja- 
panned  in  curious  sceneries:  they  were  the  brave  Yule-tide  bowls, 
whose  worshippers  had  long  gone  dow^  to  the  dismal  banquet  of  the 
lomb.     In  this  temple  for  meditation  and  sedate  remembrances  the 
two  united  friends  talked  over  the  circumstances  of  past  life,  and  re- 
joiced  for  the  present,  and  held  up  a  bright  mirror  of  illuNion  to  catch 
the  ibreniost  glimpses  of  a  happy  anticipated  futurity.     Knights  and 
«igeR  of  old  looked  down  upon  tbem,   and  departed  beauties  of  the 
uraitliy  house,  with  large  dark  eye^,  and  scattered  jewelled  hair,  smiled 
ghost^lty  intent  upon  the  comely  twain  from  the  gilded  wreaths  and 
tarnished  mouldings  of  the  costly  frames  around.     The  windows  of  the 
mpartnient    had   been   recently  changed    from    their    middle-age   and 
muliiooed  form,  and  hftd  been  fashioned  into  casements  folding  toge- 
ther upon  lateral  hinfle-worka :  one  was  partly  open;  and  ever  and  anon 
m  ikkeriiig  ImI  flew  to  to  the  sheltering  space  which  invited  him,  and 
ivckd  wroiHMi  with  drowsy  scmtiny  of  the  crowded  panellings,  and 
tlira  vwttinied  to  be  tmoed  again  in  the  pallid  skirting  of  the  open  sky 
m  tW  4islmiic««     Suddenlj  young  Basset  started,  and  uttered  a  quick 
irwiaimiliOTi    bebotdtpfc  m  ae  intagtued,  a  pale  visage^  moustachoed 
aad  Cttdroleil  l^  dark  bmky  liair^  between  the  open  trailing  of  the 
cbmalit  at  lb«  wetstf/t  oatwifiil  ta  hia  own  aide  of  the  room,  which  was 
Umi  uim  of  %hi^  OQlniDeo  from  the  great  halK      The  windows  opened 
ttpaa  a  ^hm  of  soaqr  lurf*  famiuag  a  secluded  terrace,  bounded  by 
•tia^|a  aeiilninm  aM  enunftiUiig  Uustfades  at  the  rearward  of  the 
iBawMiW.     Bidi^g6el4i  wlio  had  beea  doting  in  his  favourite  oaken 
ckajfj  «lanid  at  aaoa^  md  attered  a  atmilar  exclamation.     lie  had  nut 
OfCB  tW  §9tm*  iMit  lia  kad  takca  an  onbidden  and  unconscious  sympa> 
ikj  fhan  tW  peatttre  and  tooa  9i  hk  friend,  and  the  agitated  expres* 
MMi  of  kii  taapHtainirc^    ila  listeoed  with  angry  feeling  to  the  nar- 
tatloa  of  Ua  |^e<t.     lailaiitlj  he  rang  the  bell,  and  summoned  his 
Ilaliaa  aervaiit^  wkoao  aaiae  wia  Martini.    The  confidential  servant 
ttuno  la  tikt  li^ddii^  attil  fioiiliviilf  denied  that  any  one  could  have 
^•mikI  aeeeia  to  Uia  mclawd  naee»  save  by  climbing  a  high  wall,  aa 
Uio  gafdoM^  hadi  ia  aecnmaanto  iwumer^  secured  the  doors  before  the 
liiUiilll  of  tW  eur^w.     Ilawievvi  he  disappeared  to  make  search  with 
%AmMK  anil  to  aid  in  the  deiactkn  of  the  intruder.     Such  was  never 
tmmi^     Marttai  «aid  (c%irei<tti^  the  fitat  ttateoienc}  that  with  the 
|iriviito  key  he  kiiMiirlf  had  pannl  along  tka  aki|ie  to  remove  the  ken- 
»^  of  a  |«<l  mv««i ;  but  tlMit  waa  lialf  an  h^mt  earlier  than  was  men- 
tis tW  Itvti  g«atleii»ea. 
hi  aervAUt  ^lartini  had  a  reuiarkably  pale  &0Q  and  dark  curling 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  IN  THE  GUNOATE. 


85 


I  lifiir,  it  sugirested  iteelf  that  some  hallucinbtion,  depending  upon  the 
I  lingering  eifecl  of  an  impress  previously  made  upon  the  irision,  might 
I  havp  prruhiced  the  alarm;  and  to  this,  after  a  lenjjthened  argoment, 
b^l><  il  down>  and  ff>r  a  tiiiule,  called  fur  the  cordial  and  <;eneraas 

Kr«J'  ned  cup,  customary  after  sudi  amicable  reunions  and  discus- 

I  idouB,  at  all  seasons  of  the  year.  The  gulden  cup  and  same  slender 
Tefre&hmeut,  accompanied  by  the  silver  branch  containing  the  wax-^ 
lightSy  entered  the  apartment  soon  afterwards.  Martini  curtained 
either  casement,  lingering  awhile,  with  the  liberty  of  a  familiar,  to  ga«e 
upon  the  solemn  hues  of  the  irregular  and  mysterious  sky,  and  then  he 
l,  left  the  room,  informing  his  fellows  in  the  broad  kitchen,  that  it  was 
j  desired  all  should  say  prayers  and  retire  to  rest^  for  that  he  himself 
f  only  was  to  remain  below,  until  the  master  should  choose  to  conduct 
hts  guest  to  the  bed-chamber.  All  obeyed^  because  he  delivered  the 
injunction  in  a  very  peremptory  manner.  The  housekeeper,  who  was  a 
dear,  faithful  sexagenarian,  demurred  awliile,  and  loitered  about,  as 
with  a  suspicion  of  something  strange^  When  all  was  very  still  in- 
deed, save  the  breathing  of  the  gust  in  the  cedar-grove  near  to  the 
moat>  Martini  retired  to  the  keeper's  sleeping  apartment,  which  was 
in  a  recess  near  to  the  smaller  kitchen  upiiu  the  ground  fltK»r»  The 
keeper  was  a  superannuated  man,  a  widower,  who  was  a  kind  of  watch- 
man to  the  establishment*  He  had  a  stout  heart  in  hts  tdd  frame>  and 
his  ears  were  like  the  ears  of  an  imprisoned  himnd.  With  him  the  Italian 
servant  conversed,  referring  to  the  tumultuous  babbling  con\*ersatioii 
which  proceeded  along  the  hall  from  the  apartment  where  we  left 
young  squire  Basset  with  Mr.  Bedingfield,  There  the  Italian,  specula- 
tive, grave,  and  vigilant,  remained,  until  almost  every  nook  of  the  an- 
tiquated house  was  in  utter  darkness,  and  until  every  voice  but  his 
awn,  repeating  whispers  to  his  comrade,  was  silent.  One  while  ex- 
pressing anxiety  that  no  summons  was  made  for  him,  he  went,  as  he 
aid,  to  listen  in  the  halL  In  some  five  or  ten  minutes  he  returned, 
dedaring  that  all  was  as  hushed  as  death,  and  with  a  peevish  expres- 
lioQ  of  weariness,  he  sat  in  an  arm-chair  by  the  keeper's  bed  and  dozed 
to  uncertain  time  in  sleep.  The  old  keeper,  Robert,  who  had  always 
a  troublesome  array  of  nen'ous  sensibilities,  tried  to  go  to  sleep,  but 
fbond  it  was  all  in  vain.  He  could  not  find  even  a  tolerable  position  t 
10  after  about  half  an  hour's  feverish  listening,  and  bruin- working, 
dttriog  which  he  fancied  he  heard  something  like  a  fall  and  a  groan  in 
the  wainscoted  parlour,  he  rose  in  his  bed  and  attempted  to  awaken 
Afarlini,  but  as  he  found  a  considerable  difficulty  in  doing  so,  he  left 
the  pillow,  and  dressed  himself,  and  then  more  successfully  renewed 
the  attempt.  "Master  iVi n-Mor /"  said  he,  using  the  parlance  of  the 
hmne,  "  not  only  have  I  heard  something  I  don't  like,  but  I  have  had 
two  or  three  dreams  as  often,  as  I  closed  my  eyes  for  a  few  seconds,  of 
Mmethins  terrifying,  which  is  now  doing  in  this  very  hour  and  in  this 
aid  dwelhng-place-  Whether  or  no,  offend  or  please,  go  to  your  dear 
oittler>  and  if  he  and  t'other  young  squire  are  well  and  safe,  beg  of  hiui 
that  I  may  sit  up  with  you  for  company's  fiake.  Go  immediately  !** 
The  Italian  traversed'  the  hall,  desiring  to  proceed  alone,  but  Robert 
lowed  like  an  old  hound  stealthily  at  his  heels.  One  knock  at  the 
of  the  wainscoted  room  I — no  answer  to  it !  Another,  and  an- 
•iberf^all  was  as  illent  as  could  be;  as  silent  as  sleep.  A  knock 
«niti|  and  louder! — another! — still  another,  louder  than  before  ,—i 
lEe^d  hall  echoed  the  sound,  the  %valls  of  the  grand  oaken  staircas 
itpetted  the  reverberations  of  the  halJ.     Grey  Morris  the  butler,  i\ud 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  IN  THE  GUNGATE. 


Harris  the  ooachmaTi,  appeared  upon  the  first  landing,  and  inquired  in 
one  breathy    *^  If   anything  particular  was  the  matter  below-stairi  ?" 
Receiving  a  doubtful  answer,  they  joined    the  other    twain,  and  aU 
thinking  and  workin^j;  together,  they  redoubled  the  efforta,  to  obtain 
an  entrance,  or  an  ai^swer  from  the  gentlemen  inside*     Even  had  they 
been  deeply  intoxicated,  which  in  the  otic  instance  was  unusual,  or  had 
they  left  the  room  fur  the  terrace,  beyond  whicli  they  never  could  have 
v^nturedi   the  silence  was  alarming.      The   continual    noise   echoing 
through  the  cloaed  mansion,  soon  aroused  the  watchful  lady,  who  con- 
acioua  by  the  gloom  of  her  chamber  of  the  presence  of  midnight,  and 
alarmed  to  phrenzy  by  the  united  circumstances  of  her  husband's  ab» 
»ence,  and  the  prevailing  tumult  in  the  hall,  arrayed  herself  speedily, 
flung  her  white  toilet  mantle  around  her  sliouMera,  and  with  a  sharp 
word  of  summons  to  her  somnolent  waiting- woman,  grasped  her  porce- 
lain lamp  in  her  quivering  fingersj  and  was  speedily  the  foremost  and 
the  chief  of  the  terrified  group,     A  few  words  of  inquiry  and  terror, 
and  she  dispatched  two  of  them  to  examine  the  casement  from  the  ter- 
race slope,  which  they  had  neglected  to  do.     Old  IMorria  was  first  in 
the    fultilnient   of  her   behest.       Intensely   they   listened,  whilst   he 
wrenched  the  clasp  from  its  hold  upon   the  folding  frames.      Their 
agony  of  fear  was  trebled  by  hearing  him  frill  like  a  dead  man,  into 
the  room,  striking  down  some  slender  article  of  furniture  in  the  sudden 
full.     All  rushed  out  to  the  terrace-side.     The  door  was  wide  open- 
With  dreadful  excitement.  Madam  Bedinglield  and  her  household  (for 
now  all,  even   Mr-  Basset's  vallet,  who  arrived  an   invalid  the  day 
before,  were  there)  rushed  through  the  curtains  into  the  room,  stumb- 
ling over  the  poor  old  fellow  who  had  fainted  there.     The  candles  had 
burnt  tow  in  the  sockets ;  one  was  expirifig  with  an  offensive  and  lazy 
fume,     A  fearful  spectacle  appeared  to  them  by  the  intermitting  and 
sepulchral  gleam.     An  emptied  "grace  cup,"  lay  overturned  upon  the 
carved  table;  the  chairs  were  lying  displaced  and  lengthwise  upon  the 
pround*    Leaning  half  erect,  and  ghastly  beyond  description,  against  a 
liuge  vase  near  to  the  fire-place,  was  the  corpse  of  Mr*  Basset  /     A 
nmrtal  wound  had  vomited  forth  a  river  of  blood,  now  half-coagulated p 
from  the  centre  of  the  left  bosom.     The  face  was  livid  and  piteously 
druwn^  in  the  convulsions  of  death.     The  white  hands  lay  helpless  by 
his  side.     Very  near  to  him,  upon  the  matting  of  the  hearth,  and  with 
the  riglit  hand  reaching  across  the  knees  of  the  murdered  man,  lav  Mr. 
Bediugtield.     That  right  hand  grasped  a  short  straight  sword  or  hunt- 
ing-knife, gored  to  the  hilt*     It  was  a  silver-mounted  antique,  and  the 
empty  scabbard  Iiurig  by  enamelled  pins,  over  the  low  and  frowning 
mantel- piece.     For  an  instant  the  party  assembled  were  petrified  by 
the  scene,  into  a  tableau  of  speechless  horror,  and  before  a  word  waa 
whispered^  the  lady  swooned  into  an  awful  dead  swoon,  in  the  arms  of 
ihr  servant  Martini.     The  house  was  filled  with  shrieks  and  1  amenta- 
lioRH ;  the  alarm  bell  was  tolled^  and  an  express  on  horseback  was  sent 
ft»r  the  village  apothecary.     A  carriage  was  ordered  out  to  bring  the 
dliaphiin  and  a  neighbouring  justice  of  quorum,  who,  by  the  bye,  was  a 
mbbetl,   licentious,   and   mischievous   personage,  and  a  secret   evil- 
Wh»hpr»  as  afterwards  was  proved,  to  the  house  of  Bedingfield,  owing  to 
f^uum&trances  made  by  the  S(^uire*B  late  father,  upon  certain  covert 
•ct«  wf  hnral  oppression*     To  the  efforts  of  the  increasing  throng,  and 
\mA   ex[»i»»luhitions,    the  living   host   remained   perfectly  insensible* 
iViet  ^  twice  hts  muttered  low,  as  if  sadly  intoxictited  (a  thing  which 
wrtw  \it&a%  vroa  known  of  him),  and  he  was  convt^yed  to  the  sofa,  in 


i 


*w^  njiMT-  amaocei  xum  "zut  iuc  mwri ng^  tmi  uu^uiico  in 

Z/KtfKT-nc  ^K  KJHwgTii  la^ewFSL  "Stf^  lazuKL  ?3e  icaifS'  tviixi.  and  all 
-gTiTTh.-^^  iwif  T.-ffsaur  wyni^-  ^uf^  rsaunfuaHi  loifr  «iB«n,.  tn  alilani 
m  -^-^V****-  ■-  ai  BU<v>='  Tnnn  111&  g»iriyTitwi  male.  Even  had  iber 
lea  i<=!?ijr  jxii'X:iauc£*'X.  -roiia.  ji  z^  uus  •nmr.ntip-  -v^k  iia'itwr.iTj  «r  1m 
-Her  «:!t  -zie  yuan  iir  :iie  -v^ii?^  nsY^mi  -v^iftSL  ih^  nev«'  etnld  hsTe 
^BumiteL.    iits   iiii*in^  -vru   numTins-     Tie  omciiraai   mne  echoing 

nsana  iv*  ^ns  iumbi  it  its'  duiziziiigr  -ic  "rte  ^Leaeuae  «c  ■Jdaigfcty  and 
nHsufisL  "u  lacTisr  '}«  ^e  imsstL  ^rt*"'!  <i>p-^'^.ipi^  ^  hier  lknitiinri*i  aln 

•iitw|r  ifcgy  -ynin*  ^^^^it  Tit^nr-'if.  jr'iii3i£  iisT  isnnUaB^  ^nd  witb  a  akarp 

"WfWBL  IT  fixznznunii  n  ii?  4BinTniMi*?tc  viiciait-viBnBkr  nspcd  bcr  porce- 

JBB.  jmni  JL  'itsr  mcsr^mr  jmcesk  mii  wi  ipcadSr  tke  faremiat  and 

as  inuz  ff  ^ae  ^■^-ttim  friu-     A  kv  wdi  «f  in^aiif  and  tenor, 

■ni  ide  iiaaasjnetf.  rvi  ic  -jenr  zm  *'*""^^»*»  tibe cve^cnt  firaaa  the  ter- 

3KS  iajne.  -vnaHi  loey  jm£  se^pecBK.  ^  o*.     CM  Hami  was  int  in 

iTTimiin    ic  2isr    leoesc      Iinfai"!   tkfv  ^t^t"t*.  whdkx  he 

fmn.  fs  iiiiii  Xywn.  the  lbl£ng  fkanigA.      Their 

»flLiiiL  ~3v  TtfT*];!^  kiK  &n  like  a  dead  awn,  into 

'Tmg  nmn  fumiE  iueaur  stjde  «f  fafnitnrc  in  the  lodden 

SiL     Al  ruojeT  ws  ai  t3«  T11.1   ■■■  liiV      TW  doar  vnt  wide  open. 

Vj±  irfWri.-  ^Tonmmc.  MaMK  Rfitii^fcid  and  her  haniehnld  (Ibr 

siv  ,iJ^  <<nsL  IC3.  Biiff'*  Yuet.  who  vrmd  an  invalid  the  daj 

Vesirs.  -v^sR  i3i£k   naaiK  i&gaagh  the  rrtainf  into  the  ra«n«  atnmb- 

jac  fv'sr  tsifr  ?mr  4m£  ie-iiv  vha  had  £nBicd  there.     The  candlce  had 

iiiiaa  !if  T  =z  liit  iiKkii&  ;  loe  va»  exfinsg  with  an  oicaam  and  lasj 

fciit*.     A  ieacfil  imcsksie  Arrwaced  to  them  h^  the  intannittiiig  and 

\\x  CBE7<a«c  -  zraee  cnp>*  laj  oiafmed  upon  the 

^ut :  s^  C2;&^  wee  Iyis«  rHirdifid  and  kngthwiit  upon  the 

pwLZa^.    f<fiT-T<c  hiilf  evct.  Aod  ^LMth-  heTosd  deauiptiinij  against  a 

kars  T£»  zeir  u^  ihe  fre^puaoe,  vu  flLr  ewrpte  ^f  Mr.  Basnl  I     A 


xre^pcaDe,  vu  ttr  corpar  <2f  JVr.  aassel  I     A 

ited  Mtk  a  river  «f  blood,  noir  half-ooagnlated, 

>st  iMoam.    The  fim  wai  livid  and  mteonalT 


free  liiie  ciEctre  c^  the  jest  haooB.  The  Cmo  wat  livid  and  piteoiialy 
crfc-m,  ir  Uie  cucralsiaBt  of  death.  The  white  hands  laj  hcdfJess  bv 
hst  szie.  Ve^  neax  xc  him.  njioa  the  matting  of  the  hearth,  and  with 
the  ri^li  L&ad  mc^ng  aoxMB  the  knees  of  the  mnrdered  man,  lav  Mr. 
Bedinff  eld.  This  r^bt  basd  grasped  a  short  straight  sword  or  hnnt- 
iBg.kniie.  gored  to  tbe  kilt-  It  vru  a  silrer-monnted  antique,  and  the 
esr.pty  scabbard  knng  bv  ecainelled  pins,  over  the  low  and  frowning 
mactel-piece.  For  an  instant  tbe  partr  assembled  were  petri6ed  by 
the  scene,  ioto  a  tsUesn  of  speechless  honor,  and  before  a  word  was 
wbisp-ered,  tbe  lady  swooned  into  an  awfiil  dead  swoon,  in  the  arms  of 
the  servant  Martini.  Tbe  bouse  was  filled  with  shrieks  and  lamenta- 
tions ;  the  alarm  bell  wss  toUed,  and  an  express  on  horseback  was  sent 
for  tbe  village  apntbecarv.  A  carriage  was  ordered  out  to  bring  the 
cLapiain  and  a  neigbbooring  justice  of  quorum,  who,  by  the  bye,  was  a 
crabbed,  licentious,  and  mischievous  personage,  and  a  secret  evil- 
wiUier,  as  afterwards  was  proved,  to  the  house  of  Bedingfield,  owing  to 
remonstrances  made  by  the  Squire's  late  father,  upon  certain  covert 
acts  of  local  oppression.  To  the  efforts  of  the  increasing  throng,  and 
loud  expostulatiouK,  the  living  host  remained  perfectly  insensible. 
Once  or  twice  he  muttered  low,  as  if  sadly  intoxicated  (a  thing  which 
never  before  was  known  cf  him),  and  he  was  conveyed  to  the  sofa,  in 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  IN  THE  GUNGATE.         87 

tbe  picture  gallery,  where  he  was  assiduoasly  tended  by  the  weeping 
housekeeper,  and  by  other  afflicted  servants,  who  administered  the  medi- 
cal means  provided  to  restore  his  lost  senses  to  liim.  We  are  utterly 
unable  to  depict,  with  a  sufficient  strength  and  pathos,  the  events  whicn 
occurred  in  that  dismal  house  on  the  four  succeeding  days.  The 
lady  was  smitten  with  fever  of  the  brain,  and  scarcely  ever 
ceased  moaning  and  screaming  for  her  unfortunate  husband.  The  hall 
was  tenanted  by  officers  of  justice  and  haunted  from  sunrise  until  sun- 
set by  curious  gentlemen,  and  horror-stricken  neighbours,  who  mus- 
tered at  the  unseasonable  crisis.  Let  us  hasten,  with  pity's  best  speed, 
the  bewildering  conclusion.  All  parties  appeared  in  due  time  before 
the  coroner  and  the  magistrates ;  such,  I  mean,  as  could  be  expected  to 
give  their  evidence.  At  the  careful  inquest,  the  household  exonerated 
themselves  creditably — all  save  poor  Master  Bedingfield !  A  verdict 
of  wilful  murder  was  returned  against  him,  and  in  an  unnaturally  en- 
feebled, and  incoherent  state  of  mind,  he  was  consigned  to  a  dungeon, 
for  having,  with  well-conceived  plot  of  the  most  guileful  character, 
seduced  his  rival  and  foe  to  his  mansion  under  pretext  of  an  amicable 
settling  of  differences,  and  there  slaughtered  him,  having  worked  bis 
own  energy  to  a  savage  and  a  bitter  mood  by  some  unusual  method  of 
intoxication,  which  at  the  same  time,  was  intended  to  be  disarming  to 
his  enem V,  and  an  after  apology  for  what  might  seem  to  have  occurred  in 
a  midnignt  brawL  The  ISassets  were  as  irreconcileable  as  ever,  and  gave 
all  their  feelings  to  revenge.  It  was  a  gratification  to  everjr  one  of 
them,  that  a  sanguinary  judge  presided  at  the  following  assize-  A 
shrewd  legal  foe,  a  friend  to  their  party,  pleaded  in  tbe  prosecution.  The 
verdict  of  Guilty  was  pronounced,  and  sentence  of  death,  without  hope 
of  reprieve,  concluded  a  long  and  painful  trial.  After-influence  was 
unavailable.  The  Squire  was  executed.  O  just  and  terrible  Provi- 
dence I  he  was  hung  at  the  ignominious  tree.  Do  not  speak  of  his 
demented,  lovely  wife,  of  his  kindred,  of  his  earthly  mourners.  Imagine 
all  the  rest,  if  you  will — riot  in  the  bewilderment  of  the  catastrophe ; 
hearts  are  everywhere  pretty  nigh  the  same,  and  with  human  hearts, 
at  Bedingfield  mansion,  never  was  a  more  bitter  weight  of  sorrow  to  be 
found.  The  domestic  affliction — ^the  pangs  of  the  widowed  lady  (the 
malefactor's  wife!) — would  claim  an  entire  and  pitiful  tragedy  for 
themselves  alone ,  they  are  registered  in  memory ;  in  written  memo- 
rials also  of  that  distant  period,  but  here  they  are  too  lengthened  for 
our  unworthy  commemoration. 


In  the  year  1710,  there  was  an  old  house  of  a  piarticular  form,  and 
ruinous  exterior,  in  the  street  called  Gungate,  within  the  limits  of  the 
ancient  borough  of  Tamworth.  The  stories  projected  in  gradation 
upwards,  and  the  quaint  pinnacles  of  the  loftiest  gable  were  of  open 
work,  and  were  universally  admired,  especially  when  observed  against 
the  cool  grey  surface  of  the  evening  skies.  It  was  a  queer  ornamented 
structure  of  timber  and  pargeting,  such  as  you  often  see  in  venerable 
cities,  befitting  best  the  merchant  folk  of  primitive  centuries,  who 
built  their  houses,  as  the  bees  do,  upon  an  exact  scale  and  form, 
leaving  all  classical  conceits  to  a  more  perfect  generation.  The  cor- 
nices and  main  beams  of  the  front  building,  and  the  frame-work  of  the 
windows  were  carved  with  vine  and  oak  and  ivy  leaves,  and  in  a  floral 
tablet  or  scroll  over  the  narrow  porch  were  graven  rude  letters,  watch 
WBLL,  and  the  mutilated  date  of  the  erection  of  the  building  encloMng 
a  skull  and  an  hour-glass  in  alto  relievo.     This  house  was  destroyed  to 


TH£  OLD  HOOSE  IK  THE  GUHGATBv 


dM  frrmiiittrf  bj  ire»  in  tht  jemr^  1742 ;  bat  aa  thai  dwelling  in  it%1 
&^,  fto  BW  ilao  b  tW  Tprj  atiuiiioiit  fearfuUy  coDQected  u  ith  onr  f 
BifiliagEfiey  Itgernd.    la  tbe  eveoiiig  i»f  the  fcmrteentb  day  of  a  durk,| 
Norvcmbcr  BHttlka  m  tke  sfiirenid  fear,  1710,  died  the  ItaUan  prece))'  J 
tor  Caaella,  w^  v*t  etosfitciiooasi  the  commencement  of  our  narrative*  { 
H«  rleath-bed  was  m  tbc  chaisber  mbore  iW  porch  in  the  second  story* 
Mm  died  is  ibe  ama  af  iIm  aficcr  of  justice,  who  fain  would  have  con-  ' 
dueled  kiB  t*  l^  gibbet  ibafi  was  due  to  him ;  but  the  insUntaneoua  j 
■atarr  af  t^eir  appeafanoe  at  aocb  a  crisis,  their  maoifesution  of  hia 
^idcwr  cnmety  ajaa  tbe  eflbft  be  aaade  in  their  pre^nce  to  corroborate  I 
te  weU-^andtteted  piwiC  %  bia  brief  token  of  acknowledgement,  has^  I 
teied  bis  &ag  fn/m  tbe  aortal  aoene,  and  a  life  worn  dowa  to  the  lastrl 
ihirailii  bj  Ibe  mte  of  an  inTtncible  consumption.     Soon  after  thef 
exfGtikm  of  Squire  BediogSeld^  the  servant  Martini  retired  from  the 
fiumlj  anrioe  on  tbe  plea  of  ill- health,  but  not  until  his  honesty  had 
snimd  nmcb  detenqcatjon  from  the  diaappearanoe  of  plate  and  jewel« . 
rj,  wbicb  be  bad  aeceaa  to ;   and  his  departore  was  a  theme  of  con<«  1 
gralalatkMi  to  the  remaining  booaebold.     He  went  at  once  over  the] 
acas  inla  tbe  Low  Coontries,  and  was  tried  and  decapitated  the  very 
»ext  summer  ^  tbe  wilful  murder  of  a  German  officer  of  distinction, 
whom  be  had  been  bribed  to  assassinate  for  a  considerable  reward. 
His   acesmplices   were   similarly   puiti&hed   at  tbe  same   time.      In 
the  early  autumn,  a  young  Fleming,  a  nephew  of  tbe  priest  or  friurJ 
who  attended  Martini  to  his  doom,  in  compliance  with  the  request  of  | 
the  condemned  criminal^  arrived  in  England,  and,  cautiously  avoiding 
oarrespondejice  with  the  lady,  friends,  and  attendants  at  Bedingfield 
II aU^  posted  to  the  mansion  where  the  venerable  uncle  of  the  late 
Squire  was  seduded,  and  to  him  made  known  the  intelligence  whicbl 
bftd  been  so  wonderfully  coafided  to  him  for  the  peace  of  the  Englisk  I 
^mily  in  Essex*     The  document  was  strange  and  impressive.     From  ( 
this  it  appeared^  that  Martini,  a  short  time  before  he  entered  the  ser«  I 
vice  of  the  Bedingfield  familyt  had  been  most  intimate  with  tbe  V8ga«  [ 
bond  Casella  st  a  gaming-house  in  London  ;  and  during  the  intimacy, 
the  pair  of  villains  perpetrated  an  abundance  of  secret  theft  and  im po- 
sition. They  were  sworn  to  each  other  for  all  wicked  purposes  imagin- 
able.    Casella  related,  with  Italian  eloquence  aud  vituperation,  the 
jealousTt  the  wrath,  and  abandonment  \ihich  the  marriage  of  Kate 
Harding  had  worked  within  him  ;  and  it  was  to  further  the  ultimate 
blow  that,  by  intercession  with  an  earl's  stemurd  in  Su  James's,  whose 
lord  was  addicted  to  a  suite  of  foreign  servants,  3Iartini  procured  a 
temporary  situation  there,  and  afterwards  by  good  character  was  trans- 
ferred to  the  gentleman  in  £:»sex,  the  nobleman  and  the  squire,  as  it 
was  truly  ascertained,  being  on  the  most  amicable  terms  together.    All 
this  succeeded  beyond  anticipation.     Often  had  Martini  prepared  the 
way  for  the  stiletto  of  his  desperate  associate,   but  always  with  some 
hindrance    which    would   have  baffled  the   skilful   concealment    each 
had  prepared  to  avoid  discovery  of  the  sanguinary  agent  concerned. 
At  last  young  Basset's  arrival  was  in  prospect :  then  aU  seemed  fertile 
for  the  completion,  and  the  conspiracy,  in  a  few  moments  of  nocturnal 
^erview,  was  digested  and  arnmgud.     When  the  visiter  arrived,  be- 
th4^  other  guests  expected  on  the  morrow,  the  villain  in  the  house 
d  not  to  correspond  at  once  with  the  double  villain  abrof^d.     To 
r'lef,  Casella  was  hidden  before  the  curfew  in  the  mane  of  verdure 
'  the  ancient  terrace.     His  comrade  prepared  the  **  parting  cup  " 
.ght,  and  drugged  it  with  an  ingredient  well  known  in  Calabria 


THE  OLD  HOUSE  IN  THE  GUNGATE.         89 

an  producing  intoxication  attended  with  a  subaeqnent  temporary  loss 
of  reason  and  sensation.  It  was  an  essence  of  the  recent  seeds  of  the 
lurid  henbane.  Then  Martini^  as  we  heretofore  described,  stood  gaz- 
ing on  the  evening  tkj,  before  he  drew  the  curtains  together  after  be 
had  served  the  drugged  wine  in  the  wainscoted  apartment ;  and  at 
such  time  he  gave  the  signal  that  the  feast  of  revenge  was  well  pre- 
pared,  and  that  the  hour  of  bloodshed  was  lagging  over  the  surface  of 
the  gloomy  dial. 

The  window  was  intentionally  left  unfastened.     It  was  before  this^ 
that  Basset  causht  his  alarming  view  of  the  savage  intruder.    Rase 
and  cruelty  had  hurried  him  beyond  ordinary  speculation,  and  he 
burned  with  evil  appetite  for  a  moment's  sight  of  nis  helpless  victim. 
No  one  can  conceive  the  demoniacal  joy  of  the  desperado,  who  only  con- 
templated a  straightforward  assassination,  when  all  at  once,  by  the  cun- 
ning and  skill  of  his  companion,  there  was  presented  to  him  a  scheme 
for  slaying  bis  victim  ignominiously  throueh  the  hand  of  the  law,  by 
leaving  it  to  common  opinion  that  fiedingheld  had  murdered  Basset, 
inveigling  him,  by  hypocritical  pretences,  into  a  snare  of  the  basest 
descnption.     Thus  at  least,  all  succeeded.     How  the  murderous  per- 
formance was  enacted  was  set  down  in  the  confession,  and  it'may  as  well 
be  imagined  here.    As  soon  as  Mr.  Bedingfield's  relative  had  pemaed 
the  confession  and  satisfied  himself  that  the  official  signatures  were  au- 
thentic, he  proceeded  with  the  foreign  messenger,  whom  he  liberally 
rewarded,  to  London.     In  less  than  ten  days,  Casella  was  traced  to 
the  lodgings  which  he  had  occupied  for  some  time  in  the  Old  House 
in  the  Gungate,  by  the  officers  of  justice.     He  wag  dreadfully  startled 
by  the  disclosure  of  his  hiding-place.    Fearing  he  might  have  been 
recognised    by  former  associates,  he  had  expressly   forbidden    any 
one  to  procure  medical  or  spiritual  assistance  for  him  in  the  same 
borough.     The  officer  represented  himself  (for  he  was  in  disguise) 
as  a  countryman  ^om  the  farms  of  £s8ex,  and  spoke  of  poor  Mr. 
Bedingfield  and  Ins  bedridden,  care-worn,  and  broken-hearted  lady. 
The  sick  and  fainting  man  answered  with  frequent,  half-suppressed 
ejaculations  of  fiendish    exultation.      But  when   the  uncle  of  the 
murdered  Squire  was  introduced,  with  the  local  officer,  of  unques- 
tionable occupation,   and  he  was  called  upon   to  listen   attentively 
to  the  declaration  of  his  former  associate  and  accomplice  in  the  dis- 
mal crime,  and  when  he  heard  the  astoundine  circumstance  of  guilt 
attributed  to  him,  he  gave  a  loud  and  piercing  shriek,  as  they  concluded 
the  recitation,  and  the  haemorrhage  occurred  which  in  a  few  moments 
terminated  his  vile  existence,     root  Lady  Bedingfield  was  indeed 
broken-hearted,  and  had  long  been  upon  the  verge  m  her  early  grave  ; 
however,  all  that  we  have  here  mentioned  was  communicated  to  her 
by  the  chaplain  of  her  household,  with  exhortations  suitable  to  her  in- 
tense  grief  and  bodily  condition.     For  the  firat  time  since  that  fiital 
day  of  the  assassination,  a  bright  smile  dwelt  upon  her  countenance, 
and  her  eyes  shone  with  a  lustre  inefiTable.     She  desired  that  all  then 
present  in  her  chamber  should  kneel  around  her  bed,  and  they  did  as 
she  desired.    It  was  the  early  silver  sunset  of  a  cheerful  winter's  day. 
Raising  her  hands  upon  her  bosom,  and  joining  them  toeether,  with 
pious  emotion,  she  went  into  a  silent  ecstacy — a  blissful  delirium,  in 
which  she  died  a  few  d^jn  afterwards,  leaving  the  remembrance  of  her 
dear  husband's  innocence,  and  her  own  incomprehensible  grief,  to  sink 
deeply  into  the  hearts  of  all  who  loved  her,  and  rejoiced  with  her  in 
her  happier  days.  F.  P.  P. 


90 

GLIMPSES  AND  MYSTERIEa 
wmrrrsiff  axd  illC9t&atsd  bt  ai^fkeb  cBowqriLi.. 

THE  NEW  NEIGHBOURHOOD. 


\ 


1\ 


I  T  H  a  feelio^  of 
delight  and  tnelan- 
'  chol  J  strangely  mix- 
ed, I  started  to 
wander  amidst  the 
fields  and  pleasant 
plaires  of  my  school- 
days, situated  now 
an  the  edge  or 
skirts  of  the  great 
*^**e  metropolis  ;       hut 

,  when,  twenty  years 

/     4k     -rf^^  ^^^'   ^   revelled  in 

L  V  I  /m^  ^^^  them  as  a  hoy»  they 

were  out  of  town  ; 

green      hedgerows 

and  lofty  trees^with 

^.      running  brooks  for 

-_  •  ^^^taM.     ^^r^=^  ^^^      little     ships, 

i^  I  RiJ^PP^^^j^^^^^^^^;^^  <  were  sprt^d  around* 

Now, —  but  go  with 
me^  and  you    shall 

-^  '^■i^-  '        ^^^     ^^^      change  1 

\V  "^    _  L      .   ^fe^^^j'-^         How   I   wished   as 

I  rode  along  for  the 
eompanion&hip  of 
one  even  of  my  schoolfellows,  who  appeared  to  be  conjured  up  by  my 
very  approach  to  the  scene  of  our  boy  friendship,  just  as  they  were  at 
our  last  breakjng-up !  But  they  were  all  scattered,  and  the  delicate 
children  with  w*blch  my  fancy  thronged  the  place  were  grown  ijito 
rough  men  of  rougher  fortunes,  and  would  perhaps  have  laughed  at  the 
silly  romance  that  threw  a  halo  round  the  acene  which  my  imagination 
alone  pictured  as  worthy  of  remembrance. 

I  alighted  at  the  end  of  a  long  and  irregular  street  that  bore  the 
name  of  a  sweet  lane.  I  proceeded  ouward^  looking  in  vain  for  land- 
marks amidst  the  wretched  poverty-stricken  houses — evidently  a 
atmggle  of  some  speculator  to  build  tenements  of  a  larger  rate  than  the 
nelgnhourhood  would  allow^ — now  fallen  far  below  their  intended  estate, 
and  occupied  by  mechanics  of  all  kinds;  the  doorways  were  crowded 
with  dirty  children,  who  w*ere  nursing  wretched -looking  infantn,  and 
earning  at  the  top  of  their  voices  their  pleasure  or  displeasure  at  some 
te  group;  a  few  leaden-eyed  looking  men  Inunged  at  the  doorways, 
1  in  their  shirt-sleeves  with  seeming  enjoyment,  as  if  perfectly 
ious  of  the  wretched  objects  around  I  hem,  or  the  black  mud 
rnant  pools  of  water  encroaching  on  their  door-sills.  Many  of 
stories  appeared  never  to  have  been  finished,  but  merely 
wait  the  return  of  the  builder  from  the  Queen  a  Bench, 


ii 


^■"^ 


GLIMPSES   AND   MYSTERIES.  91 


to  do  justice  to  the  carcases ;  they  still  had  inhabitants^  for  they 
applied  to  a  use^  as  holes  had  been  cut  for  the  ingress  and  eg^ress  of 
flights  of  pigeons,  which  seemed  to  be*  conjointly  with  an  immoderate 
pack  of  dirty  curs  of  all  breeds,  the  staple  commodity  of  the  neighboor- 
hood.  The  usual  quantity  of  public-houses  had  been  built,  the  shells 
looking  disconsolate  as  if  at  the  fdlure  of  procuring  licences.  One  had 
been  glazed,  but  as  its  owner  was  not  able  to  convince  the  magistrates 
that  five  public-houses  in  one  street  were  not  too  many,  it  had  modestly 
sunk  down  into  a  Tom-and-Jerrv  shop,  with  its  parb'amentary  board  of 
instruction  about  getting  "  drunk  on  the  premises ;"  one  large  window 
was  decorated  with  a  quarter-of-a-pouna  cigar^box,  containing  three 
yery  bad  cheroots,  and  the  other  some  caraway  biscuits  in  an  aban- 
doned state  of  dust.  Here  sat  two  drowsy-looking  carmen,  who  tooJc 
the  tone  of  their  conversation  from  the  myriads  of  flies  which  sur- 
rounded them,  to  which  their  voices  had  a  strange  similarity.  The 
landlord  was  one  of  those  sleek-looking  heavy  men  who  seem  bom  for 
landlords,  rejoicing  in  voluminous  shirt-sleeves,  a  continual  smile,  and  a 
tell-tale  nose  that  ought  to  have  been  a  flne  warning  to  his  brewers, 
being  marked  with  more  scores  than  his  slate  had  ever  been.  His  wife, 
pale  from  her  continual  late  hours,  was  attending  listlessly  to  two  or 
three  dirty  children  whom  she  was  cramming  from  a  large  under-done 
shoulder  of  mutton  laid  upon  a  dirty  cloth,  the  little  ones  occasionally 
squabbling  for  the  pewter  pot,  from  which  they  imbibed  plentifully,-— 
in  fact,  the  whole  place  seemed  desolated  by  the  Demon  of  Beer  1 

The  Row  to  which  this  beer-shop  was  attached  seemed  utterly  un- 
finished, except  at  the  extreme  end,  which  had  been  taken  possession 
of  by  one  of  those  deluded  young  eentlemen  called  "  medical  practi- 
tioners," who  use  up  all  their  ready  money  in  cigars  and  imaginary 
sprees,  and  at  last,  finding  themselves  reduced,  after  trying  their  whole 
circle  of  friends  and  good-natured  aunts  to  do  something,  nobly  resolve 
to  set  up  somewhere  on  credit,  where  they  are  not  known — which  is 
decidedly  necessary.  This  seemed,  from  strong  symptoms,  to  be  a  decided 
case  of  that  kind ;  a  front-parlour  had  been  turned  into  a  shop  by 
placing  a  leech-pot  in  the  centre,  and  a  poor  man's  plaister  on  eacn 
side  as  supporters,  with  the  slight  relief  of  two  cigar-boxes  in  the  back- 
ground. The  bottles  were  beyond  praise,  being  of  three  colours  and 
variously  shaped,  but  the  door-plate  was  perhaps  the  greatest  effort, — 
Old  English  upon  zinc.  Night-bell  and  Surgery,  all  to  match !  His 
chances  of  custom,  I  think,  were  dubious,  except  in  the  way  of  acci- 
dents, which  promised  to  be  rifet  as  the  areas  were  open  for  the 
unwary  to  break  their  legs  or  arms  in,  and  the  scientific  arrangement 
of  rubbish  and  scaffold-poles  gave  hopes  of  contusions  and  bruises.  All 
this,  added  to  the  obstinacy  of  the  gas  company,  who  would  not  light 
until  there  were  inhabitants  to  pay  the  rate,  certainly  held  out  a  rea- 
sonable prospect  of  emolument  for  any  young  man  that  could  physic  his 
butcher  and  baker,  and  who  could  hold  on  and  wait  for  the  settlers. 

Next  door  to  the  medical  man  was  occupied — at  least  the  parlour — 
by  one  of  those  melancholy  strugelers  called  mantua-makers,  whose 
"  Belle  Assemble  "  was  squeezed  between  the  dwarf  Venetian  and 
the  window-frame  to  indicate  that  the  almost  impossible  dresses  there 
delineated  could  be  made  up  at  the  shortest  notice,  and  that  the  talented 
cutter  and  shaper  was  to  be  had  out  to  work  for  Is.  6d.  a  day  fur  the 
short  space  of  twelve  hours,  with  as  little  time  as  possible  for  her  to  bolt 
the  cold  victuals  which  are  usually  kept  for  such  occasions.     A  card  ap- 


d2 


OLTMPS£S    AND    MY^TERTKS. 


peared  in  the  abore  pane,  written  in  a  small  delicate  liand,  ^'  hodgwgs 
Unfurni&bed/'  which^  of  course^  meant  all  the  rest  of  the  bouse  exce[»t« 
iog  alone  the  front-parlour  and  the  &cant  aofa- bed  stead.     The  rentj  ml 
a  ca&e  like  tbis«  n;u!it  of  course  be  ridonary,  and  could  only  be  a  little 
stroke  of  facetiousness  of  the  landlord  with  himself  to  make  beliertfl 
having  tenanta.    The  only  visible  benefit  arising  from  such  tenancy  wa 
the  ckftnliness  of  the  door-step  (cleaned  when   nobody  ivas  looking)/| 
and  the  diminutive  milk-score  chalked  on  the  door*framej  which  loat  ^ 
a  decided  certificate  of  inhabitatttB. 

1  wandered  on,  amidst  houses  in  the  most  skeleton  state,  with'ther  j 
grass  growing  in  the  promised  place  of  the  hearth-stone,  with  their* 
feeble  foundations  sapped  and  liiirrounded  by  melancholy  green  po4»b- 
Turnings  ever  and  anon  occurred  of  the  most  eccentric  character,  lead- 
ing to  where  it  was  impossible  to  go  from  the  mud,  and  the  foundations 
were  sprouting  from  the  earth  with  no  apparent  hope  of  ever  having 
any  more  stories  to  tell.     A  gaunt  house  stood  almost  alone,  exceptin| 
indeed  two  bits  rising  right  and  left,  upon  which  it  seemed  to  rest  it 
elbows-     Here  dwelt  that  king  of  poor  neighbourhoods,  the  coalman^l 
chandler,  and  lolly  pop-seller*     He  was  just  pretending  to  measure  that 
small  portion  of  coals  without  a  niime  among  people  who  have  a  coai- 
ticket  and  a  waggon  stop  at  the  door.     He  threw^  it  uprm  his  brawny 
shoulder  as  if  in  mockery,  and  stretching  his  arm  high  above  his  head^J 
pulled  the  mouth  of  the  sack  so  that  it  would  puz/Je  the  prying  neigh<*l 
hours  to  know  whether  it  was  full  or  not^  and  wended  his  way  to  soma  J 
poor  wretch  who  could  have  no  hopes  of  trust,  if  I  might  judge  by  the  j 


■^^ 


GLIMPSES   AND   MYSTERIES. 


98 


expressioo  of  hi«  face.  His  lynxed-eye  wife,  more  uareIenting1y^]fx>kiog 
than  he,  smiled  at  some  wretched  children  who  were  attracted  by  those 
duhioaalj-looking  things  dotted  ull  over  old  writing-book  leaves;  I  believe 
soinething  of  the  peppermint  family >  but  looking  more  like  an  unlimited 
■apply  of  buttons  for  a  modern  page's  jacket.  Her  eye  had  caught  the 
elutcbed  halfpenny ;  it  was  ber  own,  if  the  little  innocents  crossed 
her  threshold;  for  to  her  it  was,  as  a  matter  of  profit,  indifferent 
ithether  she  sold  sleepy  apples  to  give  tbem  the  stomach-achej 
or  whitewash  and  peppermint  to  cure  it.  The  half|ienny  bundles 
of  wood,  slightly  mixed  with  the  herriug^si,  favoured  all  around ;  one 
large  coal  stood^  with  an  impudent  look  of  possession,  full  in  the  door- 
way with  all  the  appearance  of  the  master  of  the  house,  it  being  too 
Imrge  for  anybody  to  buy  in  the  neighbourhood :  nejir  the  avalanche  of 
potaioes  stood  a  small  l)arrel  oHgintilly  msarked  XX,  with  a  surrepti-* 
tlous  third  X  added  by  the  conscientious  retniler.  By  like  manoeuvres 
the  little  retailer  in  poor  neighbourhoods  makes  a  large  fortune,,  se- 
caring  impunity  as  to  weight  and  measure  by  giving  a  little  trust,  but 
that  only  to  the  extent  of  ihe  debtors'  tables  and  chairs  or  situation, 
for  which  the  aforesaid  retailer  has  a  fine  appraising  eye:  thus  the 
poor  man  often  pays  as  high  a  price  ftir  bad  articles  by  want  of  weight, 
and  the  price  not  appenring  startling  in  such  small  quantities,  as  the 
rich  one  for  the  finest  delicacies*  They  dare  not  question  the  dealer^ 
81  !tickness  or  want  of  work  must  always  keep  them  in  his  books.  lie 
eolitinually  growls  them  out  of  part  payments,  which  do  not  materially 
alter  the  amount,  as  he  frequently  amuses  himself  by  topping  and  tail- 
ing, a  very  simple  process,  done  by  turning  naughts  into  sixpences  and 
oinepences. 

A  few  yards  further  on,  was  a  faint  imitation  of  a  butcher's  shop,  th« 
cu*tom  of  which,  from  the  pttucily  of  the  stock,  must  have  been  very 
Qucertain ;  for,  with  the  exception  of  a  neck  of  something,  which 
t«^med  to  tell  that  meat  was  occasionally  sold  there,  and  a  small  pile 


GLIMPSES    AND   MYSTERIES. 


of  what  is  professionally  calleil  '*  bits/*  evidently  placed  on  the  front 
board  for  tlie  private  iimtiJ^emeiit  of  a  swarm  of  bluebottles — there  was 
not  Q  hook  occupied*  A  little  window,  liffliting  a  watch-l>ox  counting* 
house  for  setliiig  down  the  orders,  shewed  the  majiler,  who  in  despair 
had  sat  himeelf  down,  and  was  enjoying  a  comfortable  nap.  The 
assiiitaiit  slaughterer,  who  had  the  bullet  head  and  marble  face  of  the 
tribe,  was  droning  out  with  much  mildness  upon  a  very  wax- ended 
flute,  the  venerable  air  of  *'  In  a  Cottage  near  a  Wood,"  from  a  nearly 
obliterated  and  greasy  manuscript  copy,  supported  by  the  pig-killing 
knife,  stuck  into  the  unused  block. 

And  all  these  abominations  and  mountains  of  bricks  were  cumbering 
the  earth  and  oblitering  the  green  slopes  and  violet  banks  of  my  child- 
hood I  Dirt  and  filth,  and  unoccupied  skeleton  houses  buried  the  play- 
ground of  my  schooldays,  over  which  so  many  small  feet  once  hounded 
in  pleasure.  The  lofty  trees  and  green  hedges  under  which  our  kind* 
hearted  old  master  gave  us  our  Robin  Hood  feasts,  and  became  one  of 
us, — -making  us  forget,  by  his  joining  in  our  sports,  that  he  was  anything 
but  our  best  playfellow,  best  story-teller,  and  best  friend, — had  all 
passed  away  I  How  much  did  1  regret  my  rashness  in  venturing  upon 
scenes  so  much  endeared  to  nie,  only  to  break  the  charm,  and  to  tear 
one  delightful  picture  from  the  panorama  of  my  mind.  1  turned  from 
the  place  with  a  melancholy  feeling,  and  proceeded  on  my  way  until  J 
saw  a  large  board  advertising  "  Leases  of  ninety-nine  years  for  build- 
ing," attached  to  an  old  gable  under  which  the  word  *'  Dairy  "  was 
written  on  the  crumbling  bricks.  With  what  pleasure  I  discovered 
the  remains  of  an  old  farm  at  which,  after  our  rambles,  we  used  to  take 
tea  I  I  soon  made  my  way  into  the  tile-paved  kitclien,  much  to  the 
astonishment  of  an  old  man  who  was  cleaning  his  milk-pat  Is,  asked  for 
a  glass  of  milk,  and  seated  myself;  I  could  not  help,  in  the  fulness  of 
my  pleasure,  chatting  with  him,  and  pouring  out  all  my  feelings,  at 
again  visiting  this  homely  kitchen  which  I  hjid  never  seen  for  twenty 
years.  1  found  a  full  sympathy  in  his  simple  mind,  and  strong  love  of 
home.  He  trotted  with  me  over  all  that  was  left  of  the  farm,  and 
Bmiled  as  I  pointed  out  the  stall  where  I  used  to  tether  my  little  pony, 
and  at  my  enthusiasm  in  actually  climbing  up  into  the  old  hay -loft 
where  we  used  to  play  at  hide-and-seek.  1  asked  him  concerning  the 
residents  of  my  time.  All  he  knew  of  them  was,  that  they  had  emi- 
grated to  somewhere  in  the  new  country  and  had  been  successful.  I 
hade  him  farewell  with  many  t banks.  I  hesitated,  reluctant  to  leave 
the  well-remembered  spot !  Wliere  were  all  the  merry  footsteps  that 
used  to  bound  over  that  door-sill  with  me  ?  Gone  !  alas,  gone  I  Reader, 
never  visit  the  scenes  of  your  boyhood  I 


95 


THE  GAOL  CHAPLAIN; 
on,  A  DARK  PAGE  FROM  LIFE'S  VOLUME. 

CHAPTER    LXIII. 
DO   THB   HURDERED    REST? 

MTo  die  is  wo  snuJl  a  matter  to  the  English,  that  they  want  imagei  nunv 
gliattlj  than  death  itMlf  to  affect  them.*'— St.  Evremond->oii  Tragedy, 

**  To  the  astonishment  of  the  worldly  and  the  superficial,  who  think 
ample  means  synonymous  with  happiness,  this  farewell  to  straitened 
circumstances  seemed  not  to  brighten  the  gloomy  countenance  of 
either  sister ;  each  looked  as  stern,  as  resolute,  and  as  sorrow- 
stricken  as  ever.  Society  might  have  been  theirs,  but  they  shunned 
it ;  civilities  from  various  influential  parties  were  freely  proffered, 
and  repulsed.  The  only  visible  change  which  abundant  means 
brought  about,  was  increased  attention  to  outward  religious  duties* 
Daily  did  they  attend  cathedral  service;  and  yet  their  religion 
seemed  a  foe  to  cheerfulness.  They  entered  and  they  left  the  sanc- 
tuary with  the  same  lowering,  morose,  and  saddened  air.  Their 
alms,  too,  were  dispensed  with  similar  austerity.  *  Task-work '  was 
stamped  on  all  they  did.  Prayers  and  alms  wore  alike  the  sem- 
blance of  penance.  The  '  house  of  their  pilgrimage '  was  ever  som- 
bre and  sad. 

**  *  How  repeatedly  looks  belie  the  life  I'  said  the  aged  Chancellor 
Johnes  in  allusion  to  them.  '  Those  exemplary  and  irreproachable 
women — the  Miss  Paulets — models  of  self-denial  and  active  bene* 
volence — have  invariably  the  air  of  persons  oppressed  by  some  ter- 
rible secret!' 

''But  though  their  systematic  avoidance  of  society  was  strange, 
stranger  still,  under  their  altered  circumstances,  was  their  continu-* 
ance  in  their  forlorn  and  dilapidated  cottage.  It  was  known  that 
they  disliked  it.  They  had  been  heard  to  complain  of  its  dampness 
and  dreariness  during  the  autumn  and  winter;  its  neighbourhood 
was  most  ineligible — low,  noisy,  and  badly  drained ;  and  yet,  when 
rent  was  no  longer  to  them  an  object,  and  when  the  house  was  con- 
fessedly disagreeable,  they  remained  I 

"  Twelve  months  wore  away,  and  at  the  expiration  of  that  period 
the  health  of  the  younger  sister  began  to  decline.  All  the  relief 
that  assiduous  nursing  and  medical  skill  could  afford,  was  given ;  but 
the  fiat  had  gone  forth,  and  Penelope's  days  were  numbered.  Dur- 
ing her  illness — it  was  long  and  fluctuating — Joanna  never  left  her* 
Call  at  what  hour  the  surgeon  would.  Miss  Paulet  was  present  at 
the  interview.  No  expression  used  bv  her  sister  escaped  her ;  no 
whispered  remark  but  what  was  caught  by  her.  The  medical  at- 
tendant noticed  this;  it  annoyed  him.  His  impression  had  been 
that  his  patient's  ailments  were,  in  the  first  instance,  mental  rather 
than  corporeal.  He  had  wished  to  converse  with  her  apart,  and,  to 
this  end,   had  repeatedly  tried  to  contrive  a  private   interview. 


iF=2S=i   nm.     -i-Ti.-ciifr  zekZzrt  in  the  pro- 

t?r-   i^mr  ▼inxmi    :o:«*   iT:w«i  an  anxious 

~  Ij  «=  1  =«  !_•  lijii,    /fctf^ni  fcstantly  met 

Cfc  ^ni^  nni£  i-frse  :  r  * .  er  to  leave  her 

=-»LL  5211  viiLJi  -fail  ij  i*T  b:«-r  after  hour, 

rz'^    r  «»i£  til*  ^adi-"«*  iTtfii  :.:  3i=:e-     '  There  was 

ac=i.    si-L      jiT  sais"  I  LTse  :«•  clergyman  at  pre-- 

»--js-  rjiiaii^ti  17  X  riffle  r:a=ei  Biasby,  then  a 
fc  ui-  n  -ia^ '  st'i  ire  =iim:.:-r.  "  whose  obse- 
■u-cr  :=«  wia  iiatc  1  ra^Tw-ter ;  and  it  was 
•grr,jii.r"  Sis  zt  'aLt\;ia  x^'su  zxxne^  t-.^c:  i=«  ctxufe.  to  complete 
•e  -i^Egj-sT"  -r— j::4;»^nit-ns».  Hi  vjrf  1  *£!.•>: wd.  wary,  inquisitive 
S5L»ww  xr^  mr-Hi:  "He  rjm^iecijr  ;c  hi*  a*k.  «ome  fact,  never 
x-  n^  cii»w-i*:u»f.  viich  -ri-st  h:m  the  most  extrflor- 
Ji:?*'  ?xl1«  ♦  r^?rerty  during  the  remainder 
r  3er  j.*^  ?*»*?  xacea  "tns  aaa ;  ibje  intAded  him  ;  his  presence 
«>»  uf  .'^  -?  ie-  -oe  I'lailei  ic  the  socr.d  of  his  voice.  But,  let 
3e  ^ioeaac^  t:  vTiia  le  leii  ler  ir***  rrom  what  cause  it  would, 
■«•  -^ir^  ^^  z  ii>  -r/nu-u  ixni  *=p-y  iid  he  avail  himself  of  its 
rfruFTA  3r  >*3ine  1  juiltiifr.  1  cccs^ctor.  and,  eventually,  the 
■«rtr    f   Sr-"i?acus 

•  "iS»  Vci«  iifi.  5?-  ^ae  isjc  !:7*J.  under  a  veil  of  mystery. 
"^  :».^?«  r:  wrr.cn  -oe  i'lmt  ^cxd  ::r  many  months  empty,  and 
«a»  -L  *rs£r^  '*»«*^-:«  :w*  i  '•s^  ^mjl  *-:a  by  Mr.  Vagg,  a  dissenter, 
JUL  *f  "^  i:s  i»  "Ot?  Tii»:i5wr  jt  :a<  ccapel  where  he,  the  owner, 
•t-rHC3^3*-i.  1r.  ifewTt  ▼*!?  m  imixb.e  man,  of  quiet,  gentle 
^ai-T.-^r^  =1:=.  -i:v:  -^^^T.:^  uuiT-^  i^-^  -7  "•-^  means  of  an  excitable 
r  j:  tfC^.Auac\:  v^BVfSrun^XL.  He  cuRMnced  to  become  the  tenant 
t  s»  c^MKcv  .^<9c;sice  n  luescim.  portly  b^f»ase  its  rent  was  low, 
4?u  ^r*:-.  ^"jaus*  ts-  iw-wr  ^i^t^  *«  »  leading  member  —  a 
jimsr^.    -r^r-L     jx   x.5  rwi  ^jcxrenticsan.  whose  countenance  and 

'i«  r»ncr^i.  cv-^'ire.  jn  3^  tifoimcy  with  the  hope  and  expec- 

so-^f?  ra«.  t  -9-  -J. a   w  -jeraianifnc.     The  bustl«f  of  moving  over,  he 

^^r^*-«n  ?•^  Ttr/ifi  xvuHssiini:  irmrrd  him  in  die  evening  at  family 

^-s*«r      rV  -^r^merv*^  '^au.  ne  suppJicatpry  petition  slowly  and 

^j^^.,^-  T    ^i**»;    tt3U.  -wtn  1  •rer  ^«u:«  for  «lent  mental  devotion, 

*^^    -.-:-  ^»*—  ,-^i«-i.     .*>*  w  -««  =^nn  kis  knees,  his  eye  glanced 

i  «crrt*  -  tr^e  "^a  ?ie«^fc».  ?«  a  1  cnabrou*  old-fashioned  frame, 

-.--  •icv-^.    »r-  !Tt  r^j»*'!r  wiica  'T'jcttd  him.  In  that  glass  he  saw 

4:>c-x-:»    *  «-:*e  Tartn?    3?«ff  aamis  wtfre  jr\-*«dasifinprayer,  and 

It*-  i..,^    .^^*^    ,a>ki— ivw  fnr^«>  ««n«:  rveteii  on  his^    There  were 

ww-t-  Ti   i:?<-.-»^  rviitnf  B'nimi  atf  leck.  ir.d  one  of  the  hands  looked 

^  i"  .ri.'r'-itt!-*   ST  ^itrtf  2tnal^  <r-445£  tf.      ^^  miniitef  gaxed  calmly, 

-<«"^'«'     nnr  Tr.-.-il"  ic  "=?«  7i!iirT0-Tn.  rl!  :t  £n?w  fixnl  and  fainter, 

— 'ttm    IT  t   tf-^   fivnnvno  •♦i.    tut 

Jl-  *■.;*»  rr  v  &^  tcc  1  tiaa  :t  ^M-^  -rteilect  or  hasty  judg- 
iioTC  ?-.in  -yrsf'  >'u^  lai-^iOk  <r-j,q^Vs  J*vi  ".•-*  of  reading,  he  was 
s4i?«»  ir  JT—  -T^  ic  ii>  c*.iXo.  iflsvf-at'  T'  ^::r-:*:i5m  on  any  point  he 
a  5CTn^:«r    ifrc  ■sr^r^^f"  i.m.^i  *crtrcv.i'  ^-c  mc»*l  subjects.     On 


THE    GAOL    CHAPLAIN. 


97 


**'!  must  read  less  nnd  walk  more,'  wa«  hi«  soliloquy,  *I  am 
erowing  inert,  foolish,  and  fanciful.  How  absurd  in  me  to  give  way 
to  even  a  momentary  feeling  of  fear !  I,  who  have  laughed  at  ghott 
stories  all  my  life, — who  hold  all  surh  narrativeis  as  fables, — who  am 
per<.uaded  that  the  dead  never  revisit  this  earth, — who  believe  that, 
apart  frmn  sacred  story,  the  custody  of  the  grave  was  never  broken, 
UaLlucination  threatens  me.  I  deserve  it  for  neglecting  exercise. 
80  now  for  a  ramble  to  ALirypole  Head.* 

"  But,  defipite  of  the  pastor's  notions  about  '  halludnntfon/and  hia 
ideas  of  the  security  of  the  grave,  AIr«.  Hewitt  observed  with  sur- 
prise that  he  declined  assembling  their  little  household  for  worship 
in  the  parlour  that  evening,  and  chose  their  devotions  to  be  holden 
m  his  own  narrow,  cold,  inconvenient  little  study,  and  this  without 
assigning  any  reason  for  the  change.  The  next  and  following  even- 
ing a  similar  order  w^as  given,  till  at  length  the  *  weaker  vessel/ 
whose  bones  ached  with  rheumatism,  declared  that  she  'could  not 
warship  with  comfort  in  that  damp  and  dreary  cupboard,  miscalled 
a  ctudy/  and  begged  that  the  chapter  might  be  read  and  the  nrayer 
be  offered  in  their  accustomed  sitting-room.  To  this  petition  of 
the  lady  her  spouse,  with  a  laughably  uneasy  expression  of  counte* 
nance,  assented 

"  The  hour  drew  on ;  Mr,  Hewitt  became  restless  and  fidgety, 
and  looked,  beyond  all  concealment,  most  uncomfortable  when  his 
wife  drew  the  little  table  vis-thi^is  to  the  cumbrous  mirror,  and 
planted  his  chair  at  an  angle  which  commanded  its  dingy  surface. 
He  announced  the  chapter,  and  read  it  steadily  enough  ;  the  extem- 
pore prayer  succeeded,  terse,  energetic,  and  full  of  pathos  ;  but  long 
before  its  close  the  speaker's  voice  faltered,  and  his  attention  wan- 
dered,— for  the  large  dark  plate  of  that  frightful  mirror  reflected 
hut  too  faithfully  the  form  of  his  unwelcome  visitant. 

■*8he  gazed  on  him  with  her  dark,  soft,  sad  eyes, — looked  the 
very  personification  of  suffering, — looked  at  him  with  that  beseech- 
ing;, bopelefts,  helpless  air,  rarely  called  forth  but  by  the  extremity 
of  bttman  agony.  The  pastor  felt  bewililered,  but  still  bent  his  eye 
fixedly  upon  the  phantom.  It  faded  gradually  from  the  surface  of 
the  mn^ror,  till  in  a  few  seconds  all  vestige  of  it  was  lost. 

'•  *  Unaccountable !  —  wholly  and  utterly  unaccountable ; '  cried 
tbe  p<utor»  with  a  bewildered  air. 

**  *  You  may  truly  say  that,  Mr.  Hewitt  T  replied  his  matter-of- 
fact  helpmate.  *  I  thought  you  *d  notice  it ;  but  sleep  with  some 
people  la  a  disease,  and  so  it  is  with  our  handmaid  Hannah.  All 
m  earth  that  she  has  done  this  blessed  day  was  to  cook  the  din- 
',  bake  the  bread,  clean  out  the  chapel,  scour  the  stairs,  run  three 
iiicl«9  take  out  the  twenty  soup-tickets,  carry  the  blind  man's 
aiofiej  to  Countess  Wear  Bridge,  get  up  my  best  cap,  clear-starch 
your  Sunday  frills,  and  walk  to  Alphington  and  back.  And  yet 
look  at  her — she  was  asleep — sound  asleep—fast  asleep — firm  as  a 
church,  before  the  chapter  was  finished.  But,  truth  to  speak,  she  'a 
mtver — nci^er  up  before  five  in  the  morning,  and  always  in  bed  by 
half-past  ten.  Her  propensity  to  sleep  is  indefensible,  and,  what 's 
more,  it 's  unaccountable.' 

***  Would  that  I  covdd  fathom  the  mystery!'  was  the  pastor's 
etmest  ejaculation,  his  thoughts  fixed  on  another  subject,  and  hia 
car  wholly  unconscious  of  his  wife's  observations, 

VOL*  xviii.  ^ 


people 
Lgmon  « 


THE  GAOL  CHAPLAIK* 


^^Toii  never  will«*  retumed  ibe  qulcklj.  '  ilannah'6  iDfirniitjr  is 
cooitibitioiial-— It 's  in  tlie  Mood,  lliere  are  those,  as  I  said  to  Miss 
Seilf  Stoedlj  last  Sabfaatltf  who  alwajs  sleep  under  tbe  means  of 
gn^^  be  the  pccadier  erer  eo  spracJk,  and  the   singers  ever  so 

***  in  trjr/  said  die  perplexed  minbterj  pursuing  his  own  train  of 


tlm«iiE. 


Yott  11  fai]/retiin>ed  the  lady,  'you  U  fail,  to  a  certainty.   The 
tetkdeoey  to  drowaiaessin  that  woman  is  awfully  inveterate.     She  '11 
ileeB  ni  aiij  pasirioti.     I  Ve  heard  her  snore  upon  her  knees.    You  'II  M 
bat  m^eod  tine  ndUbMr;  ■ 

*"Vcrj  p&mStAj/  re^KKided  her  ruminating   husbaiiil,   as   he 
glance  at  the  gloomy  mirror^  and  then 


'The  mat^ 


of  high  festival  to  Mrs.  Hewitt ;  with  it 


rm  m  <Ut  € 
mmm  her  stated  qaavtmy  investigation  of  her  goods  and  premises. 
Every  doact,  every  cupboaird,  every  drawer  in  her  dwelling  under* 
went  eBBHunatMMi.  Woe  to  the  luckless  damsel  in  whose  department 
error  er  ovcnight  was  detected !  At  noon,  in  high  glee,  the  lady 
dcaceiided  ;  her  idls  had  been  rcpdd  ;  she  had  found  spoils. 

*«  Jfy  devhttshMMl,'— she  was  all  smiles,  he  all  gloom,—'  what 
am  extr«vdfaary  ohl  home  this  ul  I  Ve  ferreted  out  another  queer 
Wdm  cgpbeMii  this  MBgwiBg.-^aad  not  empty  either.  Look  here/ 
And  niwiihihftlidhii  ndlJBed  apron.  '  Charming,  isn't  it  ?  Feel 
the  t]^[tiiiv  of  this  pica,  ef  eM  brocade  No  such  silk  as  this  woven 
BOV-«-dajB!  The  very  thing  I  wanted^will  supply  roe  with  a 
new  covet iM  lor  vy  SnnAvy  beonet,  and  last  for  ages.  Our  people 
in  Ae  ehaiia  MHiy  gmem  low  cnengh  before  they  hit  on  what  I  gave 
for  it !  *  And  at  ^it  saegt  oei^htful  feature  in  the  transaction  the 
honaevriMT  Mrs.  Hewitt  las^g:hed  right  merrily.  '  Now  for  another 
mesnre,  Examine  the  wnrkmanship  of  this  uld- fashioned  fibgree 
eoinfil-^x.  It  had  m  mby  ring  in  it,  and  two  half-guineas  ;  a  hoards 
no  doubt,  long  since  overlooked  or  forgptten.  Of  this  1  know  not 
what  to  make :' — the  lady  snbmitted  a  £ided  miniature  to  her  listless 
and  pre*occupied  hushnndL  '  The  origiQal  must  have  been  pretty^ 
very  pretty.  Look  nt  thoee  aoli,  dark  eyes,  and  that  luxuriant  hair. 
Whom  it  fffpreeemi  neither  you  nor  I,  my  dear,  can  form  a  guess* 
Tbe  initials  on  the  back  are  simply  M,  P.  The  ring  has  the 
same.* 

'*  Mr.  Hewitt  looked  at  the  miniature  with  an  indifferent  air. 
Suddenly  his  countenance  lighted  up  with  surprise,  and  he  ex* 
claimed,  with  a  start, 

•'  •  It  s  henself  I — the  very  woman ! ' 

**  *  What  woman  f '  cried  nis  wife,  thoroughly  amazed  in  her  turn. 

*•  •  The  woman  I  saw  last  night^-here — in  this  very  house.* 

**  The  pastor's  wile  was  silent — suddenly  and  determinedly  silent. 
She  was  busily  engaged  in  pondering  over  in  her  mind  whether  she 
had  ever  hrard  that  insanity  lurked  in  her  husband's  family.  Her 
own  private  ooinion  was  that  it  utiurl. 

'  *  You  sball  see  her  to-night  yourself.     1  'II  show  her  to  you/ 
o  saying,  Mr.  Hewitt,  more  moved  than  his  lady   had  ever 
ii  before  in  her  life,  i^eized  his  hat,  and  quitted  the  house, 
inortliy   helpmate  tottered    la  her  seal,  and  drew  a   long 
She  was,  to  no  trifling  extent,  discomposed. 


THE   GAOL    CHAPLAIN. 


**  •  So  much  for  Qver-atudy  ! ' — thus  her  anxieties  tbund  vent, — 
•  so  much  for  studying  Hebrew  witliout  puiiits.  I  never  thought 
any  ^ood  would  come  of  poring  over  those  unaccountable  characters, 
with  their  meloopim,  kametz,  and  final  tzadde.  And  then  they  read 
it  backwards.  Shameful  1 — as  if  any  profit  could  come  from  such  a 
manoeuvre  as  that: — backwards,  every  line  of  it  !  Was  there  ever 
anything  so  preposterous?  And  my  poor  dear  husband  delights  in 
it !  And  so  he  saw  this  very  woman^ — in  this  very  house — kst  niglit  I 
Heaven  help  him  I  I  wouldn't  have  the  chapel  people  know  of  this 
vagary  for  all  Queen  Charlotte's  diamonds ;  and  they  say  that  War- 
ren Hastings  has  bribed  the  old  lady  with  them  to  an  indefinite 
amount !' 

Much  and  deeply  did  Mrs.  Hewitt  cogitate  during  the  sluggish 
hours  of  that  endless  morning  who  the  kdy  could  possibly  be  whose 
acquaintance  she  was  to  make  on  the  approaching  evening. 

"  Sunset — twilight^ — evening  drew  on.  The  little  household  again 
assembled^  the  pastor  again  led  their  devotion*!,  and,  as  they  closed, 
was  again  startled  by  the  presence  of  an  unbidden  and  most  irk- 
iome  visitant.  Hurriedly  did  he  direct  his  wife  to  gaze  in  the  mir- 
ror, and  tell  him  what  she  saw  there. 

*' '  A  face/  was  her  reply,  *  which  looked  fresher,  younger,  and 
fairer  some  twenty  years  ago  ;  but  which/  she  added  archly,  '  if 
you  were  inclined  to  be  complimentary,  you  should  say  improved 
vastly  upon  acquaintance/ 

*•  *  Look  again — again,  and  quickly  I '  said  he  with  emotion,  '  Now 
what  see  you  there  ?' 

*•  He  watched  her  keenly  ; — her  tranquil  countenance,  to  his  asto- 
Qtshment,  exhibited  not  the  slightest  indication  of  surprise  or  alarm, 

"  •  I  see ' — she  spoke  smilingly  and  cheerfully — '  part  of  a  dingy 
room,  shabbily  furnished;  but  containing,  withal,  comforts  for  which 
many  deserving  and  exemplary  men  vainly  sigh,  and  for  which  we 
eaonot  be  sufficiently  thankful.* 

•*•  Nothing  more  ?' 

«  •  Nothing/ 

'*  *  Then  ray  worst  fears  are  realized !  *  shrieked  the  pastor  ;  ^  my 
intrllecti  are  unsettled!'  And,  covering  his  lace  with  his  hands,  he 
gave  way  to  a  paroxysm  of  distress  and  apprehension* 


"  *  Be  counselled  by  me/  was  the  quiet  advice  of  the  wife  on  the 
following  morning,  after  she  had  listened  without  interruption  or 
cotnment  to  the  strange  narrative  of  her  husband  ;  '  go  into  the 
cooDlry  ;  give  yourself  an  entire  week's  rest.  I  will  take  care  that 
your  place  sliall  be  supplied  both  at  the  bedside  of  the  sick,  at  the 
chapel,  and  in  the  school.  Nothing  shall  be  neglected,  nothing  slur- 
red over  or  forgotten.  You  require  a  holiday,  arui  you  must  have 
one.  Go  to  Kings- Kerswell :  our  cousin  Hays  will  be  delighted  to 
tee  you.     Go,  and  go  to-day.' 

•'  He — paragon  of  husbands !— assented. 

••  *  Be  it  fancy  or  be  it  reality/  cried  the  pastor's  wife,  when  she 
had  aeen  her  disconsolate  spouse  fairly  mounted  on  the  roof  oi^  the 
Aabburton  coadi,  'arise  from  what  it  may, — tlisordered  nerve*?,  dis- 
tempered brain,  or  (as  I  firmly  believe)  from  that  passion  for  study- 
illf  Hebrew  without  points, — this  notion  mu^t  be  got  rid  of.  And,  as 
one  step  towards  it,  I  11  dethrone  that  abominable  looking-glass.    It 


100 


THE   GAOL   CHAPLAIN 


shall  be  wrested  from  its  antique  resting-place  ibis  very  mommg'* 
It  'e  imbedded,  'tis  true/  continued  she  mubiiiglj,  '  in  the  wall,  and 
not  very  easily  disturbed  ;  but  down  it  shall  come,  if  woman's  hands 
can  accompbsh  it*  Bvit  even  that  will  not  satisty  me ;  the  appear- 
ance of  the  room  must  be  chanf^ed  altogether*  I  *ll  re-paper  it ;  and, 
that  the  con^egation  may  n()t  taunt  me  with  extravagance,  tlie  ma- 
nual labour  shall  be  my  own/ 

"  The  plotter  cummeuced  active  operations  on  the  instant,  and, 
with  the  a-isiatance  of  a  stoue»mason*s  boy*  had  succeeded  in  dislodg- 
ing, much  to  her  satisfaction,  the  hated  and  mysterious  glass,  when 
the  front  door  was  harshly  opened  by  some  impatient  visiter,  and 
the  owner  unexpectedly  faced  her. 

**  jMr.  Vagg,  for  a  person  of  his  high  religious  professions,  was — 
soflly  be  it  spoken  ! — in  a  right  royal  rage.  He  was  one  of  the  dea- 
cons of  the  body  to  which  he  belonged,  trustee  of  the  chapel,  and 
occasionally  *did  a  small  stroke  of  business'  in  the  preaching  line 
himself  J  otherwise^  some  ugly  words  fell  from  his  lips,  which  the 
vulgar  wotdd  have  called  oat  ha  ;  but  from  such  a  correct  personage 
this  was  impossible!  He  vehemently  upbraided  the  toiling  and 
dusty  Mrs.  Hewitt  for  presuming  to  touch  brick  or  lath  upon  hia 
premises^  and,  above  allj  for  *  daring  to  remove '  that  ancient,  ufiique, 
and  costly  mirror. 

**  *  What  was  she  thinking  of  P' inquired  the  heated  Mr,  Vagg- 
*  Did  she  wish  to  tear  his  house  down  ?' 

"Thejady  quietly  disclaimed  any  intention  of  the  kind. 

"  Mr.  Vigg  believed  she  had,  and  desired  that  the  glass  might 
forthwith  be  replaced.  The  lady  acquainted  him;,  with  demure 
gravity,  that  she  'did  not  pull  mirrors  clown  simply  for  the  pleasure 
of  puttiug  them  up  again,* — a  piece  of  information  which,  instead  of 
soothing  Air,  Vagg,  rendered  him,  strange  to  aay,  more  angry  than 
ever. 

**  Menaces,  touching  law  proceedings,  were  uttered  by  him  with  a 
rapidity  which  made  them  laughably  inc<*herent.  On  his  auditor 
they  were  thrown  away.  She  reminded  him,  with  admirable  temper, 
that  law-contests  Ifvlwecn  Chrhtiaris  were  forbidden  by  an  authority 
to  which,  it  was  fancied,  he  deferred.  As  for  herself,  she  had  no 
liking  for  law — no  money  to  spend  on  it — and  t\\>  intention  to  en- 
gage in  it.  She  added,  tliat  when  he  '  was  cool'  she  would  give 
him  every  explanation  which  a  reasonable  man  could  require.  Her 
calmness  told  upon  him.  With  something  approaching  to  civility 
in  his  tone  and  language,  he  inquired  into  her  motive  for  the  recent 
alteration, 

'*  *  It  was  twofold,*  replied  she;  *  my  husband's  comfort  and  your 
advantage.* 

'*  The  statement  she  had  heard  from  Mr.  Hewitt's  lips  the  wife 
then  repeated,  clearly  and  succinctly,  to  the  landlord.  Vagg  smiled 
incredulously. 

**  *  Is  this  all  ? — do  you  expect  me  to  credit  this  queer  story  ? 
Replace  the  mirror  i — replace  it  instantly,  or  abide  by  the  conse- 
quence!*.* 

*'  '  You  shall  be  obeyed,*  replied  the  weaker  vessel,  after  a  pause; 
'  here,  as  proprietor,  you  have  a  right  to  command :  the  glass  shaU 
be  restored  to  its  former  position— at  our  cost,  and  within  the  next 
ten  days;  prior  to  wliich  period  we  will  vacate  the  premises.* 


THE  GAOL   CHAPLAIN. 


101 


"'And    the    chapel    also?*    euggested    V^gf^    witli    emphasis. 
Have  a  care:  the  day  on  which  you  cease  to  be  tny  tenant  kere^ 
a  vacancy — so  far  as  Hewitt  is  concerned — there.* 

•'  •  You  coukl  not  be  so  cruel  T  cried  tlie  lady. 

*  Cruelty  be V  and  another  of  those  odd  words  followed 

which,  from  such  a  godly  man,  were  so  truly  unaccountable. 

"  *  You  have  but  a  solitary  voice  in  the  matter/  persisted  the 
preacher's  wife:  'you  have  co-truslees ;  they  will  take  a  more 
righteous  view  of  our  posiiion  ;  and  to  ihem — ' 

•*  •  You  may  vainly  appeal  T  cried  Vagg  triumphantly.  '  Each 
man  of  them  is  my  debtor.  1  can  crush  thera  when  I  will.  Be- 
sides *• — added  he  with  a  malignant  chuckle — *  I  am  treasurer :  I 
carry  the  bag.  I  can  withhold  the  supplies.  I  can  starve  you  into 
subnii^ion.  Quit  my  house,  say  you?  Quit  it — I  repeat^ — if  you 
dare !' 

•'  *  We  wiU  dare  it !'  retumed  the  lady  firmly ;  '  now  to  remain 
would,  indee<l^  be  worse  than  Egyptian  bondage/  And  in  this 
view  of  their  situation  Hewitt  fully  coincided,  when,  on  his  return 
from  Kings-Kerswell,  his  wife  informed  him  of  Vagg's  visit  and 
menaces. 

**  *  He  js  known  to  be  an  implacable  enemy,*  observed  the  pastor 
with  a  dgh :  '  let  us  at  once  seek  out  another  refuge  from  the 
ftorm/ 

"  *  I*et   OS   seek  out,*   returned  his  spirited   helpmate,   'another 
of  labour,  and  leave  this  hypocrite  to  his  own  wiles.     Time, 
^reat  revealer,  will  unmask  him/ 

"  Gloom  thus  lowered  over  the  fortunes  of  the  Hewitts*  when 
Bla^by,  who,  for  some  special  reason,  watched  secretly  but  vigi* 
lanUy  their  every  movement,  and  seemed,  by  some  unexplained  pro- 
cesa»' conversant  with  all  thetr  troubles,  called  upon  Vagg,  and  of- 
fered to  purchase  the  cottage.  The  sum  was  tempting — more,  in 
&ct,  than  the  premises  were  worth  ;  and  the  wily  Puritan,  who 
knew  that  if  his  house  gained  the  reputation  of  being  *  noisy,  * 
'  unquiet/  or  *  uncanny,*  he  should  have  difficulty  in  letting  it, 
cloted  quickly  with  biis  prosperous  neighbour's  offer.  Home  of  the 
knowing  ones  wondered  why  Blasby  should  buy  the  cottage,  and 
At  mch  m  price;  and  all,  when  he  razed  it  to  the  ground.  Its  de- 
molition was  Buperinteniled  by  himself  and  a  workman,  bound  to 
him  by  former  kindnesses,  and  in  whom  he  reposed  great  confi- 
deace.  In  thia  instance  it  was  unmerited  ;  for  his  dependent  did 
out  hesitate  to  declare,  most  solemnly,  to  his  wife,  that  on  taking 
down  the  cottage,  lie  and  Blasby  found  within  a  foot  of  the  surface 
tbe  akeleton  of  a  female,  buried  evidently  in  her  clothes  ;  *  huddled 
|0gether,  ail  of  a  heap/ — J  use  his  own  expression — and  who,  he 
lelt  positive,  from  many  circumstances,  had  come  to  her  end  un-. 
Urljr.  His  master,  he  added,  enjoined  silence,  and  promised  him 
epMtant  employment,  summer  and  winter,  so  long  as  he  was  </i*- 
creet :  a  promise  which  was  fully  redeemed.  Whether  this  accounts 
for  inuch  that  is  mysterious  in  the  history  of  the  sisters  ;  ff)r  Maude 
Pauler*  sudden  diappearance  ;  for  Blasby*8  rapid  rise  in  the  world  ; 
for  ibe  thraldom  in  which  he  held  Joanna;  for  the  gloom  and 
^ '•  tchednes:^,  despite  of  amjde  means,  with  which  she  was  eu- 
'uded  to  her  dying  hour;  and  for  Mr.  Hewitts  unaceonnUble 

ui'.viiicnt,  which  he  never  would  either  qualify  or  withdraw, — arc 


^ 


102  THE   GAOL   CHAPLAIN. 

poinU,  sir,"  concluded  my  companion^  **on  which  you  will  have 
formed  your  opinion,  as  I  have  long  since  formed  mine.  This  is 
St  David's  Hill.  Ugh !  ugh  I  ugh  !  It's  a  breather.  I  cannot  rise 
it  as  quickly  as  I  (Ud  some  five-and-forty  years  ago.  Here  is  my 
little  Tusculum.  Walk  in.  A  hearty  welcome  awaits  you  with  the 
humble  refreshment  I  have  to  offer.  What  say  you  ?  Fresh  fruit  ? 
a  bottle  of  cider  ?  a  cup  of  tea  ?  or  a  glass  of  sherry  ?  Nay ;  I  will 
take  no  excuse.    Enter." 


CHAPTBB  LXIII. 

THE   8BRF8  OP    ENGLAND. 

«  That  which  was  true  in  the  days  of  Pliny  the  Naturalist  is  equally  true  now. 
*  To  cultivate  land  by  slaves,*  says  that  ancient  writer,  '  is  the  worst  of  follies ;  for 
aii  work  is  badly  done  by  people  in  despair* — «  Coli  rura  ab  ergastulis  pessimum  est ; 
ei  quicquid  agitur  a  desperantibus.'  ** — Lib.  xviii. 

GuRHET*8  Visil  to  the  West  Indies, 

I  HAD  ofVen  been  struck  by  the  reluctance  with  which  agricul- 
tural labourers — committed  for  a  first  offence,  and  for  a  slight 
punishment— quitted  the  gaol.  The  discipline  necessarily  main- 
tained in  a  place  set  apart  for  punishment  could  not  be  otherwise 
than  irksome.  The  severance  from  home,  kindred,  and  friends 
must  unavoidably  have  been  painful.  The  degradation  of  wearing 
the  gaol  livery  was  in  itself  no  slight  annoyance,  and  yet  many 
doffed  it  with  apparent  unwillingness,  and  lefl  the  frowning  walls 
**  with  lingering  step  and  slow."  What  engendered  this  feeling  ? 
Ill-requited  toil ;  the  daily  pressure  of  pinching  poverty ;  the  hope- 
less misery  of  their  own  home.  A  deliberate  survey  of  many  a 
labourer's  cottage,  and  a  personal  investigation  into  many  a  labour- 
er's lot,  convince  me  this  conclusion  is  correct.  They  are  the  serfs 
of  England.  A  grievous  and  galling  bondage  is  theirs.  But  the 
landowners  are  not  the  oppressors.  The  tenant-farmers  are  the 
tyrants.  They  are  the  parties  who  rivet  the  yoke  around  the  neck 
of  their  dependents,  and  render  servitude  a  burden  *'  grievous  to 
be  borne." 

"  What  may  be  your  weekly  wages?"  said  I  to  an  old  patriarch 
of  seventy-four. 

"  Six  shillings  a-week :  with  myself,  my  wife,  and  two  grand- 
children to  keep  out  of  it ; — tight  work,  sir,  you  may  believe  me ! 
but  better  than  ^ng  into  the  house  !" 

"  True ;  but  it 's  too  far  in  the  afternoon  for  you  to  toil  now  ?" 

"  Nay  !  nay  V  cried  the  old  man  with  a  spice  of  offended  dignity, 
"  I  can  do  a  very  tidy  day's  work  even  yet.  I'm  the  best  thatcher 
still  in  these  parts.  1  can  plough  and  thresh  too ;  and  yestemoon 
I  walked  seventeen  miles  home  and  back  ;  and  set  two  roods  with 
barley  afler  wards.  Na !  na  I  master;  I'm  old,  and  I'm  bent,  but 
I  'm  not  past  work  for  all  that." 

"  And  how  do  you  account  for  these  three  incendiary  fires  in 
your  neighbourhood  within  the  last  fortnight?" 

**  Well  enough  r  cried  the  old  man  ;  '*  the  farmers  themselves  set 
'em  alightr 

'*  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Come,  my  old  friend,  that's  too  monstrous  a 
conclusion  to  be  credited." 


THE   GAOL    CHAPLAIN. 


I0S 


*'  It  it  ?  well  it  *s  the  right  one.  Tht  farmers^ fire  tfteir  own  ricJcM 
— by  driving  their  labourers  tlesperate*  They  pine  'em  to  tleath 
by  scTCwing  'em  down  to  st'irvalion  wages ;  and  having  put  the 
devil  into  their  hearts,  wonder  at  geeing  his  works.  And  then  they 
set  to  work,  and  blame,  and  cuss  the  landlords/* 

*'  For  what?" 

•'  Because  they  won't  go  without  their  rents.  But  heark'ee,  air," 
cried  the  old  man,  **  the  evil  lies  here  ; — farmers  now.a*days  live  aa 
if  they  were  owners  !     *Twttsn't  so  afore-time." 

•*  Where  was  the  difference?" 

**  Everywhere  1"  exclaimed  the  old  peasant.  *'  Missus  then  rode  to 
market  on  a  pillion  behind  master,  sold  her  own  butter,  and  bought  and 
brought  home  what  she  wanted  for  the  house.  Now,  she  's  a  lady,  and 
never  attends  market  at  all,  but  when  she  goes  abroad  drives  a  four- 
wheeL  In  my  early  time  good  home-brewed  was  parlour  drink  ; 
now,  wine  and  spirits  are  thought  none  too  good-  Then,  a  farmer 
was  a  farmer;  up  early  and  late,  seeing  after  his  men;  now»  he's 
a  hunter,  and  a  shooter;  and  his  farm  is  managed  by  a  head  man, 
or  bailiff*,  as  they  call  him.  Then,  a  poor  man  had  his  pig  and  his 
rood  or  two  of  land  for  potatoes ;  but  now  he  never  sees  meat  in  his 
cottage  from  one  year's  end  to  another.  Bread — bread— bread — 
tiolJiing  but  bread  before  him.  And  then  folks  wonder  when  they 
wee  empty  churches  and  blazing  rick-yards?  Men's  hearts  are  poi- 
foned  and  burnt  up  within  'em,  'Tis  well  we've  another  and  a 
better  home  to  look  to." 


I  turned  my  steps  in  another  direction.  A  snug-looking  little 
cottage  roae  before  me  ;  the  roof  was  well  thiitched ;  the  windows 
clean  and  whole  ;  the  little  garden  in  front  was  in  admirable  trim. 
and  odorous  with  flowers*  I  raised  the  latch  and  entered.  Alas  \ 
its  cheerfulness  was  wholly  external.  Within  sat  two  dejectotl 
besDgt,  atricken  in  years,  and  wan  and  pinched  with  want.  The 
room  was  clean,  but  stripped  of  furniture^  and  miserably  forlorn. 
A  heap  of  straw  in  a  corner  for  a  bed,  a  worm- eaten  table,  and  two 
chairSf  made  up  its  entire  garniture-  No  welcome  greeted  me  from 
its  occupants :  they  eyed  me  suspiciously  and  in  silence* 

**  A  desolate  cottage  this,  friend,**  said  I,  by  way  of  commencing 
the  conversation ;  **  no  fire,  too,  this  chilly  evening!  Is  fuel  scarce 
here?- 

*^No:  but  the  means  to  buy  it/' returned  the  husband  cjuickly. 
He  rose  as  he  spoke,  and  having  motioned  me  to  accept  the  vac;int 
aeat,  threw  himself  sullenly  upon  the  straw  heap, 

•*  He's  heart-broken  amost! '  cried  his  wife:  "not  a  day's  work 
for  these  seventeen  weeks.  Clothes  gone? — goods  gone!  — credit 
gone!     All  gone  but — the  comft^rt  of  an  honest  conscience." 

*'  How  is  it  that  I  see  you  in  this  extremity  ?*' 

"  Not  for  misdoing !"  said  the  man ;  "  none  cim  lay  that  to  my 
name." 

"  Pride,  sir,  pride  caused  our  trouble,"  interposed  the  wife :  "my 
Imeband  asked  liis  employer  for  his  wages.  Three  weeks*  pay  was 
due  to  him,  and  he  asked  his  master  to  settle.  He  got  his  money, 
and  was  told  to  leave  the  homestead  thcu  and  there.  lie  has  never 
been  employed  since.'* 


l#i  THB  GAOL   CHAPLAIN. 

"  B«l  fab  Mrtrr  bosI  hsTe  had  cause — beavy  cause— of  com- 
«'  Tea.  ar,  dds — tfaal  he  wanted  his  wages  and  asked  for  'em." 

^  Xooe:*  cried  the  man  eagerly ;  "  but  the  master  told  me  no 
laboarer  in  his  employ  should  dare  to  ask  him  for  money :  he  would 
pay  when  he  pleased,  and  not  before." 

**  Bat  though  his  fimn-yard  is  closed  against  you^  there  are  other 
land-occopieTS  in  the  parish ;  apply  to  them." 

•*  I  have :  but  they  dare  not  employ  me  —  no,  not  for  a  day. 
My  master  is  steward  to  the  Squire,  and  the  other  farmers  fear  to 
cross  hioft— aay  or  do  what  he  may.  Th^  are  all  only  tenants 
alwilL- 

**  And  this  in  England !"  was  my  muttered  soliloquy. 

**  There  are  white  sUtcs  as  well  as  black  ones,"  said  the  woman 
bitterly. 

'*  Can  ye  wonder,  sir,**  added  the  man  with  kindling  eye,  **  that 
with  a  cottage  bare  as  this,  and  a  master  hard  as  yon,  men  should 
poach,  and  thieve,  and  rob,  and  burn  ?  Who  drives  them  to  it  ? 
Eh  ?     Who  dnves  them  ?" 


And  this  in  a  parish  where  w&e  to  be  found  men  of  education, 
men  of  refinement,  resident  dergy,  and— shade  of  Judge  Oomey  !— 
Sunday  and  National  schools. 

Whether  these  latter  quite  answered  the  expectations  of  the  bene- 
volent lady  who  superintended  them,  may  fiurly  be  a  matter  of 
doubt. 

One  of  the  most  advanced  and  hopeful  scholars  brought  her  one 
year  a  bill  thus  elaboratelr  worded — 

<'  The  Reverend  Miss  Wright  debtr.  to  Jane  St(4ces: 

<*  For  one  peck  of  dammee  sins  one  shilling  and  seven  pence  !" 

Remonstrated  with  on  the  score  of  her  orthography,  Jane  amend- 
ed her  bill  the  following  year,  and  after  due  thought  phrased  it — 

<*  To  a  peck  of  damsels  one  shilling  and  nine  pence !" 

Again  Jane  Stokes  was  U^d  to  be  ''  steady,*'  and  to  *'  call  things 
by  their  right  names  ;**  and,  profiting  by  such  admonitions,  the 
autumn  of  the  next  year  saw  her  document  run  thus: 

<<  Miss  Wright  Dr.  to  Miss  J.  S. 

"  A  peck  of  demons  two  shillings." 

Poor  Jane !  Her  damsons  were  not  amiss,  either  as  to  size  or 
flavour,  strangely  as  she  named  them.  A  '*  ripe  scholar"  she  cer- 
uinly  was  not ;  though  Miss  Wright  boasted  much  of  her  affection- 
ate qualities.  These,  perhaps,  were  innate  in  the  family;  for  on 
the  death  of  the  old  Rector,  Miss  Wright's  father,  this  was  the  mes- 
sage brought  by  Jane  from  her  brother,  the  village  Vulcan,  to  the 
bereaved  lady,  and  delivered  with  many  tears  and  every  gesture 
and  demonstration  of  profound  respect : 

'<  The  Blacksmith's  love  to  the  Reverend  Miss  Wright  at  the  Rec- 
torv>  and  is  quite  agreeable  to  take  all  the  old  grates  off*  her  hands, 
if  that  wDl  be  any  accommodation  to  her." 

Here  was  a  considerate  serf!  His  portrait  should  be  painted  by 
Rota,  and  hung  up  in  the  National  Gallery. 


105 


THE  MARCHIONESS  OF  BRINVKrHERS, 

THB    POISONER    OP    THB    SBVBNTBENTB    CBNTURY. 

A    ROMANCi:     OF    OLD    PARIS. 

BY    ALBERT   SMITH, 

[with  av  illusthatiok  by  /.  I.£ECn.] 


ORAPTBB  XJcn. 


The  Orgy  it  th«  UAtel  de  Cluny. 


'idtGlunY)  into  the  court-yard  of  which  Guudin  led  the 

"fe 'High ting  from  the  carriage,  is   not  tmly  a  building  of 

neat  interest  at  the  present  day,  but  was  equally  celebrated  in  the 

*ddle  oges,  and  so  iniimately  connected  with  ancient  Paris,  even  in 

time  of  the  Romans,  that  a  very  brief  description  of  it  may  not  be 

^ther  out  of  place. 

Any  one  who  cares  to  visit  it  may  arrive  at  its  gates  by  proceeding 

up  the  Rue  de   la  Harpe  from  the  river,  at  the  Pont  St*  Alichel,  and 

taming  to  the  left  in  the  Rue  des  Mathurins.     Eut  ju^t  before  this 

point  the  Palais  des  Thermes  will  be  psissed, — the  remains  of  a  vast 

Raman  edifice,  which  once   occupied  a  large  area  of  ground  in  the 

Qoartier  Latin.     Of  this  building  the  hall  is  still  in  tolerable  preBer* 

Tation  ;  and  two  stages  of  subterraneous  passages  may  be  traced  to  the 

length  of  about  one  hundred  feet,  where  they  are  clioked  up  w^ith 

nuns.     There  is,  however,  existing  proof  that  they  formed  a  perfect 

eommunication  between  the  Palais  des  Thermes  and  t!ie  Convent  des 

Jlathurins,  at  the  other  extremity  of  the  street. 

Upon  the  foundations  of  the  Roman  building,  towards  the  close  of 
the  nfteeoth  centurvt  Jacques  D'Amboisej  one  of  the  nine  brothers  of 
Louis  the  Twelfth's  minister  who  bore  that   name,  built  the  present 
edifice*   The  ground  had  been  purchased  more  than  a  century  previous 
bj  Pierre  de  Chasius,  an  abbe  of  the  celebrated  order  of  Clnny^  a  por- 
tioo  of  the  Roman  palace  then  being  Rufticiently  perfect  to  reside  in  ; 
nd  that  became  the  residence  of  the  abbes  of  Clunyj  when  their  affairs 
e&Iled  them  to  Paris, 
The  new  building  was  raised  upon  this  site^  and  with  the  materials 
I    U  the  ancient  structure ;  so  that,  at  many  parts  of  the  Hotel,  the 
^^hioefiil  architecture  of  the  j/wj^en  age  may  be  seen  rising  from  the 
^^puidbtioii-wails  of  Roman  masonry.     This  is  not,  however,  the  only 
ptit  to  interest  the  artist  or  the  antiquary.     The  entire  edifice,  built 
IS  an  epoch  of  architectural  revolution,  is  a  mixture  of  the  last  inspira- 
tkos  of  the  gothic  style  with  the  first  dawn  of  the  reftaissance. 

At  the  commencement  of  the  sixteenth  century,  the  Hotel  de  Cluny 
wm  for  Bome  ti»ne  the  abode  of  Mary,  the  Queen  of  Louis  the  Twelfth, 
md  mter  of  our  own  Henry  the  Eighth,  She  had  been  married  only 
tiree  months  w^hen  she  was  left  a  widow,  being  then  little  more  than 
Wteo.*     Afterwards  it  was  inhabited  by  a  troop  of  comedians,  al- 

•  The  drcumttanoet  connected  with  the  residence  of  Mary  of  England  at  the 

HMde  Ctun^  are  iomewhat  too  curiona  to  he  pait^eil  over  at  this  plac-c,  tilthouyh 

tit  Civeilom  of  Brani6me  and  Dulanre;,  in  describing:  them,  may  \m  safUiinfd  down 

•tab  fedrfttua^.     Louih  waa  upward*  of  fifty  wbea  he  married  i  his  bride,  ii»  we 

VOL,  XVI IJ,  I 


106 


THE  MARCHIONESS   OF    BRINVILLIERS. 


though  by  what  means  the  players  were  enabled  to  establish  them- 
selves in  a  house  avowedly  the  dwelling  of  the  abbt*s  of  Cluny,  is  not 
explained  j  and  of  which,  whoever  lived  in  it,  they  never  ceased  to  be 
the  landlords.  Subaec|nent]y  it  was  made  a  species  of  temporary  con- 
vent for  the  reception  of  Marie  Angelique  Arnaud^  the  abbess  of  Port- 
Royal,  and  a  large  number  of  her  nuns,  whilst  a  religious  establish- 
ment was  built  for  them  in  the  Hue  de  la  Bourbcj  whi cb  at  the  present 
day  forms  the  Hospice  de  rAccouchement  of  the  same  name* 

It  is  now  some  six  or  seven  years  since  we  went  over  the  Hotel  de 
Cluny*  The  then  proprietor,  M.  du  Sommerard,  has  since  died,  and 
we  know  not  bow  his  decease  has  affected  the  admission  of  strangers. 
Certainly  it  was  at  that  time  the  most  interesting  object  of  curiosity 
that  Paris  afforded.  You  turned  from  the  narrow,  busy  Rue  de  la 
Harpe  into  its  quiet  court,  and  modern  Paris  was  for  the  moment 
forgotten  in  the  contemplation  of  the  old  and  graceful  building,  with 
its  picturesque  totfrelk, — its  beautifully-ornamented  attic  windows,  eacli 
Burrounded  by  a  different  pattern  of  florid  gotliic  sculpture, — its  an- 
tique Bponts,  and  chiseled  gallery  running  in  front  of  the  eaves,  still 
showing  its  exquisite  \vorkmanship,  in  s|>ite  of  the  clumsy  manner  in 
which  its  trellised  length  had  been  patched  up  with  m«rtar,  and  in 
many  places  totally  concealed,— its  vanes  and  gables.  Within,  it  was 
ricli  indeed  in  venerable  aasociations  ;  there  were  collected  all  those 
articles  of  rare  worth  and  veriu  that  made  the  Hotel  so  famous:  but 
these  were  not  to  us  the  principal  attractions,  for  much  was  the  result 
of  comparatively  modern  labour.  An  atmosphere  of  antiqtyty  pervaded 
the  interior ;  you  were  sensible  at  once  of  that  peculiar  odour  which 
clings  to  relics  of  former  times,^ — that  mixture  of  cathedral  interiors, 
old  burly  red-edged  bijoks,  worw*eaten  wainscoting,  and  damp  closets, 
which  is  almost  grateful,  despite  its  elements.  The  sunbeam  came 
through  the  patched  coloured  glass  of  the  old  windows,  and  fell  iu 
subdued  and  varied  lints  upon  the  relics  which  the  rooms  enshrined, — ^ 
relics  of  every-day  Hfe  in  days  long  passed  away, — which  it  would  not 
mock  with  the  garish  light  of  present  noon,  except  in  the  open  guUery, 
and  there  the  motes  appeared  to  wake  into  existence  in  its  rays,  and 
dance  about,  until  with  its  decline  they  fell  back  once  more  upon  the 

have  atiited<»  nhout  lixteen.  On  his  death  t1i«  crown  fell,  (^^t  want  of  a  direct  heir, 
to  the  Duke  af  V^iduis,  ufteru'»rd»  Francis  the  Firest  ;  bmt  the  young  itndow^  in  the 
hopFs  of  bein^  proclaimt*cl  R6^'ente,  feigtuHi  to  Iw  in  thtit  ctmdition  popularly  m- 
ierted  to  be  coveted  hy  ladies  who  are  iittailjcd  to  ihetr  lawful  partners.  And  in- 
deed the  attentions  of  tbe  f^nlbnt  Duke  of  Viih«i  were  suffidently  pointed  to  Iwid 
ibe  retailers  of  court  Kcnndiil  to  hint  that  the  Action  might  potisihly  lietxime  a  fact, 
— CO  much  BO,  that  the  tniuifttera  remonstrated  with  him«  They  tcdd  him  ihut  Jie 
must  baire  the  greatest  iiiteri-ttt  in  seeing  that  the  Queeii  lived  in  honour,  in>teud 
of  atlemptiiij?  to  pay  bis  conrt  to  her;  that,  if  she  lind  a  son,  nothing  couhl  kt*ep 
that  fton  from  ultimately  coming  to  the  throne,  and  ihrit  he,  FranciK,  must  rvtlrm 
contentedly  to  Brittany  j  in  fact,  thut  m'erytbing,  ultogetberT  would  be  as  unplea- 
sant for  him  as  could  po««ibly  be.  These  ailmoninliin|;s  appijar  to  liave  had  an 
isffect  upon  the  royal  gallant,  and  Rome  what  quenched  the  fire  of  his  pawion,  whit-h 
waa  altogether  put  out  by  learning  tluit  an  intrigue  was  all  this  while  being  carried 
on  between  the  young  Mary  and  Charles  Bnmdon,  Duke  of  Suffolk,  the  tnuai  ac- 
complished cavfther  of  his  u'me.  and  to  whom  the  Frtncess  had  shown  some  par- 
tiality before  her  marriage  with  liouis.  Francis  made  thi*  discovery  under  rather 
awkward  drciimstanees^  nn  matter  how— hi  the  HtUti  de  Ctunj/  ;  and,  by  his  eom- 
nall^  Muy  and  Suffolk  were  married  immediately  in  the  chapel  of  the  edifice. 
n^^ltf^  pair  left  Pari!!  ftir  Umdon  the  same  afterniHui.  Thus  ended  the  *d- 
••i^WiV  oy  which  Frauds  hiat  a  mistress,  but  insured  to  liimst^lf  the  crown  of 


THE   MAKCHI0NE8S    OF    BRINVILLIERS. 


107 


«»ld  ctrviiigs  and  mouldings  of  the  wood-work*  In  the  disfionitton  of 
iht  rooin^  with  their  numberless  articles  of  simple  domestic  use  and 
homely  furaiture,  the  past  was  once  more  recalled  ;  the  visitor  lived, 
for  the  time*  in  the  bosom  of  a  family  long  since  for^ntten,  even  to  its 
v^ry  name;  the  solitude  was  il impelled,  and  the  antique  cimmbers  were 
once  m«j«re  peopled  with  their  farmer  occnpHjits,  glidinf^  noiselessly 
about  the  polisihed  floors,  circling  round  the  table,  f»till  laid  out  fur 
their  meal,  or  kneeling  at  the  chapel  altar,  as  the  quivering  liijht  fell 
on  them,  piercing  the  leaves  that  clustered  from  the  trees  of  the  gar- 
den ad}oinin«;  about  the  windows.  The  day*dream  was  impressive, 
and  all-absorbing.  The  feeling,  upon  once  more  turning  into  the 
busy  hum  of  the  city^  was  that  of  dissatisfaction  and  confusion,  tike 
the  first  waking  from  a  morning  slumber^  in  which  we  have  been  again 
communing  with  those  whom  we  once  loved, 

8ainte-Croix  and  ^larie  entered  the  principal  door  of  the  corps-de-m 
logi*  of  the  Hotel,  and  passed  up  the  staircase.  He  was  recognised 
iiid  saluted  respectfully  by  the  domestics,  as  one  on  terms  of  great  in« 
liouiey  with  the  master.  The  interior  of  the  Hotel  w:is  brilHantlj 
ill  I  I  ;  and  every  now  and  then  sounds  of  the  wildest  revelry 

bu,  J  the  corridors,  a^  tlie  heavy  rustling  curtains  that  hung  over 

the  iioorii  were  thrust  un  one  side.  As  they  neared  the  principal  room, 
a  min  stepped  out  and  met  them.  His  symmetrical  tigure  was  well 
•et  oifbTa  magnificent  dress;  his  physiognomy  was J^/jiW^z^^/Zet  without 
being  handsome  ;  his  presence  was  commanding  and  prepossessing. 

'*  My  dear  Sainte-Croix,'*  he  exclaimed  as  he  saw  Gaudin,  •'  you 
ire  welcDme.  The  hours  were  flying  by  so  rapidly,  that  I  began  to 
tliink  we  should  not  see  you." 

"  Time  generally  runs  away  with  bright  grains,  MarquiB,  whenever 
f(m  direct  his  Hight,  He  must  till  his  glass  &om  the  sands  of  Factolus 
when  be  measures  your  enjoyments." 

"  Will  you  present  me  to  your  fair  oompaniou?"  said  the  host,  as  he 

glanced  towards  the  Marchioness. 

-^,    **  Henri ette,**  said  Gaudin,  using  a  false  name  to  his  partner,  **  this 

ji  the  Marquis  de  Lauzun.     His  mere  name  conveys  with  it  all  those 

guod  qualities  which,  in   one   less   known,  we   should   mention  dis> 

nelly." 

The  Murquis  bowed,  and  Marie  inclined  in  return  to  his  salute, 

at  the  same  time;  for  she  knew  htm  well,  and  was  fearful 

J  discovered.     And  indeed  Lauzun  perceived  in  an  instant,  by 

•  deportment,  that  her  manners  had  more  of  the  court  than  the  eou* 
tau4  itljout  them. 

■•  ViMi  have  a  charming  residence,  Murquia,*'  she  observed,  endea- 
vonniig  ta  disguise  her  voice. 

•'Say.  Hither,  the  abbes  of  Cluny  have,"  replied  De  Lauzun  ;  "for 
I  am  liere  only  as  an  intruder.  But  they  are  loo  liberal  to  me.  In 
retttm  ior  wome  poor  advantages  I  ])ersuaded  his  Majesty  to  bestow 
m^mn  their  order,  they  give  up  their  house  to  me  whenever  I  require  it* 
t  '     tt  the  company  who  honour  me  this  evening." 

^v  aside  the  heavy  tnpestry  as  he  spoke,  and  ushered  Sainte- 

Cru^x  -4iid  Murie  into  the  italon.     The  t^cene  that  presented  itself  was 

most  exciting> — almost  bewildering  from  its  gorgeous  revelry.     The 

1<*  HUtte   of  rooms  had  l>een  thrown  open,  tind  was  one   blaKe  of 

^wt  ,  the  innumerable  wax  candles,  shedding  their  Imlliancy  upon  the 
UkiiiBg  Irom  evury  a/ailable  position,  clustered  in  galaxies  of  bright 


OF   BRINTILLIERS. 


and   quaintly^shaped 

Eic   arcbi lecture  of  tbe 

1  iritli  splendid  elegance 

:  pcgpectiTet  of  light  along  the 

bimnching  off*  from  the 

Bg  gnring   tbem   a   look 

' ;  all  tlwl  Paris  then  knew  of 

crilicsted  diat  evening  in  the 

IW  ca^iBii  I  mid  ^hmi  we  in  eqnal  numbers ; 

dr  wmakied  st  Maiie,  as  were  a  fetr — 

Olfcftii  oC  ^hm  bk  rishors  displayed 

■It,  tm  ike  laH,  in  tiie  aame  loose  fusbion 

IB  tW  mm  •ttsoo  upon  the  Pant 

i  ife  attnebaBa  af  llieae  beautiea  were  of 

Don   tbe   nrajortty 

but  now  their 

J  cfy«i  vctit  ifcritiBag  aritb  qqtgfi,— a  glow  of  warmth 

L  mid  la§t§mhBi^  tkor  dsBBik  eheelre, — ite  loog  cliuters  of  per* 

>)f  fsf&m  l^iaT  rounded  shoul- 
_  _  npartee  fell  from  their 

[  Wlibi  jajaMTpgda  af  tUr  aOrerr  Uughteri  their 
pgarif  iws  af  teedi,  vlidi  frtdj  daazled  by  their 
■a  «^ikasa  tKe  w^'tencaa  of  tkeir  dda. 
tmm,  oatftaouBg  bedti  fitted  op  wtlh  magnificent 
taaa  af  mA  bfwadaw  ^o^  witk  gald  or  embroidered 
dbanie  deviee^  vcte  all  tiirwB  #|ieB,  according  to 
avif  froH  tka  naaa  bjr  ligkt  gut  raUingB ;  and 
Hi  I^BO^f  flLMLBaiMi  VCR  lomfii^  plajing  at  dice 
[  if  m  cavwd  af  loahgaaM  ;  aaa  the  profusion  of 
livaad  fiitaga  auttetwl  ranUailj  atbaat  d«wad  Uttt  tbe  yUf  was  high 
and  recUeaa.  Tlie  exxreBOHj  of  tfe  gallery  was  veiled  bj  some  fine 
&fari^  apd  be&ind  tbi%  eoooealed  fnm  the  view,  a  band  of  musicians, 
of  o  niODber  tboa  aeldoBn  ooUected^  waa  perfbraung  the  latest  compo«ii- 
tiocis  of  tbe  ooort.  In  the  centre,  a  table  glittering  with  plate  and 
giaat,  waa  loaded  with  the  choicest  refreshments,  and  the  most  inge- 
■iooa  devices  in  confectionarr,  stirroonding  a  fountain  of  marvellous 
trwrkmanahip,  modelled^  after' the  Bassin  de  Neptune  at  Versailles,  in 
dead  silver  and  crystal,  plajing  various  kinds  of  wine,  which  fell  into 
aeparate  compartments,  whence  it  was  drawn  bv  the  guests  into  chased 
stiver  flagons  and  goblets  of  variegated  Bohemian  glass.  The  air  waa 
heavy  with  costly  perfumes,  whose  vapours  wreath^  out  from  antique 
tripods ;  and  every  flower  that  art  could  force  into  bloom,  for  tbe  time 
of  year^  assisted  to  ibnn  the  rich  bouquets  that  were  placed  about  in 
all  directions. 

'*  Place,  messieurs,"  cried  Lauzun  gaily,  affecting  the  manners  of  a 
chamberlain,  *'  for  the  Captain  Oaudin  de  Sainte-Croix,  who  will  throw 
down  bis  dice  as  a  gage  to  any  adversary  who  chooses  to  meet  him  i  *' 

A  number  of  young  men  welcomed  Gaudin  as  tbe  others  sjKike.    He 

*Tit»  evidently  p<>pular  amongst  them,  possessing  in  a  high  degree  that 

ital  versatility  of  pleasing  which  can  mask  tbe  most  heartless  and 

iHirincipied  disposition  with  a  semblance  of  the  most  ingenuous  gaiety 

uhisc, 

dge  jou,  Monsieur  de  Sainte-Croi\,*'  cried  a  cavalier,  whose 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OF   BRINVILLIERS.  109 

dress  was  a  stranee  mixture  of  extreme  elegance  and  the  roughest  tex- 
ture, ''  and  will  place  a  hundred  louis  d'ors  against  your  own." 

''  A  match ! "  cried  Graudin,  throwing  his  purse  on  the  bed>  round 
which  the  party  gathered,  including  Marie,  who  still  kept  close  to  his 
side. 

"  There  are  my  pieces,"  replied  the  other ;  *'  they  need  no  count- 
ing." 

And  he  placed  a  rude  leathern  bag  by  Sainte-Croix's  sparkling  purse. 

"  I  shall  beat  you,  ChavaCTac,"  said  Gaudin. 

"  You  will  be  clever  to  do  it,"  observed  a  bystander.    *'  The  Count* 
de  Chavagnac  has  ruined  us  this  night." 

"  A  new  gown  of  ruby  velvet  d  tongues  tnanches,  at  the  next  Foire 
Sainte  Germain,  for  me,  if  you  win,  Chavagnac,"  said  one  of  the  hand- 
-  somest  of  the  women. 

"  You  shall  have  it,  Marotte,"  replied  the  Count. 

"  What  do  you  promise  me,  M.  de  Sainte-Croix,  for  old  friendship?" 
continued  Marotte  Dupre, — ^for  it  was  her, — ^turning  to  Gaudin.  "  l«et 
it  be  a  kiss,  if  it  be  nothing  else." 

Gaudin  looked  towards  her,  and  pressed  her  arm,  as  he  contracted 
his  forehead,  and  made  a  sign  of  silence.  He  felt  a  sudden  shudder 
pass  over  the  frame  of  the  Marchioness ;  and,  when  he  turned  round, 
ner  eyes  glared  like  a  fury's  through  her  mask.  She  withdrew  her  arm, 
and  coldly  fell  back,  as  she  whispered, 

"  My  eyes  are  being  opened  anew.     Beware  I " 

Gaudin  was  for  the  instant  annoyed,  and  returned  no  answer.  Ma- 
rotte Dupre  had  not  taken  the  hint,  and  continued, 

''  You  owe  me  something  on  the  score  of  your  conduct  when  An* 
toine  Brinvilliers  carried  me  to  the  Rue  d'Enfer  against  my  wilL  By 
the  way,  where  is  his  wife,  Dubois  ?  You  know  the  secrets  of  every 
woman  in  our  good  city." 

This  was  addressed  to  the  Abbe  Dubois,  whose  name  as  a  gallant^ 
either  on  his  own  part  or  that  of  the  King's,  was  pretty  weU  esta- 
blished. 

"Where  she  should  be,  —  cniietly  at  home,"  replied  the  Abbe. 
"  Brinvilliers  is  on  his  travels.  He  is  another  man  since  she  left  him, 
or  he  left  her,  or  they  left  one  another.  How  is  it,  M.  de  Sainte- 
Croix  ? — you  ought  to  know." 

'*  By  the  mass ! "  cried  Gktudin  angrily,  "  my  sword  can  answer  the 
curiosity  of  any  one  better  than  my  tongue." 

"  It  is  the  more  innocent  weapon  of  the  two  in  Paris  just  at  pre- 
sent," said  Marotte.     *'  O  my  reputation  I " 

Gaudin  looked  towards  Marie.  By  the  quivering  of  a  jewelled  ai- 
grette that  formed  a  portion  of  her  head-dress,  he  could  see  that  she  was 
trembling,  and  her  hand  tightly  clutched  part  of  the  rich  curtain  that 
hung  beside  her. 

'*  Chut !  "  cried  Lauzun,  observing  Sainte-Croix's  kindling  temper; 
"  to  your  play." 

''  Nine ! "  said  Gaudin,  throwing  his  dice,  as  he  caught  at  the  oppor- 
tunity of  turning  the  subject. 

"  Nine  also,"  observed  Chavagnac,  throwing. 

"  Ten  ! "  exclaimed  Gaudin.  "  Will  you  pay  me  half,  or  run  the 
chance  ?" 

"I  will  play,"  replied  Chavagnac,  gently  shaking  the  dice-box. 
"  Twelve." 


I#  1^  ICOCHIDSESS   OF  BRnmLUEBS. 


/*  caei  GiwiHn,  ^  joa  hare  gained  them.    I  tlum^t  my 

. ■  btttBt  dban.  tiiat. 

'  Yua.  OBropC  wiioas  they  were  to  play  against,'*  said  Charagnac  with 
A.,2nK  snl^  tsikin^  up  the  money.  "  Come,  I  shall  be  in  funds  again. 
Ffciirmnri  auwiicality  has  kept  me  from  the  high-road.  The  twelve 
JBadzoi  phinip^  I  appropriated  from  the  good  people  of  the  Gaxonoe 

4PtJ.L  SUBLLT  SfHie.* 

*'  TtjK  eui  stzll  gire  ase  the  kiss,  Gaudin,  without  being  entirely 
rmneiL^  jaiii  ILimcte  Dapre,  as  she  pouted  her  red  lips  towiurds  him. 

laabnB-Cioix  inciizsed  hk  head  towards  her.  As  he  did  so>  Marie 
(iarcni  iirword.  ssd  TMueatlj  drew  him  back.  The  action  was  seen  by 
ail  tfe  byaciBdia&.  TWy  said  nothing,  but  shrugged  their  shoulders ; 
wniisc  M:iBaG»  Dtae  ^Mailed  as  if  she  felt  perfectly  ready  for  another 
ihasL  wxsft  ler  msw  imi  xxkavwn  rival. 

**  MkSKse'irsw''  crsed  T^tTTiam^  "  I  have  a  novelty  in  store  for  you.  I 
bspe  pkiBed.  m  a  SiiLpw  as  tike  Pont-Neuf,  who  will  sing  you  coup- 
Icta  jdMtt  Tivzseiires  by  tW  Bile.  He  is  there  every  afternoon  that  it 
ia  Tara  emutcEi  3ur  yMk:i  z»  s&umI  and  listen." 

'*'  L«t  as  sea  oinu*  sni  I>abais  anxious  with  the  rest  to  turn  the 
MtewiiMi  «t  die  taanpaoy.  "^ J  diMt  Usftmmei !  There  is  not  a  mx- 
^sy  in  due  wvtd  boc  s  ciBBectni  with  them,  if  you  search  its  source.'* 

"*  >N«>  a  pteaavxeb^'*  seiiOKd  f^aTunn,  **  You  ought  to  know,  Abh^ 
I  ■ss^^STraas  teadnfs  mything." 

*  Aaii  MiasMrar  vwes  kaow,"  said  a  person  who  entered  just  at  the 
n— Lnt>  A  ^iiaBQa  «uEced  ta  show  Sainte-Croix  that  it  was  Bcnoit, 
wQtf  uipMSPat  ui  bave  re-^aRmed,  in  part,  his  ancient  mountebaink  eoa- 


"  r!ii»  i»  dw  i»Iiiw.^  jaid  Lanann-  ''Come,  friend,"  be  eonti- 
3iieit»  Mitiiniaiiiii  die  ocier,  -*■  tio  ya«  see  any  one  here  you  can  sing 

'  Xbuc  ia  L"  safii  Benoit^  krakiii^  over  the  crowd ;  ''  there  is  the 
AlMNf  DniMua." 

*  R«»pei:c  die  church,"  cried  Lanzsn  laughing.  "  The  Abb6  is 
heyond  your  eMtplets.** 

-  N<ic  at  aH,"  said  Benoit.  ^  Mere  Ledm  left  the  Quartier  Saint- 
H«w«  hot  yesterday,  entirely  to  save  her  daughter  from  his  addresses. 
Ob !  the  Abbe  is  a  6011  diable,  but  sly  in  his  pursuits.     Hem ! " 

And  dearing  hxa  voice,  he  sang  these  lines,  the  others  repeating  the 
hat  Hbcs  in  dboms : — 

^  Monsieur  1*AU)^,  oa  aDcs-Tow  ? 
Vans  alJcz  too*  rrnmrr  \t  coa, 
Vous  allcz  sans  rhandcOes^ 
£fa  bfcn! 
Poor  Toir  )es  demoiseDea  f 
Vous  ro'entendez  bien ! 
Ce$i  bieti  / 
Pour  voir  Us  demouelles  /*' 

**  Silence,  rascal  I "  cried  Dubois,  hurling  some  pieces  at  Benoit's 
bead,  who  picked  them  up,  put  them  in  his  pocket,  and  was  quieted 
directlv,— sooner,  indeed,  than  the  langh  against  the  gallant  Abbe 
which  he  had  raised. 

Let  M.  de  Sainte-Croix  have  his  turn,"  said  Chavagtiac.     "  Do 
know  him,  fool?" 


TftE   MARCHIONESS    OF    BRIN\"ILUERS.  Ill 

Benoit  glanced  eirpressirely  at  Gaudin  m  he  ootnmenced : — 

*^Mmmeat  Gaudm  d«  Saiute-Croix, 
Whcni*  do  you  your  treaturet  draw  ? 
Not  from  dioe^  nor  cards  alone^ 
Nor  pMloftOphyn  rare  stone, 

Biribi ! 
Why  affect  tucli  scenes  as  these, 
Aod  Delect  your  battle  Marquis  / 

Where  ii  she  ? 
Left  Jamenting:,  like  Luui»e. — 

Sacristit  /" 

[v^Gaudin's  cLeek  flamed  with  anger.  The  company  observed  that  he 
i  stung  deeper  than  mere  badinage  coiiid  ha\re  done  ;  and  this  time 
the  laugh  was  less  general  than  the  one  which  had  been  raised  against 
the  Abbe*  He  drew  Marie's  arm  closer  within  his  own,  and,  with  a 
look  of  vengeance  at  Benoit,  left  the  circle  ;  whilst  the  other  proceeded 
to  launch  a  couplet  against  Chavagnac,  filled  with  no  very  compli- 
mentary  allusions  to  his  wild  spirit  of  appropriation. 


CHAPTBR    XXIIL 
Sainte- Croix  and  Marie  encounter  an  uniDrited  guest. 

IBT  were  each  in  ill  humour  with  one  another.  The  apparent  in- 
timacy of  ilarotte  Dnpre  had  aroused  all  Marie's  jealousy,  so  terrible 
in  its  very  calm  ;  and  Gaudin  had  been  annoyed  by  Benoit's  tdlu^sions. 
They  parsed  along  the  room  without  speaking,  nor  was  it  until  they 
gained  an  apartment  at  the  end  of  the  suite  that  a  word  was  spoken. 

It  wag  a  small  room  they  entered,  with  two  deeply-stained  windows, 
and  lighted  by  lamps  placed  on  the  outer  side  of  the  gla£8j  producing 
almoit  the  same  effect  as  though  it  had  been  day. 

*•  1  think  you  must  repent  having  brought  me  here,"  said  the  Mar- 
diicmess  coldly,  ^'  It  was  badly  contrived  on  your  part  not  to  forewarn 
ytnir  other  favourites,  that  they  might  have  been  more  cautious.** 

"  Your  suspicions  are  so  utterly  without  foundation,"  replied  Sainte- 
Croix,  **that  I  shall  not  take  the  pains  to  refute  them.  At  present 
there  are  other  matters  of  deeper  import  that  demand  my  attentionw  I 
tmpect,  when  you  learn  all,  you  will  give  yourself  little  care  about  the 
continuance  o^  our  liaison.  We  may  then  know  some  respite  from  the 
fevered  restlessness  and  uncertainty  of  our  connexion.  We  have  cx- 
pef  fenced  but  little  since  we  have  been  acquainted." 

There  was  a  bitterness  of  tone  in  his  manner  of  pronouncing  the 
kit  {tentences  that  attracted  the  attention  of  the  Alarchioness. 

"  What  are  you  alluding  to?"  she  asked. 

"  In  a  word,  Marie,  I  am  ruined.  The  sum  of  money  I  brought 
here  %vith  me  to-night,  in  the  Lope  of  doubling  it,  is  gone.  I  am 
drfply  involved  :  my  creditors  are  pressing  me  on  every  side,  and  I 
know  not  which  way  to  turn  to  extricate  myself." 

"  YuQ  judge  me  too  harshly,  Sainte-Croix/' replied  the  Marchioness. 
**  Jkly  sweetest  revenge  wuuld  be  to  assist  you  when  you  were  utterljr 
dentUute.  What  must  be  done  ?  The  money  left  me  by  my  father  i« 
in  my  brothers*  keeping.  Not  a  sol  is  spent  but  1  must  render  them 
la  accoant/' 


112 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OF    BRIKTILLIERS, 


^*  But  one  step  is  left  to  be  takenj"  said  Gaudtn.    "  The  time  Las 

arrived  :  they  must  be  removed/' 

Blarie  remained  for  a  time  silent,  as  if  waiting  for  Sainte^Croix  more 
fully  to  develope  his  meaning.     At  length  she  spoke  : 

"  I  know  not  how  we  can  proceetl.  1  cannot  tell  whether  it  be  my 
own  fancy  or  there  is  in  reality  grtmnd  for  suspicion,  hut  my  brothers 
appear  to  watch  me  in  every  action  —  every  step.  I  see  so  little  of 
them,  too*     They  are  seldom  in  the  Rtie  Saint  Paul/' 

"  We  must  set  other  agencies  to  work,"  said  Gaud  in*  **  An  apparent 
5»tranger  would  never  be  suspected/' 

"  It  is  dangerous/*  replied  the  ^^archione58, 

'*  It  is  necessary/*  added  Sainte-Croix.  And  after  a  moment's  pause 
he  continued :- — ^*  The  man  Lachaiisate,  whom  you  have  seen  with  me, 
is  mine,  body  and  soul.  I  can  in  an  instant  cause  to  fall  the  sword 
which  bangs  over  his  head.  Your  brothers'  occupation  of  Olferaont 
will  require  an  increase  of  their  establi^vhrnent :  can  we  not  get  La- 
chaussee  into  their  service  ?  They  will  then  be  comparatiyely  in  our 
hands." 

"  Is  he  to  he  trusted  ?** 

^*  He  is  wily  as  an  adder,  and  m  fatal  in  his  attack,  to  those  who  have 
not  charmed  him*  I  will  put  this  scheme  in  train  to-morrow.  He 
only  awaits  my  word  to  proceed/' 

''  It  must  be  done/'  replied  the  3i  I  arch  ion  ess. 

And  then  she  uttered  a  long  deep  sigh,  the  relief  to  her  overcharged 
heart  being  accompanied  by  a  low  moan  uf  intense  mental  pain, — not 
from  remorse^  but  utter  despondency  of  the  reaction  of  her  spirits,  and 
the  npparent  blackness  of  the  prospect  before  her.  The  next  moment,  , 
as  if  ashamed  of  the  demonstration  of  her  feelings,  she  fitarted  up  from 
the  couch  on  which  they  had  been  sitting,  and  prepared  to  return  to 
the  principal  room.  As  she  advanced  towards  the  door,  tdie  took  a 
brilliant  jewelled  chain  from  her  neck,  and  placed  it  in  Gaudin's 
hands. 

"  Whilst  we  have  an  opportunity,"  she  said,  "  let  me  give  you  this  , 
carcanet.     It  is  of  some  value,  and,  by  selling  it  at  the  Quai  des  Or- 
fevres  you  can  provide  for  your  present  superficial  expenses/* 

Gauclin  did  not  hesitate  to  take  the  costly  ornament.  He  knew  the 
necessities  of  his  position :  hesidci*,  all  finer  feelings  of  delicacy  had 
long  heen  merged  in  the  gulf  of  his  darker  pai>sions.  He  placed  the 
chain  in  the  pocket  of  his  cloak,  and  went  towards  the  corridor*  But, 
as  they  were  about  to  pass  nut,  a  portion  of  a  large  book-case,  masking 
a  door  with  imitations  of  the  backs  of  volumes,  was  thrown  open,  and 
Exili  stood  before  them. 

iVIarie  uttered  a  slight  cry  of  ahirm,  as  she  started  at  the  sudden 
apparition.  Sainte-Croix  seized  the  handle  of  his  sword,  and  portly 
drew  it  from  its  scahhard  ;  but  the  moment  he  recognised  the  physi* 
ciau  he  returned  it. 

**  Exili  1 "  he  exclaimed. 

**  You  may  well  be  surprised,**  replied  the  intruder-  **  I  can  excuse 
your  alarm,  especially  when  vou  had  such  interesting  schemes  to 
fettle/' 

"  He  has  heard  everything  !  "  said  the  Marchioness  to  Sainte-Croix, 

She  spoke  in  a  low,  Imrried  tone,  scarcely  above  a  whisper;  but  the 
quick  ears  of  Exili  caught  the  import. 

**  Ay,  everything,"  he  replied,  with  emphasis  upon  the  last  word; 


THE  MABCHIONESS  OF  BRINYILLIERS.  113 

**  both  here>  and  when  you  thought  there  were  no  others  near  you  but 
the  silent  inmates  of  the  salle  des  cadavres  at  the  Hotel  Dieu. 

She  instantly  recollected  the  alarm  which  the  noise  of  footsteps  had 
caused  at  the  ho6pital>  and  the  figure  which  Marie  persisted  in  saying 
had  followed  them  in  the  Rue  des  Mathurins. 

'^  Every  day — every  hour^"  continued  £xili>  as  his  eyes  blazed  upon 
them  like  those  of  a  famished  animal  in  sight  of  food^  **  brings  you 
closer  and  closer  to  my  toils." 

''  I  presume  I  may  be  spared  from  this  threatened  revenue,"  said 
Marie, ''  whatever  it  be.  There  has  been  nothing  in  common  between 
us.     I  know  you  not." 

''  But  I  know  you,  Marchioness  of  Brinvilliers/'  returned  EzilL  ''  I 
ought  to.  The  mention  of  your  name,  one  fine  spring  evening,  on  the 
Carrefour  du  Chatelet,  caused  me  to  be  hunted  like  a  beast  from  my 
habitation,  and  confined  for  many  lingering  months  in  the  noisome 
cells  of  the  Bastille.  You  caused  the  punishment :  you  shall  assist  in 
its  reparation,  or,  failing  therein,  be  ruined  with  your  paramour." 

"  Miscreant ! "  cried  Sainte-Croix,  as  he  seizedi  an  antique  axe  from 
a  stand  of  ancient  arms  that  surmounted  the  mantelpiece ;  '* silence! 
except  you  would  have  your  miserable  life  ended  at  this  instant." 

"  Strike,  Monsieur,"  replied  Exili  calmly.  "  Kill  me  here,  i^  yoo 
please ;  and  to-morrow  morning  you  will  be  summoned  by  the  Pro- 
cureur  du  Roi  to  attend  the  exhumation  of  the  body  of  M.  Drenx 
D'Aubray,  and  witness  the  result  of  certain  chemical  tests  which  I 
have  written  down,  and  which  will  be  delivered  to  the  police  by  a 
trusty  acquaintance  when  he  hears  of  my  death." 

Sainte- Croix's  arm  fell,  with  the  weapon,  by  his  side.  He  gazed  at 
Exili,  with  his  brows  knit  in  corrugations  of  painful  intensity. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?"  he  added,  in  a  thick,  quivering  voice. 

'*  The  trade  of  sorcerer  is  failing,"  continued  Exili ;  ''  we  are  com- 
pelled to  burrow  like  animals  underground,  and  dare  not  fisice  the  day. 
That  of  poisoner  is  in  a  yet  worse  position,  thanks  to  the  lieutenant  of 
police,  M.  de  la  Reynie.  I  must  have  money  to  enable  me  to  retire* 
and  die  elsewhere  than  on  the  Greve." 

''  I  am  ruined,"  replied  Gkiudin.  '*  This  evening's  play  has  robbed  me 
of  the  last  sum  I  possessed." 

"  But  you  expect  more,"  he  replied,  ''  when  Madame's  brothers  are 
removed.  M.  D'Aubray  was  rich,  and,  in  fault  of  other  children,  she 
will  be  sole  heiress,  beyond  a  trifling  annuity  to  her  sister,  who  has  for 
some  years  retired  from  the  world.  You  know  this,  and  have  calcu- 
lated on  it." 

They  returned  no  reply.  Exili  took  a  small  roll  of  parchment  from 
his  vest, — the  portion  of  some  old  deed, — and  continued  :-— 

"  What  is  easier  than  for  you  to  give  me  your  promise  that  I  shall 
share  this  wealth  with  you  ?     I  have  drawn  up  the  conditions." 

He  read  them  over  to  Gaudin  slowly  and  distinctly ;  and,  as  he 
concluded,  laid  them  upon  a  marble  table  close  at  hand. 

"  We  have  here  neither  pen  nor  ink,"  said  Gkiudin. 

*'  Pshaw  !  this  evasion  is  contemptible,"  replied  Exili,  as  he  threw 
up  his  loose  black  sleeve.  "  See  here — the  yellow  shrivelled  skin  will 
barely  cover  these  blue  veins.  They  are  full  of  blood,  and  easily 
opened." 

He  took  a  lancet  from  his  pouch,  and  pierced  one  of  the  vessels ; 
then,  as  the  blood  sluggishly  trickled  forth,  he  twisted  a  slip  of  parch- 


]M 


THE  MABCHIONESS   OF  BRrNVlLLTERS, 


oiesii  to  a  potni  ipmllj,  aod  loading  it  with  the  red  iiuid^  gave  it  to 
Gaodin. 

"  Yott  flii^t  write  imircr  cbamcters  witli  a  better  pen/*  he  said  ; 
**  liQt  this  wfl]  answer  erery  ptirpose.  I  use  it  from  necessity,  not  to 
maike  the  doctunent  more  imnreasiTe  ;  far  blood  is  to  me  no  more  than 

Samtie^Orenx  hastily  signed  the  paper ;  and  then  KxUi  took  it  up, 
a»d^  baring  looked  to  see  that  all  wfis  fairly  done,  replaced  it  in  his 
▼est. 

*'  You  can  continue  yonr  enjoyments,"  he  said  ;  *'  but  do  not  seek  to 
follow  me.  Hereafter  I  will  receive  you*  I  make  no  mystery  to  you 
of  the  way  by  which  I  came  here.  The  pas$;ige  below  this  door  has  a 
communication  with  the  Palais  des  Therme^^  and  I  occupy  the  vault 
for  mj  laboratory.  You  will  6nd  me  there,  if  you  enter  from  the  Rue 
de  la  Harpe,  and  show  the  man  at  the  gate  this  talisman*  The  place 
is,  to  all  appearance,  a  cooper's  workshop." 

He  placed  a  small  triangular  piece  of  parchment,  covered  with  fan- 
tastic figures,  which  might  have  been  an  amulet  for  any  dupe  that  had 
consulted  him,  in  GauJiit  s  hand.  He  then  entered  a  species  of  closet, 
the  back  panel  of  which  revolved  on  a  pivot»  altuwing  him  topaas  out, 
aHer  he  had  reclosed  the  masked  door  of  the  bot>k-ca*e. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 
Louise  Ganthier  falls  into  dangerous  bsndi« 

The  same  company  filled  the  apartments^  as  Gaudin  and  Marie  re- 
turned. Bat  the  mirth  was  wilder^  and  the  laugh  louder;  the  e<jui- 
vocal  jest  was  hazarded  with  greater  freedom,  and  the  repartee  was 
bolder*  Several  of  the  company  still  presericd  their  masks;  hut 
nmny  of  the  females  had  discarded  theirs,  who  hilherto  had  kept  their 
faces  closely  veiled,  and  now  demonstrated  the  singular  gruden  of 
female  society,  from  the  bigliest  to  the  very  lowest,  that  had  collected 
together.  A  branch -room  had  been  fitted  up  as  a  temporary  stage, 
and  on  this  a  numher  of  dancers  from  Ver>Rille8  were  performing  a 
ballet,  lately  produced  at  court.  La  Naissance  de  Venus,  in  such  cos- 
tumes as  were  especially  appropriate  to  the  subject.  It  cunduded  as 
the  Marchioness  arri^'ed  in  the  salon. 

''  Lauzun  seems  Inclined  to  make  a  reputation,"  said  Sal nte- Croix 
to  Dubois.  ^'  Fouquet  himself  would  have  felt  his  eyes  Uink  at  such 
mapiificence" 

**  I  question  whether  he  enjoys  it,  though,"  was  the  reply.  "  But  it 
suits  his  policy.  What  [liece  of  diplomacy  is  he  bringing  to  bear  with 
those  two  actresses  ?" 

**  Let  us  assist  him,*'  said  Gaudin,  advancing  towards  a  recess  in 

which  the  host  was  talking  with   great  volubility  to  two  of  his  fuir 

ts.  one  of  whom  was  Miuotte  Dupre.     The  other  8ainte-Croix 

•  recognized  as  her  rival,  Estelle  des  Uriis. 

n   suffj>cattng    with    thirst,"  said   the   ^lurchionesa,    drawing 

n  another  direction.     *'  Give  me  some  wine/' 

*umed  towards  the  fountain,  when  her  companion  filled  one  of 

tft  and  gave  it  to  lier.     IVlarie  drank  o<f  the  CAintents  with 

lesis,  and  then  uguin  took  Saitite-Croix's  arm. 


4 

4 
4 


THE    MARCHIONESS   OP   BRINV1LLIER8. 


115 


'  There/*  cried  Lfluztiti«  "  I  have  brought  tof^ether  twa  most  bit- 
ter enemies,  and  I  now  engsige  that  they  shall  be  as  warm  friends* 
Gome — we  will  pledge  this  reccmciliatioD  generally.  Dubut«>  Ghavag- 
nac,  Gaudin^ — you  must  join  uj*." 

"  IHarotte,  will  you  be  our  Hebe?"  Asked  Chavapnac- 
'*  tShe  shall  not  be  mine/*  exclaimed  Estelle.     "  Though  we  are  now 
friends,  I  would  prefer  filling  for  myself.     I  shall  then  be  sure  of  what 
I  drink. ' 

"Are  you  afraid  of  the  poisoners,  Estelle?"  said  Marotte.  "1 
stiould  have  thought  you  had  been  too  well  acquainted  with  them.*' 

*'A  truce  to  this,"  said  Lausun,  uho  perceived  the  tempers  of 
the  fair  ones  were  again  rising.  ^^The  poisoners  have  all  passed 
away." 

"  I  know  M.  de  la  Reynie,  the  magistrate/'  said  I^Iarotte,  *'  and  lie 
tells  a  different  story*  He  says  he  has  a  clue  to  .some  of  them,  and 
will  have  them  before  long.  Then  there  will  be  bonfires  on  tbeOreve, 
and  I  shall  go  and  see  them/' 

She  clapped  Iier  hands  with  delight  at  the  anticipated  spectacle. 
"  You  went  with  me  to  see  the  last^  M.  de  Sainte-Croix/*  continued 
Marotte  ;  *'  you  are  too  proud  now." 

And  she  eyed  the  Marchioness  as  she  spoke  with  no  very  kind  ex- 
pression. 

''  It  was  the  Veuve  Maupas  who  was  burned/*  she  went  on.  "  She 
petitioned  to  wear  a  mask  at  her  execution,  and  they  allowed  her.  Ca- 
therine Deshayes — La  Voisin,  as  they  call  her — is  suspected  ;  but  at 
present  they  can  only  prove  that  she  showed  M.  deBeauvais  the  devil* 
She  wears  a  mask.  1  u'ould  never  wear  one^  for  fear  X  should  be  taken 
for  an  evtpoiitofineitse,'* 

The  Murchioness  almost  fainted  at  these  words  of  Marotte,  intended 
to  be  nothing  more  than  spiteful.     She  clutched  closer  hold  to  Sainte- 
^Croix's  arm  to  keep  from  failing. 

*^  Pshaw  1  let  this  pass/'  said  Lauzun.  ''Hal  Desgrais  2  Will  you 
I  join  this  party  ?" 

'*  Hush  I  "  replied  tlie  person  addressed ;  "not  a  syllable  of  my 
name^  Marquis,  or  you  will  defeat  my  plans." 

He  was  a  hand.some  man,  in  the  dress  of  an  abhe,  and  was  not  above 
thirty  years  old.  His  stature  was  above  the  naiddle  height,  and  his 
^me  muscular  and  well-proportioned,  whilst  in  bis  eyes  there  was  a 
peculiar  expression  of  energy  and  sagacity.  It  was  Desgrais,  the  most 
active  exempt  of  the  Marechaussee,  in  one  of  the  disguises  he  was  ac- 
customed to  a*<sume  with  such  success. 

**  Have  you  been  on  any  track  to-night?"  asked  Irauzun  in  a  low 
voice. 

♦*No,  Monsieur,"  replied  the  exempt;  ''but  lam  upon  one  now. 
Who  is  that  with  Sainte-Croix  ?" 

*^  I  do  not  know.  She  has  been  closely  masked  all  the  evening.  Is 
[  she  suspected  of  anything  ?" 

'* No/' replied  Desgrais,  with  appareut  unconcern,  "no — ^nothing. 
I  I  have  something  to  say  to  her  companion,  though." 

As  he  spoke,  he  went  to  the  side  of  Sainte-Croix,  and  whispered, 
••Can   you  spare  me  a   minute  or  two,   Monsieur,  in  private?     1 
have  some  busiuess  concernirig  you  which  requires  immediate  adjuNi- 
nient," 
Solnte-Croix  trembled  for  the  instant  as  he  rectignised  Desgrait* ; 


116 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OF    BRINVILLIERS. 


bnt  his  presence  of  mind  immediately  returned^  and  lie  said  gfilly  to 
Lanianj 

"  M&rqoia*  I  maj  leare  this  lady  in  your  diarge  for  two  minutei;. 
Be  courteous  to  her  as  you  are  a  gentleman,  and  a  friend  of  mine/' 

^larie  started  back  as  Gaudin  withdrew  his  arm^  and  vainJy  endea- 
voured to  make  him  seek  some  other  cavalier  ;  for  she  feared  a  recog* 
mtion*  But,  anxious  to  know  what  was  the  motive  of  the  exempt's 
appointment,  he  took  no  notice  of  her;  and^  handing  her  over  ta 
Laujcun^  followed  him  to  the  landing  at  the  top  of  the  grand  staircase, 
where  they  were  alone, 

"  You  will  excuse  this  interruption,"  said  Desgrals,  *'  1  have  been 
looking  alter  yoa  all  day ;  for  I  thought  a  meeting  mi^ht  save  you 
much  unpleasantneaa.     I  believe  you  know  M.  Francois  l>'Aubray  ?" 

"  What  of  him  ?"  asked  Sainte-Croix  quickly-  **  Is  he  not  at  OfFe- 
mofit  ?" 

**  He  was  until  this  morning/'  replied  Besgrais  ;  **  but  has  returned 
somewhat  unexpectedly,  with  some  provincial  neighbours." 

Gaudin  started  as  he  thought  of  Marie. 

"  We  must  be  candid  with  one  another.  Monsieur  de  Sain te- Croix," 
continued  the  exempt.  *'  I  need  scarcely  tell  you  that,  in  my  position 
with  the  police,  there  are  few  in  Paris  whose  circumstances  and  con- 
nexions are  not  well  known  to  me ; — amongst  them  I  may  count  your 
own  debts,  and  jmxr  affiur  with  the  Marchioness  of  BrinvilHers." 

''WeU^Mfiiitteiirr 

**  Wdlt  MiMMfWT  de  Sainte-Croix*  Her  brother  has  tried  in  every 
v«y  te  cradb  jmt,  and  lias  in  every  way  failed,  until  he  has  now 
baog^^ffcrltegmde'  |iut  of  tlie  debts  owing  by  you  in  Paris*  The 
tedk  waft  sat  dificnit;  w  your  cndilor»-— excuse  me — ^had  better  faith 
ia  Us  mdy  giU  tlian  in  your  promises.  In  his  name,  and  coUectirely 
far  ikaaa  aceonnHj  I  now  arrest  you." 

••  MoBsieiir !  *  cried  Gaudin^  '*  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  go  with  you 
l^-nleiit.  The  arrest  I  care  nothiog  for,  for  it  can  soon  be  settled  ; 
bnt  taere  is  a  lady  here  whom  I  cannot  leave.  You  must  postpone  this 
wMm  until  to-morrow,  when  you  will  find  me  at  home/* 

<'  It  is  as  much  as  my  position  is  worth,"  replied  Desgrais.  *'  Every- 
thing wOl  give  place  to  a  lady  but  a  court  of  justice.  You  must  come 
with  me." 

He  spoke  with  §tich  a  tone  of  calm  firmness,  that  Gaudin  perceived 
at  oDoe  ne  mitftt  comply. 

'*  You  v\  ill  U*t  me  speak  to  her  ?"  he  asked. 

'*l\viuild  not  huve  you  go  back  to  the  room:  a  scene  would  but 
be  I  mi  H  fill  to  till  of  u«.  Write  what  you  like,  and  send  it  to  her.  We 
will  thvn  go  duwi*  U*  some  *if  the  money-lenders  on  the  Quiii  des  Or- 
fevren.  U  you  can  raise  a  uop  for  this  Cerberus  of  a  lieutenant-civil, 
belie Vi^  mi^  f  Mhull  \w  too  hajmy.  It  is  far  from  my  wish  to  put  to  in- 
convenience Ml  giilliint  a  gontleuian  as  Captain  de  Sainte- Croix*" 

The  wcll-intt*!ult*tl    politeiieiwi  with  which   this  speech  was  made, 
^httt  rrasiurcHl  Oaudtn.     He  was  not  without  hope  of  raising 
t  money,  at  all  events,  to  quiet  his  persecutor  for  a  time.     He 
rot©  a  few  hasty  lincR  to  Marie,  and,   bidding  a  servant 
^ive  them  to  the  nuiiiked  lady  with  tire  Marquii  de  Lnusun, 
ua  he  was  ready  to  accompujiy  him,  and  knock  up  some  of 
in  question. 
3  a  oarriagie  wi&itiug  in  the  Rue  de  la  llar[ie,"  said  I>esgTii]s, 


THE   MARCHIONESS    OF    BRINVILLIERS. 


117 


"  and  we  vnll  proceed  to  the  river  immediately*     Stop  I — some  one  is 

coming  up  these  stairs.     Let  us  take  the  other  flight." 

In  effect  a  tumult  was  audible  in  the  court,  which  neither  had 
a  desire  to  face.  They  therefore  passed  further  along  the  gallery, 
and  gained  the  poHe  cochere  by  another  and  less  distinguished  stair- 
ca;^e. 

Whilst  this  hurried  interview  had  been  going  on  withoutj  tbe  same 
wild  mirth  and  laughter  resounded  through  the  apartments.  Lauzun 
had  been  vainly  endeavouring  to  discover  the  name  of  the  lady  en*- 
trusied  by  Sainte-Croix  to  his  protection  ;  but  Aluiie  contrived  to  dis- 
guise her  voice  in  such  a  manner,  thtit  he  had  not  the  slightest  suspi- 
cion. And  to  this  end  her  mask  somewhat  contributt»d,  which,  made 
after  the  fashion  of  the  time,  had  a  small  plate  of  silver  arranged  so 
ns  to  go  into  the  mouthy  and  quite  alter  the  tones  of  those  speaking 
with  it. 

Aa  Gaudin  left^  the  valet  brought  the  few  lines  he  had  hastiJy 
scribbled  to  the  Marchioness,  and  then  spoke  in  a  low  tone  to  Laussun. 
She  read  with  utter  dismay  the  following  hurried  message : — 

"  I  am  arrested  by  Desgraia.     Your  brother  has  returned  from  Offe- 
mont.     Leave  as  speedily  as  you  can^^  and  get  home  unobserved*     I 
•  nay  be  detained  all  night. 

<'  Gaudin.'* 

She  was  on  the  point  of  withdrawing  from  Lauzun^  when  he  cried 
out, — 

*'  Fair  ladies  and  gallant  gentlemen,  my  fellows  have  captured  a 
queen  for  our  Fcle  de  Fortune^  and  she  shall  adjudge  the  prizes. 
BamArdl — Laurent  f — bring  in  your  prize." 

A*  he  spoke,  the  curtains  at  the  door  were  parted,  and  two  of  Lau- 
xtin's  valets  half  dragged  half  carried  a  young  female  into  the  room, 
who  appeared  to  be  making  violent  resistance.  Her  eyes  were  ban* 
daged,  not  with  a  common  handkerchief,  but  a  sparkling  fillet,  evi-> 
dently  intended  for  the  purpose,  and  to  be  worn  in  the  part  she  was 
about  to  play  against  her  will  in  one  of  the  diversionj*  of  the  evening- 
The  company  directly  thronged  round  her,  entirely  stopping  up  the 
doorway^  so  that  the  egress  of  the  Marchioness  was  rendered  impos- 
ftible,  at  least  for  the  present. 

The  task  about  to  be  imposed  upon  the  stranger  was  that  of  distri- 
butiog  various  toys,  trinkets,  and  fiowAowj,  of  comparatively  small  value, 
t»  tbe  guests  as  they  were  led  up  to  her,  her  eyes  being  blindfolded  ; 
and  the  game  derived  its  excitement  from  the  incongruity  or  appro- 
priateness of  the  objects  offered.  A  stranger  was  always  selected  for 
this  office  ;  and  it  was  the  custom^  at  orgies  of  this  kind,  to  scour  the 
streets  in  the  vicinity,  and  lay  hands  upon  the  first  young  and  person- 
able female  that  could  be  met  with,  the  victim  being  generally  of  the 
class  of  grisettes.  Enough  could  be  seen  of  the  features  of  the  new 
comer  to  prove  that  she  was  very  handsome ;  but  she  was  very  thinly 
elad,  her  extreme  undress  being  covered  by  a  large  cloak^  which,  as 
well  as  she  was  able,  she  kept  tightly  round  her. 

'*  How  did  you  catch  this  pretty  bird?'*  asked  Lauzun  of  one  of  the 
valets* 

**  Monsieur/'  replied  the  fellow,  *'  we  had  scoured  all  the  streets  in 
the  Quartier  without  meeting  one  eligible  grisette,  for  it  is  now  late. 


118  THE  1CARCHIONES8   OF   BKINVILLIERS. 

wlieii  Laarem  nur  a  light  in  a  window  of  the  Rue  des  Cordeliers.  I 
dimbed  ap— " 

"  No— h  was  I  that  first  climbed,  Mooftieur/'  interrupted  his  fel- 
low. 

'^  Silence !  Toa  knares,**  cried  Lauznn,  *'  or  we  will  prevent  each  of 
TOQ  from  speaking,  by  splitting  your  tongues  now  and  here.  Gfo  on, 
Lanrent." 

^  I  climbed  op,  and  saw  through  the  casement  our  captive  retiring 
to  bed, — at  least,  she  was  partly  undressed ;  and  I  said  to  Barnard, 
•  This  is  our  prey.' " 

**  And  TOO  nearly  lost  her,  because  vou  would  keep  looking,"  said 
Us  fellow: 

''  Will  you  be  quiet,  sir  ?"  asked  Lauzun  with  a  threatening  look. 
**  Well,  what  did  you  do  next  ?* 

*'  We  set  tire  to  the  outer  wood- work  of  the  house,  and  then  raised 
the  cry  Am  fem  !  In  half  a  minute  our  beauty  rushed  into  the  street, 
aa  yoo  now  see  her.  We  heard  the  Garde  Bourgeoise  approaching, — 
we  hurried  her  off  to  the  chaise  a  portmrs  we  had  at  the  comer,-^ 
brought  her  to  the  porU  drrv6re, — and  here  we  are."* 

*•  Yoo  aiay  remove  the  bandage  just  at  present,**  said  Lauzun.  *'  We 
should  Uke  to  see  what  sort  of  eyes  it  veils." 

The  valets  took  the  6Ilet  away  from  her  face,  and  in  a  second  the 
JXarchioiiess  reco^rnised  the  features  of  Louise  Gauthier,  whom  she  had 
not  seen  since  the  evenm^  of  the  stormy  interview  in  the  Grotto  of 
Thetis  during  the  fetes  at  V^'ersailles.  She  did  not,  of  course,  make 
herself  known ;  but  at  that  in^tant,  in  the  midst  of  all  her  anxiety  to 
reach  the  Hotel  D'Aubray  without  the  knowledge  of  her  brother,  a 
•econd  thought  for  the  time  detained  her.  An  opportunity  appeared 
likely  to  occur  of  accomplishing  the  determination  she  had  formed — of 
getting  Louise  Gauthier  in  her  power,  and  destroying  her.  She  drew 
heffself  away  from  Lauzun's  side,  and,  retreating  to  one  of  the  couches, 
awaited  the  proper  time  to  carry  her  projects  into  execution. 

"  I  beseech  you,  gentlemen,  let  me  depart,"  exclaimed  Louise,  as  the 
aeene  around  presented  itself  to  her  bewildered  eyes.  **  There  is  some 
mistake  in  this  cruelty  ;  you  cannot  want  me  here." 

"  Indeed,  but  we  could  not  select  a  better  goddess  throughout  Paris," 
•aid  Lauzun.  ^*  It  is  not  usual  for  the  grisettes  of  our  quartier  to  wish 
to  leave  the  Hotel  de  Cluny,  when  they  once  find  themselves  within 
its  walls.     Let  me  salute  you,  as  a  stranger." 

Lauzun,  with  an  assumption  of  idle  gallantry,  rather  than  the  wish 
to  insult  the  poor  girl,  advanced  towards  her,  and  was  about  to  proffer 
his  welcome,  when  he  was  somewhat  rudely  interrupted  by  the  ap« 
INToach  of  Benoit,  who  had  been  amusing  the  guests  at  another  part  of 
tha  room  with  specimens  of  his  new  vocation. 

**  Tiau  I"  he  exclaimed  with  surprise ;  "  why,  it  is  our  little  Louise, 
whom  we  have  not  seen  for  so  long  I  " 

The  girl  heard  Benoit's  voice,  and  sprang  towards  him  for  protec- 
tioa. 

"  Get  back,  fellow !  "  said  Lauzun,  not  relishing  the  interruption. 

"  Excuse  me.  Marquis,"  replied  the  other ;  "  but  I  consider  myself 

♦  An  outrage  of  this  kind  was  b^  no  means  uncommon  in  the  reckless  times  of 
tii  Qaatuns,  nor  did  iu  commission  excite  much  attention,  if  we  may  credit 
amoin  of  the  above-mentioned  Abb6  i>ubois. 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OF    BRINVILLIEKS.  119 

responsible  for  our  Louise's  welfare.  It  has  been  my  lot  to  assist  her 
before  to-night." 

*'  Put  this  man  on  one  side/'  said  Lauzun  to  his  valets. 

"  Keep  off!  "  said  Benoit  as  they  approached,  *'  or  I  will  send  you  oo 
a  flight  without  wings  through  the  window." 

"  Turn  him  out  of  the  house/'  said  Lauzun;  ''or rather  put  him  in 
the  cellar:  he  won't  alarm  any  one  there.     Away  with  him>  I  say  !  " 

The  foremost  of  the  servants  advanced ;  but  Benoit  met  him  with  a 
blow  from  his  own  sturdy  arm,  which  sent  him  reeling  against  the 
wall  of  the  apartment.  The  other  servants  immediately  threw  them« 
selves  upon  him  ;  and  the  honest  Languedocian,  whose  good  angel 
always  appeared  to  desert  him  when  services  were  most  required,  was 
in  an  instant  borne  away,  kicking  and  struggling,  to  one  of  the  under- 
ground chambers  of  the  Hotel. 

Meantime  the  company  disposed  themselves  for  the  games.  Lauzun 
went  up  to  Louise,  and,  assuring  her  that  no  evil  was  intended  if  siie 
complied  with  their  regulations,  fastened  the  bandage  once  more 
across  her  eyes ;  whilst  Marotte  Dupre,  who  had  some  recollection  of 
having  seen  her  with  Madame  Scarron  at  Versailles*  took  off  a  rich 
cloak  of  green  satin,  with  large  full  sleeves,  which  she  had  been  wear* 
ing,  and  made  the  poor  stranger  don  it,  in  lieu  of  the  mantle  which  at 
present  scarcely  enveloped  her  dishabille,  at  the  same  time  telh'ng  her 
that  no  evil  was  really  intended  to  herself  The  greater  part  of  the 
company  then  formed  into  a  large  circle,  holding  hands,  and  moving 
round  to  measure,  the  band  being  apparently  well  aware  of  what  was 
going  on,  although,  as  we  have  stated,  concealed  from  the  sight.  Louise 
was  placed  on  an  elevated  seat ;  a  large  basket,  containing  the  awards, 
was  placed  at  her  side,  and  the  game  commenced. 

A  variety  of  intricate  figures  were  first  danced,  in  which  the  part- 
ners were  frequently  changed,  somewhat  in  the  style  of  our  cotillons 
at  the  present  day.  In  this  the  actresses  showed  themselves  most  apt> 
and  they  were  now  joined  by  the  girls  who  had  figured  in  the  ballet. 
To  avoid  being  particularized,  Marie  stood  up  with  the  rest ;  and  the 
exceeding  grace  with  which  she  threaded  the  mazes  of  the  figure,  at* 
tracted  general  attention.  Lauzun  saw  that  she  was  evidently  belong- 
ing to  a  phase  of  society  superior  to  the  majority  ;  but  he  was  unable  to 
gain  the  slightest  clue  to  her  real  name. 

At  last,  at  a  given  signal,  they  all  stopped  with  the  partners  they 
happened  to  have  at  that  instant,  and  then  advanced  in  pairs  before 
Louise,  who  tremblingly  distributed  the  different  articles  to  them  ;  and 
the  gentleman  and  lady  were  expected  in  turn  to  make  some  speech 
appropriate  to  the  gifts  presented.  In  this  the  principal  address  was 
shown  ;  for  whilst  some  could  but  mumble  out  a  few  clumsy  phrases 
or  compliments,  others  convulsed  the  a^jsembly  with  laughter  at  a 
smart  repartee,  or  jest.  Truth  to  tell,  the  greater  portion  of  them 
were  all  tolerably  well  up  to  their  business ;  for  habitude  had  ren- 
dered them  tolerably  aufait  at  uttering  a  jest  on  the  spur  of  the  mo- 
ment ;  and,  as  a  pretty  wide  licence  was  allowed,  when  a  laugh  could 
not  be  raised  by  wit,  it  was  done  by  entendre, 

Lauzun  had  a  small  trinket-key  given  to  him  ;  and  Estelle  recom- 
mended him  to  keep  it  against  he  got  into  the  Bastille,  which  would 
be  sure  to  occur,  in  the  common  course  of  things,  before  three  weeks. 
Marotte  Dupre  had  a  heart  of  sweetmeat,  and  her  partner  an  imitation- 
piece  of  money  of  the  same  material,  about  which  appropriate  distri- 


120  THE   MARCHIONESS   OF  BRINVILLIERS. 

butions  Dubois  made  great  mirth,  having  a  ready  tact  for  impromptus. 
When  the  signal  for  the  cessation  of  the  dance  was  made  (which  the 
leader  of  it  generally  took  care  to  do  when  he  found  himself  with  an 
agreeable  partner),  Chavagnac  was  next  to  the  Marchioness  of  Brinvil- 
liers.  He  led  her  forwards,  and  the  rest  of  the  company  looked  on 
with  more  than  usual  interest  to  see  what  the  incognita  would  gain. 
By  an  error  of  Louise,  who  was  throughout  the  ceremony  so  flurried 
tluit  she  scarcely  knew  what  she  was  doing,  she  presented  the  first  gift 
to  Ghavagnac,»-a  small  fiacon  of  scent,  than  wnich  nothing  could  be 
more  absurd,  rough  soldier,  almost  marauder,  as  he  was.  But  to 
Marie,  and  to  her  alone,  her  own  present  had  a  terrible  meaning.  It 
was  a  small  headsman's  axe,  in  sugar  and  silver  foil  1 

She  sickened  as  she  gazed  at  the  terrible  omen, — so  perfectly  unim- 
portant to  the  rest  of  the  company, — and  turned  away  from  the  circle, 
needless  of  some  unmeaning  words  that  Chavagnac  addressed  to  her. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  ring  broke  up,  and  then  she  approached  Louise 
Oauthier,  and  said  hurriedly  through  her  mask, — 

**  You  cannot  teU  to  what  lengths  of  debauchery  this  reckless  party 
may  proceed.  If  you  value  your  happiness,  follow  me  directly,  with- 
out a  word  or  sien  to  anybody." 

Louise  fancied  she  recognised  the  voice ;  but  the  circumstance  of  one 
like  the  Marchioness  being  in  such  a  company  appeared  utteiiy  impro- 
bable. She  was  also  too  anxious  to  escape  from  the  H6tel ;  ana  as 
Marie  seized  her  arm,  she  implicitly  followed  her  to  the  door. 

^  Stop,  mes  belles  !"  cried  Lauzun ;  **  we  cannot  part  yet :  you  may 
not  be  spared  so  early." 

''  I  am  faint  with  the  heat,"  replied  the  Marchioness,  '*  and  only 
wish  to  go  into  the  cool  air  for  a  minute :  it  will  revive  me." 

They  passed  out  upon  the  top  of  the  staircase ;  and  then,  as  soon  as 
the  curtain  had  fallen  back  over  the  doorway,  Marie  told  Louise  to 
keep  close  to  her,  as  she  descended  rapidly  into  the  courtyard.  They 
passed  out  at  Xheporte  cochere  unnoticed ;  and,  finding  a  carriage  at 
the  corner  of  the  Rue  St.  Jacques,  the  Marchioness  made  Louise  enter, 
and,  following  herself,  gave  the  word  to  the  coachman  to  drive  to  her 
honse  in  the  Rue  St.  Paul. 


121 


THE  ELVES  IN  WINDSOR  FOREST. 


A   TWILIGHT    REVEBIE. 


Dat  set  in  the  splendour 

Of  beautiful  June, 
Broad,  mellow^,  and  tender 
Arose  the  pale  moon  ; 
A  faint  rim  of  mist  nmnd  her  border 

soft  hov'ring, 
A  foil  more  intensely  her  beauties  dis- 
covering'. 
As,  silently  gilding 
Wave,  thicket,  and  building. 
She  rose  o'er  the  foam-fretted  sea  in  her 

journey. 
The  life-crowded  town,  and  the  wilder, 
ness  ferny. 

What  were  the  scenes  she  beheld  that 

night,— 
What  the  events  that  came  under  her 

light! 
What  gloomy  despairings  and  ecstasied 

hopes  I 
What  cavemy  hollows  and  mountainous 

slopes ! 
What  peace  and  what  passion  !  what 

strife  and  what  rest  I 
What  woes  of  each  nature  the  mind  can 

suggest,— 
Flood,  fire,  pestilence,  battle,  and 

storm, — 
Such  as  pencil  or  pen 
To  the  vision  of  men 
May  never    pourtray,    or    embody  in 

form! 

She  shone  through  the  lifted  curtain*s 
fold, 
On  innocents  saying  their  prayers  in 
bed,— 
She  shone  through  the  creviced  cottage 
cold 
On  the  sainted  brow  of  the  old  man 
dead; — 
She  lighted  the  pathway  the  lovers  took. 
As  nomewards  slow  their  steps  they 
bent. 
While  the  silent  maid,  with  her  fondest 
look, 
Tighten*d    the  arm    on  which  she 
leant ; 
And  the  youth  could  find  no  words  to 
speak, 
Though  brimming  was  his  heart  with 
joy- 
It  fired  his  eye,  it  flush*d  his  cheek, 
And  one  seem*d  as  the  other  coy ; 
And  yet  they  neither  disapproved, 
For  both  well  knew  the  cause : — they 
loved. 
VOL.  XVIII. 


And  oh !  she  shone  with  a  dubioiu  ray 

On  the  holiday  rout,  returning 
From  pleasure  late,  by  the  longest  way. 

All  doubt  aud  danger  spuming ; 
Some  droning  out  a  tune  forlorn. 

Some  sporting  antic  gambols, — 
Some  getting  pitchM,  and  all  but  torn 

To  death,  among  the  brambles. 

Over  the  dusky  village  spire 

She  flung  a  trembling  veil  of  light, 
'Neath  which  its  ivy  seemM  on  fire, 

And  all  the  tombstones   glimmcr'd 
white, — 
Those  tombs  which  as  the  down  belated 
near  a. 

He  never  looks  at,  left  or  right. 
But  sinks  his  hat  upon  his  ears. 
And  whistles  loud  to  ease  his  fears. 

And  tramps  along  with  all  his  might. 

Over  the  poet's  raptured  walk, 

Quiet,  serene,  and  calm, — 
Over  the  sentinel's  lonely  stalk, — 

On  the  gold  in  a  miser^s  palm. 
As  he  knelt  by  his  chest,  with  the  lid 

flung  wide, 
That  its  glittering  seals  of  earthly  pride 

Might  bring  to  his  spirit  balm. 
Their  L'ght  flash'd  into  his  hollow  cheeks. 
And  colour'd  his  brow  with  livid  streaks ! 
The  moonshine  pass*d,  —  their  gleam 

was  gone. 
But  the  miser  knelt,  and  still  counted 
on* 

Over  the  smuggler's  rock-retreat. 

On  the  shingle  under  the  coast-guard's 

feet. 
By  the  rustling  sea-beach  lone, — 
On  the  old  stage-coach  and  its  sober 

greys,— 
On  the  mighty  engine  of  later  days, 
As,  scattering  thunder  and  volleying 

fume. 
It  flash'd  away  from  the  tunnel's  womb. 

On  all — on  all  she  shone  I 
The  needle's  sUve,   whose  throbbing 

head 
Was  ever  bent  to  her  knees  for  bread, 
Parted  her  locks,  and  smiled  again. 
As  the  light  gush'd  in  at  the  broken 

pane  J— 
That  light  caught  even  the  fallen  one's 

eye, 
Who  knew  not  either  to  blush  or  sigh, — 
It  lent  a  gleam  to  the  murdorer^s  knife 
Before  it  enter'd  the  shrine  of  life,— 
K 


122 


THE  ELVES   IN  WINDSOR   FOREST. 


And  vbere  wmnj  a  gprite, 
At  die  fa%h  noon  of  night, 
TmnUa  h«il  orti  heeli  with  an  dwiah 


via:  •£« 


Or  TbRl:«r  ft^  ibcoe  u  all ! 
No  li^  if  xvwrred  otk  cnnh  for  hixt. 
Box  such  at  z«v«ad  the    deaxh-MJ^ 

grim: 
No  HMWO  or  ftar  it  he  erer  to  lee. 
No  Uoom-uim  meadov  or  foliated 

ti«e. 
No  ileeping  rirer  or  reitlev  lea. 
On  thit  fair  tide  of  eunity ! 

But  avar !  avay ! 
From  the  duldivn  of  dar. 
Their  pleaturea,  and  torrovtl  and  cani 

of  tO-^T, — 

Take  orer  lifers  tleep 
A  prediritate  leap. 
Into  reafans  that  oft  gladden  the  lensn 

inileep. 
Where  Reaton  lies  ooilM  an  ininimttr 

heap. 
And  Fancy  prendet 

Orer  Intdlect*!  powert. 
And  joyouily  guide* 

Uf  to  fairy-wore  hower*. 
Through  whose  intcntioei  the  merry 

dvet  peep. 
Mark  those  kindred  oakt  that  rear 
Their  mvriad  bought  in  the  lucid  air. 
On  whoM   broad  heads  the  moonlight 

cool 
Seems  to  ebb  and  chafe  like  a  ruffled 

pool. 
As  thev  ware  a  responie  with  glandng 

leaves 
To  each  new  sigh  that  Zephynis  heaFca. 

See  how  the  fibrous  irr  strolls 
Leisurriy  up  their  mighty  boles ! 
Coil  abore  coil,  and  spray  on  spray. 
The  fxesh  green  mix'd  with  the  faded 

gper, 
Till  a  speck  of  the  old  oak*s  dinted  bark 
Through  its  matty  web  you  scaroe  can 

mark. 
Fondly  as  if,  in  the  tendrils  flung 

So  tightly  around  each  giant  stem. 
The  Hamadryads  in  spirit  dung 
To  the  treoi'  on  whidi  their  ezistenoe 
hung. 
Whose  ruin  would  spread  to  them. 

Thooe  trees  endirla  a  beantaoas  show, 
Their  shadows  &11  on  a  lordy  soena. 
In  the  boeom  of  Windsor  Forest  they 


Round  a  hilly  plot  of  nnlading  green. 
Where  dust  is  ne*er  struck  from  the 

emerald  turf 
Bt  the  hoof  of  the  oouner  or  heel  of  the 
•trf. 


Ha:  Httcn !— the  bell 
Hat  rung  out  its  twelfth  knell — 
Like  a  rainbow  in  fn^ments  they  hurry 
pdl-meD! 
How  they  bonnd !  how  they  drive ! 
All  the  girats  seems  afa'TO ! 
As  they  rath  o*er  the  tips  of  the  titter- 
ing weeds, 
And  the  dew^irops  are  rolling  before 
them  like  beads, 
And  the  ragged  oaks  seem 

To  enjoy  it  the  while. 
And  their  curling  roots  grim 
Take  a  risible  smile  I 

Oh !  who  shall  describe  them  —  what 
fingert  may  dare 

To  limn  them  in  colours  perception  can 
share? 

To  armt  Ideality's  raniihing  hue. 

Or  bring  Inspiration  to  bodily  riew  ? 

Like  sparkles  they  glow*d,  and  like  sha- 
dows they  glided. 

Like  wareleu  they  danced,  and  like 
bubbles  subsided  ; 

Distinct,  yet  untraceable,— dreamy,  yet 
dear, — 

Eranetcent  as  frost-work,  and  fleeter 
than  fear. 

On  the  green,  through  the  trees, 

They  keep  p»uring  apace. 
Unseen  as  the  breeze. 

Till  they  enter  its  space ; 
But  there,  hand-in-hand, 
An  innumerous  band, 
They  boundinf^y,  trippingly  press  on 

the  sight. 
And  deftly  advance 
In  their  intricate  dance 
The  besutiful  children  of  ether  and 

light. 

High  upon  a  tufty  stand. 
With  her  slim  star-headed  wand, 
Mab  sat  on  a  flow*ry  throne, 
By  majestic  Olieron. 
Round  her  a  host  of  willing  fays 

Prank'd  and  sung  unbidden, 
Lorely  as  the  sun*s  first  rays, 
Mlien  he  smiles  away  the  haie 
That  from  night  has  slidden. 
Casting  from  Aarora*s  loom 
Lcmg  skeins  of  light  across  the  gloom, 
Till  darkness  all  is  hidden. 
Tiny  troops, 
In  endlt-ss  groups, 
Orer  the  mmst  and  gleaming  tod, 
Snug  and  sly. 
Feasting  lie. 
Or  frisk  in  evolutions  odd. 


THE  ELVES  IN  WINDSOR   FOREST. 


123 


And  then  nt  Piick»— .the  unperanerd 

etf!— 
With  ft  grin  like  A  Baoehmalli  figured  in 

delf. 
In  the  noee  of  a  mag  on  a  cottager's 

shelf. 
Rodcing  himself  on  a  plantain  pod. 
There  sat  he— but  oh  I  not  long  sit  still ! 
It  agreed  with  Pnck*s  merry  genius  ill. 
He  must  chirrup  and  run. 
He  must  follow  and  shun, 
And  be  up  to  all  sorts  of  conceivable 

fun: — 
Tearing  a  gossamer  up  for  swings. 
Puffing  the  dnst  from  a  miller's  wings, 
Kickinjg  the  shina  of  ganzy  flies. 
Splashing  dew  in  a  cowslip's  eyes, 
Coursing  a  fury-ring  with  speed, 
Erect  on  the  back  of  a  field-mouse 

•teed, — 
Or^  hehn'd  with  the  cup  of  an  acorn 

With  a  spreading  champignon  to  serve 

for  a  taige. 
With  a  spike  cSt  young  thorn  down  to 

nothing  reduced, 
Courageously  storming   a  dragon-fly's 

roost  f 
And  still  in  his  frolics  some  canning 

was  rife. 
That  seemM  strangely  akin  to  the  hu- 
mours of  life. 
Now,  mix'd  with  the  fairies. 
He  taught  them,  in  rows. 
Unexampled  vagaries 

In  turning  their  toes ; 
Now,  perch'd  on  a  hillock 

Of  serpentine  thorn, 
Mlioee  summit  the  bill-hook 

Had  never  yet  shorn. 
He  quaintly  proceeds. 
Through  hollow -stemm'd  reeds, 
ClappM  to  both  eyes  at  once,  to  mark 

how  the  dance  speeds  ; 
Or  regulates  gravely  the  exquisite  notes 
That  ripple  and  thnll  in  their  feminine 

ihroats. 
By  flourishing  this  way,  and  brandish- 
ing that, — 
To  the  right — to  the  left— to  and  fro— 

pi^a^pat,— 
Sow  over  that  shoulder, — now  under 

this  side. 
An  dl  and  a  quarter  of  poppy-stem 

dried! 
Ha !  ha  I  and  ho  !  ho !  what  a  nourish- 
ing laugh 
Bubbles  out  from  his  cheek  as  he  hurls 

np  the  staff. 
And  tumbles  down  backward  in  ecstasy 

there, 
Widi  his  hands  on  his  hips,  and  his 
heels  in  the  air  ! 


Look,  how  Cynthia's  waning  blase 

Every  darkened  oak  deplmres. 
Through  their  low-hung  mingled  sprays 

Fillagreed  her  lustre  pours. 
See  her  deepening  orb  descend 

The  farther  steep  of  heaven, — 
Soon  the  elfin  sport  must  end, 

And  far  and  wide  in  air  be  driven 
Thoee  freakish  essences  minute 

That  revel  in  the  enchanted  ring. 
But  first  they  sip  on  nectar'd  fruit. 
And  honey  thick  with  dew  dilute. 

To  feast  their  queen  and  king ; 
Then,  ere  they  nestle  to  repose. 
In  one  enamell'd  throng  they  close. 

Rich  as  the  lap  of  spring. 
And  two  delicious  fays  advance 
Before  their  partners  in  the  dance. 
And  thus^  with  nod,  and  smile,  and 
glance. 

Alternately  they  sing : — 

*<  Oh !  wave  the  glad  pinion,  career  the 

light  toe. 
Wheel  round  like  a  meteor,  and  sing  as 

you  go. 
Over  diamonds  of  dew  that  lie  winking 

below. 
And  beneath  stooping  stars  that  eter- 
nally  glow  I 
Here  on  the  green  breast 

Of  Albion  we  stand. 
With  side  to  side  prest. 

And  hand  within  hand, — 
Our  tresses  just  curlM 

By  the  whispering  wind. 
Our  pinions  unfurl'd. 

And  our  limbs  unconfined, — 
Our  locks  of  deep  hazel. 

Our  robes  of  pure  white. 
Our  eyes  of  bright  jazel. 
Our  slippers  of  light. 
Say,  why  should  not  we,  so  unfetter'd 

and  free. 
Tread  the  blossoming  sward,  and  still 
carol  with  glee  ? 
Wave  the  wing,  spin  the  toe. 
Wheel,  and  warble  as  you  go. 
Over  pearls  that  wink  below. 
Under  stars  that  ever  glow  1 " 

Ah  I  then  what  a  shout 
Of  wild  rapture  sprang  out 
From  the  lips  of  the  whole  multitudin- 
ous rout ! 
Who,  oft  as  the  chain 
Of  each  melodist's  strain 
Made  a  ravishing  pause,  thus  renew'd  it 
again : — 

'*  Yes,  wave  the  glad  pinion,  career  the 

light  toe. 
Wheel  round  hke  a  meteor,  and  sing  «s 

you  go,  ^  ^ 


114 


THE   ELTES     IS   WIXI>SOR   FOBE8T. 


«if  «rv  lias.  Be  viakin^ 
v,»rvi',z  ssvi  ISMS  ecer- 


"-^  pTv  rsaaaei  cc  saz.  -  a  r&r^jf  cape. 
Ox  3iiz.T  4  »~»i-<-»  :c^ 


AT*f  I  T«  v^«Ci£C  WW  fracn  z:r  soc: 


h<e  fp%oK  AA:i.&n  &ir; 
i  l^ciA^s  ^r>^-flT  druret; 
br  lie  ware  Itti 


nKretts  oc  ber  coni 


A»d  cr:  o'er  ber  wLde  aad 


dttp- 


His  :be   rj.uill^j»  S?rae  zk  ia   safetr 
»rii  ?<-:'Oe, 

Wlii  lie  ireciul.yi*  :une 
O*  lie  socj:  ihit  I  iaa< 
T^^  ibe  Uup  risi^  icoMi. 
Her  cLattt^s  br  a  rtu  oc  ihin  cloui  hAll- 

CUOOAMd, 

Like  a  ve6  i-^  lawn  fhuur  o'er  a  battle^ 

briicb:  shield, 
AVbiie,  as  fhuelr  she  »hooe  in  her  etherr 

Eadi  emerald  wave  bore  a  silrer  crest, 
Buu  when  she  hroke  throu^  it,  each 

roUed  to  its  home 
A  silvery  billow  with  golden  foam.** 

"  Fve  thridden  Afric*s  pathless  glades. 
Where  the  echo  of  human  step  ne*er 
f^, 
A  nd  I  Ve  gaily  sung  in  her  inmost  shades, 
AVliere  serpena  hits  and  where  mon- 
sters yell : 
I've  slept  with  folded  wings 

On  the  sleeping  tiger*s  side  ; 
I>e  couched  in  all  the  rings 
Of  the  glossy  leopard's  hide. 
And  I*ve  clapped  my  hands  with  glee 

the  mighty  unicorn  to  see. 

By  his  hot  pursuers  chased,  flounder 

through  the  cany  waste.** 

**  Vve  danced  on  Caledonia's  hills. 
That  yield  no  grain  to  the  tiller*s  toil, 

I*Te  hovered  around  her  sleepy  rills. 
And  her  mountain  torrents  that  foara 
and  boil ; 


I've  twang  in  a  heath-bloMom  over  the 
verge 
Of  an  easterly  cliff  that  £tr-chadowed 
the  plain. 
When  the  Monsirch  of  day  just  began  to 
emeiige 
From  his  palace  of  vapour  of  porphy- 
rine  grain; 
I*ve  marked  how  his  blaze 

Heaven*s  canopy  fired. 
And  the  start  from  his  gaze 
In  dejection  retired  ; 
Whilst  every  little  cloudy  streak 

Assumed  a  fringe  of  amber  slight, 
And  every  hill's  untufted  peak 
A  barganec  of  crimson  light. 
The  Lake  unveiled  her  blushing  charms. 
The  Forest  reared  his  reddened  arms, 
The  skylark  mounted  slow  ; 
And  I  sprang  away,  on  the  earliest  ray 
That  pmired  over  the  edge  of  the  rode 
where  I  lay; 
To  the  dew-moist  plain  below.*' 

**  Oh  !  it*s  my  ddight  to  lie 

In  a  wild  hedge- lily *s  cup, 
When,  beneath  the  evening  sky, 

Are  its  edges  folding  up : 
To  watch  them  dosing  o'er  my  head — 
To  snug^  in  my  odorous  bed— 

And  quietly  sletep 

Till  Morning's  peep 
Bids  flower  and  leaf  again  outspread. 

And  sunbeams  play 

With  the  tresses  grey 
Of  aged  Night  as  I  hurry  away. 
Yes,  Airic*s  splendours,  thrilling  sights. 
Wondrous  scenes  and  wild  delighu — 
Grape  and  musk-rose,  far  above 
Albion's  summer  joys  I  love  !*' 

^And  I,  beyond  all  earth  or  ocean  can 

yield. 
Love    the   chastened    perfume  of  the 

newly-shorn  field. 
When  oxlips.  and  harebells,  and  prim- 
roses pale. 
With  their  last  dying  fragrance  enrich 

the  mild  gale ; 
Or  to  skim  o*er  the  cottager*8  garden  by 

night, 
Or  train  round  the  lattice  hit  colum- 
bines slight, 
Or  hear  the  hid   nightingale*s  music 

arise. 
Or  fan  with  blue  pinions  the  sleeping 

babe*t  eyes. 
Vet,  Scotia*!  heathy  hills  and  dales- 
Indian  groves — Arabian  gales — 
Every  favoured  haunt  above 
Albion's  sea-girt  isle  I  love  !*' 

'<  Oh  !   say,  every  crew  of  the  elements 

through. 
What  race  is  so  free  and  so  happy  as 

ours? 


THOU  ART  SLEEPING,   BROTHER! 


125 


The  Naiad  may  take  her  repose  in  the 

Uke- 
The  ddicate  Sylph  in  the  sunlight  and 
flow*r8 — 
The  Nereid  may  iport 

In  the  coral- paved  main — 
The  Dryad  resort 

To  the  wood  and  the  plain. 
In  the  mines  of  Gobonda  may  labour 

the  Gnome — 
The  Spirit  of  Fire  may  make  Etna  his 

home. 
Or  nXty  from  Strombolils  hollow  abyss 
To  ride  on  the  lightnings  that  quiver 
and  hiss; 
Or,  when  broad  conflagrations 
Bring  horror  to  nations, 
If  ay  gambol  amid  them  in  riotous  bliss, 
And,  while  spouting  and  soaring, 
The  red  flames  are  roaring, 
May  coart  their  embraces  and  ding  to 

their  kiss. 
But  we — only  we — from  meadow  to  tree, 
From  forest  to  doud,  and  vapour  to  sea. 
From  billow  to  cave,  and  from  cavern 

to  hill. 
May  glide,  soar,  and  flutter,  and  bound 

as  we  will. 
Then  wave  the  light  pinion,  career  the 

glad  toe — 
Wheel  round  like  a  meteor,  and  sing  as 
you  go; 


Over  diamonds  of  dew  that  lie  winking 
below. 

And  beneath  stooping  stars  that  eter- 
nally glow  !*' 

Here  Mab  with  her  sceptre  prohibits 
the  lay; 

The  dfin  carousers  spring  lightly  away, 

And  disperse  o'er  the  cirde  their  vola- 
tile quire, 

As  a  sky-rocket  opens  in  fillets  of  fire. 

Puck  bows  to  the  throne,  with  grimace 
in  his  eye ; 

Then  speeds  to  a  knoll  of  ripe  sorrel 
hard  by. 

With  a  flower  in  fist,  of  that  whimsical 
sort 

By  Alphabet-students  called  "  Rabbit,*' 
in  sport; 

To  snuff  out  a  glow-worm  ;  but,  failing 
at  first. 

He  extinguished  the  imp  with  a  king- 
cup reversed. 

The  elves  and  the  ouphes  to  the  ivy- 
roots  dung — 

The  fays  in  a  throng  to  the  lustre-flood 
sprung — 

Each  bathed  her  long  tresses  in  moon- 
light and  fell 

With  a  silvery  laugh  in  a  buttercup's  beU. 
W.  Y.  B. 


THOU  ART  SLEEPING,  BROTHER! 

BY   WILLIAM   JONES. 


Thou  art  sleeping.  Brother  !  lowly 

'Neath  the  shadow  of  the  cross, 
That  o'eriooks  yon  kirk  yard  holy, 

From  iu  throne  of  verdant  moss. 
Sdic  of  our  sirens  devotion, 

Where  they  pray'd  on  bended  knee. 
Id  the  days  when  stem  commotion 

Bade  them  look  for  rest  to  thee ! 


Thou  art  sleeping,  Brother  !  sorrow 

Cannot  wound  thine  heart  again  ; 
Thou  wilt  never  know  a  morrow 

With  its  share  of  earthly  pain. 
Our  reverses  cannot  harm  tboe. 

Still  and  throbless  as  thou  art ; 
Nor  the  voice  of  loved  ones  charm  thee. 

Or  a  tenderness  impart. 


Thou  art  sleeping.  Brother  !  meekly. 

And  the  tall  grass  waves  above, 
Siidding  many  a  flow*r  that  weijcly 

Breathes  o*er  thee  its  life  of  love : 
Emblem  of  thine  own  days — fleeting 

Like  the  bow  in  troubled  skies. 
With  conflicting  darkness  meeting, 

Mdting  Uien  in  golden  dyes ! 


Thou  art  sleeping,  Brother  !  lightly 

Falls  the  dew  upon  thy  mound  ; 
And  the  winds  awaken  nightly 

Sainted  minstrelsy  around. 
'Tis  a  burden  each  good  spirit 

Watching  o'er  thee,  murmurs  sweet, 
Tdling  how  the  just  inherit 

Bliss  that  earth  can  never  greet ! 


126 
OUTPOURINGS, 

BY    D«    CANTER. 


LIBATION    THE   FOURTH. 

Hams*!!  spiriteil  management.  —  List   of  dititl^ntes   and   eorpt  dramaHgut.  — 

Charles   Kemble.-^one»» — Emery Blanchard,  &Cv— Laughable  mistakea  hf 

Mrs.  DftvuTiport  and  Airs.  Oibbs — Mrs.  Jordan — Her  m>iit«nous  end.^— Jtnjr- 
ney  to  Duhl in.— Narrow  escape. —  Hamilton  Rowan. —  State  of  the  Dublin 
Theatre,— W.  Farren. — Miw  WttUEein.—Miis  O^Neillt  &o, — Kean'a  firat  ap- 
pearance,— Humours  of  the  GaUcry, — Tom  Mt>i>re.  —  Fly  not  yei, — Ajoaietir 
iheatricala.^'Fiib  Shamble  Street. — ^Cork.  —  31isi  8milli«G>ii.--Tbe  Masier  of 
tbe  Ceremonies,— Tri tit  playrd  him.— Sir  Andrew  Agnew,  —  EeiurD  to  town. 
*=-- Peter  Coxe— HU  dinners — Jokea.  —  Reminiscences  of  Oarridt,  Hendenon, 
Wilkes,  &c — Oliver,  Pyne^  &c, — ^  Peter's  ruling  passioa. — Entraordiuary  in* 
stance  of  it. 

Harris  managed  Covent  Garden  with  great  Bpirit.  In  one  teflsoti 
(1813-14),   Terry,  Conway,  F.  Vining,  Mrs.  Faucit,  Miss  Renncll, 

Miss  Mathews,  and  JVIiss  Stephens  were  added  to  the  company.  These 
performers  were  all  debutantes,  and  a!l  fiuccessful,  particularly  ]VIiss 
Stephens,  whose  Mandanc  attracted  immensely-  Ears  never  drank 
sweeter  sounds  than  the  staccato  notes  of  this  syren.  In  addition  to 
these,  the  company  boasted  the  two  Kembles,  Young,  Mrs,  Siddons,  and 
Mrs.  Powellj  in  tragedy  ;  Sinclair  and  Incledon  in  opera  ;  Grimaldi 
and  EUar  in  pantomime  ;  while  in  comedy  the  list  presented  such  a 
phalanx  of  talent  aa,  perhaps,  were  never  before  marshalled  on  the 
hoards  of  any  single  tlieatre.  Besides  Mathews  and  Liston,  n  host  in 
themselves,  there  was  Fawcett,  Farley,  C»  Kemble,  Blanchard,  Jones> 
Simmons,  Kmery,  JMrs.  Davenport,  Mrs.  Gihbs,  Mrs.  C.  Kemble,  Miss 
Bolton,  and  little  Booth.  Fawcett  was  stage- manager,  Farley  got  up 
the  melod fames  and  pantomimes,  and  Ware  led  in  the  orchestra. 

Charles  Kemble  is  a  remarkable  instance  of  what  perseverance  may 
eflPect.  In  the  early  part  of  his  career  he  seldom  presented  himself 
before  an  audience  without  incurring  its  displeasure.  A  voice  natu- 
rally thin,  combined  with  a  gawky  person  and  constitutional  indolence, 
which  even  in  his  best  days  he  sometimes  found  himself  unable  to 
contend  against,  opposed  such  obstncles  to  his  success,  that  most  men 
would  have  abandoned  the  profes^iun  in  despair.  But  Kemble  was 
made  of  **  sterner  stuHT,**  The  word  imiiossibfc  was  not  in  his  vocabu- 
lary. Like  Sheridan,  he  fell  the  mens  divinior  within,  and  resolved  it 
should  come  out,  and  come  out  it  did.  No  doubt,  family  influence 
contributed  much  to  this  result,  and  time  still  more.  Ihe  former 
afforded  him  fiicilities  that  no  other  actor  in  similar  circumstances 
could  have  enjoyed, — the  latter  made  him  the  handsomest  man  of  his 
day.  More  expressive  or  more  finely-chiseled  features  than  Charles 
Kemble's  were  perhaps  never  seen  ;  and,  though  his  figure  was  faulty 
in  some  respects,  the  tout'ertsanhte  was  graceful  and  spirited  beyuud 
that  of  any  other  performer,  with  the  bingle  exception  of  his  brother 
John's.  Still,  let  an  actor's  interest  or  an  actor's  person  be  what  it 
will,  he  must  eventually  stand  by  his  talents,  or  fall  into  insignificance 
for  the  want  of  them  ;  and,  when  we  consider  the  nature  of  the  triumph 


4 


4 


OUTPOURINGS- 


IS? 


which  Kemble  achieved,  too  much  praise  can  hardly  be  accorded  bim. 
Perhaps  in  Cassio,  Orlando,  Macduff,  Romeo,  Guido,  and  Mark  An- 
thofttft  Charles  Kemble  biis  never  been  excelled.  In  Benedick,  FalcoH" 
ifridge,  and  Prince  Hal,  I  question  if  be  has  ever  been  equalled. 
Tbefte  three  parts,  combining  naivete  and  humour  with  generous  im- 
|mUesand  a  gallant  demeanour^  nrecisely  suited  Kemble.  HJs  sudden 
aasumption  of  dignity  in  Prince  Hal,  when  Poins  become*  too  familiar, 
juid  bis  manner  of  giving  "I  never  thought  I  should  live  to  be  mar- 
ried 1  *'  in  Benedick,  must  be  fresh  in  the  memory  of  those  who  were 
fortonate  enough  to  see  Charles  Kemble  in  these  characters.  In  Don 
John,  too,  I  preferred  him  to  EUiston,  but  thought  him  inferior  to 
Chat  actor  in  the  Doriconrts,  and  modern  fine  gentlemen  of  genteel 
oomedf.  Apropos  of  Don  John^  a  copy  of  "  The  Chances/*  as  origin* 
ftUy  written,  now  lies  before  me.  It  would  be  difficult  to  instance  a 
more  clever  or  more  indecent  production  ;  yet  maids,  wives^  and 
widows  once  sat  out  this  play.  O  iempora  !  0 — But  the  less  we  say 
of  mora  the  better. 

Jones  played  Don  Frederick  in  Reynold's  version  of  this  play  with 
consommate  tact,  marking  with  great  accuracy  the  graver  shades 
which  distinguish  this  agreeable  rake  from  his  more  mercurial  compa- 
niau.  This  actor  was  deservedly  a  favourite^  Light,  easy,  bustlinf^, 
▼iracious,  with  the  neatest  leg  and  the  neatest  hgnre  in  the  world, 
Jonas  made  the  best  fop  and  the  best  rattle  of  his  lime.  With  what 
precision  be  pitcbed  out  his  points  1  How  exhilarating  was  his  laugh ! 
how  Animated  his  countenance  !  He  resembled  a  case  of  choice  silleryi 
who*e  sparkling  poppings  beguiJed  us  of  the  heartache,  without  giving 
ns  the  headache.  Ay,  and  would  again^-only  he  has  better  and  graver 
things  to  employ  him.  Jones's  delineation  of  a  fop  was  not  confined 
to  the  drawl  and  the  lorgnette.  He  mingled  irivucity  with  his  affecta- 
tioo,  nor  did  he  evej*  lose  sight  of  the  gentleman  in  his  supercilious* 
iiatt^  In  the  Flutters,  Diddlcrs^  and  fops  from  the  counter,  I  think 
Wrench  excelled  bim.  After  butterBying  it  fur  thirty  years  as  a 
l^bt  oomedian, 

*'  Hit  next  aniployment  ^ess." 

IToo  cannot  ^  Well,  are  you  designed  for  holy  orders,  sir }  Do  you 
wtsb  to  acquit  yourself  with  credit?  Would  you  favourably  Impress 
nior  congregation  ?  You  would*  Then  go  to  Richard  Jones  ;  let 
mm  teach  you  how  to  read  the  Liturgy.  lou  cannot  do  better,  Trac- 
tuittii  or  anti-Tractarian — no  matter.  You  will  equally  profit  by  his 
instniotioits. 

Tliere  was  Emery,  too !  What  an  admirable  actor  was  Emery ! 
The  stage  boasted  nothing  finer,  more  original,  or  more  true  to  nature, 
ihaii  the  Tifke  of  this  performer.  In  parts  it  was  terrific — I  had 
mlfliost  said,  sublime.  But  Emery  not  only  portrayed  the  operation 
of  tlie  atronger  passions  in  rough  uneducated  natures  with  uncommon 
MWiBr  aod  effect,  but  displayed  equal  felicity  in  the  delineation  of  the 
low  CQUDing,  trickery,  self-cunceit,  and  peculiar  kind  of  humour  which 
aore  or  less  form  the  substratum  of  such  natures,  and  are  chiefiy  ob- 
iVtsble  among  the  retainers  of  the  stud,  the  betting-post,  and  the 
prijE^riog*  Emery's  Gibbet  in  *'  The  Beaux  Stratagem"  embodied 
Qliiiy  of  these  characteristics  superadded  to  superior  pretensions  and 
an  MnJtnption  of  geutility*  Tne  highwaymen  of  t  ^irqu bar's  time 
wcrv  iaoooiparably  superior  to  the  low  rulfians  who  rob  and  maltreat 


128 


OIJTFOURINGS. 


the  traveller  in  tliese  degenerate  days.  They  accupied  that  position 
in  the  social  scale  now  so  worthily  filled  by  first -class  swindlers,  and 
the  cream  of  the  swell-mob.  They  asaociafed  with  gentlemen,  were 
sometimes  gentlemen  themselves,  —  but  always  affected  to  be  so. 
Emery's  performance  of  this  anomalous  character  was  extremely  whim- 
sical and  diverting.  Hh  Jtiurttce  mr — liis  bullying  swagger — ^his  nods 
and  winks  to  invite  confidence — -his  affected  scrupulousness  as  to  bis 
convpany — hrs  continual  apprehension  of  being  identifiedj — the  bold, 
unblushing  black gfuard ism  of  his  character  predominating  over  the 
whole*  formed,  with  the  single  exception  of  MathewVs  J<7cX'  Shcppard^ 
the  most  ludicrous  specimen  of  the  confraternity  the  stage  has  ever 
produced »  In  simple  rustics,  or  where  a  stolid  expression  of  counte- 
nance was  indispensable,  Emery  ivas  not  so  happy.  There  "was  a  latent 
intelligence^  a  lurking  devil  in  his  eye,  which  contradicted  his  words, 
and  weakened,  if  it  did  not  altogether  mar,  his  performance.  In  parts 
of  this  description  he  was  inferior  to  both  Knight  and  Ox  berry. 
Emery's  Caliban  has  been  much  carped  at  ;  but  by  wdiat  standard 
are  we  to  judge  an  actor  in  a  part  so  entirely  the  creation  of  the  au- 
thor's brain  ?  It  has  been  objected  that  Emery's  delineation  of  this 
nondescript  U'as  not  poetical.  But  how  is  the  performer  to  engraft 
the  graces  of  poetry  on  such  a  stem  ?  The  attempt  would  be  hazar- 
dijus,  to  say  the  least  of  it  Conceptions  may  arise  in  the  closet  the 
reader  would  be  pussssled  to  embody,  and  tones  haunt  his  imagination, 
which,  if  uttered,  would  entail  ridicule  on  the  speaker.  Be  this  as  it 
may,  Emery's  Caliban,  with  all  its  imputed  faolts,  proved,  like  hit 
Pan  in  "Midas'"  beyond  the  efforts  of  any  of  his  contemporaries; 
though  in  senile  characters,  with  the  exception  of  Broadi-asi^  Mouche- 
slache^  and  a  few  others,  he  was  hard  and  laboured.  Emery  was  born 
in  Yorkshire,  and  had  been  accustomed,  in  Tate  Wilkinson's  company, 
to  play  nistics  in  the  broadest  fuitots  of  his  native  province.  He  se- 
lected a  part  of  this  description  for  his  dt^^nti  at  the  liaymarket;  but 
his  dialect  at  rehearsal  proved  so  unintelligible,  that  Colman  told  him 
he  might  as  well  speak  so  much  Greek  to  his  andience;  so  he  was 
obliged  to  modify  it.  In  what  is  called  livpose  or  the  Recitative  of 
Acting,  I  think  Emery  excelled  ali  actors,  past  or  present.  "  Proper 
words  in  proper  places"  appears  to  have  been  his  motto.  This  admir- 
iible  artist  always  managed  to  let  l!ie  sense  of  what  he  uttered  strike 
the  ear  at  the  precise  moment  it  produced  most  effect. 

Finvcett  likewise  excelled  in  the  pathetic,  in  a  somewhat  higher 
range  of  character.  His  Rivers,  Rotamo,  Job  Thornhcrr^^  and  Com- 
Jiowery  were  impressive  performances,  though  by  no  means  equal  in 
intensity  and  power  to  the  Ttfkc  of  Emery*  Fawcett  was  the  best 
gabbling  huniourist  of  his  day.  In  such  characters  as  PatfglosSf  Caleh 
Quoiem,  and  Oilapod  (expressly  written  for  him  by  Colman),  he  sur- 
passed even  IMathews.  Ills  style  was  hard,  and  his  features,  though 
not  devoid  of  comic  expression,  rigid.  He  played  Sterling  and  Hard- 
cmtfe  incomparably,  but  failed  in  Sir  Peter  Teazie  and  Sir  Francis 
Wrvnghcad.  This  actor  was  an  especial  favourite  with  George  III., 
who,  at  one  period,  frequently  went  to  the  theatre  to  enjoy  Fawcett's 
eccentricities,  and  laugh  sit  his  comic  songs,  which  he  sang  with  much 
humour  and  npirit.  Tlujugh  harsh  and  curt  in  manner,  Fawcett  made 
an  excellent  manager.  If  he  lacked  the  courtesy  of  Ellislon,  his  word 
could  always  be  depended  on*  He  never  flattered,  and  he  never 
deceived. 


OUTPOURINGS. 


129 


Then  there  was  Blanchard — sterling  and  toothsome;  Siminons — 
llbnual  and  quaint.  Immortal  J»»ey  !  whose  satires  beat  Juvenal*a ; 
•little  Booth  in  Pickle ;  Mrs,  C*  Kemhle  in  Lua/  :  Gibhs  in  Cow»lip ; 
and  glorious  Davenport »  who,  though  she  j^round  her  emphasis  over- 
much, bustled  through  the  Dnennas  and  Mother  Hcidelhergx  with  in- 
comparable spirit.  One  night,  in  *' The  Clandestine  IMarriage,**  »he 
rushed  in,  exclaiming,  '^  Oh,  dear  \  \  met  a  candle  with  a  man  In  its 
hand  !**  The  roar  occasioned  by  this  mistake  had  scarce  subsided, 
when  it  was  renewed  by  Mrs.  Gibbs's  saying,  "There,  IVe  locked  the 
key,  and  put  the  door  into  my  pocket."  lucledon  is  said  to  have 
made  a  lapsus  still  more  ludicrouii  in  Machealh,  which  it  would  be 
contra  himos  motes  to  relate. 

In  April,   1814,  circumstancea  called  me  to  Dublin.      Previous  to 
my  departure,   I  aaw  Airs-  Jordan  play   for  the  first   and  last  time. 
The  part  was   Hoyden — one  of  the  principal   stepping-stones  to  her 
""bnner   fame,   but  which  then,  alas  I  only  served  to  show  how  busy 
■time — must  we  add,  sorrow? — had  been  with  this  remarkable  woman. 
She  still  retained  sufficient  powers  to  evidence  how  justly  her  reputa- 
tion had  been  won-     The   speaking  eye — the  deepi   full  tones — the 
inging  laugh — the  daring  self-abandonment^ — all  bespoke  her  style  of 
the  richest  and  the  raciest,  aud  that  in  her  zenith  she  must  have  Jfir^ 
far  excelled  any  actress  who  succeeded   her,     I  witnessed   her  per- 
.  iormance  with  a  profound  melancholy.     To  me  there  was  no  mirth  in 
'  laughter^nothing  cheering  in  her  smile;  for  I  felt  she  must  be 
,  at  heart,  and  wondered,  as  I  do  now,  how  any  possible  contingency 
IjpDald  have  driven  a  princess  de  facfo,  if  not  de  Jure,  with  a  numerous 
[aiid  flourishing  offspring,   into  a  position   at  once  so  pitiable  and  de- 
[l^ding.     BiLiden,  in  his  Life  of  this  ill-fated  woman,  bus  played  the 
lfunny-fish>  nnd  instead  of  elucidating,   has  involved  thi»  mystery  in 
[•deeper  gloom. 

My  journey  to  Holyhead  proved  a  perpetual  triumph.     I  left  Lon- 
don in  the  mail  which  bore  the  joyful  inteUigence  of  the  occupation  of 
Paris  by  the  Allies.     The  coach  was  decorated  with  laurel ;  the  popu- 
lace cheeretl  us  when  we  started.     We  set  every  town,  village,  hamlet 
^  pa»ed  through  in  an  uproar.     Wherever  we  changed  horses,   the 
pie  were  retidy  to  shake  nur  hands  oC     At  Birmingham  we  nar- 
\j  escaped  being  dragged  to  the  inn.     The  cimclmien  and  guards 
Iwere  kept  in  a  constant  stute  of  intoxication,  which   nearly   proved 
Ittjil  to  us.     In  going  through  the  V^ale  of  Llangollen,  where  the  road 
'ikiriaa  high  precipice  overbanging  the  Dee,  the  couehman,  «>verpow- 
tred  by  the  ale   he  liad   been  forced   to  swallow,   fell  from  the  box. 
The  horses,  left  to  themselves,  dragged  the  coich  within  a  few  inches 
tmithe  precipice.     Fortunately  it  was  mnon'ight,  and  a  colonel  of  anil- 
rietf,  who  happened  t*i  be  sitting  with  the  guard,  discovered  the  dan- 
ger in  time  to  seize  the  reins,  and  alter  the  course  of  the  leaders,  or 
ctmcbj  passengers,  horses, — all  must  have  been  precipitated  into  the 
Dee. 

I  was  exceedingly  struck  with  the  romantic  beauties  of  Llangollen 
and  the  wilder  scenery  about  Capel  Currlg.  The  inn  at  this  latter 
plice  is  celebrated  for  an  adventure  which  befel  the  lute  Hamilton 
Rotvan,  which  with  the  reader**  permission,  I  will  narrate. 

UAAHLTUN    ROWAN    AND    TUK    WATCH. 

Hamilton  Rowan,  on  his  ^vay  to  Holyhead,  stopped   to  dine  at  the 


130 


OUTPOURINGS. 


litUe  ioQ  fit  Cape!  Currig.  There  was  notlitng  in  the  bouse  but  a 
^boulder  of  mutton,  which  Rowan  ordered  to  be  roasted*  Presently 
the  master  uf  a  neigbbotiring  hunt,  with  two  brother  NLmrods,  rushed 
into  an  adjoining  room,  and  swearing  they  were  half  starved^  clamour- 
oiidly  demanded  what  they  could  have  for  dinner. 

line  laodlord,  with  many  apologies^  told  them  be  had  nothing  but 
breftd  and  cheese  to  offer  them. 

•*  Nothing  bat  bread  and  cheese  I  Nothing  but  bread  and  cheese  I" 
ihey  all  exclaimed^  stamping  about  the  room. 

*■  I  *m  exlreaiely  worry,  gentlemen,"  said  the  landlord,  much  embar- 

•*  How  d'ye  meanj  sir?"  interrupted  the  master  of  the  hunt,  im- 

menms^.     **  By 1  I  don't  understand  this,  Gwillam  I     Nothing 

Ml  hrmA  mid  ckemt  to  offer  us  I  VVhy^  I  smell  something  roasting 
mrtmr  Idie&eii  at  tliia  Tery  moment,  sir  V* 

n^  flU  mmm  lliey  smelt  it* 

""  ^^y,  ibaft  *«  vccy  tme,  gentlemen,"  said  the  landlord,  still  more 
mAtKwwam^  ^  TWva  certainly  it  a  shoulder  of  mutton  at  the  fire, 
waA  I  wiA  vitb  aD  aiy  tiesirt  I  eonld  let  your  honours  have  it ;  but, 
wtttnmmttiiff  h '%  beipafce  by  ao  Irish  gentleman  in  the  next  room 

*  A  WMAT?     An  iruk  g«iKdeiiia&,  did  yon  say,  Gwillam?"  roared 

at*  av»  wmm— 

Hant  tfe  iMiAaid  vw  tBttnTVpted  by  a  perfect  mauik-quakc  of 
hm^tmp  m  wUek  Um  wMt  iwio  loiiied* 

•^ftBf,  «lat*t  tliiafrwA'MUeinan  like  ?"  demanded  the  Squire, 
aa  wmm  m  hm  ctmM  tmmk^  **  Haa  ke  been  long  caught  ?  Has  he  lo«t 
kk  tail  TCt?  Okt  wm  kam*c  laiEcl  do  teU  ns— has  he  lost  his 
tail  yet,  bwillBB? 

*■  Ay«  bsi  W  kat  lii  tMl  |«l»  GiHlUm  >"  echoed  the  others ;  and 
s^aiii  tlwry  aH  IvMbad  bmI  aaHv^QMiuly* 

"  ladecd.  gemlattca     "  ht^jm  tW  landlord. 

^  No  Bkave  af  tlMst*  aaid  the  Squire^  cutting  him  tihnrt,  ''unleaa 
jr«ii  «i«aa  la  Mke  us  skk,  sir.  Go !  send  the  mutton  in  to  us,  and 
lit  tlus  irisk  geadcman  haTe  a  Welsh  rabbit.  And  d  'ye  hear  ?  "  con- 
tinuedl  lie>  pnlliiig  oat  a  fine  old  family  repeater,  and  putting  it  into 
tlio  laadlora a baiM,  "take  tliis  into  htm,  wttb  my  compliments,  and 
aik  kfini  if  ho  can  tell  what  time  of  day  it  is  by  it.  Go  I — go,  sir  1  do 
01 1  ardor  too,  or  it  shall  bo  the  worse  for  you  T' 

Tlio  landlord « who  dorat  not  disobey,  after  many  apologies,  delivered 
tlio  valch  with  this  measago  to  Rowan,  who  had  overheard  all  that 
liod  passed. 

Perhaps  the  squire  could  not  have  selected  a  worse  subject  for  this 
grtktuitou^  insult  than  Hamilton  Howan,  who,  seiaing  one  of  his  travel* 
ung  pistob  which  lay  in  the  window,  immediately  joined  the  trio,  who 
were  laughing  heartily  at  the  joke* 

'•  Gentlemen,"  said  Rowan,  with  great  suavity,  "  I  'm  sorry  to  in- 
terrupt your  mirth,     I  delight  in  a  joke  myself — especially  when  it 's 

good  one.     But  the  fact  is,  our  landlord  here,  who  must  be  either 

ttuk   or  dreaming,  or  both,  has  just  brought  me  this  watch,  with  a 

»t  impertinent  message,  which  he  affirms  he  was  ordered   to  deliver 

me  bjr  some  gentleman  in  this  room  here.  Now,  though  J  cannot 
instant  suppose  any  person  present,"  continued  Howaii,  fixing 


OUTPOURINGS. 


ISl 


bis  efe  on  the  Squire^  "  guilty  of  so  blackguard  an  act|  I  onust  request, 
as  a  mere  matter  of  formi  to  know  whether  any  gentleman  here  did 
send  me  this  watch,  with  any  such  message.  I  '11  thank  you  for  an 
immediate  answer^  gentlemen  !"  added  Rowan,  examining  the  priming 
of  his  pistol,  '*  for  there  s  a  delicious  little  shoulder  of  Welsh  mutton 
just  roastedj  that  I  'm  anxious  to  pay  my  respects  to." 

Perceiving  them  all  dumbfounded.  Rowan  demanded  of  each  in 
succession  whether  he  was  the  owner  of  the  watch. 

They  ali  replied  In  the  negative. 

''  Most  extraordinary  1"  said  Hit  wan  ;  then  calling  in  the  landlord^ 
he  asked  him  if  the  watch  helon<red  to  him. 

**To  me,  sir?     No,  sir  V*  replied  the  man,  in  great  astonishment, 

'*  Drj  you  know  any  person,  then,  out  of  this  room,  to  whom  this 
vratch  belongs  f"  demanued  Rowan. 

*'  Out  of  tiiia  room,  wr  ?" 

**  Ay  }^-(wt  of  this  room,  sir !  Have  the  goodness  to  look  this  way, 
and  speak  to  the  point,  sir  !'* 

'*  No,  sir, — certainly,  sir, — 1  don't  know  any  person  out  of  this 
room,  sir,  to  whom  that  watch  belongs." 

**  Very  well,  sir  ]  now  go  and  serve  the  mutton  up  I — WeU,  upon 
my  honour  now  !  this  is  mighty  comical !''  continued  Rowan,  as  soon 
as  the  landlord  had  left  the  room.  **  Here 's  a  watch  which  belongs 
to  nobody  in  the  room,  and  nobody  otit  of  the  room — not  even  to  the 
person  from  whose  hands  I  received  it.  Well,  1  must  keep  it,  I  suppose, 
until  a  claimant  starts  np.  I  Ve  no  other  course  to  pursue.  In  case 
you  should  hear  of  atiy  such  person,  gentlemen,  there's  my  card 
(throwing  it  on  the  table)* — Upon  my  word,  a  mighty  handsome, 
watcii  I  a  repwater  too  !  Let  me  see — ay,  just  fourteen  minutes  forty- 
five  seconds  past  dve,  the  very  time  to  attack  a  shoulder  of  Welsh 
mmton — ha,  ha,  hal  Good  morning,  gentlemen,  good  morning. 
You  see  I  know  mfmt  time  ofdai/  it  is  i'*  And  with  this  Rowan  left 
them.  *'  The  watch,"  saith  my  informant,  "still  remains  in  possession 
of  the  Rowan  family-** 

1  found  the  Drama  in  Dublin  in  a  declining  state.  Alas!  it  no 
JoDger 

**■ matter*d  a  tots  up 

Whether  Mossop  kick^  Barry »  or  Barry  kick*d  McMMOp.** 

Fortunately,  a  blazing  comet,  after  raising  the  atmosphere  of  Drury 
Lone  to  blood  heat,  took  the  Crow  Street  Theatre  in  its  perihelium, 
and  engendered  a  second  Garrick  fever. 

The  Crow  Street  Theatre,  the  only  house  regularly  open  in  Dublin, 
«as  under  the  management,  or  rather  mi^'managenient,  of  Mr.  Frede- 
rick Junes,  a  gentleman  wlio  preferred  the  cltib-room  to  the  green- 
fOttUip  and  a  rubber  to  the  getting  up  of  a  pantomime. 

Jcmes  had  most  of  Sheridan's  defects,  without  that  fertility  of  re- 
•oiiroe  which  enabled  the  latter  to  jump  over,  or  otherwise  evade,  as 
beat  suited  him,  those  apparently  insurmountable  obstacles  which  cir- 
cumstances, or  his  own  improvidence,  so  perpetually  interposed  in  his 
oueer.  Jones  had  a  pettyness — a  meanness  about  him,  from  which 
Sheridan,  with  all  his  faults,  was  free.  Jones  endeavoured  to  supply  his 
pwn  exigencies  by  a  pdtry  economy  in  the  minutest  details,  and  grinding 
4uwu  the  salaries  of  the  performers,  and  inferior  cmphyees.  Even  tliese, 
wretched  as  they  were,  were  always  in  arrear,  so  that  the  manager 


1S2  OUTPOURINGS. 

w«»  eoBftntlr  inTolred  in  sqnabbles  or  litigation.  Performers  either 
tkrev  cp  tben*  ejifcigeiuciite  mltogetber,  or  refused  to  play  nntil  their 
M^arxs  T«;«  pud  sp.  The  seenery  was  fftded  or  defective,  the  ward- 
nfee  seuxrr  aad  sLibbr  —  rehearsals  ill-attended — machinery  badly 
wwiic— C2ar»cter5  isviecafitc-lT  sostuned — ^performances  slurred  over, 
— ia.  X  ▼ijrc-  rrerr  dij  tlineatened  to  dissolve  an  establishment  so  ill- 
cein«*rte*i  x=  i  sc-  sLisetrillT  mii-managed. 

Tb«»  iTO.?«  WT»  &biKit  tbe  sixe  o£  the  Haymarket,  but  far  more  ele- 
g^^^j  i£e^r*Ki-  !•  was  mr^etciedjT  dirty.  A  piece  of  orange-peel 
dir»iW3  ^c  tie  >d£e  tbii  rxa  rrvcnd  the  lower  circle,  might  have  lain 
tjer?.  lixe  X  r^'iiiSoc  :=  tbe  Hc^use  of  Commons,  until  that  day  six 
Bi«Hii2d.  Tbf  \1saf^>T'$  b.x  hid  its  own  lobby,  lit  by  a  handsome 
c^.iT.-f'-^ir.  T^-e  L.Toi  XLiyor  aiways  sat  in  the  centre  of  the  dress- 
eir£.-e.  to  wiici  i-e  Lid  tie  rzir^e  ex  officio.  I  seldom  visited  the 
tieiir^  »^tl.x;:  «e:i:^  his  Municipal  Majesty,  with  his  white  wand 
£x>i  :t-x-x'^%  z-rsj  *£  :Le:r  acc3$t4>med  places. 

Tie  cvcirtLZT  c.>cis5?ted  of  Txlbot,  Younger,  Connor,  Thompson,  the 
tw."^  Fimfrs*  Ftiliiiia.  Williams,  X.  Jones,  Johnston,  Sloman,  Burgess, 
Koci.  O  CiliirLAr,  Tc«i  Cooke,  O'Neill,  St.  Pierre,  Miss  Walstein, 
Mr«»  StevjLTt.  M:s»  N^>rt:^.  ^li^  Rock,  Mrs.  Lazenby,  Mrs.  Burgess, 
Mrs.  T.  C*vi<,  izd  Mi»  O  Neill. 

I  wjB  i=s5xrtlr  strack  with  the  surpassing  excellence  of  William 
Farrec  I  tbvxx^ht  I  bad  left  nothing  superior  in  his  line  in  Liondon. 
Tbe  irst  puzt  1  saw  hxm  in  was  Lhetor  liasy  in  St.  Patrick's  Day, 
aad  tbocirh  I  hid  seen  Mathews  in  the  same  character  a  few  nights 
beigr«  as  C^went  Garden.  I  felt  fiilly  satisfied  with  Farren's  perform- 
ance.    But  m*:«f>?  of  this  admirable  actor  anon. 

Miss  Walstein  led  in  cv^«nedy.  She  reminded  me  of  Mrs.  Davidson. 
Probably  both  had  aiiorted  the  same  model.  Though  somewhat  pass^e. 
Miss  Walstein  still  linked  the  matronly  heroine  of  genteel  comedy, 
and  played  the  Bos.:limds  aud  the  Letititia  Hardys  so  well,  that  her 
personal  deficiencies  were  f.  rc'^tten.  In  tragedy  she  was  above  medi- 
ocrity. I  never  savr  any  acirt>s  jLiy  Lady  Anne  better.  She  subse- 
quently came  out  at  Drury  Lane,  as  a  counter-attraction  to  Miss 
CVXeifl^-a  most  injudicious  step.  She  should  have  made  her  dihut 
ten  years  earlier,  or  not  at  all. 

But  the  star  of  Crow  Street  was  the  lovely  O'Neill.     Young,  beau- 
tiful, chaste — gifted  with  strong  sensibilities — ample  powers  of  deve- 
lopment —  a  judgment   capable   of    directing   and   controlling   those 
powers,  this  most  superior  creature  at  once  dignified  her  profession, 
and  propped  its   falling  interests.     She  was  indifferent  in  comedy. 
Her  comic  assumptions  were  rather  correct  readings  than  impersona- 
tions.    The  most  impassioned  tragic  actress,  perhaps,  that  ever  trod 
the  stage,  she  seemed  incapable  of  throwing  herself  with  equal  fervour 
on  the  delineation  of  those  whims,  follies,  and  weaknesses  she  felt  sin- 
gularly free  from.     Though  nothing  could  exceed  the  elegance  of  Miss 
CNeiil's  appearance  and  deportment,  her  fine  features  lacked  that 
'^rchness,  that  enjouee  expression  so  indispensable  in  comedy ;  vivacity 
I  became  her — her  humour  was  forced.     Perhaps  her  best  comic  part 
IS  Mrs.  Oakley,  in  which  much  passion,  but  little  of  the  vis  comica 
required.     On  the  other  hand,  the  assumed  cheerfulness  of  Mrs. 
tiUr  sat  naturally  upon  her,  so  did  the  playfulness  of  Juliet,  and  the 
idearing  wheedling  of  Desdemana.     I  question  if  these  three  charac- 
fS  have  ever  had  a  better  representative.     Nor  was  her  Belt  idera 


OUTPOURINGS. 


133 


m  whit  less  excellent.  Siddons  may  huve  played  the  Iti^t  scene  more 
powerfully,  but  in  tbe  tenderness  and  devotion  of  the  wife, —  ah  !  who 
could  compare  with  O'Neill  I  Mr^,  C.  Kean  approaches  nearer  to  her 
ia  the  expression  of  these  two  qualities  than  any  other  actress  within 
my  remembrance,  though  far  inferior  to  the  fair  Hibernian  in  ail  otlier 
piirticulars. 

In  the  February  preceding  my  arrival,  Slieill  produced  at  the  Crow 
Street  Theatre^  the  iirst  of  that  series  of  tragedies  in  which  O'Neill 
played  the  heroines*.  Owin^  to  her  exertions  Adelaide  had  great  sac- 
cess  in  Dublin,  though  it  proved  less  fortunate  when  produced  subse- 
quently at  Covent  Garden.  Alitis  O'Neill's  delivery  of  the  following 
passage  transcends  all  praise : 

**  Not  wedded  to  thee !     Then  I  11  wed  df?a|Kiir  • 
Comc^  my  new  bndegrooro,  to  this  heart — *tis  thine^ 
Fur  ever  tliine.     Thou  wilt  be  faUhfui  to  me — 
Thou  canst  not  fUiitcr — thou  wilt  ttut  deceive  me. 
Come,  then,  let  *s  iiy. — Bui  hold  ! — no  mockery  now— 
We  *U  wed  in  earnest^  and  without  a  pnest  !"♦ 

Talbot,  who  led  llie  business,  was  absent  tbe  t»reater  part  of  the 
time  I  was  in  Dublin^  This  actor  enjoyed  a  high  reputation  all  o^er 
Ireland.  Any  remark  tending;?  to  depreciate  the  Dublin  staj^^e  was  al- 
ways met  with,  *' Ah  !  wait  till  Talbot  cornea  I — Only  wait  till  you  We 
fteen  Talhiit  in  the  parti"  At  last  he  came,  and  I  did  see  bini.  I  saw 
him  play  Ranger  and  Sotftno*    But  whether  he  was  itidispofied,  or  fati- 

fuedi  or  out  of  cue,  or  his  humour  wan  locals  1  confess  I  didn't  like 
im.  His  person  was  j^oud,  but  hh  voice  appeared  to  nie  not  only 
lliin  and  flat  in  quality,  but  vulgar  in  tone.  After  tbe  adniirable  fool- 
ing of  Mathews,  I  thought  his  Somtio  wretched.  His  comedy  was 
better,  but  inferior  to  Elliston*s,  or  Charles  Kemble's,  or  even  Rae*8. 
I  can  pass  no  opinion  on  Talbot's  tragedy,  and,  indeed,  may  be  wrong 
in  passing  any  opinion  at  all  on  an  actor  I  only  saw  once,  and  whose 
ikme  rests  on  a  natiou*R  fiat*  Rock,  the  stage  manager,  played  low 
Iri&bmen.  Though  not  what  he  bad  been,  he  contrived  to  get  through 
his  parts  with  considerable  effect.  R^ck  must  have  been  an  excellent 
oooiedian  in  his  time.  I  thought  blm  singularly  free  from  butfaonery 
in  a  line  and  locale  where  the  greatest  licence  might  bave  been  ex- 
pected. Fullbam,  like  Rock,  belonged  to  tbe  has-beens.  At  this  time 
he  mast  have  been  nearer  seventy  than  sixty  ;  notwithstanding  which, 
I  have  seen  him  bustle  thniugb  two,  and  even  three  parts  in  one  night. 
His  Justice  H'oofic(Kk,  Old  Philfoilst  &c»  must  bave  been  excellent 
performances  in  his  prime.  Full  ham  was  father  of  the  Dublin  stage. 
For  aught  I  could  learn,  be  might  bave  been  half  a  century  on  the 
Dublin  boards.  I  never  met  with  anybody  who  remembtred  bis 
dibui.  This  fine  old  fellow  was  universally  respected,  and  always 
had  a  bumper  at  bis  benefit.  Williams  was  an  original  actor  of  limit- 
ed powers.  His  performances,  as  far  as  they  went,  were  sound,  and 
in  good  taste.  Had  this  actor  possessed  the  power  of  giving  full  effect 
to  bis  conceptions^  be  would  bave  stood  second  to  no  comedian  of  bis 
day.  His  humour,  though  less  uncttious,  was  less  cloying  than  Liston*s 
and  quite  as  peculiar.     He  was  tbe  best  Old  Rapid  I  ever  saw.     He 

•  How  doctors  difttfr  !  3Iiss  O^Niiill'i  cotnedy  had  noAiiy  admirera  ;  while  a 
fVTtaia  diviinKiiiahed  driktQBtisti  now  d«oeiMed,  decinred  that  her  lust  Mti«ne  iu  £«/- 
^Jem  woft  «<  th«  d — ndeit  Samceuic  feeling  he  evvr  witnessed  I  "" 


OCTPOfTKHiGL 


til  las  fmSmmt 


«y  teilor  better  ihsji 
ffWK»  hf  destit»Tiiig  the 
wA  Ji^/Sert — parts,  bis 
ItB  £h^.  He  was  the 
Wl ;  but  there  w 
hin  tulenor  tn  Power  \ 
■i  rverj  reDidske  for 
r;  yet  be  fWipeUiulj  disap- 
;  ef  jaifcrnBt,  er  tbe  power  of  con- 
iUe  tm  tma  tlie  lif'  ■iitignr  Nattire 
SBBHBt.  Oi  tfe  wUb»  iSwerer,  be 
MBBi  wMUrit  J  from 
tf  tl«  CorwotiM  ^Gmm  IV.  at 
i  die  wftHiafcyt  |Mto  Mahbering  old 
KSMeicidnototeokinedoC  Thb 
:  oa  «  l»  liK  esd  of  cvbt  plizioej  in  the 


iaUsi 


HewwMti 
witlio 


rpkr 


Molwi&t 


ewMmcModj.   Like' 

nie  oHiiii^  W  aef«r  lut  tlie  mark 

[  ke  ko  edM  o  gaod  o«e.    There 

*  okMit  kis,  oombined 

draod  of  kcoriiip  bioi 

PCfo  evatasiilf  tkrow- 

wmnt  of  tkdr  salaries. 

horn  Bmmid  down  to 

Ikift  oesor  was  above 

I  veiT  popular  with  the 

One  of  hi§  songSs 

ttp  all  the  public  buildings^ 

ike  Li47>  OQadoded  thos : 


To  the  tfantre  hen. 


t  r«allo«r*d  poorSlo 


»!" 


I  thoo^t  Jobnstoa,wbo  plsved  countryroen.  an  oatrageoQS  cancan 

tnrist.     Wboe  be  found  bia  nature,  or  got  bis  conceptions,  heaven 

ool?  knows !     He    mast  have  had  *'  an  atmosphere  and  benttspbere 

of  kis  own" — some  Laputa  nobody  else  bad  aooess  to^    How  he  main- 

hi«  Msttton  oa  the  public  boards  was  wonderful !     This  actor 

Yorhhire  Johnston*     The  ifonj  waa  intolerable- 

fairj  thing  is  this,  that  bounds,  and  skips,  and  wheedles 

sun-Hhtn?  expression  of  countenance?     'Tis  Rock,  the 

r*s  niece*  in  Polfy  Honejfcomhe^     Though  scarce  six  teen » 

is\  displayed  great  aptitude  for  her  profession.    Where 

\t  Has  become  of  her?      Have  years  blanched   those 

Had  the  heart  to  stamp  wrinkles  on  such  a  ooua* 

eve  it  f 


OUTPOURINGS- 


135 


Stewart  next  appears  1 


-  "  And  on  my  life. 


Her  husband  had  &  mighty  pretty  vife." 

Her  Kiiiy  of  Coltraine  was  a  standing  di&li>  She  sang  it  every 
oigbt«  and  sang  it  sweetly.  Norton  placed  seuti  mental  misses,  and 
little  Lazenby,  whod^  husband  kept  a  ptckle-.shop,  the  soubrettes  and 
would-be-fine  ladies.  Shortly  after  her  marriao^e,  this  latter  perform- 
ed Clementitia  Allspice,  and  when  she  said,  "  Don't  spare  tbe  pickles, 
ladies  and  gentlemen^  there's  plenty  in  the  sbopf  the  audience 
8bout«d. 

Then  St.  Pierre  danced  excellent  comic  dances,  which  he  had  the 
knack  of  concluding  with  a  whimsical  ti  plomh,  while  you — you,  my 
dear  Tom  Cooke,  presided  over  the  department  of  tweedle-dum  and 
tweedle-dee — how  ably  I  need  not  say*  You  were  a  musical  Caleb 
Quoiem  up  to  everything*  You  arranged  the  score,  led  in  the 
orchestra,  and  played  all  the  lirst  operatic  parts.  You  could  take  up 
any  instrument,  from  a  violin  to  a  jewVharp,  and  *Miscourse  moat 
deiiciotis  music/'  Yon  must  have  come  fiddling  into  the  world,  and, 
like  a  swan,  will  go  singing  out  of  it, — though  not  these  fifty  years,  I 
hope  for  we  shouldn't  like  to  lose  you. 

At  the  close  of  the  Drnry  Lane  season,  Kean  arrived  in  Dublin, 
accompanied,  as  I  have  already  mentioned,  by  Pope*  He  made  his 
dehiit  in  Richard,  I  was  present*  The  fi rat  three  acts  passed  off 
very  quietly*  I  began  to  sit  uneasily.  Thompson's  Bmlingham  bore 
off  all  the  applause*  At  length  Richard  was  roused,  and  the  little  man 
began  to  show  himself  1  Then  came  the  triumph  of  intellect  over 
mere  common-place : 

«Give  me  a  horte  f     Bind  up  my  wounds  i  ** 

rified  the  house.      The  applause  was   tremendous,     FronT  this 
Dt  everything  told*     There  could  be  no  doubt  of  his  success*    The 
a  won.    To  parody  O'Kelly's  words,  it  was  Kean  first,  the  rest 
rhere." 

With  greater  beauties,  Kean  had  greater  defects  than  any  of  his 
ntemporaries.  He  required  the  whirlwind  and  the  storm  to  rouse 
him ;  but  when  roused,  his  instinct  was  infallible.  Like  another 
Niagara,  the  impetuous  torrent  of  his  genius  nished  headlong  and  ir- 
fe«i4tible,  but  never  deserted  its  channel.  It  was  only  when  left  to  his 
eooler  judgment  that  Kean  erred.  His  soliloquies  were  unsatisfac- 
tory— bis  level  scenes  slurred  over.  He  skipped  from  point  to  point, 
as  if  they  were  so  many  stepping-stones,  diiiregarding  what  was  inter- 
mediate, or  forgetting  how  much  the  general  effect  of  his  performance 
depended  upon  it.  His  pauses  were  frequently  misplaced,  and  many 
■f  Ilia  new  readings  abiurd*     On  his  debute  in  speaking  the  following 

*'  And  many  a  time  and  oft  upon  ih«  Rial  to,"  &c 

Refill  made  a  pause  after  time ;  and  this  petty,  inconsequential  depar- 
!  firom  the  usual  mode  of  giving  the  line,  which,  after  all,  might 
hare  been  accidental,  drew  down  such  a  tumult  of  applause ^  that 
K^a  never  played  a  new  part  without  introducing  one  or  mure  of 
these  emendations.  In  like  manner,  the  plaudits  bestowed  on  his 
^ftBg  toetie  in  Richard  encouraged  him  to  prolong  such  exhibitions. 


I« 


OrTFOURINOS. 


He  always  treated  tbt  wsdlefiee  to  a  re^ikr  aisaut  dtarmet  on  sucli 
•GBMM|»  cwiici«ding  t^  combat,  d  la  Widdrington,  on  liU  stumps. 
Itaitnlf  be  |^  iata  tbebabit  of  suddeQljr  dropping  his  rorce,  ibrustinj? 
aaebaiid  w$m\m  boaciii,  tapping  his  forebeatl  with  the  other,  aiid 
WBoiBmm.  iMa  ana  eomer  of  the  proKcenium.  He  probably  resorted  to 
ie  of  extmcting  applause  from  physiciil  exhaustion, 
X  orator  directs  his  huffo  to  blow  the  trumpet  when- 
ever Ua  varda  ar  Ida  ideas  full  him.  Xeverthele^,  Kean  possessed 
Maie  af  wbat  is  ttodentood  by  the  word  gen'mt  than  any  other  actor. 
Ki  Lmke^  Rickard,  Oikdio,  Sir  GiUs  Oiet reach,  &c.,  have  been  too 
eftee  and  tso  abij  cooinieiited  on  to  require  analysis  here^  There  was 
eee  ^ancter»  liawever,  Rtmhen  Gknro^,  in  which  his  performance 
waa  aa  ewsiarlf ,  tkal  I  caimat  reft^n  from  particularising  it.  The 
past  ilaelf  ia  esediaerry  but  it  boasts  some  Hne  situations.  Keau's 
■fast  denpaar  vbee  be  ta  UiA  ibat  Rosalia  Samerf  has  eloped^  was  the 
fiaeril  faaee  af  aetins  I  ever  wiUKosed,  or  probably  e\rer  shall  witness, 
I  beve  aeea  other  actors  in  the  situation — very 
**ab!  htm  nalike  my  Beverley  !"  I  instanc 
_  eft  sane  partieularly^  because  it  was  the  pure| 

I  of  flOHBi  wilhm^  aeiiliinr  i      Nothing  could  he  more 

t  be  bad  to  deliver,  nothing  It^  pictoreM|iae^ 
■era  mean  than  bia  appeaiance.     la  fact, 
r,  or  parub  eoeaMlew  tlian  a  hero  ;- 

lelt  g^e  aaaa^  llMaa  hem  able  to  i 

f^kSMe  still  tbat  br  s^mM  bm«  deligb 

e»  bia  fiuDe»  his  ^etefte^  and  bis  poir^m. 

ni  mm  aee  night  at  PoirerV  that  the  oaabier 

~  I  af  one  hundred  and  fifty  thoiuand 

1  tbroQgh  his  hands — a  sum  larger 

m.    At  a  past  mortem  exami- 

)  fimnd  uninjured. 

t  of  the  Dublin  audience. 

Aivcidbf  "'St.Btfriclt's  Day/'  were  invaria- 

t  ef  eierj  fineisg'a  pcrfomance  at  the  Crow 

r  tv*  ana  eaeatteted  tbe  barometer  of  public 

afiwau    WWa  pleated,  ftt  ^pleaded  ftefJl.     But  if  things  didn't  go 

ee  iia  fikiegy  be  veoted  bia  apfeoi  as  tbe  fint,  and  applauded  hin  uwu 

■itiaal  air  is  prapartiee-     At  aU  tieiea.  tbe  gallery  stamped  an  ao- 

t— iieniiiM  III  to  tboa  latter,  aa  well  aa  to  all  otber  popular  ulrs,  besides 

jKmng  in  cboroa.     But  when  a  aew  Lavd  and  Lady  Lieutenant  vi- 

atled  Uie  theatre  for  tbe  firat  time.  Fat's  peculiarities  became  moat 

dirrrttji^.  fl| 

''  Pat  Mooney  I**  thonta  a  voice  in  the  gallery.  V 

**  Halloo  V  answers  Fat,  from  the  opposite  side. 

Faiee,     Can  you  see  *em,   Pat?      {Meaning   the  L(/rd  and  Ladjf. 

Ututettnnt.) 

Pal  Mofjftet/,     1  can. 

rdce.     Well;  what's  Ar  like? 

Pa*  ^''-  "-v.     Oh,  mighty  like  a  graater  or  middle-man*     Any  way, 
\  long  nose  of  his  own.     {Lmtd  laughter,  in  which  hti 


dever,  think  you? 

I'd  be  sorry  to  make  him  sinse-keept 


{Laughti 


fer 


OUTPOURINGS. 


isr 


Foice.     Does  he  locik  good-natured ; 
Pai  Moofiet/,     Well,  he  does,  and 


enjoys  a  joke,  too, — Heaven  blesg 
jiitn  I — iiKe  a  gentleman  as  he  i«. 

Foice,     Then  we'll  not  have  to  send  him  hack? 

Pai  Moonctf,  ^o,  I  don't  think  we  slmlK  We  may  get  a  worse. 
{Roarg  of  laughter.)  They  say  lie's  mighty  geueroua,  and  means  to 
spend  his  money  amongst  us  like  a  prince* 

Gailery,  Bravo  I  hravo  I  \V^*\l  keep  him^  then — we'll  keep  him. 
Three  cheers,  lads — three  cheers  for  the  Lord  Lieutenant!  {Cheers 
and  laughter,} 

Voice.     WvM,  and  what's  ike  like.  Put  ? 

Pai  Mooney,  Oh,  nothing  particular.  She'd  not  firighten  a  horse. 
(Roars,  her  Lad  tf  ship  joining.} 

Foice,     U  she  tall  ? 

Pai  Mooney,     Wait  till  she  stands  up. 

Foice,     May  be  she's  stout,  Pat  ? 
^  Pai  Mootietf,     Faix  \  you  may  say  that*     It  isn't  the  Hkes  of  her 
lives  on  buttermilk.   {Roars,} 

Voice,     D'ye  think  she's  good-natured  ? 

Pat  Mootiey,  Ob,  I'll  en^^e  she  is.  She  has  the  raal  blood  in 
her,  and  there's  plenty  of  it.  {Roars ^  ami  ** Bravo  T*  from  the  Gailerif,} 

Mantf  Voices.     She'll  do  theiii  Pat? 

Pat  Mooficy,  OchI  she  will — she  wilL  111  engage  for  her  Lady- 
ship. 

Voices^     We  may  keep  her  then,  may  we  ? 

Pai  Moonetf,  Och !  the  longer  the  better — the  longer  the  better. 
(Roars,}  It 's  her  Ladyship  that  11  speiik  the  good  word  for  the  man 
chat's  in  thrubble,  and  never  let  the  dacent  woman  want,  that's  in  the 
straw — God  bless  ber  ! 

GaUertf,  Bravo!  bravo!  Three  cheers  for  her  Ladyship  1 — three 
cheers  for  the  Lady  Lieutenant  1     {Cheers  and  laughter,} 

Pai  Mooneff  (seeing  the  Lord  Mai/or).  My  sovvl  to  ye  f  Dan 
Finn  i.^n,  is  that  you  ? 

Vry.     Ah  !    ah  !    Is  that  you,  Dmi  Finnagan  ? — is  that   you  ? 
^ii..,^fs  and  la ughler. ) 

Pat  Moone^.  Faix  !  it's  good  for  the  likes  of  us  to  see  you  down 
Amon^  the  gin  try  there,  Dan  Finnagun  !  {A  hud  laugh,  at  which  his 
Lordship  does  not  seem  parlicularlt/  pleased.)  Och  1  you  needn't  look 
»p  «o  aour  at  us !  Many  *s  the  good  time  youVe  sat  up  here  yourself; 
— Toa  know  it  is,  ye  ould  vinegar  bottle!     (Roars.) 

Voice.  Sure  the  world's  gone  w^ell  wid  tfou  any  way,  Ban  Finnagan. 
Ye  hadn't  them  white  kid  gloves—- 

Pat  Moofieij,     No,  nor  that  grand  cocked  hat  there— 

VUce,  No,  nor  that  white  wand,  ye  cormorant  I  when  you  kept 
the  chandler*shop^  and  cheated  Mike  Kelly  out  of  a  farden'a- worth  of 
pipea,  and — *' 

Oaliertf,  Ah  I  ah  J  Who  cheated  Mike  Kelly  ?^ — who  cheated 
Mike  Kelly.     (Great  confusion,  during  which  the  orchestra   strikes 

I  eevcfr  passed  the  old  tumble-down  brick  mansion  facing  the  Liffy, 
bdoDging  to  the  Moira  family,  without  a  glance  of  mingled  curiosity 
ud  veaeration.  It  was  there  the  Jilarqnis  of  Hustings,  one  of  the 
first  soldiers,  statesmen,  and  gentlemen  of  his  time,  brought  into  notice 
the  greater  lyric  poet  of  his  day.     Within  these  deserted  avails  J^Ioore 


i  similar  per- 

Aptlli  Society,  «ii  a-semciation 

" — ft  pfinse,  par  parett- 

Catk  tbmn  Cork  itj$elf, 

1  fwtendaas,  I  ever 

Mr.  Uniwttb  tke  ftuUior  of    '  The 

lietoiiipft.    This 

•  of  a  well- 

fbr  ite  ckfe*  she  mmde  an 

rfti»  It  wmnted  soul*     8b  e 

tn^  ymita  fur  several  »ea- 

ik  au^fal  bsre  found  it  dif- 

il,  JfoBsieur  Luarent  sr* 

■pBnj  fur  the  Odeon,  aiid 

Her  success  was  im« 

to  applsud  La  Belle  Ire* 

and  graceful  uctian^ 

i  aC  ihm  eoUMm-places  of  her  art> 

!  d«a  Droits  and  tlie  Ecule  de 

at.     The  mincing  preci- 

i  amy  syUatUe  eaabled  her  audience  to 

added  to  the  prepon- 

■caaan*  Abbott,  who  was  a  hard 

great  Cisrourite  at  the  Ode<>n. 

\  wbcii  I  oome  to  speak  of 

fUnera,  ibe  Waaler  af  ike  tammmam  at  Cork,  was  a  member  of  the 
ApaUa  Sodetf*  Bmt  fellaw  I  kt  babn^ad  to  that  numerous  cliuss  in 
Inlaiid  kna«ra  m  **MitleBcn  of  tetons,  who  bare  spent  all  ihey 
Qood-kiuDOitmj  iboQgbllcaa^  aod  socially  dispiised,   he  i^'as 

,  after  squandering  bis  patrimotiy,  lo  obtaio  the  situation  he  filled. 

raa  a  abort,  bustlings  little  peraoo,  with  a  large  wen  on  his  bald 
^lie.  and  an  indifferent  |sood  W*  As  he  danced  well*  and  Rp4>ke 
Freoeb,  be  was  osst  for  BagaU&  in  "  The  Poor  Soldier/'  Dieu 
Mercil^^<me  would  hare  thunght  the  salvation  i>{  Ireland  depended 
Ml  bis  sucoeas!  I  never  looked  in  at  the  theatre  witlmut  5nding 
Rogers  rebeaniog  bis  part.  He  constantly-  occupied  the  btage  to  the 
^isat  annoyaaee  of  the  company  and  bindranoe  of  business.     He 


OUTFOURIKGS* 


189 


Ulke<)»  th<>uglit,  dreamt  of  nothing  but  liis  intemled  performance*  and 
must  have  pulled  oflT  a  peck  of  buttons,  at  least,  in  forcibly  detaining 
every  one,  to  ascertain  what  they  thought  of  his  dancing.  To  punish 
hiro,  a  lump  of  kmp-black  was  filaced  on  the  chair  €m  which  he  had  to 
teat  himself  in  Nora's  cottage  previous  to  his  pas  seul;  and  as  he  wore 
a  short  linen  jacket,  mth  white  kerseymere  smidls,  the  effect  may  be 
imagined  !  VVhenever  he  turned  iiis  back-front  to  rhe  audience  in  the 
course  of  his  gyrations,  the  house  was  in  a  roar  I  They  wouldn't  suffrr 
him  to  leave  the  stage,  but  encored  him  again  and  agjin,  until  at 
length  he  was  compelled  to  make  his  exit  from  Uteer  exhaustion.  His 
mge,  when  he  discovered  the  trick,  was  excessive*  Sir  Andrew  Agnew, 
then  on  a  visit  at  Belmont,  took  great  interest  in  these  perform auccR* 
He  sometimes  attended  the  rehearsaU.  But  ientpara  mrtiantur — sto 
do  men  J 

I  remnrked  one  peculianty  in  this  part  of  Ireland.  Every  peai^ant 
I  met  asked  me  the  same  ouestion,  namely,  Uyiai  time  ofdai/  it  was  ! 
An  Irish  gentleman  betted  a  dozen  of  claret  with  an  English  officer 
that  he  would  ride  from  Cork  to  Aliillow  on  a  market-day  without 
being  once  asked  this  question, — and  won,  too, — simply  by  putting  the 
question  Aif^ic//*  before  any  tether  person  could  do  *o. 

On  my  return  to  town,  I  became  acquainted  with  one  whose  social 
tialities  and  eccentricities  rendered  him  conspicuous  for  m*ire  than 

Jf  a  centnry  among  the  artists  and  iileraii  of  the  metropolis,  whom 
he  delighted  to  assemble  around  his  board.  Perhaps  a  warmer  heart 
than  Peter  Core's  never  beat !  He  was  a  perfect  Quixote  in  his  bene* 
?olence.  Nothing  stopped  him.  He  overleaped  all  barriers,  disre- 
garded all  etiquettes.  Even  Royalty  could  not  escape  his  import uni- 
tiea.  After  exhausting  his  own  exchequer,  he  made  no  scruple  in 
attacking  the  exchequers  of  others,  and  more  than  one  artist  of  cele- 
faritj  has  been  rescued  from  oblivion  by  the  timely  assistance  and  in- 
Amitable  exertions  of  Mr*  Peter  Coxe.  I  have  sat  at  great  men's 
Icwts,  quaffed  the  choicest  vintages,  while  the  goddesses  of  La  Guerre 
ami  the  masterpieces  of  Titian  regaled  my  eye  and  stimulated  my 
tmagination.  But  comn:end  me  to  such  dinners  as  Peter  Coxe  pive  iti 
Wimiot  Street,  Peter  was  the  true  LuculhtSy  ie  Ferifahle  Ampki/- 
frion*  True>  our  fare  was  simple — the  menage  homely — we  drauk 
bumble  port ;  but  the  company  came  in — hacknej/  coaches  ! 

^Elach  guest  brought  himself,  and  he  brought  the  best  ditb/* 

Oii#  never  met  merely  fashionable  or  common-place  people  at  Peter's, 
trerj  one  was  willing,  and  as  able  as  willing,  to  contribute  to  the 
Binon  >itock,  and  promote  the  general  enjoyment. 
**  Don't  mind  me,  gentlemen,"  said  Peter,  as  soon  as  the  cloth  was 
red  ;  ••enjoy  yourselves.   There's  more  wine  in  the  corner  there." 
,  n-ith  this  injunction  he  took  his  8»esta,  during  which  we  plied  the 
;^e  pretty  freely,  not  forgetting  to  drink  '*  our  aitxent  host/'  thou^^h 
itbout   the  honours,  for  fear  of  disturbing  his  slumbers-     Awaking 
ke  a  giant  refreshed,   Peter  came  out   remarkably  strong  with   hii 
and  anecdotes.     To  be  sure,  these  latter,  like  Farmer  Fkm- 
_gb*9,  were  long  spun   out  and  generally  about  himseif*     What 

( ? — we  had  laughed  at  them  before,  and  bad  no  objection  to  laugh 

t  th€m  again,  which  we  did  right  merrily  tr o, — poor  Pett  r  ! 
Peter'a  cheval  de  batniiie  was  a  story  about  somebody's  dog  at  But- 
anes, wliich  was  regularly  sent  with  a  basket,  containing  the  money. 


IM 


Ote  mmmam  MmMt  Pompe^  re- 
"*  endnded  l^et^r, 
ftii  ghap  tgaia— Ae 

I  fcv  ««ii  m  wdmm  %mw  fe  liffm^  to  W  preKst  when  Oar- 
k  Mm  hggm  mi  ^h^  mmt  s-'-kmm  mmt  «•!&  «i«  wmated  a  seal, 
m,  ^Me^  SmkATm  vifc  m  %th^  iOT  H«ir  miiUDcnUe  Mr, 
mmmi  «f^  i^  left  ife  h—ir;    fc>^  Midi  better  H  would 

EC  Ac    O^Biw  iMb  fe  h^  P>Bi'  ^  iiiiBha  iriSTlIaidcnoa 

i  mWL    1  cw^  be  cilia'  |lieiii  ITBulf  epofu    «<  I  met 

l^ifter  widb  mA  eiBpiHBrr*  ^et  dbe  koiise  of  mj 

bed  FViarm*    Cbap* 
b  the  Hendersons, 
U,  into  which  they 
idc  of  which  looked 
We  tfieei  eft  ielf-faet  tar,  1  rememher— 
ladf  very  agreeable* 
Be  euiA  ae  ae  eat  aafike  Wpmrn^  tile  twyr;  am  of  oourse,  you 
Idsl  %e  vvrr  aMcb  aa  Ida  iNver.    la  iact,  it  waa 
l^thM  Hmmki  ar  ^^  Mkm,  theafh  be  played 
efl  three  rytillT,  aif^-ik,  eafiilellvl    iiwieny  F^iHaf.    Indeed, 
ke  wea  tfa  tai  Fmht^  1  c«er  enr/  eed  ibe  beat  tead^— I  wish  yon 
9mM  iaae  beaid  Heedema  reed,  ttr !     I  always  made  a  point  of 
kia  tmA§f$  el  tbe  rineiMiiiin' ;  I  mtildB't  hare  miased 
air  auua— I.     It  wea  iaqpaaMe  le  lay  which  he  excelled  in 
ibe  palbeCic.     After  makiag  as  all  cry  at  the 
eC  'Ls  Perre/  he  oaeTelaed  es  witJi  lao^iter  when  he  read 
mmf  OdpiL*     Hia  wile  a  Beidee  n— le  wmi  Pigginfl,  ao  he  alwaya 

WtQcai  m  Ilia  acaelet  eeel  aftd  b^-wig^.    The  fith- 

led  ie  ery  ea|»  "God  htm  your  dear 

cyeaf — a  aaleaatiaB  tbe  aeftbar  ef  the  North  Britan  in* 

,^  eckoewledged  bf  takieg  etf  Ma  gold-laced  hat,  and  making 

ibeni  a  "veiy  law  bow, 

Barry  tbe  arlial  had  been  intmute  with  Peter.  This  extraordinary  I 
mmn  never  <Baed  OQt  witfaocit  preaenthig  hia  beat  with  eighteen- pence. 
••I  waa  JDraed  to  comply  with  thia  atiange  euaioni  whenever  he  dined 
with  mev"  add  Peter,  '^oiherwiae  he  would  hare  left  the  table." 
Perbaps  Barry  took  the  idee  feom  8wift,  who,  on  Pope's  dropping  in 
late  one  night,  forced  two  shillings  into  hia  hand,  saying,  "  I'm  re- 
solred  I  won't  save  by  you.  That  *«  what  your  supper  would  hare 
eoat  tne  if  you  bad  eome  in  time.'*  Bui  what  passed  oif  as  an  oddity 
in  Swi£k  became  unpardonable  when  adopted  as  a  principle,  and 
evinced  a  narrowness  of  thinking  little  expected  in  an  artist—and  an 
Irishman. 

Oliver,  the  Aasoctate.  often  dined  in  Wilmot  Street,  He  waa  a 
Dleaaantf  unaflanming  man,  who  enjoyed  his  wine,  cracked  his  walnuts, 
took  the  world  ce  pkiiomp/u\  Poor  Oliver  I  there  was  something 
'^ing  in  the  resignation  with  which  he  bore  tbe  foilure  of  his  early 
^j  ^^^A^  y^""g  '"^"j  he  displdved  uncommon  talent,  and  waa 
ted  an  Awtociate.  But  whether  misfortune  paralyzed  his  powers, 
%hme  powm  were  limited,  hts  subsequent  perf.irmancea  evinced 
ut  improvement ;  and  at  tbe  time  I  knew  him  he  waa  eem- 


OUTPOURINGS. 


UI 


iDg  a  scanty  subsistence  by  paintinf?  fruit-pieces,  which  he  was  gkd  to 
dispose  of  at  any  price.  I  never  heard  a  murmur  or  a  harsh  word 
escape  Oliver's  lips, — which  h  the  mure  comnieuHuble,  as  artists  are  by 
no  means  remarkable  for  such  forbeuraiice,  but  usually  "  rate  at  Lady 
Fortune  in  good  set  terms,"  and  abuse  their  contempijraries.  The 
Academy  very  properly  took  Oliver's  case  into  consideration.  They 
made  hitn  librarian,  if  I  mistake  not. 

Pyne,  the  author  of  '*  Wine  and  Walnuts/'  was  also  a  frequent  guest 
Peter's.  A  remarkably  pleasant,  entertain) n}^»  companion  was 
[Pyne,  particularly  for  the  small  hours*  Like  Pelhain  s  Guloseton^ 
the  tip  of  his  nasal  organ  was  of  a  more  ruby  tinge"  than  the  rest  of 
'  ;  oouatenance*  Nor  did  he  belie  this  sign  of  good  fellowship,  for  he 
an  excellent  trencher-man,  liked  his  wine,  and  overflowed  with 
dote,  which  he  told  well ;  though,  like  most  good  cmtxeuritt  he 
rtither  apt  to  engross  a  lion's  share  in  the  conversation.  "  Wine 
{mnd  W^alnuts/'  is,  in  all  respectSj  a  remarkalde  work.  So  perfect  is  the 
raiMemdflance  that  it  is  impossible  to  suppose  it  fiction,  or  tliat  the 
Btbor  had  not  access  to  authentic  documunts  from  which  he  derived 
|lu»  malirieh  But  Pyne  assured  me  this  was  not  the  case*  He  as- 
iired  me  the  volumes  were  purely  imaginative, — that  he  had  merely 
Imppropriated  the  characters^  and  placed  them  in  such  situations  as  he 
Icouceived  might  make  them  most  amusing — and  most  amusing  they 
ily  are*  Pyne  was  also  an  excellent  artist  ;  his  landscapes  in 
'  colours  were  in  great  request.  Ward,  Papworth,  Lugar,  Con- 
Tttable,  Robertson,  Oakley,  Crnickshanks,  L<>ugb,  with  one  or  two  others, 
ffnade  up  our  microcosm.  Jackson,  too,  made  a  point  of  dining  with 
1  Peter  aooe  a  year  on  his  favourite  dish — a  bullock's  heart  dressed  hare 
fashion. 

Prlcr  Coxe  had  a  strong  feeling  for  the  arts^  but  it  w^as  purely 
t  technical.      He  also  wrote   verses    with  great  facility.     His  "Social 
[  I>jiy"  is  an  agreeable  poem.    It  breathes  throughout  the  purest  philan- 
» ihropy,  and   is  admirably  illustrated.     The  paintings  from  which  the 
I fllustratiuns  are  engraved,   were  presents   from   the  different  artists, 
lamoiig  whom  was  Wilkie.     Pive  hundred  copies  of  this  elegant  work 
J  perished    when  Mayes's  printing-oflice  was  burnt  down  ;  a  loss  which 
ieriously  embarrassed  the  author,   svho  was  unable,   in  consequence  of 
this  accident,  to  take  up   his  note,   which  Sir  John  Soane  held  for  a 
I  eonaiderable  sum.     This  preyed  a  good  detd.  on  Peter  Coxe's  mind, 
rbich  Sir  John  no  sooner  heard,  than  he  sent  for  him  ;  and  after  ral- 
[lyisg  his  old  friend  for  suffering  such  a  triile  to  discompose  him,  very 
|!Wi£komely  tossed  the  note  into  the  fire ;   resolved  that  that  element 
ould  at  least  make  him  some  compensation  for  the  loss  it  had  occusion- 
[•d  him.     Peter  Coxe,  also,  made  considerable  progress  in  adapting  pas- 
hum  the  Iliad  to  the  heroes  of  Waterloo,  illustrated  by  C4»pious 
Ftt^Res,  containing  an  immense  mass  of  matter,  much  of  which  was  ori- 
' ,  and    had   been  collected  from  various  sources,  at  the  expeuse  of 
time  and  trouble  by  the  compiler.    This  idea,  promptly  acted  on. 
Bight  have  been  turned'  to  go(Rl   account.      But  alack  1      Peter,   like 
St  authors  who  enjt»y  learned  leisure,  was  Um  fond  of  reading  wiiiit 
\%t  had  written — the  work  lingered — more  active  writers  forestalled 
[him   in   the   market,   and  the  opportunity  was  lost.     Peter,  however, 
fjierer   abandoned  the  design  of  publishing  this  Anglo-Iliad;  and  it  is 
^aiD  he  never  left  off  reading  it.     This  constituted,  in  fact,  his  rul- 
ing pa&sion.    Indeed,  it  would  be  impossible  to  exaggerate  Peter  Coxe's 


U2 


OUTPOURINGS. 


prijpci^sity  in  tliis  particular.  You  couldn't  be  fire  tnitiutea  in  hin  i 
comjiany  before  out  came  ibe  black  bouk,  jiletboric  with  bis  Iliad,  and 
tu  il  went,  frequently  witbout  the  least  preface  or  bint  of  bjs  inten- 
tioHj  to  tbe  extreme  astonisbment  of  those  who  were  not  aware  of  bi« 
peculiarity,  who  couldn't  conceive  wliat  in  the  world  be  was  at,  and 
ltK»k  him  for  a  maniac.  Once  fairly  enticed,  tlie  Lord  bave  mercy  on 
hiii  atiditorei^  for  Peter  never  bad  1  His  wind  never  failed  him:  it  was 
imj«oji:5ible  to  speculate  on  bis  stopping.  He  had  tbe  lunp^  of  a  h»c<j- 
motive,  and  never  slackened  speed  for  want  of  fuel,  I  sometimea 
took  a  malicious  pleasure  in  luring  others  into  the  vortex.  It  was 
bi^h  fun  to  see  them  gradually  driven  to  tbe  extremity  of  their  com- 
pluisance,  suppressing  their  yawns,  grunting  out  tbeir  eulopiuDi'*, 
looking  wistfuJjy  at  tbe  door,  and  escaping — when  they  could  I  I 
once  played  Power  this  tricky  and  called  with  him  one  wet  morning  in 
Wilmot  Street,  in  tbe  bope  of  again  enjoying  bis  agonies.  But  Tyrone 
was  too  wary*     He  was  not  to  be  caught  a  second  time. 

"  If  jt*s  tbe  same  to  yon^,  my  dear  C*/'  said  be,  muffling  himself 
up  in  bis  cloak,  **  1 11  wait  for  you  here,  conifortaby  under  this  water- 
spout." 

One  day,  during  Robertson's  absence  "  i*  tbe  North,"  Peter  ^led  in 
Gi:rrard  Street. 

'*  Where's  Mr.  Cruicksihanks  ?"  inquired  Peter. 

*'  Up  stairs,  sir,"  said  tbe  old  woman  who  opened  tbe  door. 

"  Call  bim  down."* 
If  ^'         •    f* 
I  esj  sir, 

Down  plumped  Peter,  out  came  the  black  book,  and  in  came  Cruick'^ 

sbanks,  tbea  a  pupil  of  Kobertson's  and  recently  arrived  from  8col- 

lund. 

'*  Call  Bob,"  said  Peter,  glancing  from  tbe  paper  he  was  reading. 

'*  Here !   Bob !" 

Up  ran  Bub,  boot  in  hand,  witb  tbe  polialiing  brush. 

*'  All  here  r'  said  Peter. 

"  Yes,  mr 

**  Then  lock  the  street-door  and  bring  in  the  key/* 

'=  Sir ! " 

"  Do  a»  I  bid  yon  !" 

Tbe  woman  obeyed,  wondering,  like  Cruickskjuks  and  Bub,  what 
in  the  world  it  all  meant. 

"  Have  you  done  it  ?*'  8aid  Peter  sharply. 

"  Yes,  sir.     Here  *s  the  key." 

*'  Now,  sit  down  all  of  you/'  pursued  Peter,  witb  a  flourish,  "  and 
I  11  give  yon  a  treat." 

Simple  souls!  they  thanked  bim,  and  obeyed. 

"Hope  it's  lollipop,"  prayed  Bob,  as  he  rubbed  the  corner  of  bis 
nose  witb  the  pjolisbing  hrusb* 

Poor  boy  I  be  was  not  kept  in  suspense.  Pftcr  no  sooner  had  thent 
at  a  dead  lock,  than  he  began — and  ended  fv/irn  Ac  had  read  ffftm  all 
down  ! 

Poor  Peter !  Latterly  he  wjs  reduced  to  knock  wherever  be  »aw 
a  bouse  to  let,  and  find  auditors  in  tbe  old  crones  who  guarded  tbe 
premises* 


t 


STORY  OF  A  PICTURE, 

BY    MRS.  ROMEK. 

WITH    AK    ILLUSTRATION     BY   JOHK    LEECH. 

**  Cutne,  draw  this  curUtn,  and  let  \  see  your  picture/* 

Troiluj  arui  Crenida. 

Holland,  which  in  point  of  gcenery  is  the  lea^t  picture&qye 
country  in  the  world  to  travel  through  offera,  aa  a  set-ofr  to  the  ab- 
sence of  natural  beauties,  some  of  the  raoat  picturesque  interiors  of 
houses  that  the  lovers  of  rococo  and  tnoyen  age  art  could  desire  to 
behold.  Not  to  mention  the  famous  village  of  Brok,  whose  inhabit 
tiinta  may  be  termed  the  Chinese  of  Europe,  where  innovation  has 
never  been  allowed  to  set  its  foot,  and  where  from  century  to  cen- 
tury  nothing  changes  save  the  new  generation  which  succeeds  to 
the  old,  there  are  Delft,  and  LeydeOj  and  Haarlem,  and  a  few 
other  unsophisticated  Dutch  towns^  in  some  of  the  out-of-the- 
way  nooks  of  which  exist  quaint- looking  antiquated  mansions, 
which  are  venerable  Dutch  pictures  rvithont — valuable  museums 
within^ — where  fashion  and  frivolity  have  not  yet  penetrated,  and 
where  the  perfect  keeping  of  the  whole  transports  the  beholder  in 
imagination  three  centuries  back.  It  was  our  good  fortune  to  ob* 
tain  the  entree  into  one  of  these  old-world  habitations  in  our  passage 
through  Haarlem.  We  had  been  furnished  by  our  banker  at  Rot- 
terdam with  an  introduction  to  a  wealthy  inhabitant  of  the  former 
place;  and  upon  presenting  our  credentials,  we  were  invited  to 
dine  with  him  upon  the  following  day  at  the  patriarchal  hour  of 
two. 

The  house  of  our  hospitable  entertainer  offered  in  its  interior 
arrangements  one  of  those  rich  treats  which  picture-fanciers  and 
curiosity- mongers  so  eminently  enjoy;  it  would  have  furnished 
forth  two  or  three  of  the  most  luxurious  Aric-/J-6rac  shops  in  London 
or  Paris.  That  which  rendered  it  peculiarly  interesting  in  our  eyes 
waa  the  owner's  assurance  that  every  object  we  beheld  (with  one 
solitAry  exception,  which  will  hereafter  be  specified)  had  devolved 
to  him  by  descent^ — all  were  f^iniily  relics  -  nothing  had  been  ga- 
thered up  at  sales  or  curiosity  shops  to  complete  the  perfect  keeping 
of  the  antiquated  display ;  and  in  corroborotion  of  his  remark,  he 
pointed  out  to  us  the  armorial  bearings  of  his  family  and  the  cyphers 
of  various  of  its  representatives  carved  in  the  massive  oak  and  ebony 
bahaU,  surmounting  the  high-backed  chairs,  entwined  with  the 
quaint  devices  of  the  tapestry  and  stamped  leather  hangings,  or  cut 
into  the  antique  flagons,  goblets,  and  drink i tig-glasses  that  filled  the 
corner  cupboards  of  the  principal  sitting-room. 

The  pictures  were  not  numerous — chiefly  portraits,  but  each  sepa- 
rate one  a  gem  of  art,  and  presenting  collectively  a  series  of  the 
greatest  names  of  the  Dutch  school,  from  Van  Eyck,  the  inventor 
of  oil  painting  in  the  commencement  of  the  fifteenth  century,  to 
Van  der  Heist,  who  flourished  two  hundred  years  later.  But  amidst 
the  array  of  unmeaning  faces  to  which  the  genius  of  Holbein,  and 
Gerard  Dow,  and  Van  Dyck,  and  Miereveld,  ^c.  Bit,  had  imparted 
a  r^eeming  grace,  one  picture  arrested  our  attention,  from  the  sin^ 
gularity  of  the  subject  it  represented^  and  the  contrast  it  offered 


-*     -    zt    i^icmnL  bcanp  te 

_;.    zcrr.     .:    ix*  csqaeoon.^- 

^_-.L^    jz£KK^  xinwiirng  iL  'tat 

xrrr-'^     nu    ^s-Jia  freidom  d 

...     z  laa^s^r  jasLTcd  us,  w» 

_:^_  ±»   -i^i^sE^  13^311  in  taa^ 

a     -::-     ssa     c   Ji/X2.  sidei  with 

;.: ^E*    :^E  *^  aen  we  were 

..=..-■  c  .  TUBAS',  in  which 
.  --r?--c*L  2  SB  "r,Miin  roitnmeof 
"TT'.-r:^  i:iMn  zs  csr  CB  the  Aint- 
•r—  -*■  VTEX.  his  ffi|^t 

;cnidtf 


:    :tr    32xiS% 


..:  c*    ;•-    •.-!: 


--    -    r   _:_  ,;  ...-  -^  I-   ,.-    -.    ::t  ncsxrif.  ik  cnckHcd  the 

-"    *'-    -■:—    :-.=   -  .—7--  .   -    ^*2za«  «:»  ^v'^^s&iee  to  onr  gmzc, 

"  --'  -       w^-.-,  :  ^    ^.  .     -.i.ru   ^fcc  im:.  <xgcx«d  the  strange 

-T         :.-     z:-   ,  -:  ^  r.%ssDC?  >fc«  M  ao'nsc  a  resem- 

-  -  — :m-:^  ^  .i  -^  :.-*--:  ^::rvtafii  »  ^  5*  xnaable  for  ft 
-*•  '    '"■-"■•»?.  ¥•.;:  ._>  -.fcw-t^i  ?w  ''s/mir'  comcmb.    There 

* '' '  "-^  -  ■■:  -  :.- — l:--  ■i.'-.'^^k  irt  ssunr  Tranf^t^cattlT  fair  cam^ 
yt^:  .'■  -  ,  _._;  *_.5,^  ^;  ^  ^^  r:*:"!:  :Tic«i»t  me  aaxr*  iithl  golden 
>/-^  4..  .  •  -rr«-  :-.  . :  -  r^w  ^c  :^::v  :iirtfi:  rr-icrT*^  od  white  fore- 
.--*>.•.  ^..<^  »  -:  i^_  :  ^-.^  -^-  i.:nv>c  t/  i  i&i..':.  fWTort  almost  to 
..•-  ,  -  - ;  ;*-:  -^  -  ^  ,.,;^  ^--^.^  ^-,^  -j^  4a;:T«»s>.c  *Tf  innocence 
*rr.'.  ;^i.-A  Vjit.  ir»stijei  jr  f  "tr-r  ..>?  .-,,  t^*  s.n^  «r»i  u»si<«iless  «s- 
^'*  7.-^  v^--:^  -rnu  MJUfi^  ?'^Jrx=  -t  r:*  rxrr^ifs*  I'xhtnef&is  con- 
'.**.'/  ';f  '.v->*  r.\mrsz^  frxren-s  »*jm  j«rf  fvivtsea  in  the  most 
f/*"/f.  /  .'-*.-•.*-  t-.*  •T:r=-s-=7  •«  i^-*---*!:.  ':v>>*w:.  an  J  arms,  and 
"'*/  *'*'*  •';■'*  Kv;.t:**7  be  be*:5we^i  -^>.x:  c-vkifl^.  siinl,  or  mar- 
ty/.  i>  wr,.,i/j  *;yf,^r  e^at  the  t^r  cr-I^-nal  Vx*  :n:<^nded  to  repre- 
M';,*.  #/f,-r  /,f  t»^  **^.oTi'i  narried  morthies,  a.«  in  one  cumer  oi^  the 
|/iiif,fjr.K  •►'"'  jii«/t;U..J  the  word*,  ••  Sancu  Isabella,  ora  pro  nobis," 
untl  l/<'ri<ntfi  tlnrifi  the  (Ute  of  }'^'j5. 

"  /I    i.  orM  .nouj^J,/'  nrff.arked  the  mister  of  the  house,  "that 

•JihoiJKh  triMt  rraiiie,  Mjch  an  you  see  it,  contains  a  familv  iwrtrait 

«fifJ  II  Ifiriiily  riijord,  yvi  nevertheless  it  forms  an  exception  to  the 

Nifiil'-r  ni'  my  voWev.iiou,  C which  1  have  already  told  you  has  for 


STORY    OF    A    PICTURBi 


145 


several  generations  descended  from  father  to  Bon»)  inasmuch  as  that 
it  fell  into  my  father's  possession  by  mere  chance,  having  been 
picked  up  by  him  a  great  many  years  ago  at  a  broker's  shop  in 
Brussels  for  a  mere  nothing.  The  peculiarity  of  the  subject  first 
attracted  him^  and  through  the  dirt  and  smoke  with  which  the  pic- 
ture was  defaced  he  was  enabled  to  trace  such  a  resemblance  be- 
tween the  Sancta  Isabella  and  an  original  portrait  in  his  passession 
aa  induced  him  to  purchase  it.  He  felt  persuaded  that  both  must 
have  been  painted  from  the  same  models  and  other  circumstances, 
which  I  shall  hereafter  explain,  led  him  to  believe  that  that  model 
had  come  of  the  same  race  with  himself.  And  now  I  will  shew  you 
the  original  portrait*     It  is  the  gem  of  jny  collection." 

And  moving  onward,  he  pointed  to  an  antiquated  black  frame 
containing  an  exquisitely  finished  picture  of  a  young  woraanj  paints, 
ed  in  that  peculiar  style,  finely  touched  as  a  miniature,  which  has 
so  closely  assimilated  a  very  few  of  the  portraits  of  Leonardo  da 
Vinci  with  the  happiest  efforts  of  Holbein  as  to  leave  it  a  matter  of 
doubt  and  controversy  to  which  master  the  chef-dwuvre  might  be 
attributed.*  The  likeness  to  the  fair  Saint  was  so  striking  as  not  to 
be  mistaken*  notw^ithstanding  the  difference  of  costume  and  the 
prim  and  demure  air  which  characterize  the  formal  and  unbecom^ 
ingly-dressed  portraits  of  Holbein's  school ;  but  if  any  doubt  re- 
mained on  the  mind  of  the  spectator  as  to  the  identity  of  the  sub- 
ject* it  must  have  vanished  before  the  name  of  Isabella  inserted  in 
old  German  text  upon  a  little  scroll  in  one  corner :  **  Isabella  Van 
Steenwivk,  1540;' 

**I  told  you/*  resumed  our  host,  *' that  the  double  picture  was 
bought  by  my  father  at  a  fripicrs  shop  in  Brussels^  and  that  it  came 
into  his  hands  in  a  lamentably  degraded  condition  ;  but  as  his  prac- 
tised eye  had  immediately  discovered  its  value^  his  first  care  was  to 
place  it  in  a  picture-cleaner's  hands,  to  have  it  properly  restored ; 
and  to  that  effect  he  himself  removed  the  two  paintings  from  their 
frame  (the  same  in  which  you  now  see  them).  In  doing  this  he 
discovered  a  large  sheet  of  vellum,  closely  written  over  in  Latin, 
inserted  between  the  two  boards^  the  contents  of  which  threw  a 
strange  light  upon  the  pictures  and  personages  they  represented. 
So  interesting  did  that  document  appear  in  my  father's  estimation, 
that  he  made  the  most  indefatigable  researches  to  discover  by  what 
means  the  picture  had  come  into  the  possession  of  the  broker  who  had 
•did  it  to  him.  All  that  he  could  ever  ascertain,  however,  was,  that 
at  the  period  of  the  suppression  of  all  monastic  orders  by  the  Em- 
peror Joseph  the  Second,  throughout  his  dominions,  a  quantity  of 
pictures  and  other  property,  belonging  to  various  convents  in  the 
Ijow  Countries,  had  been  sold,  and  that  the  painting  in  question  had 
been  bought,  together  with  other  lumber,  from  a  monastery  of 
I>oniinican  fathers  in  Brussels,  My  father  caused  the  Latin  manu- 
script to  be  carefully  translated,  and,  if  you  have  any  curiosity  to 
know  its  contents,  1  will  shew  you  a  French  copy  of  it^  as  well  as 
the  original  document  itself." 

After  dinner  the  curious  old  parchment  and  its  translation  were 
produced;  and  while  the  gentlemen  retired  to  a  smoking-pavilion 
lit  the  extremity  of  the  garden  to  enjoy  the  delights  of  cigars  and 

*  Dna  of  lliete  diBputed  picture  is  in  the  DreideJi  Uallery,  Uie  oelebrated  por- 


4 


i 


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U6 


STORY   OF  A    PICTURE. 


Schiedam r  we  seated  ourselves  apposite  to  the  picture  already  de* 
scribed,  and  eagerly  perused  the  manuscript  account  of  it  which  had 
been  entruBted  to  us,  pausing^  however,  occasional ly»  to  raise  our 
eyes  to  the  painting,  and  compare  the  lineaments  there  portrayed 
with  the  w^ritten  sentences  which  were  revealing  to  us  the  mindg 
and  characters  of  the  personages  it  represented^  as  distinctly  as  the 
canvas  did  their  feature?.     The  manuscript  ran  as  follows  : — 

*"  The  name  and  fame  of  Andrea  Vesale  will  descend  to  the  latest 
posterit}^  despite  the  successful  intrigues  that  deprived  the  world  of 
his  talents  while  yet  in  the  meridian  of  life.  When  the  names  of 
hi^  persecutors  have  been  long  consigned  to  oblivion,  kU  will  sur- 
vive in  the  grateful  memory  of  future  generations  as  the  creator  of 
a  new*  science,  the  benefactor  of  suffering  humanity,  the  man  who 
braved  prejudice,  ignorance,  and  bigotry,  in  order  to  alleviate  the 
ills  which  flesh  is  heir  to.  His  faults  will  then  be  forgotten  ;  —  his 
good  deeds  will  alone  be  remembered  ;  ^  for  the  failings  of  men  of 
genius  become  lost  in  the  blaze  of  light  which  their  great  achieve- 
ments shed  over  their  memory.  Yet  the  judgments  of  the  world, 
its  condemnation  and  appUuse,  are  equally  worthless,  vain  as  they 
are  shallow,  and  but  too  often  pronounced  in  that  spirit  of  mental 
ehortsigbtedness  which  can  discern  nothing  beyono  the  surface. 
The  eye  of  an  all- seeing  God  penetrates  into  the  inmost  recesses  of 
the  human  heart,  reads  tlie  dark  secrets  that  lie  hidden  there  from 
mortal  ken,  weighs  and  measures  the  motives  and  actions  of  men, 
and,  sooner  or  later,  even  hert%  metes  them  out  reward  or  punish- 
ment according  to  their  desert,  although  the  time  and  the  method  of 
the  infliction  may  have  no  perceptible  link  w  ith  the  good  or  evil 
deeds  that  have  brought  upon  their  doers  recompense  or  retribution. 
And  the  most  hardened  sinner,  or  the  veriest  hypocrite,  while  writh- 
ing under  the  crufihing  force  of  one  of  these  Divine  visilations,  must 
acknowledge  to  himself :  *  Though  I  be  wrongfully  accused  in  this 
instance,  yet  have  I  merited  more  than  I  am  now  enduring,  hy  the 
undetected  wickedneis  of  my  past  life.  This  is  not  persecution  — 
this  is  hn%  justice  !  * 

**  Thus  has  it  been  with  Andrea  Vesale ;  and  those  who  may  at 
some  distant  period  discover  this  writing,  and  ponder  over  its  con- 
tents, will  feel  the  force  of  the  foregoing  observations.  May  the 
punishment  which  has  overtaken  Andrea  Vesale  in  this  world  for  a 
deed  of  which  he  was  guiltless,  be  accepted  as  an  expiation,  in  part, 
of  a  far  more  terrible  crime.^one  which  even  the  vigilance  of  his 
enemies  never  suspected,  and  which  he  vainly  hoped  had  in  like 
manner  escaped  the  visitation  of  a  higher  Power,  until  retribution 
fell  upon  him  in  another  form,  and  forced  him  to  feel  that  the  ven- 
geance of  the  Almighty  is  not  to  be  eluded.     So  be  it. 

'*  Andrea  Vesale  first  saw  the  light  in  the  city  of  Brussels  a,0, 
1514.  His  father  was  an  apothecary,  attached  to  the  personal 
service  of  the  Princess  Margaret,  aunt  of  the  Emperor  Charles  the 
Fifth,  and  Governess  of  the  Low  Countries.  Providence  conferred 
upon  him  the  double  advantage  of  being  a  native  of  the  land  which 
divides  with  Italy  the  glory  of  being  the  richest  and  the  most 
enlightened  among  the  nations  of  the  earth,  and  of  coming  into  the 
world  at  a  pcrioLl  when  a  general  and  healthy  ferment  in  the  minds 
of  men  had  in  a  great  measure  tended  to  break  through  and  disperse 
the  stagnant  sen  m  of  ignorance  and  barbarism  which  had  hitlierto 


8T0BY   OF   A    PICTURE 


147 


obscured  them.  Already  had  this  irrepressible  movement  led  to 
results  the  most  glorious,  and  the  several  discoveries  of  gunpowder, 
of  printing,  and  the  slill  more  important  one  of  the  New  World,  in 
o]>ening  a  boundless  field  for  the  energies  of  mankind,  had  given  a 
new  and  ennobling  direction  to  their  destinies*  The  spirit  of  the 
limes  in  which  Vesale  was  born  naturally  influenced  his  character 
and  pursuits,  aiid  tended  to  develope  the  peculiar  bent  of  his  genius. 
In  An  age  when  discovery  had  become  the  ruling  passion  of  men's 
minds,  nothing  of  minor  importance  appeared  worthy  of  exciting 
W»ale*s  energies;  and  in  the  aim  and  attainment  of  his  noble  ambi* 
tion^  difhcuUies,  dangers,  and  obstacles  that  would  have  daunted 
and  discouraged  one  less  determined,  served  only  to  lend  new 
strength  to  his  efibrts  to  advance  himself  in  the  career  he  had 
chosen. 

"His  parents  had  educated  him  for  the  medical  profession  ;  his 
own  peculiar  genius  directed  him  to  the  study  of  anatomy,  which  he 
pursued  with  an  ardour  that  led  to  the  most  successful  results.  Up 
to  the  period  when  Vesale  first  rendered  himself  conspicuous,  the 
anatomy  of  the  human  body  was  so  imperfectly  understood,  &% 
scarcely  to  merit  that  the  term  of  *  science  '  should  be  applied  to  the 
dim  and  confused  ideas  entertained  of  it.  The  prejudices  which  had 
led  the  ancients  to  consider  the  contact,  or  even  the  aspect,  of  a  dead 
body  a  pollution,  only  to  be  cflfkced  by  numerous  ablutions  and 
expiatory  ceremonies,  and  which  in  the  middle  ages  had  caused  ihe 
dissection  of  a  creature  made  ajler  God's  image  to  be  classed  amongst 
those  sacrilegious  acts  that  merited  no  less  a  punishment  than  deaths 
had  survived  the  barbarism  of  the  remote  periods  in  which  they  had 
originated  ;  and  so  recently  as  the  commencement  of  the  present 
century  (15<H)),  the  professors  of  chirurgery  throughout  Europe  had 
contented  themselves  w^ith  anatomising  swine,  monkeys,  and  other 
animals^  which  are  reputed  to  bear  some  organic  resemblance  to  the 
human  species.  Vesale  was  the  first  to  break  through  the  trammels 
with  which  ignorance  and  bigotry  had  crippled  the  march  of  science. 
Surmounting,  with  admirable  courage  and  constancy,  the  disgust, 
the  terror,  and  even  the  peril,  inseparable  from  the  description  of 
labour  to  which  he  had  devoted  himself,  he  was  to  be  seen  |>assing 
whole  days  and  nights  in  the  cemeteries,  surrounded  by  the  fester- 
ing remnants  of  mortality,  or  hovering  about  the  gibbets,  and  dis- 
puting with  the  vulture  for  its  prey,  in  order  to  compose  a  perfect 
skeleton  from  the  remains  of  executed  criminals,  leu  there  to  be 
devoured  by  the  carrion  bird. 

'*  He  successively  prosecuted  his  studies  at  Lou  vain  and  Paris, 
and  then  went  on  to  Italy,  where  the  fame  of  his  genius  had  pre- 
ceded him,  so  that,  on  his  arrival  in  that  country,  he  was  invited  by 
its  various  governments  to  leach  anatomy  publicly  in  the  medical 
schools  of  Pavia,  Bologna,  and  Pisa.  It  was  on  his  return  from 
Italy  that  he  sojourned  at  Basle,  where  he  published  the  first  edition 
of  his  great  work  upon  anatomy,  embellished  with  plates,  executed 
for  it  by  his  illustrious  friend,  Titian  of  Venice  ;  and  it  was  at  Basle, 
at  the  house  of  Hans  Holbein,  the  painter,  that  Vesale  first  beheld 
Isabella  Van  Steenwyk,  the  daughter  of  a  merchant  of  Haarlem, 
who  was  destined  to  exercise  some  influence  over  his  future  life. 

"  Ve&ale  was  then  scarcely  twenty-eight  years  of  age,  and  already 
he  had  attained  the  summit  of  his  well-directed  ambition,     llh 


148 


STORY   OF    A    PICTURE. 


ntme  had  become  famous  throughout  Europe;  wherever  he  so- 
journed, pupils  flocked  from  all  directions  to  btudy  under  him.  He 
enjoyed  thecountcnttuce  and  triendahip  of  the  celebrated  men  of  the 
day.  Erasmus,  Blelancthon,  Vekwyck,  Verazio,  Holbein,  and  TU 
tian  were  proud  to  be  numbered  among  hi»  friends.  The  publica- 
tion of  his  work  upon  anatomy  had  put  the  finishing  touch  to  his 
renown  ;  for  the  first  lime  since  the  art  of  surgery  had  been  prac- 
tised, t!ie  human  organs  were  correctly  described  and  represented  t 
— to  adopt  an  eloquent  expression  of  one  of  his  biographers,  Vetale 
*  had  discovered  a  new  tvorld  f  *  —  he  had  shed  light  and  certainty 
upon  those  unknown  regions  of  science,  where  all  had  been  pre- 
viously darkness  and  doubt.  One  circumstance  alone  was  wanting 
to  make  up  the  sum  of  his  worldly  honours,  and  it  came  to  him  un- 
solicited and  unsought  for,  aa  though  fortune  had  resolved  upon 
satiating  him  with  prosperity.  The  Emperor  Charles  the  Fifth,  in- 
formed by  public  rumour  of  the  extraordinary  talents  of  the  young 
professor,  and  desirous  of  fixing  him  at  his  court,  bestowed  upon 
V^esale  the  important  charge  of  his  first  physician,— a  nomination 
which  placed  him  in  confidential  attendance  upon  the  sovereign's 
person. 

'"  It  was  in  the  very  moment  when  these  honours  were  »o  fast 
accumulating  upon  Vesale's  head,  as  to  take  from  him  the  possibility 
of  forming  another  wish  on  the  »core  of  ambition,  that  for  the  first 
time  a  softer  sentiment  asserted  its  sway  over  him,  and  forced  him 
to  feel  tliat  the  heart  has  its  cravings  also.  Hitherto  study  and  re- 
search had  been  his  absorbing  passion,  Science  the  only  bride  he 
had  yearned  to  possess  ,*  and  so  fully  had  the  pursuit  of  her  engrossed 
his  energies,  as  to  leave  him  not  a  thought  for  other  loves.  At  the 
moment  when  that  pursuit  had  been  attained,  Vesale  first  beheld 
Isabella  V^an  Steenwyk,  and  a  vision  of  happiness,  which  he  had 
never  before  dreametl  of,  dawned  upon  him  from  her  calm  hlueeyea. 
The  family  of  Van  Steenwyk  was  a  wealthy  and  honourable  one, 
far  superior  to  that  of  Vesale  in  birth  and  fortune;  but  the  distin- 
guished position  which  the  latter  had  acquired  for  himself  entitled 
him  to  anpire  to  an  alliance  even  more  exalted.  He  made  his  pro- 
posals to  Cornelius  Van  Steenwyk  for  the  hand  of  his  fair  daughter, 
and  obtained  it.  The  son  of  the  Princess  IVfargaret's  apothecary 
would  have  l>een  rejected  by  the  rich  Haarlem  burgher  ;  the  Em- 
peror's first  physician  was  accepted  by  him  as  the  most  eligible  of 
sons-in-law,  I'he  marriage  v>EkA  solemniJied  with  as  little  delay  aa 
possible,  and  Vesale,  accompanied  by  his  young  bride,  set  off  for 
Seville,  where  Charles  the  Fifth  then  held  his  court. 

"  Vesale  was  a  man  of  great  determination  of  character,  of  strong 
feelinps  and  violent  passions,  CAj>able  of  the  extremes  of  love  and 
hatred,  of  the  most  unlimitetl  devotion  and  the  most  relentless  ran- 
cour. He  would  have  faced  any  danger  to  have  served  a  friend, 
and  would  have  doomed  himself  to  eternal  perdition  to  have  avenged 
himself  upon  an  enemy  ;  but  he  was  ignorant  of  all  those  nicer  in- 
termetliate  shades  of  sentiment  which  soften  and  humanize  the  cha- 
racter, rendering  it  at  once  more  lovely  and  more  loving,  more  dis- 
criminating and  more  indulgent ;  and  he  scorne<l,  as  effeminate  and 
unworthy  of  hini,  the  gallantries  and  graceful  attentions  which 
youthful  wivea  look  upon  as  their  prerogative,  and  which,  although 
but  too  often  merely  the  semblance  of  love,  are  often,  too,  more 


STORY    OF    A    PICTURE. 


149 


effectuiil  in  irlnning  woman's  confidence  and  tendemeta  than  love 
iUelf. 

*'  No  two  natures  could  be  niore  dissimilar  than  those  of  Vesale 
and  his  wite  ;  she  was  gentle,  calm,  and  undemonstrative,  not  to  be 
roused  into  any  violent  evidence  of  love  or  anger,  and  so  even-tem- 
pered as  to  be  pronounced  by  many  apathetic.  Her  fair  and  serene 
countenance  was  the  mirror  of  a  soul  as  serene^  yet  was  she  capable 
of  great  depth  of  feeling,  although  her  natural  timidity  prevented 
the  silent  workings  of  her  heart  from  appearing  on  the  surface. 
She  loved  her  husband  truly,  but  there  was  so  much  of  awe  min- 
gled with  her  affection ,  as  to  throw  an  appearance  of  restraint  over 
tier  demeanour  towards  him,  even  in  the  privacy  of  domestic  life. 
The  very  nature  of  his  profession  and  occupations  was  calculated  to 
increase  that  awe,  and  even  to  create  some  degree  of  repugnance  in 
a  shrinking  mind,  which  nothing  but  strong  affection  coutd  over- 
come. Isabella's  nature  was  one  that  required  skilful  drawing  out 
and  tender  fostering ;  Vesale  unfortunately  understood  nothing  of 
that  sort ;  he  mistook  her  timidity  for  coldness,  and  resented  it  ac- 
cordingly :  this  led  to  estrangement  on  her  part,  which  he  attributed 
to  dislike,  and  jealous  distrust  at  last  took  possession  of  his  souL 

•*  Amidst  the  gallantries  of  Seville — where  for  a  woman  to  be 
jonng  and  attractive,  was  to  command  the  attentions  and  authorise 
the  devotion  of  the  other  sex — it  was  no  difficult  task  to  arouse  the 
cuaceptibilities  of  a  suspicious  husband.  Vesaie's  talents  and  posi- 
tiofi  in  the  Kmperor's  household  had  brought  him  into  contact  with 
all  the  men  of  learning  and  science  about  the  court ;  the  fame  of  his 
wife's  beauty  soon  conferred  upon  him  another  sort  of  distinction  ; 
and  although  at  first,  in  accordance  with  the  housewifely  habits  of  her 
country,  she  rarely  shewed  herself  in  public  except  to  go  to  mass, 
enough  was  seen  of  her  on  those  occasions  to  render  an  acquaint- 
mace  with  the  husband  of  one  so  fair  the  object  of  many  a  gay 
ooortier'fl  ambition.  Vesale's  house  became  the  resort  of  all  that 
was  noble  and  gallant  in  Seville,  nnd  he  for  a  time  very  seriously 
believed  that  his  own  scientific  conversation  was  the  attraction  that 
drew  them  thither.  It  is  true,  indeed,  that  at  first  the  young  wife 
shewed  her  usual  calm  indifference  to  the  brilliant  society  by  which 
the  was  surrounded,  and  to  the  admiration  and  adulation  that  fol- 
lowed her  wherever  she  was  seen  :  but  at  last  something  in  her 
countenance  and  manner  whenever  one  particular  person  appeared, 
or  that  even  his  name  was  mentioned  in  her  presence,  betrayed  that 
there  did  exist  a  being  who  had  discovered  the  secret  of  causing  the 
blood  to  flow  more  tumultuously  through  her  veins. 

"  That  person  was  Don  Alvar  de  Solis  ;  and  as  he  was  young, 
handsome,  gay,  and  insinuating,  and  reputed  to  be  at  once  the  most 
•MCoeBtful  and  the  most  inconstant  gallant  in  Seville,  the  suspicions 
0f  Vetale  were  painfully  aroused.  He  took  silent  note  of  the  un- 
usual emotions  that  agitated  Isabella  whenever  that  nobleman  was 
in  her  presence,  and  the  vain  attempt  she  ever  made  to  repress 
ihem ;  but  he  forbore  any  remark  to  her  on  the  subject,  and  con- 
tained himself  so  far  as  to  prevent  her  perceiving  that  he  was  on  the 
watch*  The  general  conduct  of  Don  Alvar  was  more  calculated  to 
baffle  suspicion  ;  it  was  marked  by  the  ease  and  free<lom  of  nerfect 
indifference;  and  of  all  the  men  frequenting  Vesale's  house  tie  was 
the  one  who  apparently  paid  the  least  attention  to  the  nistresa  of  it. 


150 


STORY    OF    A    PICTUliE. 


This  would  have  misletl  the  vigilaDl  husband,  hni\  he  not  on  one  oc- 
casioTi,  when  his  back  was  turned  towards  Don  Alvar,  perceived 
him,  in  an  opposite  mirror,  fix  his  kindling  eyes  upon  Isabella  with 
an  expression  not  to  be  mistaken  ;  while  she  with  downcast  lo*>k'«, 
yet  apparently  conscious  of  the  anient  gaze  bent  upon  her,  grew  red 
and  pale  by  turns,  mid  then,  as  though  unable  to  surmount  her 
agitation,  and  fearful  of  betraying  it,  rose  and  left  the  room. 

*'  Shortly  after  this,  Vesaie  received  a  letter  in  an  unknown  hand- 
writing, and  bearing  no  signature  ;  it  contained  only  these  words, 
but  they  were  sufficient  to  raise  a  whirlwind  in  his  mind: 

**  *  Look  to  your  wife  and  Don  Alvar  de  Sobs,  antl  be  not  de- 
ceived by  appearanceg.  They  only  wait  a  fitting  opportunity  to 
dishonour  you.  Even  now  he  carries  about  the  glove  she  dropped 
for  him  at  mass.' 

*'  V'esale  shut  himself  up  to  ponder  over  the  most  cflTectual  mode  of 
avenging  himself,  nor  paused  to  consider  whether  the  impending 
blow  to  his  honour  might  not  be  averted  by  judicious  means  ;  with 
him  the  intention  of  injury  and  the  commission  of  it  were  the  same 
thing, — there  was  no  more  mercy  in  his  heart  for  those  who  aimed 
at  his  dishonour,  than  for  those  who  had  already  compassed  it.  His 
wife  and  her  paramour  were  guilty  in  thought — he  would  deal  with 
them  as  though  they  had  been  so  in  deed ;  besides,  who  might  say 
that  they  were  not  so  already  ? 

"  His  resolution  was  prom}>tly  taken.  He  had  established  schools 
of  anatomy  at  Siin  Lucar  and  Conlova;  he  obtained  the  Emperor's 
permission  to  visit  them,  and  quitted  Seville  ostensibly  for  that  pur- 
pose, but  he  went  no  further  than  Car  m  on  a  (a  few  leagues  distant), 
and  returning  secretly  from  thence  during  the  night,  he  concealed 
himself  in  a  tenement  belonging  to  him  at  some  distance  from  his 
abode  in  the  Alcuzar,  and  which  was  devoted  to  the  double  purpose 
of  a  laboratory  and  a  dissecting-room.  He  hiid  taken  no  person 
into  his  confidence, — ^he  was  alone  with  hia  vengeance,  and  he  lis. 
tcned  only  to  its  counsels.  At  dusk,  on  the  following  evening,  he 
issued  forth,  muffled  to  the  eyes  in  a  woman's  mantle  and  hood, 
and  left  a  letter  at  Don  Alvar's  habitation.  That  letter  contained 
an  embroidered  glove  belonging  to  Isabella,  and  these  words: 

*'  *  I  have  obtained  the  key  of  Vesale's  laboratory  during  his  ab- 
sence. Be  at  the  gate  of  it  an  hour  after  midnight,  and  you  will 
be  admitted  on  pronouncing  the  name  of  Isabella.  To  bring  you 
here  would  be  to  betray  us  both  to  the  servants.  Silence  and  dis- 
cretion. Remember,  that  my  honour  and  my  life  are  in  in  your 
hands.* 

**  The  assignation  was  punctually  kept  by  Don  Alvar  deSolis; 
at  half  an  hour  p«i&t  midnight  he  left  his  hcuise  alone,  but  he  never 
returned  to  it.  Whither  he  had  gone  none  could  say,  nor  could  any 
trace  of  him  ever  be  discovered.  It  was  supposed  that  he  must 
hnve  missed  his  footing,  and  fallen  into  the  (tiradal quiver,  near  to 
which  his  abode  w.'^s  situated,  and  that  his  bo<ly  had  been  swept 
away  by  its  waves  into  the  ocean  ;  but  whatever  had  been  his  fate, 
it  remained  a  mystery  for  the  people  of  Seville. 

'*  Such  an  occurrence  was  calculated  to  produce  a  great  sensation 
in  the  place  where  it  happened ;  and  when  Vesale  returnctl  homo 
three  weeks  afterwards,  the  disappearance  of  Don  Alvar  de  Solis 
was  still  the  theme  of  every  tongue.     Vesale  had  been  recalled  to 


STORY    OF    A   PTCTCRE. 


151 


Seville  by  ibe  illness  of  hia  wife,  and  he  found  her  striiggling  with 
intermittent  fever,  reduced  and  changed  in  appearance,  but  in  ac- 
cordance with  her  placid  nature  stifling  all  complaint,  aUhough  un- 
able t^  surmount  the  languor  uf  spirits  Incidental  to  the  malady 
that  was  preying  upon  her.  Her  illnesia  and  depression  were  attri- 
buted by  Vesale  to  grief  for  the  myBterioiia  abBence  of  Don  A!var, 
and  ttiat  conviction  took  from  him  all  pity  for  her  sufferings:  yet 
he  did  not  allow  his  feelings  to  betray  him,  and  Isiabella  had  no  sus- 
picion that  anything  extraordinary  was  passing  in  her  husband's 
mind.  The  first  greetings  over,  no  converaation  passed  between 
them,  save  that  which  had  reference  to  her  indispoaition,  and  when 
Vesale  had  prescribed  some  remedies  for  his  wife  to  take,  he  left 
her  to  wait  upon  the  Emperor,  t-aying  that  he  would  return  for  the 
evening  repa«»t ;  and  she  did  not  see  him  again  until  nightfall. 

'*  It  chanced  to  be  the  festival  of  San  I  a  Isabellap  and  to  do  honour 
to  her  patron  S:iiut,  as  well  as  to  celebrate  the  return  of  her  hus- 
band, Isabella  put  on  her  wedding-dress,  and  seating  herself  by  an 
open  casement  that  overlooked  the  Alcasar  gardens,  she  watched 
for  his  coming.  But  while  her  eyes  were  vainly  fixed  upon  the 
path  by  which  she  expected  him  to  appear,  a  hand  was  laid  upon 
ner  shoulder,  and  turning  round  she  beheld  Vesale  standing  by  her 
side, 

"  '  I  have  ordered  the  supper  to  be  laid  in  ray  study,*  said  he,  and 
taking  her  hand  he  led  her  away  to  the  room  in  question,  dismissed 
the  attendant,  and  closed  the  door. 

'*  There  were  lights  and  flowers  in  profusion,  and  a  table  spread 
with  delicate  viands,  and  silver  bowls  piled  up  with  fruit,  and  crys- 
tal beakers  filled  with  sparkling  wines,  and  everything  wore  a  fes- 
tive air,  yet  the  repast  was  cheerless  ;  for  although  Isabella  exerted 
herself  to  be  gay,  the  silence  and  preoccupation  of  her  husband 
soon  scared  away  her  timid  spirits.  Perceiving  that  she  tasted  of 
nothing,  Vesale  poured  a  few  drops  from  a  vial  of  elixir  into  a 
cup  of  Malaga  wine,  and  presenting  it  to  her,  '  Drink  this/  he 
said,  '  it  is  a  sovereign  cure  for  the  complaint  you  are  suffering 
from/ 

"  '  Pledge  me  in  the  draught,'  she  replied,  filling  up  a  goblet 
from  the  same  fiask  of  Malaga,  and  handing  it  to  him,  'and  it  will 
bring  quicker  healing  to  me.  Let  us  drink  to  out  absent  friends, 
Andrea.'  Vesale  accepted  tlie  offering,  and  they  emptied  their  gob- 
leta  together. 

*'  'Talking  of  absent  friends/  said  he,  suddenly  fixing  his  eyes 
upon  her,  '  you  have  not  yet  spoken  to  me  of  Don  Alvar  de  Solis ; 
are  all  hopes  of  hearing  of  him  relinquished  ?* 

"  Isabella  started  and  blushed ;  the  mere  mention  of  that  name 
had  ever  l>een  sufficient  to  disturb  her  serenity,  '  Nothing  is  known 
of  him,*  she  sUmmered — *  a  strange  mystery  envelopes  his  disap- 
pearance/ 

<*  '  What  if  I  should  be  able  to  clear  it  up,'  returned  her  husband, 
'and  tell  you  wherefore  he  has  disappeared  and  whither  he  has  gone  ?' 
and  before  Isabella  could  command  herself  suihciently  to  reply  to 
this  astounding  declaration,  Vesale  continued,  *  Don  Alvar  de  Solia 
was  a  braggart  and  a  libertine;  he  boasted  that  no  woman  ever  re- 
sided his  seductions — that  no  husband  ever  suspected  the  injury  he 
was  preparing  for  him;  and  he  had  met  with  fools  and  wantons 


152 


arroRY  op  a  pictfre. 


CDOOgli  to  jasdfj  the  a^ertioru  But  at  Ust  his  dishonotfrable  pro- 
jects were  seen  through^ — at  Ust  he  encountered  one  who  could  di^ 
aeinble  as  well  as  biniself.  He  had  condescended  to  becooi 
fiiend  of  a  man  his  inferior  in  birth  and  rank,  in  oftier  that 
might  rob  him  of  hu  wife'i  aflectlons ;  the  husband  was  loaded  b| 
him  with  demonstrations  of  friendship — to  the  wife  he  evinced  no 
thing  bat  careless  indifference.  This  semblance  of  coldness  was^/orl 
ike  world  and  /Ae  husband ,  but  in  private  he  plied  the  ladj  of  hit  I 
love  with  passionate  declarations  and  burning  letters,  and  worked] 
upon  her  sofl  nature  until  she  reciprocated  his  passion,  and  couldl 
not  behold  him  without  betraying  the  guilty  emodona  of  her  heart,] 
The  husband  was  obliged  to  absent  himself  from  Seville ;  but  h^l 
knew  that  the  lovers  only  sighed  for  the  moment  when  his  presencft  j 
would  cease  to  be  a  barrier  to  their  unrestricted  meetings,  and  hel 
therefore  took  such  measures  as  would  efiectually  prevent  their  pro^l 
fiting  by  his  absence.  He  contrived  to  become  the  guardian  of  Don  I 
Alvar's  person.  But  on  his  return  home,  moved  by  the  silent  sor«l 
row  of  his  wife,  he  determined  to  procure  her  the  satisfaction  of  ft  j 
last  interview  with  her  lover. — He  brought  Don  Alvar  for  that  pur- 
pose secretly  to  the  house^  concealed  him  in  a  closet^  and  when  the] 
lady  least  expected  such  a  surprise,  he  threw  open  the  door,  even  as  ] 
I  now  do/ 

'*  And  grasping  his  wife  by  the  hand,  he  led  her  up  to  a  door  at] 
the  further  end  of  the  room,  and  throwing  it  wide  open,  revealed  to  ] 
her  view  a  human  skeleton  suspended  within,  holding  in  one  of  its  J 
bony  hands  one  of  her  own  embroidered  gloves. 

*'  '  Behold/  he  continued,  pointing  to  the  ghastly  spectacle,  *  the  ] 
eallant  and  beautiful  Don  Alvar  de  Solis— the  object  of  your  guilty 
Jove !     Contemplate  him  well,  if  the  sight  can  render  your  last  mo*  \ 
ments  happier,  for  you  are  about  to  die  too; — the  wine  I  have  just 
given  you  was  poisoned  l" 

'*  Isabella's  conscious  feelings  had  led  her  to  listen  to  the  first  part  1 
of  her  husband's  discourse  with  a  trembling  apprehension  that  took 
from  her  the  power  of  interrupting  him;  but  when  the  last  dreadful 
sentence,  and  its  still  more  dreadful  illustration,  burst  upon  her 
affrighted  senses,  she  became  paralyzed  with  excess  of  emotion  ;  the 
scream  which  had  risen  to  her  throat  died  there  in  strangled  mur- 
murs, and  sinking  back,  she  fell  as  one  dead  upon  the  arm  of  ] 
Vesale. 

"She  wag  not  dead,  however;  he  had  rtoi  poisoned  her— that 
crime  he  had  hesitated  to  commit ;  yet  he  was  not  the  less  her  mur< 
dcrer.  Convulsion  followed  convulsion,  born  of  terror  too  intense 
for  a  nature  so  fragile  as  hers  to  contend  with  ;  then  came  death- 
like lethargy  ;  time  and  space  were  annihilated  for  her  ;  she  neither 
knew  night  nor  day — her  mind  was  chaos.  And  at  last  she  died; 
aTid  in  that  supreme  moment,  the  hour  that  preceded  death,  Vesale, 
who  had  never  quitted  her,  beheld  one  of  those  phenomena  which 
iometimes  attend  the  dying  instants  of  the  holy.  Awaking  from  a 
torpid  slumber,  consciousness  and  memory  returned  at  once  to  her, 
and  with  them  a  calm  and  a  courage  which  she  had  never  possessed 
when  in  the  flush  of  life, 

♦*  *  Andrea,*  she  said,  fixing  her  dim  eyes  upon  her  husband,  *  I 
am  dying  by  your  hand,  yet  I  am  innocent !  I  swear  to  you,  by 
the  Paisioci  of  our  Saviour,  by  the  sorrows  of  his  blessed  Mother, 


STORY    OF    A    PICTIJRK. 


153 


that  I  never  wronged  you  in  thought  or  deed,  Don  Alvar  pursuetl 
me  with  his  love  and  hh  threats,  but  I  repulsed  him.  I  never  loved 
but  you  I  I  feared  and  honoured  you  even  as  much  as  I  loved  ; — 
but  1  dared  not  tell  you  of  his  pursuit, — I  even  dreaded  that  you 
thould  perceive  thean^er  his  presence  ever  occasioned  me.  knowing 
as  I  did  that  he  came  to  your  house  only  to  deceive  you.  O 
Andrea!  believe  my  words! — the  dying  deal  not  in  falsehood. 
Should  I  be  thus  calm  were  I  guilty  ?  O  holy  Saint  Isabel Ja  V 
she  continued,  raising  her  clasped  hands,  'intercede  with  the  Queen 
of  Heaven  fcir  me,  that  she  may  vouchsafe  some  sign  that  shall  per- 
suade my  husband  of  my  innocence  f 

"  Scarcely  had  she  uttered  these  words  when  a  strain  of  music 
floated  through  the  room,  of  such  solemn  and  unearthly  sweetness 
that  it  was  like  the  golden  harps  of  angels  blending  with  the  song  of 
the  seraphim.  Isabella  heard  it,  and  cast  her  eyes  upward  in  silent 
thanksgiving.  Vesale  heard  it  too,  for,  sinking  upon  his  knees,  he 
solemnly  protested  his  faith  in  the  innocence  of  his  wife,  and  with 
choking  sobs  adjured  her  to  believe  that  he  had  only  feignetl  to  give 
her  poison,^ — that  he  could  not  nerve  his  hand  to  take  away  her  life* 
—that  the  terror  of  death,  and  not  death  itself,  was  upon  her  I  And 
while  he  yet  spoke,  Isabella  murmured,  'Thanks  be  to  heaven  for 
this  !*  and»  drawing  his  hand  towards  her,  laid  it  upon  her  hearty 
and  aa  she  did  so  it  ceased  to  beat. 

#  •  •  «  • 

"  Long  years  passed  away.  Charles  the  Fifth  had  abdicated,  and 
Philip  the  Second  had  succeeded  to  the  throne  of  Spain,  anil  re- 
moved his  court  from  Seville  to  Madrid.  Vesale  had  become  to  the 
on  what  he  had  been  to  the  father,  and  his  worldly  honours  and 
credit  continued  in  the  ascendant,  and  in  the  midst  of  his  prosperity 
the  dark  secret  of  his  heart  had  ceased  to  torment  him.  But  at  the 
end  of  twenty  years  of  unparalleled  favour,  during  which  he  had 
been  the  friend  and  companion,  as  well  as  the  physician,  of  two  of 
the  greatest  sovereigns  in  Europe,  and  that  his  influence  with  them 
bad  enabled  him  to  resist  even  the  powerful  Inquisition  in  the  prose- 
3<m  of  his  favourite  science,  a  strange  and  unmerited  accusation 
ily  precipitated  him  from  the  height  of  favour  to  the  lowest 
jfss  of  misfortune.  It  was  averred  that  while  Vesale  was  opening 
I  body  of  a  Spanish  gentleman,  in  order  to  ascertain  the  cause  of 
is  death,  the  heart  had  been  seen  to  palpitate  beneath  his  dissecting- 
knife,  thus  proving  that  life  had  not  cleparted  when  the  operator 
~i  commenced  his  rash  experiment.  This  accusation  was  wholly 
i,  Vesale  was  too  skilful  to  have  committed  so  deplorable  an 
vr ;  yet  it  obtained  credence  among  the  ignorant,  and  the  envy 
bad  faith  of  his  enemies  failed  not  to  distort  and  exaggerate  the 
3 rcum stance.  The  Inquisition  took  up  the  affair,  and  re<^uired  that 
He  death  of  Ve,sale  should  expiate  the  unnatural  crime  of  which  he 
'  been  guilty.  Philip  the  Second  vainly  attempted  to  shield  his 
ATourite  from  that  dread  power  ;  he  even  descended  to  supplica* 
lion  :  but  all  that  he  could  obtain  was,  that  the  punishment  ol  death 
P^tbotild  be  commuted  into  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Holy  Land  ;  and  Ve- 
tale  accordingly  quitted  Madrid,  and  set  forth  for  Jerusalem. 

^  Vsrious  and  painful  were  his  adventures  in  the  land  of  exile ; 
if  «t  list,  his  penance  being  over,  he  embarked  at  Jaffa  to  return 
•  Byfope.     The  ship  ia  which  he  sailed  had  not  been  many  days  at 
Tau  xrnu  ^ 


154 


STORY    OF    A    PICTURE. 


•ea  when  ao  violent  a  tempest  arose  that  the  oldest  aeaman  on  board 
had  never  witnessed  anything  so  terrific.  Rudder;  and  compass, 
and  masts  were  all  carried  overboard  by  the  ragirjg  billows,  and  the 
vessel  having  become  unmanageable,  waft  driven  before  the  wind  tOi^H 
wards  the  islands  of  the  Greek  Archipelago,  where  she  struck  upofl^ 
a  sunken  rock,  and  began  rapidly  to  fill  with  water.  It  soon  became 
evident  that  there  was  no  salvation  for  her  ;  the  only  boat  that  had 
not  been  washed  overboard  was  lowered  and  manned,  but  the  rui  * ' 
of  frantic  wretches  trying  to  save  themselves  was  so  great  that 
frail  bark  immediately  upset,  and  every  soul  in  her  perished, 
that  awful  predicament  Vesale  lashed  himself  to  a  spar,  and  quit 
ting  the  sinking  ship,  committed  himself  to  the  mercy  of  the 
weaves.  He  w^as  drifted  away  far  from  the  wreck,  and  picked  up 
several  hours  afterwards  by  a  Cyprus  galley,  hound  for  Venice; 
from  the  crew  of  which  he  received  all  the  assistance  which  his  ex- 
hausted state  required.  It  happened  that  the  captain  of  the  galley 
had  been  taken  grievously  ill  during  the  voyage,  and  lay  to  all  ap- 
pearance at  the  point  of  death.  When  Vesale  became  aware  of  this 
circumstance^  he  asked  to  see  the  sick  man  ;  but  one  glance  sutBced 
to  shew  that  he  was  beyond  all  hope  from  human  aid*  Neverthe- 
less, hearing  the  sufferer**  groans,  and  seeing  his  total  prostration  of 
mind  and  body,  Vesale  essayed  to  soothe  him  by  a  prospect  of  re- 
covery. To  his  amazement,  the  captain,  raising  himself  from  his 
pillow,  gazed  intently  in  his  face  for  some  moments,  and  then  said 
in  Spanish: — 

"*Is  this  a  dream, — or  do  I  see  before  me  Andrea  Veaale^  the 
King  of  Spain's  physician  ?'  i 

" '  You  do/  was  the  answer.  J 

'"Then  Providence  has  brought  you  hither  to  receive  from  mj 
lips  the  revelation  of  a  secret  which  has  long  weighed  heavily  on 
my  soul.  The  hand  of  death  is  ypon  me,  and  presses  me  sorely  to 
depart ;  but  heaven  will  perhaps  grant  me  time  enough  to  ease  my 
conscience,  by  proclaiming  the  innocence  of  a  person  who  was  moat 
foully  slandered  by  me.' 

'"Who  are  you?'  exclaimed  Vesale,  scanning  the  pinched  and 
ghastly  features  of  the  dying  man,  and  vainly  endeavouring  to  gather 
therefrom  some  help  to  memory. 

t*  *  Do  you  not  remember  such  a  person  as  Don  Jose  Pintado^ 
Captain  of  the  Port  of  Seville  ?'  returned  the  other,  *  It  is  true  that 
time,  and  sorrow,  and  sickness  have  greatly  changed  me  ;  but  three- 
and-twenty  years  ago  I  was  one  of  the  frequenters  of  your  house, — 
one  of  the  aj^pirants  to  your  fair  wife's  favour, — the  most  enamoured 
of  all  her  admirers,  save  Don  Alvar  de  Solis.  You  start  at  that 
name  !  Well  you  may, — if,  as  I  suspect,  we  both  share  in  the  same 
predicament,  and  have  to  answer  for  his  blood/ 

'*  Vesale  groaned  aloud. 

**'l  loved  your  wife  to  madness,*  continued  Don  Jo^S,  *Sha, 
however,  rejected  my  suit  with  scorn  ;  and  he  knew  of  my  defeat, 
and  taunted  me  with  it ,-  but  at  the  same  time  he  swore  to  'me  that, 
inexorable  as  she  had  hitherto  shown  herself,  even  to  him,  he  would 
never  relinquish  his  pursuit  until  he  liad  made  her  his  own.  Stung 
by  mortification  at  my  repulse,  and  jealous  of  the  success  which  he 
fo  confidently  anticipated,  I  resolved  to  defeat  his  purpose  by  puU 
'*ng  you  upon  your  guard,    1  wrote  you  a  letter,  bidding  yoi 


STORY    OF    A    PICTITRE. 


155 


yoar  wife  and  Don  Alrar.  Two  days  afterwards  he  disappeared^ 
and  never  more  was  seen — what  his  fate  was,  you  best  can  tell ;  but, 
if  you  made  away  with  him,  the  giiilt  of  his  death,  I  repeat,  is 
■bared  by  me,  for  I  incited  vou  to  the  deed.  Your  wife  died  too— . 
God  send  that  you  may  not  tave  raised  your  hand  against  Her  I  She 
was  immaculate  as  the  angels  she  resembled.* 

•'  An  almost  irresistible  impulse  of  rage  and  detestation  led  Vesale 
to  lift  up  his  clenched  6st  at  these  words. 

"  *  Forbear  !'  gasped  the  dying  man,  without  shrinking.  '  It  would 
be  a  dastardly  and  a  useless  deed;  for  the  last  grain  of  sand  \%  even 
now  trembling  in  the  hour-glass.  Repent  of  your  sins  while  it  is 
yet  time,  instead  of  adding  to  their  number  ;  and  do  not*  as  I  hai'C 
done,  put  off  the  season  of  prayer  and  penitence  until  it  be  too  late 
to  avail  in  bringing  comfort  to  your  soul.  Tell  me/  he  added,  after 
a  pause,  'that  you  did  her  no  harm!  — say  that  you  believe  in  her 
innocence  f ' 

*'  Vesale  made  a  sign  of  assent,  and  in  a  few  moments  more  Don 
Jose  had  ceased  to  exist. 

'' Andrea  Vesale  was  landed  at  Venice  without  a  single  earthly 
possession  save  the  clothes  upon  htm,  and  an  enamelled  likeness  of 
nts  wife,  which  he  had  worn  ever  since  her  death.  The  man  who 
had  once  been  the  friend  and  companion  of  kings,  honoured,  wealthy, 
and  renowned,  was  now  an  outcast  and  a  beggar,  and  had  not  where 
to  lay  his  head  !  But  a  change  had  come  over  his  mind  more  re- 
rairkjible  even  than  that  which  had  befallen  his  fortunes.  Filled 
with  late  remorse  for  the  crime  he  had  committed  so  many  years 
before,  and  recognising  the  justice  of  the  chastisement  which  had  at 
last  overtaken  him,  the  idea  of  returning  to  the  world  had  become 
intolerable  to  Vesale,  and  he  sighed  only  for  a  retreat  in  some  reli- 
gious community,  where  he  might  pass  the  remainder  of  his  days  in 
making  his  peace  with  God,  He  possessed  one  friend  in  Venice, 
and  to  him  he  had  recourse  in  his  destitution,  and,  under  the  seal  of 
secrecy,  confided  to  him  the  dark  passages  of  his  life.  The  illus- 
trious Titian  shrunk  not  from  the  misery  of  liis  early  friend.  He 
received  Vesale  as  a  brother,  combated  his  desire  for  retirement 
with  all  the  powers  of  hi^  mind,  and,  when  he  found  his  arguments 
unavailing,  he  obtained  fur  the  destitute  stranger  admission  into  a 
convent  of  Dominican  friars.  But  before  Vesale  entered  that  holy 
asylum,  the  news  of  the  loss  of  the  s^liip  in  which  he  had  sailed  from 
Jaffa  reached  Venice,  and  his  own  name  wa^  specified  aiivong  the 
remnant  of  the  crew  and  passengers  who  had  been  cast  ashore  on  the 
i^nd  of  Zante,  on  the  15tl»  of  October,  15t>4,  and  had  there  died  of 
starvation. 

"Thus  was  Vesale'a  death  announced  to  the  world  while  he  yet 
Ived  ;  and  thus  in  after  ages  will  it  be  believed  that  he  actually  did 
Jerish,  On  the  day  of  his  taking  the  cowl  he  bade  an  eternal  adieu 
to  Titian,  and  received  from  his  hand  a  double  picture,  painted  by 
him  at  the  request  of  Vesale,  in  order  that  not  only  the  memorif  but 
the  image  of  his  crime  might  be  ever  before  him.  One  side  repre- 
^ tented   the    beautiful    countenance   of  his    wife,    copied    from    the 

lameled  likeness,  which  was  all  that  he  had  saved  from  the  wreck 

^bii  fortune*;  the  other,  that  dreadful  scene  which  had  made  him 
jbly  a  murderer*  These  pictures  were  his  sole  companions  in  his 
1 :  the  sole  witnesses  of  the  fasts  and  macerations  and  anguish  of 

M    % 


^m  6ATHEROI08   FBOlf   THE   GREEK    POETS. 

0O11I  which  luiTe  been  his  preparadon  for  eternity ;  perhapa  they 
vmj  become  the  witnesaes  thai  «hall  divulge  to  future  ages  the  hi;^ 
torj  of  a  dinke,  and  ao  expiadon,  whicli  had  alike  remained  a  secret 
ibr  die  generatioa  among  which  they  passed.  That  the  subject  of 
them  BMj  not  remain  a  mystery  to  their  future  possessors,  Andrea 
VcMle  haa  Nmarff  traced  this  transcript  of  his  glory,  his  guilt,  and 
Ida  onaeTjr*  AlreMlj  dead  to  the  world,  he  has  learned  to  think  of 
himself  as  of  one  long  since  in  the  grave.  One  wish  alone  connect- 
ed with  earth  haa  atill  power  to  move  hira, — he  would  fain  lay  his 
bones  in  the  far  land  of  his  birth.  Ye,  into  whose  hands  thl^ 
writing  may  ^1,  pray  that  his  last  desire  may  have  been  gratified^^ 
^^pray,  above  all^  that  his  penitence  may  not  have  been  unavailing]^| 

"  Andrea  Vesalb.     1567.**  ^^ 

That  ended  the  strange  manuscript ;  and  it  would  appear,  from 
the  fact  of  the  picture  in  which  it  was  inclosed  having  been  traced 
to  a  Dominican  convent  in  Bnixelles^  that  the  last  earthly  wish  oC 
Andrea  Ve^^ale  had  indeed  been  fulfilled,  and  that  he  had  closed  hi| 
earthly  pilgrimage  in  the  land  of  his  fathers. 


QATUERINOS  FROM  THE  GRBKK  POETS. 
a¥  T»«  aEv.  w.  a.  FLowaa,  a.*, 

cxDuaAircE. 

(Fftm  Ik*  Ftom  Vme,  t^f  j^tekpltu.) 

On  I  air  dfrine, 
BrecBH  of  6«?ust  wing ! 

Oh  liMinttiaa  dear. 
Whan  |«srly  rivan  ipdog  -, 
Waves  of  dia  Ma ! 
Wham  oouDtlctt  nrinkJim  tcU  of  mirth  i 

And  thou  beni^ 
Parent  of  alJ,"deiir  mother  earth  t 
Thou  fulJ-orbM  iim ! 
That  ahinest  on 
Whate'er  throughout  the  world  hath  Wrtlii 
On  yoQ  I  caii^ behold  !  snd  lee 
Whet  eviJa  I,  Divinity, 

From  Ddty  mutt  b«er  ; 
Oh  !  tee  me  mocked  with  bitter  scorn. 
Oh  !  lee  me  by  rude  intuits  tom^ 
And  r«ckt  by  deepleei  c^re. 
For  yean  cm  ytmn  no  changei  I  thall  eee^ 

For  yeeri  on  years  shall  itrive  eipunst  my  f»te ; 
So  hard  the  ohaia  that  has  been  forged  for  rne. 

By  heaTen*s  new  tyrant's  unrelenting  hate. 
Ah  me  f  I  mmini  the  erilt  of  lo^ay, 

I  weep  the  {lerils  of  my  future  yean  ! 
The  goals  of  mtrovt,  teU  me,  where  are  they  ? 
When  wiFI  be  dried  the  founuin  of  my  tears  ? 
What  aay  I  ?  for  my  future  drjum 
Too  well  I  know.     No  ill  can  coma 
Unkaown  to  me.     Oh !  then,  as  best  I  may, 
I  'U  learn  with  firm,  resigned  hmjI, 

Whereby  to  shun  necessity*!  coiitruJ. 


► 


MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS  AND  LORD  BROUGHAM. 

Lord  Brougham^  in  tbe  cheap  edition  of  his  "  Charactern  of  British 
Statesmen/'  has  repeated  and  adopted  Hume's  assertion,  that  "  there 
are  three  descriptions  of  men  who  must  be  considered  beyond  the  reach 
of  argument,  and  must  be  left  to  their  prejudices, — an  English  whig 
who  a&serts  the  reality  of  the  Popish  Plot,  an  Irish  Catholic  who  de- 
nies the  massacre  of  1641,  and  a  Scotch  Jacobite  who  maintains  the 
innocence  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scotland."  It  is  surprising  that  so  acute 
a  reftsoner  as  the  ex-Chancellor  should  not  have  seen  that  these  thre€ 
assertions  might  be  made  in  very  different  senses,  and  that  their  truth 
may  depend  on  the  modifications  of  the  several  propositions.  The 
English  whig  may  with  truth  assert  that  there  were  illegal  intrigtiea 
to  reRtore  the  ascendancy  of  the  Romish  religion  in  England  during 
the  retgn  of  Charles  IL,  though  Titns  Gates  s  account  of  them  waa 
false  from  beginning  to  end ;  for  he  can  point  to  the  contemptjrary 
erideoce  of  Dryden^  who  was  deeply  interested  in  proving  the  entire 
plot  an  imposture,  but  nevertheless  confessed  that 

**  Some  truth  there  was,  but  dashed  and  brew*d  with  Ilea*" 

The  Irish  Catholic  may  safely  deny  the  account  of  the  masaacre  of 
1641,  which  has  passed  current  with  most  English  historians ;  he  may 
with  truth  declare  that  its  extent  has  been  grossly  exaggerated,  its 
motives  sedulously  misrepresented,  and  all  the  evidence  respecting  its 
irigin  and  progress  deliberately  fulsilied,  while  he  confesses  that  many 
QQinigea  and  murders  were  committed  in  the  Irish  Jacquerie,  as  haa 
ever  been  the  case  when  a  native  peasantry  has  been  driven  by  the 
tyranny  of  foreign  colonists  to  seek  from  insurrection  the  wild  justice 
of  revenge.  And,  finally,  before  the  Scotch  Jacobite  is  sentenced  to 
the  doom  of  hopeless  absurdity  for  asserting  the  innocence  of  Mary,  it 
k  but  fair  to  state  the  charges  of  guilt  on  which  his  opponents  mean 
to  rely.  Mary  was  no  doubt  guilty  of  being  young  and  beautiful ; 
feiie  was  guilty  of  a  gayer  disposition  and  greater  freedom  of  manners 
tliAn  suited  the  stern  and  barbarous  code  of  morals  adopted  by  the 
early  followers  of  Calvin  ;  she  was  guilty  of  having  a  plausible  title  to 
the  English  throne  ;  and  she  was  guilty  of  a  sincere  attachment  to  the 
Hntniah  religion,  and  of  an  earnest  anxiety  to  restore  its  ancient  ascen- 
dincy  in  Christendom.  But  she  was  not  guilty  of  a  criminal  intrigue 
nritb  Rizzio.  of  any  participation  in  the  murder  of  Darnley,  or  of  high 
tfcmm  against  Elizabeth.  Sir  Walter  Scott,  who  certamlv  was  no 
Jattiliiey  declared  that,  on  the  evidence  adduced  by  her  aaversariesi 
the  verdict  must  have  been  "  not  proven."  Prince  Labanoff  has  for 
the  firat  time  brought  before  lis  the  evidence  for  the  defence,  and  we 
thai  I  »oan  show  that  it  makes  out  a  case  for  the  most  triumphant  ac- 
quittal. 

Lord  Brougham  has  fallen  into  a  grievous  mistake  when  he  asserts 
Uiflt  Elizal>eth  **  succeeded  to  the  throne  by  inheritance,  without  a 
poifttble  objection  to  her  right ;"  every  one  knows  that  her  legitimacy 
Wia  more  than  doubtful,  and  that  the  previous  recognition  of  Mary 
Tudor  a  rights  involved  the  deniul  of  those  of  Elizabeth.  If  Catharine 
of  Afagoa  had  been  the  lawful  Queen  of  Henry  VIIL^  then  Anne 


158 


MABY    QUEEN    OF    SCOTS 


Buleyn  could  only  hare  been  Kis  mistress ;  tlie  duugliter  of  the  first 
mu}>t  have  been  ti  princess  and  a  heiress  ;  the  daughter  of  the  latter  a 
private  individual,  without  name,   claim,  or  station.     Now  it  ts  a  cu- 
rious but  unnoticed  circumstance  that  Klizabeth  tacitly  recognized  the 
facts  while  she  resisted  their  legal  consequences.     When  Mary  Tudo 
came  to  the  throne,  her  first  care  was  to  clear  her  motheT*«  fanie^ 
to  insist  on  the  repeal  of  all  the  acts  of  parliament  which  stigmatize 
Catlarine  of  Aragon ;  KUsabetb,  hO  far  from   following  this  examplfj 
never  made  any  reference  to  the  statutes  which  branded  her  molhi 
with  infamy,  and  during  her  whole  life  was  contented  to  remain  hw 
tar di zed  by  unrepealed  statutes.     If  Elizabeth's  title  were  invalid 
Ihlary  Stuart  was  undoubtedly  the   right  heir  to  the  crown;  and  i 
such  she  was  either  openly  or  secretly  recoenized  by  every  Roma 
Catholic,  the  tenets  of  whose  relJgion  taught  that  Catbarine  of  Aragon 
was  a  lawful  wife,  and  Anne  Boleyn  a  shamelesa  adulteress* 

The  queiition  of  Elizabeth's  legitimacy  was  never  legally  deciCs 
her  right  to  the  throne  depended  entirely  on  the  consent  of  the  Eng 
lish  people ;  and  as  *'  the  crown  covers  all  defects,"  so  far  as  EiiglisJ 
men  were  concerned  there  was  no  necessity  for  entering  into  any  delj 
cate  investigations.  But  i^Iary's  friend^  who  stood  on  her  legal  right, 
were  not  bound  by  any  technical  formularies  of  English  [aw  ;  and 
there  is  no  doubt  that  they  would  have  aaserted  her  claims  to  the 
crown  which  Elizabeth  wore,  had  there  been  any  reasonable  chances 
of  success.  There  appeared  a  prospect  of  such  a  chance  when  Mary 
at  an  early  age  was  united  in  marrioge  to  Francis  L,  the  King  of 
Fmnce ;  and  on  that  occasion  there  was  a  heraldic  declaration  of  these 
claims  when  the  newly-married  pair  quartered  the  arms  wf  England 
in  their  escutcheon.  This  was  a  proceeding  which  EJizabelh  never  for- 
got and  never  forgave.  I^Iary's  |JOsitjon  in  relaliun  to  the  kingdoms  of 
France,  Scotland,  mid  England  can  hardly  be  understood  without  taking 
into  account  her  xnatertial  connections,  llvr  mother,  Mary  of  Guise, 
was  a  daughter  of  the  house  of  Lorraine,  scarcely  second  in  rank  to  so- 
vereign families^  and  posseBsing  political  power  which  not  unfrequently 
rivalled  that  of  the  monarchy  of  France.  Catherine  de  Mcdicis,  the 
Queeii-DowagtT  of  France,  a  woman  of  strong  pa^sion^,  great  abilit]6[^| 
and  uncontrolUble  ambition*  had  with  dilhcuhy  maintained  her  po^H 
tical  ascendancy  against  the  Guises  during  the  reign  of  her  husban(f« 
Henri  IL;  but  when  she  was  forced  to  yield  the  throne  to  the  pride 
and  hope  of  the  Guises,  Mary  Stuart,  she  felt  that  her  power  was  de- 
stroyed,  and  that  she  must  be  contented  to  act  a  very  inferior  part 
where  she  had  recently  been  the  prime  director  of  events.  But  this 
state  of  things  rested  on  the  life  of  a  feeble  boy :  Francis  died  young 
and  childless  ;  his  beautiful  widow  had  neither  the  political  strength,  the 
moral  power,  nor  tlie  mental  vigour  necessary  to  contend  against  Cathe- 
rine, even  if  she  had  been  so  inclined  ;  and  she  was  thus  left  a  youthful 
widow,  exposed  to  the  resentment  of  two  powerful  enemies,  Catherine^ 
the  virtual  sovereign  of  France,  and  Elizabeth,  the  actual  Queen  of 
Englind.  She  soon  received  singular  and  painful  priMif  of  the  dis- 
positions of  Will  ;  Catherine  look  measurtB  to  drive  Iwr  from  France, 
and  Elizabeth  made  preparations  to  intercept  her  return  to  Scut- 
land. 

An  attempt  has  been  made  to  justify  Elizubflh  on  the  gruund  that 
Mary*8  refusal  to  ratify  the  treaty  of  Edinburgh  gave  the  English 
Queen  the  right  of  treating   Mary  as  an  open  enemy.     But,  unforttt- 


AND    LORD    BROUGHAM. 


159 


nately  for  siicb  reasoners^  peace  bad  been  concluded  between  France, 
Spain^  Scotland,  and  England  by  tlie  treaty  of  Cateau-Cambres&is,  hj 
whicb  Elizabeth  continued  to  be  bound ;  and  the  treatjr  of  Edinburgh, 
which  Mar)"  refused  to  ratify,  had  been  concluded,  not  with  the  legiti* 
mate  authorities  of  Scotland,  but  with  tbe  lords  of  the  Congregation, 
who  were  iii  arms  against  their  sovereign.  There  w^re  consequently 
no  public  grounds  for  Elizabeth's  refusal  to  ailow  i\Iiiry  to  pass  through 
her  dominions  on  her  way  home,  though  uhe  may  be  excused  for  her 
unwillingness  to  allow  a  young  and  fascinating  rival  to  exhibit  herself 
in  an  honourable  light  before  the  English  people.  The  attempt  to 
intercept  her  on  tbe  high  seas  was,  however,  nothing  better  than  an 
act  of  profligate  piracy  :  there  can,  however,  he  no  doubt  that  such  a 
project  was  formed ;  it  is  pretty  plainly  intimated  in  the  following 
tignificant  extract  from  Cecira  despatches : 

**  The  Scotlliih  Quene  was  the  lOth  of  this  month  (Au^isc  K^61),  at  BiiUoygn  ; 
9fid  memneth  to  take  shipping  at  Cnllise.  Neither  thoe^e  in  Scotbud  nor  we  her« 
600  like  her  eofoyng  home.  The  Qiiene's  Majestie  hath  three  shipa  in  the  north 
•est  to  pteaerve  the  fyihera  from  pyratti.     /  thifnk  thejf  tmii  he  torty  to  ue  her 

Mary  did  pass^  because  they  did  not  happen  to  see  her ;  she  arrived 
safe  10  Scot  land  J  and  found  the  country  in  a  dephjrable  state  of  de* 
struction  from  religious  feuds,  pulilical  animosities,  and  English  in- 
trigues. The  young  Queen  differed  in  religion  from  the  bulk  of  her 
subjects;  as  a  Catholic  she  was  opposed  to  the  Presbyterian  discipline 
and  doctrine,  as  a  queen  she  was  not  less  hostile  to  the  extravagant 
chums  to  political  power  made  by  the  Calvinistic  preachers^  On  the 
other  hand,  the  Scotch  Protestants  were  justly  alarmed  by  the  Queen's 
firm  attachment  to  the  Romish  creed,  and  the  renewed  courage  which 
her  favour  gave  to  its  remaining  adherents ;  the  religion  of  the  Pres- 
byterians of  that  age  belonged  to  Judaism  rather  than  Christianity ; 
each  preacher  arrogated  to  himself  the  functions  and  privileges  of  the 
Hebrew  prophets.  Knox  regarded  himself  as  a  revived  Elijah,  having 
Popery  for  his  Baal,  the  Queen  for  his  Jezebel*  and  every  powerful 
pwrtiiui  of  his  sovereign  for  his  Aliab*  Blary's  half-brother,  the  Earl 
I  «f  Murray^  had  embraced  the  Protestant  cause,  probably  from  sincere 
f  epnviction,  but  not  improbably  because  it  offered  the  best  chances  of 
adYancement  to  an  illegitimate  adventurer.  He  seems  to  have  believ- 
ed that  he  had  as  good  a  right  to  the  throne  of  Scotland  as  Elizabeth 
to  that  of  England;  but,  finding  the  title  of  King  beyond  his  reach,  he 
fetolved  to  obtain  sovereign  power  as  Lieutenant  General  of  the  hing- 
dotn.  Under  these  circumstances  Mary  resolved  to  choose  a  husband, 
and  her  resolution  was  highly  applauded  by  her  relatives  of  the  house 
,  of  Guise*  Her  uncles  wished  her  to  marry  some  foreign  prince;  and 
'  they  proposed  to  her  the  Archduke  of  Austria,  and  afterxvards  Don 
Carlos^  the  son  of  Philip  IL  Mary  was  inclined  to  accept  the  latter, 
but  was  dissuaded  chiefly  by  Elizabeth's  agents,  who  declared  that 
thmr  mistress  would  never  consent  to  have  a  foreign  prince  placed  next 
in  sQcoessioD  to  the  crown  of  England ;  but  Blary  distinctly  affirms,  in 
her  ijistructions  to  her  envoy,  that  with  this  single  exception  the 
Queen  of  Scotland  was  free  to  marry  whom  she  pleased. 

"  Thikt  by  the  space  of  a  whole  year  or  thereabautt,  by  the  declaration  of  maater 
lUndolph,  b<*r  a^nt  ifi  thia  our  realm,  we  have  always  underaicMKi  and  Uiken  it  for 
h«r  loemning,  that  in  ca§e  we  could  be  content  to  forbear  to  deal  with  tbe  hou»e«  of 
Frmxioe,  Spain,  and  Austria  in  marniige,  and  jmu  with  any  nubject  of  ihlt  wholQ 


160 


MARY   aUEEN   OF   SCOTS 


hie,  and  espedaUy  of  EngUnd,  «lie  would  siovt  willingly  etnbraee  »nd  allow  our  to 
dfttng,'* 

Darnley  was  iirsi  proposed  to  Mary  as  a  husband  by  bis  ambitiouii 
mother,  the  Countess  of  Lennox  ;  the  recommendations  which  the 
urged  in  his  favour  were,  hi^  proximitv  to  the  royal  blotid,  and  hi»  at- 
tachment to  the  Cutbolic  religion.  Neither  Murray  nor  Elizabeth 
suspected  that  any  such  proposal  had  been  made,  and  they  hoped  to  be 
able  to  prevent  Mary's  marriage,  by  raising  objections  to  every  one 
likely  to  become  her  I'lusband. 

No  sooner  was  the  marriage  celebrated,  than  Murray,  aided  by  Eng- 
lish gold,  raised  the  standard  of  reWliion  ;  he  was  defeated,  and  forced 
to  fly  into  England,  Remonslrfinces  against  the  encouragement  which 
Elizabeth  had  given  to  this  unprovoked  insurrection  were  made  by  the 
courts  of  France  and  Spain.  The  Eni*lit»b  Queen  disavowed  her 
agents,  and  even  induced  Murray  to  declare  in  public  that  she  had 
never  in  any  way  countenanced  his  revolt.  No  one  was  deceived  by 
this  fitrce ;  a  Venetian  spy  communicated  the  scene  to  his  musters 
With  the  coarse  comment,**  there  was  nu  hiding  the  sympathy  between 
the  two  bastardt* ;"  but  Mary  took  the  more  direct  means  of  bringing 
Elizabeth's  sincerity  to  the  test,  by  furnishing  evidence  that  Randolph, 
the  EiigiiKh  ambassador,  had  sent  three  thousand  crowns  to  Muiray  to 
aid  his  rebellion. 

Lord  Broughann  baa  not  repeated  Hume's  infamous  insinuations 
against  the  nature  of  the  connection  between  Mary  and  Hi^zio.  A  very 
few  words  will  serve  to  clear  the  Queen's  character  from  any  such  im- 

Eutations,  and  to  convict  both  Hume  and  Robertson  of  something  very 
ke  wiifut  falsehood.  HizKio  was  iMary's  Italian  secretary,  and  the 
agent  of  the  continental  powers  engaged  in  intrigues  for  the  restora- 
tion of  Romanism  in  Scotknd*  It  was  as  a  papal  agent  thai  his  life  was 
sought  by  the  bigoted  leadera  of  the  Presbyterian  party,  and  Darnley 
joined  in  the  plot  because  he  attributed  to  Rizzio's  influence  the 
Queen's  refusal  to  grant  liim  the  crown  matrimonial.  John  Knox 
more  than  sanctioned  the  plot  for  this  pfxir  foreigner's  asaassinutiun  ; 
his  admiration  of  Calvin  extended  to  approval  of  the  murder  of  Serve- 
tus,  and  a  desire  to  imitate  so  laudable  an  example.  In  fact,  some 
previous  plots  for  the  assassination  of  Rizatio  had  been  frustrated  by 
various  accidents  ;  and  the  determination  to  murder  him  in  the  Queen's 
presence  was  taken,  as  the  agent  of  the  Duke  of  Tuscany  informs  us, 
"that  if  the  deed  were  done  in  her  presence,  and  in  her  room,  the 
people  would  believe  that  the  King  (Darnley)  had  found  him  under 
circumstances  which  Would  justify  a  husband  in  inflicting  immediate 
death,''  But,  accordiiijj  to  Mary*^  account  of  the  matter,  in  a  letter 
describing  the  assassimilion,  addressed  to  her  mo»t  confidential  agent 
and  friend,  the  Archhiwhtip  of  Glasgow,  the  charge  of  adultery  was  not 
so  much  as  mentioned  when  the  murder  was  perpetrated. 

''After  thiA  deed,  immediately,  the  naicl  Lord  Ruthvei*,  coining  again  into  ottr 
presences  declarod  huw  they  aiid  their  a(%fmi[jlice«  were  bif^hly  offended  with  mir 
prooeediiign  and  our  tyranny,  which  was  not  to  them  tolcnilile  ,  how  we  were 
abused  by  the  said  David,  whom  thi^y  had  actually  put  to  death,  namely,  in  takinjf 
hii  comtstl/or  the  maintenance  of  the  ancknt  reii^on,  deharnoK  of  the  lords  which 
were  fiifptire,  attd  etiiertAining  of  attiity  witlt  foreign  princes  and  nations  with 
whom  w«  were  coiifedtrwle.** 

Randolph,  tlie  English  ambasKador,  on  the  other  band,  in  a  letter  to 
Cecil,  averred  thai  iSIury  nut  only  avowed,  but  boasted  of  her  adulter- 
ouii  intercourse  with  Rizzto,  jobtifying  it  by  a  reference  to  the  scpara- 


AND  LORD   BROUGHAM. 


161 


tinn  of  Kuthven^  the  chief  of  the  astsasins,  from  his  H^fe.  The  false* 
hood  of  thin  title  is  proved  by  Randolph  him  self ;  he  tells  us  that  a  re- 
eoDciliatioD  was  effected  between  Mary  and  Darnley  bv  the  Tery  per- 
sons in  whose  presence,  not  an  hour  before,  she  bad  ostentatiously 
pruckimed  herself  an  adulteress,  and  adds, 

^  BeCore  ihe  Kinge  (Doniley)  left  talk  with  tlie  Queene,  in  the  hearing  of  i)ie 
Liird  Ruthen  (Ruthven)^  &he  was  concent  ihftt  he  ah  tilde  lye  with  her  that  night. 
We  knuw  n*»l  how  he  forBlowe  (overslept)  himaetff  hut  came  not  at  her  ;  and  ex- 
fttsed  himsiflf  to  hh  friends  that  he  was  »o  ileepie  that  he  couJde  nol  wake  in  due 
time." 

The  reconciliation  was  more  complete  than  the  conspirators  intend- 
ed- Damlej  fled  with  Mary  to  Dunbar,  published  a  protestation  dts- 
arowing  his^share  in^the  murder  of  Rizsio,  and  joined  in  the  prosecu- 
tion of  his  former  associates.  His  conduct  rendered  him  thoroudbly 
contemptible,  and  all  parties  shrunk  from  his  acquaintance.  "The 
shaft  of  contempt,"  says  the  Hindoo  proverb,  "  penetrates  the  shell  of 
the  tortoise ;"  and,  though  Dam  ley  was  not  very  sensitive  on  points  of 
honour,  he  was  morbidly  alive  to  the  pangs  of  wounded  vanity.  At 
one  lime  he  prepared  a  ship  to  bear  him  away  from  Scotland,  and 
Mnry,  in  the  presence  of  her  court,  and  of  the  French  ambasaador,  re- 
monstrated against  so  injurious  a  project.  The  ambassador  thus  de- 
scribes the  Queen's  conduct  when  ahe  heard  by  letter  of  Darnley's 
proposed  evasion : — 

^«  The^  Queen  receired  thii  letter  on  the  morning  of  Michaelmas  day«  and  the 
Ring  arrived  at  ten  that  night,  Mlien  their  Maje^Uea  were  together,  the  Queeo 
spuke  to  him  ol  what  the  said  letter  contained,  begged  him  to  state  die  oocaslon  of 
lum  departure,  and  if  it  was  l»eciiusee  he  had  any  reason  to  eomptain  of  her,  he  wai 
lutwilling  to  fpeak  on  the  suhji'ct.  And  the  Queen,  considering  of  what  great  im- 
purtaoce  his  voyage  was,  acted  very  wi!ii4v,  and  was  well  advised  to  summon  imme- 
diately the  lords  of  her  council,  and  to  request  my  presmoe.  Mlien  we  were  all 
asaetabted,  the  Bishop  of  Ross,  by  command  of  the  Queen,  introduced  the  subject 
of  the  Ring's  voyage  in  his  presence,  and  the  evidence  she  gave :  it  was  a  letter  sent 
to  him  by  the  Earl  of  Lennox  (Darnley's  father),  which  letter  waa  read.  The 
Qu<«n  made  a  %'ery  excellent  speech,  and  afterwards  prayed  and  entreated  him 
witk  all  her  might  to  declare  in  the  presence  of  all  if  she  had  ever  given  him  occa. 
fiKPil  for  such  conduct  ?  And  in  such  (!ase  she  t>egged  of  htm  with  clasped  handsp 
and  for  the  honour  of  God,  not  to  ipare  her.  The  lords  also  said,  that  they  taw  he 
reoeired  Uiem  with  an  evil  countenance,  and  that  they  did  not  know  but  that  they 
might  he  the  cause  of  his  departure,  and  entreated  him  to  tell  in  what  tlicy  had 
•tfended  ?  For  my  part.  1  Miid  that  his  voyage  affected  the  honour  of  the  Queen 
iflid  his  own  ;  that  if  he  had  occasion  for  it,  the  honotir  of  the  Queen  was  brought 
Into  question,  and  if  he  had  no  occasion,  his  conduct  was  far  from  laudable*  We 
foidd  not  extort  from  him  any  decisive  resolution,  but  he  declared,  that  at  to  ooc&- 
m»a  for  his  voyage  there  was  none  whatever.*' 

Now,  we  put  it  to  the  comm<m  sense  of  any  man  in  the  country, 
eould  such  a  scene  as  this  have  possibly  taken  place,  if  Mary  had  pro- 
claimed herself  an  adulteress  only  a  few  weeks  before  ?  Darnley  wa» 
anxious  to  quit  Scotland  because  Elizabeth,  indignant  at  his  marriage, 
had  directed  her  ambassadors  to  withhold  every  acknowledgment  of 
his  rank,  and  he  was  therefore  afraid  of  being  publicly  slighted  at  the 
approaching  christening  of  his  own  son. 

Lord  Brougham's  statement  of  his  case  against  Mary  is  contained  in 
the  six  follovving  propositions : — 

^  1,  It  IS  certain  that  Damley,  Mary's  second  husband,  was  foully  murdered, 
end  equally  ct-rtain  that  Mary  was  generally  suspected,  and  was  openly  charged,  at 
sn  acenmpHce  in  the  murder,  if  not  the  contriver  of  the  cHme. 

*^  S.  Yet  it  is  e<}ually  certain  that,  instead  of  taking  those  active  steps  to  bring 
the  perpetrators  to  puaiihment,  rei}uirad  Ipoth  by  oonjugal  duty  and  by  a  just  do* 


162 


MABY   QUEEN   OF   SCOTS 


lire  to  wipe  oir  the  ttain  affixed  to  her  character^  she  dlovred  a  mere  mock  trial  to 
take  place  which  outraged  every  prineiple  of  justice,  whiJe  ahe  refu»ed  Lennox  the 
father's  off*jr»  of  evidence  to  convict  the  murderen*. 

'*  3>.  Botbwell  had  ooly  of  late  beet)  admitted  to  her  iotimate  sodetf  ;  he  was  a 
man  of  coarse  mauners  and  profligate  character^uni verbally  accuMd  and  now  known 
as  having  lieen  tbe  pritidp&l  in  the  murder.  No  one  pretended  at  the  time  teriotialy 
to  doubt  his  griLiH  ;  yet  immediately  after  the  event  the  married  him^  and  married 
him  with  a  mixture  of  frauds  a  pretence  of  being  forced  to  it,  fto  coarse,  that  it 
cnidd  deceive  nobody,  and  so  grosa  as  only  to  be  exceeded  by  the  still  groiser  pat- 
aion  which  actuated  her  whole  ixintluct. 

'*  A,  That  he  wai  married  when  their  intimacy  began,  in  not  denied.  Nor  it  it 
doubted  that  ahe  consented  to  marry  him  before  his  former  marriage  had  been 
diE>Kolved. 

*'  6.  The  divorce  which  difnolved  it  wm  hurried  through  the  Court*  ia  four 
days,  by  the  grofwent  fraud  and  colkiBion  between  the  partiea.  Herjce  Mai7  was  aa 
much  guilty  of  bigamy  in  marn ing  him  aa  wat  the  Diiehes*  of  Rmgston  two  eentu* 
ries  later  ;  for  the  Duchess  produced  alao  a  aenteuce  of  neparation  a  m^tui  et  ihoro 
in  her  defence,  obtained  with  incomp&raldy  greater  formality^  but  obtained  througli 
collusion,  Riid  therefore  oonaidered  aa  a  nullity  ;  and  she  waa  accordingly  oonTicted 
of  tlie  felony. 

"  6.  Theae  acts  of  Mary's  were  of  ao  abominable  a  nature  that  all  rational  men 
wera  turned  away  from  supporting  ber,  and  her  deposition  waa  almost  a  matter  of 
coune  in  any  Chriiftiaii,  or  indeed  in  any  civilised  country/* 

In  Lord  Brougham'a  first  proposition  there  is  a  gross  suppression  of 
truth,  equivalent  to  a  direct  suggestion  of  falsehood.  The  whole  rest* 
on  the  pointy  when  was  Mary  first  suspected  or  charged  with  compli- 
city in  the  murder  ?  Bid  the  suspicion  arise  naturally  from  circum- 
Btances,  or  wos  it  an  after-thouglit  of  !ier  enemies?  Robertson,  whose 
gross  falsifications  of  history  on  otijer  points  have  been  ably  exposed  by 
the  Rev*  Mr.  Maitland,  states  two  circumstances  as  sufficient  to  justify 
auspicion.  Mary  visited  Botbwell  at  the  castle  of  the  Hermitage, 
where  he  lay  severely  wounded ;  and  she  did  not  visit  Damley  when 
he  was  sick  of  the  small-pox-  Let  us  state  the  facts  of  each  caae. 
While  the  Queen  was  at  Jedburgh,  Botbwell,  who  professed  great  at- 
tachment to  her  cause,  was  wounded  in  an  encounter  with  some  rob- 
bers ;  he  waa  taken  to  the  Hermitage,  a  royal  castle  about  twenty 
miles  from  Jedbargh,  where  he  remained  until  he  had  recovered.  Ten 
dittos  (tjlerrrards,  viz.  on  the  17tb  of  October,  Mary  rode  over  to  see 
him,  remained  about  an  hour,  and  rode  back  again  to  Jedburgh.  This 
IS  what  Robertson  calls  "  flying  on  the  wings  of  love," — as  if  love  would 
have  allowed  a  delay  of  ten  days^  or  would  have  brought  t!ie  lady  back 
with  the  same  rapidity  that  urged  her  forwards  I  '*  She  rode  forty  miles 
in  one  day,*'  says  Robertson, — as  if  this  had  been  something  miraculous.' 
it  might  have  been  a  wondrous  feat  to  a  lubberly  professor ;  but  we  all 
know  that  it  has  been  frequently  surpassed  by  many  fair  equestriAiiA 
of  the  present  day. 

Mary's  refusal  to  Tisit  Darnley  was  still  more  innocent;  she  was  a 
mother,  and  she  ought  not  to  liave  risked  the  life  of  the  infant  prince 
by  exposing  him  to  the  contagion  of  a  disease  which  was  then  deemed 
at  once  the  most  infectious  and  the  most  dangerous  then  known  in 
Europe.  But  we  have  a  stronger  refutation  of  the  inference  sought 
to  be  deduced  from  these  simple  circumstances.  In  the  November  bil- 
lowing these  events,  Mary  was  pressed  to  divorce  Darnley  and  marry 
Bothwellby  Murray,  Maitland,  Huntley,  and  Argyle;  she  perempto- 
rily refused  compliance,  and  was  bitterly  reproached  by  her  council  for 
her  attachment  to  her  worthless  husband.  Can  any  on©  believe  that 
when  the  same  end  could  have  been  obtained  stifely  by  divorce,  she 


AND   LOBD    BROUGHAM. 


16S 


would  have  preferred  the  more  periloas  expedient  of  nittrder  ?  On  the 
day  after  Darnlcy's  xnurderj  JVlory  wrote  a  very  reniarkable  letter  to 
the  Archbishop  of  Glasgow,  from  which  we  take  the  foJlowing  extract : — 

"  Most  rererFtid  father  in  God,  and  tniaty  councillor,  we  greet  you  well,     "We 

hare  received  this  morning  yotir  letters  of  the  27th  of  January,  by  ymir  aenrant 

R(>t»eri  Dury,  containing  in  one  part  such  adveni»«nieut  a«  we  6tid  by  eflTect  over- 

true,  albeit  the  success  has  not  altogether  been   such   as  the  authort  of  that  mia- 

i^ierous  fact  bad  preconceived  in  their  minds,  and  had  put  iti  ejcenition,  if  Ood  in 

Ihif  merry  had  not   prescn  ed  u^^,  and   reserved  us^  as  we  trust,  to  the  end  that  wa 

rfliay  take  a  rigorous  vengeance  of  that  mischievous  deed,  which,  rather  thaia  it 

Mbotild  remain  unpunished,  we  had  sooner  lose  life  and  all,  .  <  .  .    Always  whoever 

^aa  taken  this  wicked  enterprise  in  band,  we  assure  ourself  it  was  prepared  as  well  ' 

fnr  us  as  the  Ring ;  for  we  lay  the  most  part  of  all  the  last  wedi  in  that  same 

lodging,  and  was  there  aocompanied  with  the  most  part  of  the  lords  that  are  in  this 

town   that  same  night  at  midnight,  and   of  very  chance  tarried  not  all  nighty  by 

remttm  of  some  mosque  in  the  abbey  (Holyrood  House)  ;  but  we  believe  it  was  not 

'hanoe  but  God  that  put  it  in  our  head." 

Prince  Lubanuff's  collection  indiKputably  establishes  two  important 
[jCficts;  first,  that,  during  the  month  preceding  Damley's  murder,  Mrtj 
[did  not  anticipate  the  occurrence  of  any  event  t»f  magnitude ;  and, 
secocidlf J  that  her  enemies,  the  Protestant  lordsj  did  Im^k  forward  to 
I  event  which  wottld  necessitate  a  great  change,  if  not  a  revolution. 
Lord  Brougham's  second  proposition  avers  that  the  mockery  of  justice 
^  exhibited  at  Both  well's  trial  was  contrived  by  Mary.     The  very  re- 
Terse  is  tlie  fact ;  the  packed  parliament  that  acquitted  Both  well  was 
entirely  composed  of  Mary's  enemies,  aad  in  this  very  session  they 
-paased  several  laws  characterised  by  personal  hostility  to  herself,  and 
[nuicorous  intolerance   towards  her  religion-      Lord  Brougham   might 
[more  reasonably  have  accused  George  IV*  of  contriving  the  escape  of 
Queen  Caroline. 

On  the  19th  of  April  the  session  of  the  Scottish  parliament  ended, 
and  on  the  evening  of  that  day,  the  leading  nobles,  inchiding  the  prifi' 
cipal  Protestant  Ivrds,  and  those  who  had  ttikcji  a  pronnncnt  part  tn  the 
murder  of  lihzio  signed  an  engagement  to  Both  well  that  they  would 
I  defend  him  against  all  his  enemies,  and  use  every  effort  to  compel  the 
Queen  to  take  him  as  a  husband.  This  assuredly  is  a  conclusive  proof 
that  they  did  not  believe  the  Queen  to  be  madly  in  love  with  him. 
Lord  Brougham  says  that  **  the  pretence  of  force  was  a  gross  fraud ;" 
but  here  is  undeniable  evidence  that  a  plot  to  use  force  was  framed  a 
whole  week  before  Mary  was  seized  by  Bothwell  and  carried  to  the 
castle  of  Dunbar.  There,  according  to  the  statement  of  Throckmorton 
and  Melville,  violence  was  offered  to  her  person  by  Bothwell ;  but  there 
is  no  doubt  that  she  was  kept  for  ten  days  a  close  prisoner  at  Dunbar  ; 
tliat  when  she  was  removed  to  Edinburgh^  she  was  as  cl<>Bely  confined  in 
the  cattle,  uniil  she  consented  to  take  a  Protestant  husband  in  the  per- 
son of  Bothwell.  The  difference  of  religion  between  Mary  and  Both- 
well  in  a  circumstance  which  the  libellers  of  the  Scottish  Queen  have 
found  it  convenient  to  pass  over  in  silence ;  they  were  well  aware  that 
Mary's  passionate  attachment  to  Ciitbolicism  was  far  too  powerful  to 
allow  her  voluntarily  to  seek  a  heretic  husband;  indeed  there  is  abun- 
dant evidence  that  she  was  all  but  dragged  to  an  altar  which  she 
regarded  as  desecrated  by  a  Protestant  ritual. 

Had  there  been  a  particle  of  truth  in  Bobertson's  tale  of  Mary's  ro- 
mantic devotion  to  Bothwell,  the  day  of  her  marriage  would  have  been 
hailed  with  joy  and  celebrated  as  a  festival.  Let  De  Croc,  the  French 
"or,  declare  how  that  day  was  spent  by  the  unfortunate  Queen. 


164 


MARY    QUEEN    OF    SCOTS 


■^Her  Majenty  tent  to  seek  me,  and  I  perc«iiirod  greftt  atrBngeneiw  ia  her  beha- 
▼imir  to  her  hushand.  which  *he  excuwd  ui  me,  wjing,  that  if  I  saw  her  sorrowful 
U  waji  because  $«he  would  not  rejoice,  as  tnideed  she  never  wonld  again,  deairiug 
nothing  Ml  inneh  an  ileath.  Yesterday,  being  alone  in  her  (Sibinet  with  Bcithwell, 
the  cried  ont  aloud  that  ihey  should  l)rin|^  her  a  dagger  to  end  her  life.  She  wai 
plainly  heard  by  the  |»er»oiis  in  the  ante -chamber/^ 

How    Lord    Brouf|fham  dreamed   of  making    Bothweirs   divorce    a 

f round  of  charge  agiiinst  Mary,  it  is  im possible  for  rational  men  to 
ivine-  That  divorce  wns  given  in  a  Presbyterian  court,  over  which 
Mury  had  no  influence,  and  every  member  of  wbicli  was  her  avowed 
enemy.  In  ber  letter  to  the  Bishi»p  of  Dumblane,  who  bad  the  unplea- 
sant task  of  communicating  intelligence  of  the  marriage  to  the  French 
court,  Mary  speaks  of  the  duresse  to  which  she  had  been  subjected  as 
a  matter  of  public  notoriety. 

'*  When  he  saw  us  like  to  reject  nil  hts  suit  and  ofTerB.  in  the  end  he  showed  tts 

how  far  he  had  proceeded  with  our  whole  nohihty  and  prindpafs  of  our  estates,  and 

wh&t  tbey  bad  promiiied  him  under  their  own  handwriting.     If  we  had  i-au»c,  then, 

to  be  astonished,  we  remit  us  to  the  judg^tnent  c»f  the  King,  the  Queen,  and  others 

l«mr  friends.     Seeing  oun^elf  in   his  powur,  sequestered  from  the  company  of  our 

'  lervants  and  others  of  whom  we  might  a»k  counsel ;  yea,  seeing  them  upon  whose 

'oounsel  and  fidelity  we  had  befrire  depended,  whose  force  ought  and  roust  maintain 

our  authority,  without  whouK  in  a  manner,  we  are  nothing,  heforehand  already  won 

over  to  his  wishes,  atnd  w  we  left  alone  as  it  were  a  prey  unto  him  :  many  things 

I  we  resolved  with  ourself,  hut  cuuld  never  find  a  way  of  escape.     And  yet  gave  he 

lis  Hide  space  to  meditate  with  ourself,  ever  preasing  us  with  continual  and  im-  ^ 

portunate  suit." 

Rothwell'ii  conduct  was  anything  but  that  of  a  favoured  lover;  he* 
kept  her  under  the  closest  Jtumaflancej  and  would  not  allow  of  her 
having  any  communication  with  her  former  friends.  To  this  important 
fact  we  can  adduce  the  strongest  possible  testimony,  the  evidence  of 
I^Iary*s  enemies.  A  league  waa  formed  against  Botbwell^  and  at  the 
head  of  it  was  Morton,  who  bad  been  the  chief  agent  in  forcing  the 
Queen's  marriage,  and,  as  was  »ub.se(|uently  proved,  a  leading  aiisassjn 
in  the  murder  of  Darn  ley*  Now  the  pretence  set  forth  by  this  league 
for  their  insurrection  was  to  rescue  tlieir  Queen  from  the  involuntary 
captivity  in  which  she  was  held  by  Butb^vell  I  Their  sincerity  waa 
proved  when  she  fell  into  their  bands  after  the  battle  of  Carberry 
Hill,  and  was  sent  a  close  prisoner  to  Loch  1  even.  This  battle  waa 
fought  on  the  17th  of  June;  the  conquerors  immediately  assumed  the 
government  under  the  title  of  **  the  Lords  of  the  Secret  Councili*'  and 
on  the  18th  of  the  following,  they  proposed  to  Mary  to  be  divorced 
from  Bothwell.  She  refused,  not  from  love  of  Botbwell,  but  from  un-  ^ 
willingness  to  bastardize  the  child  of  which  she  was  pregnant.  Jn  thdfl 
folb»wing  February  she  was  delivered  of  a  daughter,  who  was  sent  to 
France  ft^r  safety  ;  the  little  princess,  on  reaching  maturity,  became  a 
nun  of  the  order  of  Notre  Dame  de  Sojssons,  and  tlied  at  an  early  age 
in  the  cloister-  Nothing  can  more  clearly  show  the  deliberate  falsifica- 
tion of  iMiiry's  history  by  pnrtis>in  writers  than  tlieir  omission  of  all 
mention  of  the  existence  of  this  child,  though  proofs  of  her  identity  a 
given  in  a  work  of  such  easy  access  as  Le  Laboureur  b  edition  of  Ca»-^ 
lel nan's  Memoirs. 

Murray  returned  from  France  on  the  llth  of  August,  and  on  the 
ICth  of  that  month  had  an  interview  with  the  captive  Queen  at  Loch* 
leven;  he  then  and  there  ga\^e  her  such  assurances  of  friendship,  that 
she  herself  asked  hini  to  assume  the  regency.     Murray  of  course  corn*] 
plied^  and  his  first  act  war  to  make  his  sister's  imprisonment  more 


AND    LORD    BROUCIHAM, 


165 


rigid  than  ever.  Remanstraof^es  were  made  against  iliia  conduct,  and 
Murray  felt  that  he  must  make  some  effort  in  his  own  ju8li6cation. 
In  December,  then,  we  hear^  for  the  first  time,  of  a  casltet  of  love- 
letters  from  ^fary  to  Both  well,  laid  before  the  secret  council  by  IMoiv 
ton.  According  to  Morton's  own  story,  he  obtained  these  letters  from 
Xhdglersh,  a  servant  of  Both  well,  in  the  month  of  June,  but  he  gives 
no  reason  for  suppressing  them  until  the  following  December.  Instead 
of  the  original  letters,  what  was  really  given  to  the  public  corisisted 
simply  of  what  professed  to  be  Latin  translations  of  them  by  Bu- 
chanan, and  we  are  at  this  day  left  in  uncertainty  by  Mary's  enemies 
whether  what  they  produce  as  the  contents  of  the  casket  are  to  be  re- 
garded as  originals,  or  as  re-translations  from  Buchanan's  barbarous  La* 
tin.  Of  course  we  know  that  any  imputation  on  Buchanan's  scholarship 
ifi  likely  to  be  resented ;  even  those  Scotchmen  who  give  up  his  honesty  i 
and  integrity  as  indefensible,  will  be  ready  to  take  arms  for  his  classt- 
cslitj.  This  is  a  controversy  irrelevant  to  our  present  subject,  and  all 
we  can  say  to  the  partisans  of  Buchanan  is,  that  they  would  themselves 
feel  it  a  worse  penalty  than  the  treadmill  to  be  doomed  to  read  such 
Liitin  every  day  of  their  lives. 

The  most  preposterous  demand  ever  made  by  the  enemies  of  Alary 
is,  that  we  should  judge  of  thiise  documents  by  internal  evidwnce;  thu 
fact  being  that  no  such  documents  are  in  existence.  The  fact  of  their 
forgery  was  so  apparent  that  they  were  withdrawn  by  their  inventors, 
and  not  one  of  them  can  be  found  in  tlie  archives  of  England  or  Scot*  | 
land.  The  professed  copies  and  extracts  which  !iave  been  published 
are  so  utterly  unlike  anything  that  Mary  is  ever  proved  to  have  written 
that  it  would  be  a  mere  waste  of  time  to  offer  evidence  of  their  worth- 
l^saesa.  A  further  reason  for  avoiding  the  irksome  task  of  verbal  cri- 
ticism  hf,  that  we  can  show  these  letters  to  have  been  rejected  l)y  a  court 
prejudiced  against  Mary, — the  commission  of  investij^ation  which  Queen 
Elisabeth  commanded  to  assemble  at  York*  Lord  Brougham's  account 
of  Afary's  conduct  in  reference  to  these  conferences  is  as  bold  a  perver-*  | 
sion  of  facts  as  ever  we  have  met  in  the  course  of  our  critical  expe- 
Heoee.     He  says : 

**  She  submitted  tbe  Cftie  to  a  solemn  inveiftigfiition,  when  she  fouitd  tbat  tho  . 
dfects  of  ber  iafiiniy  were  fatal  to  her  p&rty^  clouding  over  all  her  prospects  of  sue*  i 
ttv,  or  evwi  of  deliverance  j  and  an  sckmi  a«  the  womt  part  of  the  charges  aRtiinst 
her  vera  brought  forw&rd^  and  the  mmt  decisive  evidences  of  her  guilt  adduced^ 
the  let  ten  under  her  own  hand^  ahe  dtd  not.  meet  the  charge  or  e\eu  attempt  to 
prove  the  wrttings  forgerioin,  hut  »cmght  shelter  l^ehind  general  protetitatlons^  and 
eadettToored  to  change  the  inquiry  into  a  negotiatioiii,  although  diitinctly  warned 
that  eorh  a  conduct  of  her  case  was  flyiDg  from  the  trial  to  which  tike  bad  tuhmit- 
ted,  and  numt  prove  (juite  demooitrative  of  her  giitlt,*' 

The  conferences  at  York  began  on  the  8th  of  October,  and  on  the 
0tb  the  casket  of  letters  was  produced  by  Maitland  and  Buchanan. 
Mary's  representatives  met  the  charges  brought  aguinst  her,  and  re-  • 
futed  thena  completely  ;  for  when  Cecil  dissolved  the  commiiiaion  on  the  I 
llth  of  the  folloii^nng  January,  he  declared  that  *' nothing  had  been 
proved  on  either  side."     Another  commissi  oner,  the  Duke  of  Norfolk, ' 
gave  a  more  deci^iive  proof  of  bis  belief  in  JVIary's  innocence,  for  imme- 
diately after  the  termination  of  the  inquiry,  he  became  a  suitor  for  her 
Land*     Mary  objected  not  to  the  investigations  at  York,  but  after  these 
had  terminated  in  an  acquittal,  she  did  protest  against  the  attempt  to 
put  her  on  a  new  trial  in  London,  while  she  was  absent  and  her  ene- 
mm  were  encouraged  to  be  present.     Elizabeth,  not  Mary,  changed 


1B6 


MARY    QUEEW   OF   SCOTS 


tlie  inquiry  iota  a  negoiiatioD,  hj  endenvourmg  to  induce  Mary  volun^ 
tarily  to  resign  her  crown,  and  slie  continued  to  delude  her  captive  by 
simulated  negotiations  during  tbe  whole  period  of  her  imprt^nment. 
In  every  letter  written  by  Mary  to  Elizabeth  innoeence  is  asserted  in 
the  strongest  terms ;  in  no  letter  of  Elizabeth  to  Mary  h  a  shade  of 

fiilt  imputed.  In  her  negotiations  with  the  French  ambaasadora, 
iizabeth  never  hinted  that  Mary's  guilt  was  the  cause  of  her  deten* 
tion  ;  oEi  the  contrary,  she  declared  to  the  last  that  she  was  willing 
to  liberate  the  Queen  of  Scotland,  provided  that  she  could  obtain 
satisfactory  securities  against  any  attempt  on  the  English  crown. 
In  June,  1569,  Elizabeth  declared  that  Blary  should  be  set  at  liberty  if 
it  could  be  proved  that  she  bad  not  transferred  her  rights  of  inheritance 
to  the  royal  family  of  France*  The  necessary  proofs  were  furnished 
on  the  17tb  of  the  following  August,,  and  on  the  2Bth  of  September  a 
majority  of  the  English  privy  council  decided  that  Mary  might  be  set 
at  liberty,  provided  she  consented  to  marry  an  English  subject.  If 
these  circumstances  be  taken  together^  there  can  be  no  room  for  a  rea- 
sonable doubt  of  the  innocence  of  the  Queen  of  Scotland* 

But  her  case  does  not  rest  here.  Both  well,  after  hts  escape  from 
the  battle  of  Carberry  Hill^^  took  shipping  for  Norway,  but  was  seized 
on  the  coast  of  Denmark.  He  died  in  April,  157*^>  at  the  castle  of 
Malmor ;  but  before  his  death,  he  executed  an  official  declaration  in 
which  he  confessed  his  share  in  the  murder  of  Darnley,  and  exonerated 
Mary  from  all  cognizance  in  the  conspiracy  and  participation  in  the 
crime.  The  captive  Queen  naturally  manifested  an  extreme  denire  to 
have  this  conclusive  evidence  brought  before  the  public  ;  she  wrote  to 
the  Archbishop  of  Glasgow  in  urgent  terms  to  obtain  a  copy. 
Some  time  afterwards  Mary  again  wrote  to  the  Archbishopt 
^'  I  luve  been  iaformed  thst  tbe  King  of  Denmnrk  hoi  wnt  to  this  Queen  (Eltza- 
beth)  the  last  will  and  testament  oi  tbe  late  Earl  of  Bothn-eJl,  and  that  she  has 
tuppresied  it  in  the  greatest  pouibte  ieorecy*  It  aeenu  t4>  me  tlmt  the  voyn^  of 
Be  Monceauix  h  no  longer  neceuary  since  tbe  Quetn  mother  (Catherine  de  MedK 
cit)  hat  sent  tbithcr,  aa  you  inform  me/* 

Sir  John  Forster,  in  a  letter  to  Walsinghamp  «tates  thai  an  attested 
copy  of  this  important  document  was  produced  on  the  trial  of  ^lorton, 
many  years  after  the  period  to  which  we  now  refur,  but  no  authentic 
copy  of  it  is  to  be  found  in  the  archives  of  England  or  Scotland  ;  indeed 
there  is  little  doubt  that  it  was  designedly  destroyed.  Prince  Labanolf^ 
however,  has  obtained  an  original  copy  from  the  papers  of  Baron 
d'Esnevalp  the  French  ambassador  to  Benmark  in  loJfc'i ;  this  cony  is 
authenticated  by  the  following  endorsement^  "  The  said  Earl  has  him- 
self written  the  notes  in  the  margin/'  Prince  Labanoff  announces  the 
speedy  publication  of  this  important  document,  which  he  declares  will 
complete  the  justification  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scot*.  We  deem  the  case 
sufficiently  perfect  now,  for,  had  Mary  not  been  assured  of  her  own 
innocence^  ^he  would  never  have  manifested  so  earnest  an  anxiety  lo 
have  Bothweira  real  or  supposed  dying  declarations  authenticated  hy 
unqTiestionable  authorities. 

We  have  answered  Lord  Brougham's  vague  assertions  by  uncontro- 
vertible evidence,  and  we  hope  thiit  he  will  take  some  opportunity  of 
withdrawing  the  charges  he  has  so  lightly  liazarded,  otherwise  the 
world  will  conclude  that  he  has  failed  as  signally  in  the  inculpation  of 
Queen  Mary  as  he  did  in  tbe  exculpation  of  Queen  Caroline. 


I 


167 


SUMMER    BIRDS. 


BIT   MARTIKGALfi. 

*'  A  mm\  bett  things  are  oeareit  him. 
Lie  dote  about  hia  feet ; 
it  is  the  diftttint  and  the  dim 
That  we  are  nick  to  greet." 

MoirCXTON  MtLMEf, 

To  every  human  bein|r  possessing  right  thoughts  and  right  feelings, 
the  recurrence  of  a  cloudless  and  brillmnt  morning,  especially  after  the 
preTalence  of  days  of  gloom  and  sad n ens,  is  a  matter  of  the  purest 
joy.  This  is  particularly  the  case  with  the  denizens  of  the  crowded 
city  and  the  smoky  manufacturing  town,  —  amid,  in  one  instance, 
the  busy  haunts  of  commercial  enterprise,  and,  in  the  other,  the  in- 
eeataill  whirl  and  rattle  of  almost  interminable  machinery ;  in  both 
imtanceSj  the  heart,  at  the  favourable  opportunity,  is  glad  to  escape 
"to  £resh  fields  and  pastures  new."  The  re-awakened  spirits,  in- 
deed, partake  of  a  bounding  elasticity;  and  there  is  felt,  as  it  were, 
m  lon^ng  for  the  wings  of  the  dove,  not  to  flee  away  and  be  at 
rest,  but  to  visit  all  delightftil  places  in  the  far,  pure  country, — its 
woods  and  copses — its  meadows  and  pastures — its  quiet  green  lanes 
and  peaceful  field^paths — ''  its  mountains  and  all  hills.  Its  fruitful  trees 
and  all  cedars."  As  the  rain  descends  upon  the  just  and  upon  the  un* 
just,  90  there  is  a  universality  of  goodness  in  the  radiance  of  an  un- 
dimmed  sun«  His  beams  visit  everywhere*  They  illume  the  halls 
and  galleries  of  the  palace ;  they  dispel  the  gloom  and  sadness  of  the 
cottage.  They  gladden  the  chamber  of  sickness ;  they  smooth  the 
brow  of  anguish.  They  cheer  the  hovels  of  want  and  wretchedness 
with  the  hope  of  better  days ;  they  smile  through  the  prison- bars  of 
the  captiTe  to  set  him  free.  And  while  they  deepen  the  hue  of  the 
roae  that  blooms  on  beauty's  cheek,  every  bud  and  bloBSom,  every  leaf 
ftnd  flower,  every  blade  and  stem,  shares  in  the  vivifying  impulse 
emanating  from  the  boundless  tiood  of  the  glorious  light  and  warmth 
of  heaven. 

But  this  impulse  is  not  confined  to  inanimate  objects.  It  is  equally 
felt  by  those  which  are  animate, — by  birds,  insects,  reptiles,  vermin, 
ampbibitt!,  fishes,  and  so  on, — each  fulfilling  its  transient  or  lengthened 
period  of  existence ;  each  carrying  out  the  purposes  for  which  it  was 
^led  into  being  by  the  benevolent  Author  of  nature.  The  field-or- 
nithologist, who  derives  his  knowledge  from  actual  observation,  as  well 
as  the  mere  lover  of  external  nature  in  all  her  varied  aspects,  finds 
deep  interest  throughout  every  portion  of  the  year,  because  each  pre- 
sents, more  or  less,  an  almost  inexhaustible  fund  of  gratificalionj — an 
additional  chapter  to  complete  the  volume  of  acquired  but  substantial 
wisdom.  He  marks  the  peculiarities  of  all  seasons  in  their  harmonious 
progreaaion ;  the  varied  hues  and  tints,  the  different  changes  and 
phaaesj  the  unerring  processes  from  youth  to  maturity,  from  maturity 
to  decajj  as  they  are  presented  around  his  path  in  striking  abundance. 
Irving  the  birds  which  never  leave  our  shores,  and  which  he  regards 
sa  the  happy  members  of  the  domestic  family,  he  may  possibly  deplore 
the  departure  or  the  absence  of  the  several  species  of  winter  visitors — 


168 


SUMMER   BIRDS. 


Uie  field  fare,  with  its  congener,  the  redwing  ;  the  Royst<5n  crow  ;  the 
wood-pigeoo  ;  the  pochard ;  and  the  occiisintial  visitors,  the  crossbill 
and  the  silktail;  or  several  species  t>f  the  more  rare  aquatic  wander- 
ers, in  the  same  manner  as  the  sporttiiiian  regards  the  loss  of  the  wood- 
cock, the  snipe,  the  wild-goose,  the  widgeon,  the  wiid-duck,  and  that 
tiny  favourite,  the  teal. 

Nor,  in  all  seasons,  can  be  fail  to  reflect  on  the  causes  which  in- 
fluence the  migration  of  his  many  favourites  from  country  to  country- 
He  may  not  he  eniihled  to  comprehend  the  innate  laws  by  which  they 
are  directed,  the  impulse  hy  which  they  are  guided,  and',  apparently, 
the  impossible  length  of  Hight  of  the  small-winged  and  comparatively 
feeble  speciea.  But,  as  no  fealliered  creatures  are  subject  to  a  state  of 
torpitude,  like  fishes,  reptiles,  insects,  and  amphibia',  he  muat  arrive  at 
the  inevitable  conclusion,  however  mysterious  and  inexplicable,  that 
not  only  are  trackless  oceans  crossed  with  iiafety,  but  at  the  time  and 
with  weather,  too,  the  most  favourable  for  the  accomplishment  of  a 
long  and  laborious  journey  ;  resting  himself  perfectly  satisfied  with 
the  conviction  that  their  course  is  directed  and  impelled  by  an  A]^ 
mighty  hand>  for  the  fultilment  of  benevolent  purposes,  and  in  perfect 
accordance  with  the  objects  of  unerring  wisdom. 

Diving  into  the  depths  of  the  harmonious  woodsi  which  are  about  to 
put  on  their  richest  robes  of  summer,  or  strolling  along  the  narrow 
green  footways,  which  go  twisting  about  hither  and  thither  Like  a 
brook-stream  in  search  of  a  peaceful  home, — a  sylvan  solitude, — a  lit 
spot  for  mute  contemplation, — or,  as  the  leaves  are  gently  stirred  by 
the  passing  breeze,  for  fancy  to  take  wing  and  flee  away  into  the 
regions  of  old  romance;  tbe  first  joyful  summer  sound  that  falls  upon 
the  attentive  ear  is  that  from  the  chirp  of  the  Cuikf-chaff,  or 
Lksseb  Willow  Wren  (motacilla  irochihts)  a  dimunitive  creature, 
yet,  as  a  stranger,  thrice  welcome,  the  harbinger  of  ijunny  *skie«  and 
days  of  beauty  and  sweetness.  Perched  on  the  higher  part  of  an  as- 
piring tree,  or  actively  flitting  about  from  branch  to  branch,  its  song, 
though  extremely  simple,  embracing,  indeed,  only  tivo  no  tea,  "chiff- 
chaff/*  i8  thrown  over  the  dense  undenvood  with  a  joyousnesa  which 
speaks  of  its  own  happy  condition,  and,  at  the  same  time,  indicates  to 
its  mate  its  own  whereabout.  In  the  more  obscure  hollows  of  the 
wood,  amid  shattered  rocks  and  peaceful  nooks,  it  can  awaken  the 
echoes,  and  tliere  it  seems  to  possess  more  of  heart  and  of  happy  and 
conscious  security:  a  truly  simple  song,  and  affording  a  striking  con- 
trast to  that  which  is  heard  In  a  neighbouring  locality,  the  harsh  note 
of  the  Wbyneck,  (j]ynx  iorquilla,)  another  of  the  earliest  summer 
visitors. 

But,  amid  the  several  migratory  birds  which  gladden  our  summer 
aeasons  with  their  presence,  there  are  none  more  interesting  than  the 
hir undines t  the  swallow  tribe ;  the  House- swallow  (liirundo  riLsiica\ 
the  Maetin  (hirundo  urhica),  the  Sand-martin  {kit undo  riparia)^ 
and  the  Swift  (Jiirundo  apus).  Exclusive  of  the  good  which  these 
migratory  visitors  do  in  clearing  the  atmosphere  of  annoying  insects* 
especiidly  around  our  dwellings,  they  possess  a  peculiar  charm  by  the 
manifestation  of  other  qualities — their  beauty^  their  harmlessness,  their 
sociability,  the  marvellous  agility  of  their  rfight,  their  graceful  evolu- 
tions, their  unwearied  industry,  and  their  gladdening  song.  The 
chimney  or  bouse  swaUovv  is  the  first  comer  of  the  hirundo  tribe,  and 
the  most  expert  upon  Uie  wing,  taking  in  its  Hight  a  wider  range  than 


SUMMER    BIRDS* 


169 


tbe  rest  of  its  congeners.  Its  Iieartfeh  song,  warbled  forth  while  at 
re**t  on  eaves  or  ciinnneY,  mav  cliurm  tlie  ear ;  but  its  activity  on  the 
win^  h  not  less  attractive.  During  tbe  most  favourable  weather,  the 
swallow  seems  all  heart  and  joyousuess  ;  visiting  all  liKralities;  skim- 
ming the  gravel-path  of  our  pleasu re- jf rounds,  then  wheeh'i]^  round  a 
dump  of  evergreens;  gliding  over  park  and  paling;  sweepii^g  along 
the  green  shady  lanesj  on  the  line  of  hedge- rows,  in  tbe  lee  of  tlie 
wood;  over  peaceful  pastures,  circling  the  cattle  assembled  beneath 
the  shade  of  trees ;  skimming  over  rivers  and  lakes,  occasionally  dip- 
piag  its  wings ;  stretching  far  away  over  heaths  and  commons,  and  re- 
turning to  its  home  with  untiring  wings;  wonderful,  loo,  in  the  con- 
struction of  its  nest,  and  affectionately  faithful  in  the  provision  for  its 
offspring.  The  flight  of  the  house-martin,  with  its  snow-white  breast^ 
embraces  a  more  confined  range,  but  it  is  equally  graceful,  but  some- 
what less  daring;  while  that  of  the  sand-martin  is  less  still,  and 
more  like  that  of  the  butterfly ;  presenting  a  striking  contra.st  to  t!ie 
rush  of  the  swift,  the  last  of  the  tribe  in  its  arrival,  and  the  first  in  its 
departure, — \vith  the  racing  and  screaming  around  buildings,  and, 
during  a  flne  summer  evening,  floating  on  unmoved  and  ontstretclied 
nrings^  at  an  immense  height,  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  perfect  freedom 
and  in  the  participation  of  the  glory  of  the  evening. 

There  is  not,  however,  during  the  early  portion  of  summer,  a 
more  welcome  sound  than  the  voice  of  the  Cuckoo  (cuculus  carwrus). 
Familiar  to  the  ear  from  the  days  of  childhood,  the  peculiar  song  of 
this  vagrant  visitor,  from  the  many  associations  with  which  it  is  con- 
nected, sounds  like  the  voice  of  an  old  friend,  and  claims  the  attention 
with  a  degree  of  interest  in  which  tbe  days  of  youth  and  joyousnesa 
come  back  upon  the  recollection  with  augmented  power;  presenting^ 
perhaps,  a  striking  contrast  to  those  of  more  matured  existence,  with 
blighted  hopes,  departed  joys,  or  days  misspent  or  misapplied  ;  sounds 
which,  as  it  were,  go  creeping  along  the  hedge-rows,  through  the  cop- 
pices, amid  dense  underwood,  or  by  tbe  margin  of  some  immense  sylvan 
scene,' — however  much  we  may  disregard  tbe  peculiar  fact  that  the 
cuckoo  imposes  the  care  and  provision  of  its  young  upon  other  birds, — 
the  hedge-sparrow,  the  titlark,  tbe  wagtail,  or  the  white-throat. 

But  the  NfOHTiNGAnK  {motacillu  tuscinia),  shy  in  its  habits,  as 
mmple  in  its  plumage,  surpassei*  all  the  pasAcres  in  the  sweetness  of 
its  song.  In  this  respect,  indeed,  tbe  bird  of  night  is  wholly  unrivalled. 
And  truly  delightful  it  is  on  a  lovely  evening  when  summer  is  young, 
and  perfumes  are  diffused  around  from  fresh  leaves  and  rich  buds, — in 
the  soft  stillness  of  the  twilight,  when  all  nature  is  calm  and  bcautifuU 
— to  visit  the  long-drawn  aisles  of  the  sylvan  sanctuary,  and  listen  to  * 
the  melodious  anthem  gushing  from  tbe  liquid  throat  of  the  bird  of 
night.  The  solemn  stillness,  the  dreamy  softness,  tbe  deepening 
gloom,  prevail  around,  as  if  there  was  a  pause  in  tbe  intricacies  of 
some  profound  mysterious  rite.  Then  the  gloom  becomes  deeper 
i&d  deeper,  the  silence  more  and  more  impressive,  the  mystery 
more  and  more  profound.  The  monarchs  of  the  wood  seem  to  have 
laid  aside  their  robes  of  state,  and  to  have  lost  their  character  in 
ike  dense  and  thickening  throng.  All  nature,  holding  her  breath, 
•eeons  to  be  attentively  listening.  Then  bursts  upon  the  ear  the 
mttchless  strain  after  strain  in  endless  variety*  The  echoes,  enamour- 
ed of  tbe  sound,  repeat  its  sweetness  again  and  again,  until  it  dies 
away  in  the  obscure  distance.     It  is  erroneous  to  say,  as  many  writers 

VOL.  XVflL  N 


170 


81TMMER    BIRDft. 


liftTe  said,  that  the  song  of  the  nightingale  partakes  of  a  tnelancholy 
character.  It  is  quite  the  reverse.  It  is  a  burst  of  joyous  affection,  of 
heartfelt  dadness,  of  indescribable  rapture,  as  it  rises  and  felb,  ad- 
vances and  recedes,  swells  and  dies  away,  distinctly  threading  all  the 
tnasy  intricacies  of  melody,  bringing  out,  as  it  were,  from  the  ground- 
worlc  of  song,  the  tracery  and  embroidery,  the  flowers,  and  wreaths, 
and  cbaplets,  and  festoons  of  beauty  and  of  sweetness,  with  tones  so 
liquid  and  so  distinct,  however  elaboratet  as  to  fully  merit  the  character- 
istic of  what  the  musician  calls  perfect  execution.  So  far  from  the 
song  of  the  nightingale  being  melancholy,  it  is  an  undisputed  fact  that 
this  matchless  songjster,  when  a  thrush,  during  the  fading  twilight,  has 
perched  itself  on  the  topmost  branch  of  a  tall  tree,  and  pours  forth  its 
most  joyous  strain,  will  fairly  sing  his  pretended  rival  down,  and  make 
him  steal  away  in  the  neighbouring  thicket.  This  is  especially  the 
case  when  the  mate  of  the  nightingale  is  hastening  the  important 
work  of  incubation,  during  which  period  his  song  is  the  fullest  and  the 
most  ardent.  It  Is  somewhat  remarkable  that,  as  the  glow-worm  puts 
out  her  lamp  about  midnight,  so  the  song  of  the  night rngale  ceases 
about  that  hour,  and  is  resumed  between  two  and  three  o'clock,  awa- 
kening the  whole  wood  to  join  in  the  chorus  of  the  matin  hymn.  But 
much  depends  upon  the  state  of  the  weather.  The  strains  which  had 
hitherto  charmed  the  ear  of  night,  become  less  frequent  when  the  care 
and  provision  of  a  young  progeny  claim  and  receive  the  most  assiduous 
and  affectionate  attention* 

Next  in  the  order  of  arrival  are,  the  Black-cap  {matacilla  airica- 
pUia)t  and  the  WHrrB- throat  {motaciUa  stflvia).  The  former  fre- 
quents orchards  and  gardens,  creeping  about  the  fruit-trees  in  search 
of  insects,  occasionally  uttering  a  subdued  piping  sound.  Its  move- 
ments are  incessant,  and  its  song  is  desultory.  But  when  the  female 
bird  is  sitting,  her  partner  often  assumes  a  quiet  attitude,  and  pours 
forth  the  ftillness  of  his  heart  in  modulations  tnarked  by  their  softness, 
gentleness,  and  affectionate  tenderness,  excelling,  indeed^  many  of  the 
passeres  in  melodious  sweetness;  presenting  a  striking  contrast  to  the 
white-throat,  whose  song,  heard  on  lonely  commons  and  downs,  and  in 
deserted  and  obscure  lanes^  is  anything  but  sweet  and  pleasing  to  the 
ear-  On  the  contrary,  ihe  Little  Willow-wren  or  Sbdgb- 
WARBLER  {motaciiia  irochilits)^  is  a  merry  fellow ;  singing  nearly  all 
night  long  with  a  hurrying  melody  which  seems,  at  times,  to  embrace 
the  songs  of  several  other  birds.  Little  need  be  said  of  the  Stone- 
curlew  {charadriiis  (rdicncmus)  ;  it  dwells  in  the  uplands  and  only 
visits  a  few  of  our  counties:  little  also  of  the  Grabshopper-lark 
{alauda  iriviaiLt),  whose  habits  are  extremely  shv,  and  whose  whisper- 
ing notes  are  only  heard  when  the  bird  is  concealed.  In  the  secluded 
wt>ods,  however,  when  all  is  calm  and  still  around, — even  the  song  of 
the  Wood- WREN  (salvia  Mtbilatrix), — and  neither  the  sound  of  footfall 
nor  the  croak  of  raven  disturbs  the  mute  serenity,  the  **coo**  of  the 
Tt;RTLK-DovK  {coUtmba  furitir),  is  heard  with  peculiar  pleasure,  a» 
the  attention  becomes  enchained  in  a  crowd  of  delightful  associations. 
In  all  ages  and  countries,  the  *'  coo  "  of  the  turtle-dove  has  been  deemed 
the  expression  of  innocence,  affection,  and  faithfulness,  as  the  birds 
themaelves  arc  represented  as  true  emblems  of  those  qualities.  And 
vho  has  failed  to  notice,  particularly  during  the  prevalence  of  nighty 
"crex — crex"  of  the  Landrail  {ntllus  crex),  which,  issuing  from 
tall  meadow  grass  or  taller  corn-lields,  can  be  heard  at  an  immense 


TO  THE   EVENING   STAR. 


171 


distance  J — a  truly  sumtner  sound,  and  indicative  of  the  calm  and  dewy 
sammer  night  ? — or  at  the  decline  of  day,  the  clear  and  liquid  call, 
the  *' wit-wi-wit"  of  the  Quail  (perdij:  coturftij),  from  similar  locali^ 
ties? — or,  as  night  approuchest  can  turn  aside  tlie  attention  from 
the  incessant  jarr  of  the  Goatsucker  or  Fkh n-owl  {caprimulgus 
gToynrux),  as  it  heats  the  margins  of  coppices  and  hedgerows,  or 
around  timber  trees  in  search  of  its  prey,  the  night  insects?  Nearly 
the  last  in  the  train  of  summer  visitors  ia  the  Kbdstaiit  (moiaciila 
phcenicurns)^  not  noted  for  the  superiority  of  its  song,  but  welcomed 
from  its  appearance  and  habits  ;  building  its  nest  near  the  habitations 
of  man*  in  gardens  and  orchards,  about  greenhouses,  vineries,  and  the 
like.  The  last  comer  of  all  is  the  Fcy-catchbr  (mvscicapa  grisola). 
Almost  mute,  it  delightii  not  the  ear  with  its  sung  ;  but  it  gratifies  the 
eye  by  its  graceful  evolutions  on  the  wing,  and  is  endeared  hy  its  fa- 
miliarity with  man.  It  forms  its  nest  in  climbing  plants  and  vines  in 
front  of  houses,  and  brings  forth  its  young  even  in  the  presence  of  the 
inmates,  with  whom  it  becomes  familiar.  It  subsists  whuUy  upon 
insects,  and  takes  its  departure  at  an  early  period. 

And  is  there  not  a  high  gratification  in  marking  the  habits  and 
instincts  of  these  several  birds  of  passage?  Knowledge  is  blended 
with  delight,  and  health  with  both,  as  almost  every  description  of 
locality  and,  consetjuently,  every  variety  of  scene,  amid  the  pure  air  of 
the  invigorating  country,  are  embraced  in  the  observation  and  the  in- 
quiry. Nor  can  the  mind  divTSt  itself  of  higher  considerations.  While 
revolution,  silent  or  turbulent,  succeeds  to  revolution, — while  we  behold 
dianges  in  forms  of  government  and  ways  of  fashion,  in  creeds  of 
belief  and  modes  of  devotion, — the  habits  of  these  summer  migratory 
▼Isitors  remain  the  same^  and  speak  of  the  wisdom  and  goodness  of 
their  great  Creator. 


TO  THE  EVENING  STAR. 

Fais  Star  \  I  gAKe  on  thee,  ftnd  oVr  my  hrow 
PUyi  the  soft  breese  of  evening.     Evermore 

The  shrine  of  pure  and  holy  thought  be  thoij, 

Winning  loy  fioul  from  earth's  dark  dreami  to  soar, 

I  do  remember  me  in  childhood*s  hour, 

When  5rst  my  spirit  dnuik  thy  glorfotui  Ught, 

Young  fancy  pktnred  an  dysian  bower, 

Ud fading  wreaths,  and  akien  for  ever  hright. 

Within  thy  glittering  orh  ; — bnt  ah  !  that  dream, 
Like  other  dretuni,  hath  faded  fait  away. 

And  rarely  Fancy  casts  its  golden  gleam 
Upon  the  ttorm-doudB  of  my  wintry  day. 

Vet,  Star  of  Evening  !  furuiah  hopefttl  thcmght. 
Thy  trembling  heamn  io  soft  and  pure  instil ; 

And  the  sad  breast,  where  earthly  passions  wrmtght. 
Peace  from  above  with  holiest  catm  shall  itU  I 


II.  B.  K. 


^  1 


172 


THE    ADEPT. 

BT   OAI^TON. 

<«  And  then  I  dived, 
Ib  lOT  lane  WMndaingB^  to  die  cares  of  death, 
Sewfiiiif  its  tmmat  in  iu  effect  ;  and  drew 
From  v^dwrM  bdns,  and  alcuUsy  aad  he&pM  np  duftt 


MM9IRfF0U» 


f»r—AmMn. 


In  the  pwkMir  oTa  small  inn  iituated  in  one  of  the  dreariest  dis- 
tricts of  Nortii  Wi^  tat  a  young  man  of  somewhat  striking  appear- 
ance ;  hks  loftj  forehead  and  dear  eye  seemed  to  betoken  intellectual 
|io«cr$  of  no  ordinary  gtad^,  whfle  lips  thin  and  compressed,  added 
toalieaTinetaabout  the  brow,  gave  his  countenance  an  air  of  decision 
Mid  acvqity  not  perhaps  altogether  prepossessing.  A  light  walking 
ooitBme  of  shepherd's  plaid  shewed  to  advantage  his  tall  and  active 
figure  as  he  balanced  hiniself  restlessly  upon  a  couple  of  mine  host's 
nckety  chairs ;  a  soiled  newspaper  was  in  his  hand,  from  the  peru* 
■al  ot  which  his  glances  wandered  to  the  window  Mnth  every  symp- 
toiD  of  iro patience.  At  length  the  door  of  the  apartment  opened^ 
and  a  short  red^nosed  individual,  habited  in  dingy  black,  with  a 
crarat  which,  by  the  eflect  of  contrast,  might  pass  for  white,  walked 
or  rather  shuffled  in.  Instantly  rising  and  proflTering  a  seat,  the 
origmal  occupant  of  the  *'  Golden  Goat "  proceeded  to  apologize  to 
hia  Tisitor  f^ot  the  liberty  he  had  taken  in  summoning  him  thither : — 

•'My  object,  sir,"  continued  the  former,  "is,  as  staled  in  my  note# 
to  discover  a  gentleman  sufiiciently  acouainted  with  this  locality  to 
inform  me  what  faith  may  be  put  in  thi^  description  of  a  neighbuur- 
ing  estate  which  is  for  sale.*'  So  saying,  and  handing  across  the 
newspaper,  he  pointed  to  an  advertisement  wherein  every  figure  of 
speech,  and  every  variety  of  type  seemed  to  be  exhausted  in  the 
attempt  to  convey  "  a  verv  inadequate  notion  '*  of  this  "  most  un- 
paralleled opportunity;" — tKe  paragraph  ran  on  as  follows : — 

**  This  Estate,  or  rather  Territorial  tktmain,  embnuwi  every  attraction  that  can 
eaptiTSte  the  Artist,  the  Anifler,  the  Poet,  the  Philoiopher.  the  Mao  of  Taate,  and 
the  Maa  of  Bafioets ;  comprising  excdJencet  at  onoe  unique  and  unequalled^  and 
aflbrding  erery  facility  of  restoriog  to  the  arms,  or  mther  pocket,  of  iu  fortunate 
proprietor  that 

*  Lost  Pleiad,  loen  no  more  helow.' 

FIVE  PER  CENT  ON  CAPITAL  I  J 

Plinlimmofi,  Cader  Idris,  and^  above  all,  tbe  Snowdonian  Range,  which,  although 

inferior  in  altitude  to 

CHT3IBORA20  AND  MONT  BLANC, 

may  yet  be  ternieiU  if  not  *  The  Mtirjarch  of  3IountJU&B,*at  least 

THE  PRINCE  OF  WALES, 

is  distinctly  vitible  through  a  tolerable  lele*crjj>e ;  while  nearer  hi>me,  the  ttupen- 

dmif  cataract  of  PwUyndd  BwUchy,  the  andent  and  antique  t\i,\i\%  of  Llfndd.  and 

tbe  oomniodiout  market-town  of  CyddwHwlt,  afford  every  variety  of  food  for  the 

imagination^  and  liucunes  for  tbe  table.     The  enviable  proprietor  of  ttiin  Paradise 

^'nild  prabablv  «reci,  in  place  of  the  present  more  bomelv  resideni*, 

I  CASTELLATED  MANSION  IN  THE  ELIZABETHAN  STYLE, 
Tliua  ensunn^  u»  himself  the  title  of  tho 
MAGNUS  APOLLO  LOCI  !  ! 


THE   ADEPT. 


175 


wit  It  every  probabilitv  ^f  eventaaliv  ranking  among 

THE  LEUIS1.A TORS  OF  THE  LAND, 

vbenerer  tliih  portiim  of  the  county  ttlmll  return  a  3feinl>er  tu  FarliatDent*     In  « 

word,  Mr.  JobbiDs  fetl»  it  his  duty  tf»  ntate^  that  a  poKHibility  ain  firrrr  occur  again 

of  leturing  At  one  purubnfie  «»  marvellous  a  conib^imtimi  of  the 

NE  PLDS  ULTRA  OF  NATURi; ! 

with  the 

BEAU  IDEAL  OF  INVESTMENT!  !  ! 


"  Well,  bit/*  observed  the  elder  personage,  whom  we  may  intro- 
duce as  Mr»  Williams,  the  village  curate.  "  In  what  particular 
planet  this  estate  raay  lie,  I  Ciinnot  pretend  to  guess,  but  1  do  much 
doubt  Its  existence  in  ours,  and  above  all  its  connection  with  this 
neighbourhood/' 

**  But  surely/'  rejoined  the  other,  **  our  figurative  friend  must 
have  some  site  for  his  gorgeous  scenery ;  there  must  be  an  estate  to 
be  sold/' 

**  Most  undeniably  there  is/*  said  Mr.  WiUiams,  taking  snuff,  "a 
large  tract  of  mountain  and  morass,  affording  pasturage  for  a  few 
sheep  and  turf  for  tho&e  who  tend  them." 

"  And  the  cascade  ?** 

*'  Some  ten  miles  distant/* 

"  The  castle  ?" 

*'  Periere  etiam  ruina^/* 

*•  The  present  homely  residence  ?**  pursued  the  inquirer. 

*' A  dilapidated  buikling,  tenantless  for  years/' 

**  And  as  touching  the  commodious  marKet-town  ?*' 

**  Circumspice/'  replied  Mr.  Williams, 

"  I  need  scarcely  ask  then/'  said  the  stranger,  "  if  the  spot  be 
retired  and  undisturbed?" 

**  Retired  in  good  truth,  it  is/'  returned  his  companion,  with  a 
sigh,  "A  parochial  Patmos,  sir,  where  human  visits  are  as  few  and 
far  between  as  those  of  angels  were  wont  to  be/' 

Within  a  couple  of  months  from  the  date  of  this  interview,  the 
young  stranger,  under  the  name  of  Mervyn,  was  formally  announced 

as  the  **  enviable  proprietor  of /*  and  workmen  were  forthwith 

employed,  not  indeed  to  erect  the  Elizabethan  mansion  suggested 
by  Mr.  Jubbins,  but  to  put  the  old  house  into  a  state  of  habitable 
repair.  But  although  no  more  was  done  to  the  dwelling  itself  than 
what  might  seem  to  render  it  weatherproof,  a  large  building  was  ad- 
joined, which  was  fitted  up  with  powerful  furnaces,  and  the  various 
machinery  requisite  for  pursuing  chemical  experiments  on  an  exten- 
sive scale, — a  circumstance  which  gave  rise  to  no  trifling  speculation 
among  the  good  gossips  of  the  vicinity. 

Mr.  Mervyn  himself,  although  now  completely  settled  in  his  new 
domicile,  was  rarely  seen  abroad.  His  days  and  (as  the  constant 
lights  bore  witness)  his  nights  also,  w^cre  spent  within  the  walls  of 
hift  laboratory,  the  tall  chitnney  of  which  ever  and  anon  gave  forth 
its  «parks  and  flames  after  the  manner  of  a  small  volcano.  In  the 
*'good  old  times"  he  had  been  inevitably  arrested,  and  probably 
punished  as  a  practiser  of  unholy  art^,  and  even  in  this  enlightened 
day,  the  cottagers  began  to  regard  him  with  some  feelings  of  suspi-- 
don  and  alarm-  For  some  time  his  only  visitor  was  the  curate,  and 
a»  that  gentleman  perceived  tliat  his  advances  were  met  with  a  de- 
gree of  coldness  but  just  consistent  with  good  breeding,  he  soon 


m 


THE  ADKFT. 


Iwo 


ciet^  < 


ilMttglit  fit  ta  dbcontiDiic  tbem  ;  not  so  Squire  PenrcKe^  whose  Welsh 
boipit^fty  was  proof  sgainst  every  nhaW,  and  who,  on  calling,  posi- 
tireW  refaied  to  quit  his  new  Deighboisr  without  a  promise  from  the 
kstcr  to  Mpeod  m  few  dari  whh  him  at  the  hall.  As  a  guest  was 
ciridenlly  a  rani  arii  in  the  land,  and  the  Squire  was  obviously  bent 
upon  laaiiv  the  ^vedmen,  ^lerryii  resolved  to  accept  the  invita- 
tiaiit  tmawm  the  beat  possible  grace. 

Tbe  party  to  which  the  young  Englishmaxi  was  introduced  consist- 
ed of  two  wawnden  amits,  a  young  marri^  couple^  the  Squire's  only 
dnld,  a  Kvdy  girl  of  seventOED,  handsome,  witty,  and  cx>quetti>th, 
aod  bla  niece,  a  yoimg  woman  some  four  years  the  senior,  and  in 
moat  Kipecta  Cbc  rcv^ae  of  her  cousin.  There  were  besides  one  or 
yovi^  oien  staying  in  the  house  and  waiting  with  great  im- 
i  §m  the  CMiiMiiiiituunt  oC  the  shooting-season.  Such  so- 
IS  not  altogether  snited  la  the  taste  of  Merv  yn,  and  at  first 
^  biin^  heavily  enough  qpon  his  hands.  The  Squire's  atten- 
■  almost  exclusively  devoted  to  the  '*  home-farm/'  the 
1  thfmwlTea  with  great  reaolution,  and  to  the 
\  of  their  voy  sensitive  modesty,  in  watching  the 
bents  of  the  nevly-marned  pair,  who,  on  tlioir 
pnrt,  seemed  wi^t  in  happy  oblivion  of  the  existence  not  only  of 
their  ttnson^  h«t  of  all  the  world  beside  ;  while  the  young  gentle- 
mmi  CMBfUiied  tn  pnss  away  the  day  in  smoking  cigars,  washing  the 
dsg%  and  £rti^g  with  Miss  Hermione.  it  was  not  unnatural,  there- 
loR^  thift  onr  hcto  should  find  himself  pretty  frequently  the  com- 
pmuea  of  the  dder  of  the  ymmg  Indies,  who  being  an  orphan  and  a 
poor  r^stion  to  boot,  wm  hsnovred  with  but  little  notice  from  the 
iml  of  the  fanily. 

Oertnade  Lloyd  was,  as  we  have  intimated,  neither  handsome  nor 
what  the  world  would  term  accompiished ;  but  in  lieu  of  these  higher 
cndowmienla  she  potstaied  the  more  insignificant  qualities  of  a  gentle 
nsfenr^  a  kind  hcmt,  and  m  certain  warmth  and  vividness  of  imagina* 
tion  which  especially  recotomcnded  her  to  Mervyn.  But  so  little 
accustomed  was  she  to  kindoem  or  oosnideration  from  any  one,  save 
the  mmter  of  the  house,  that  die  received  the  attentions  ol  her  new 
with  a  saipicions  timidity  that  half  amused  and  half 
him.  Her  reserve,  however,  becoming  by  degrees  dis- 
1,  she  seemed  to  lighten  as  it  were  into  a  new  existence,  and, 
with  a  kindling  eye  and  fiufhetl  cheek,  she  would  sit  for  hours  on 
some  turfy  bank  listening  to  the  impassiooed  eloquence  of  Mervyn 
as  he  spoke  of  poetry,  or  music,  or  those  unseen  and  mysterious 
workings  of  nature  which  more  especially  formed  the  subject  of  his 
own  thoughts  and  study.  She  too  had  her  dreams  to  tell:  brought 
up  almost  in  suHtude  among  those  mountainous  wilds,  her  mind  bad 
acquired  a  tinge  of  gloom,  and  a  more  than  common  share  of  that 
love  of  the  marvellous  with  which  we  are  aU  to  some  extent  im« 
bued. 

It  was  a  calm  and  cloudless  evening,  and  they  were  looking  fortli 
on  the  broad  sky,  glittering  with  all  its  lustrous  jewellery. 

"  And  may  we  not  hope,"'  asked  Gertrude,  "  that  some  one  of 
io*e  glorious  worlds  now  so  far  bi^ond  our  ken  may  hereafter  be* 
mie  our  home  and  that  of  tliose  we  lover" 

Alervyn  smiletl.      "I   should  the  rather  think,"  he  said,  'that 
'estiny  is  wrapt  up  in  that  of  the  planet  which  has  given  him 


THE    ADEl'T. 


17S 


birth.  This  globe  is  nianifestly  in  a  state  of  transition  and  change  ; 
with  what  particular  link^  incJeetl,  of  the  great  chain  of  develop- 
ment our  present  existence  may  be  involved,  we  know  not ;  but  it  is 
one  far  removed  from  that  state  of  perfection  towards  which  we  are 
advandng.  It  may  be  in  after  ages  we  shall  tread  again  this  very 
earth, — beings  endowed  with  far  nobler  faculties,  far  higher  intelli- 
gences than  our  feeble  imagination  at  this  time  can  conceive/* 

"A  doubtful  doctrine/'  8;iid  Gertrude  musing, 

•'Doubtful,  because  unfamiliar/'  pursued  her  companion:  "and 
yet  not  unsupported  by  analogy.  The  age  of  physical  power  has 
passed ;  that  of  intellect,  of  which  ours  is  but  the  dawn,  approaches* 
As  the  Behemoth  and  Leviathan,  the  predecessors  of  our  race,  ex- 
celled us  in  corporeal  strength,  so  may  we  look  for  future  crea- 
tions immeasurably  our  superiors  in  might  of  mind  ;  and  we  may 
well  believe  that  our  indestructibie  spirits,  which  have  animated  by- 
gone generations  may  exist  in  those  to  come,  fitted  indeed  with 
nobler  and  more  numerous  organs.*' 

"Andean  you  give  serious  credence/*  asked  the  ladyi  "to  the 
idle  tale  of  a  previous  existence  ?  '* 

**  Does  not  your  own  experience  confirm  that  tale?"  asked  Jklervyn 
in  return;  "have  you  never  known  faint  Eashes  of  memory  reveal- 
ing dimly  and  by  glimpses  words  spoken,  things  done,  and  places 
visited  which  have  had  no  reality  in  this  life?  So  distinct>  indeed, 
is  the  existence  of  the  soul  from  that  of  the  body,  that  the  former 
Deeds  only  a  fresh  and  fitting  supply  of  material  apparatus  to  pre- 
serve its  present  share  of  existence  and  identity  for  ages  or  for  ever : 
could  man  but  penetrate  one  secret  in  the  alchemy  of  nature,  master 
one  power  with  which  he  has  even  now  commenced  to  grapple,  life, 
so  long  as  the  framework  of  this  globe  shall  endure,  might  be  his 
portion." 

Gertrude  gazed  on  the  excited  countenance  of  the  speaker  as  he 
gave  utterance  to  these  wild  fancies  with  a  surprise  not  unmingled 
with  alarm.  "  Suppose,  for  example/'  pursued  the  latter  vehe- 
mently, "that  with  the  means  of  dissolving  the  union  between  soul 
and  body,  I  could  attain  unto  a  further  control,  could  arrest 
the  fleeting  spirit  at  the  moment  of  departure,  and  transfer  it,  with 
all  its  consciousness  and  memory,  its  feelings  and  affections  fresh 
and  uneffaced/into  some  new  tenement  duly  prepared  for  its  re- 
ception." 

At  this  point  the  approach  of  Miss  Hermione,  with  two  gentlemen 
In  waiting,  broke  up  the  conversation,  and  Mervyn's  departure 
being  fixed  for  the  morrow,  no  farther  opportunity  occurred  for 
renewing  it. 

It  was  on  his  return  from  a  similar  visit  to  his  new  friends^  be-, 
tween  whom  and  himself  a  cordial  intimacy  sprung  up,  that  Mer- 
vyn  found  a  stranger  awaiting  his  arrival.  This  personage  was  a 
stout  and  muscular  man,  of  the  middle  height,  possessing  features 
deeply  scarred  by  small-pox,  sharp  grey  eyes,  and  a  profusion  of 
red  hair,  which  hung  in  masses  about  his  face  and  shoulders.  An 
enormous  dog,  of  a  foreign  breed,  lay  at  his  feet,  resting  bis  dark 
muzjsle  upon  paws  of  marvellous  size  and  whiteness. 

"I  did  not  think,"  exclaimed  this  individual,  hardly  returning 
Mervyn's  salutation,  "  to  find  the  great  work  stayed,  and  the  master 
absent'* 


176 


THE   ADEPT, 


**  Pardon  me,  good  Steinberg,"  returned  the  latter,  **  the  relaxa- 
tion of  the  last  few  months,  shall  be  atoned  for  by  days  and  nights 
of  unceasing  toil/' 

"  What  can  atone  for  time  lost,  energies  enfeebled,  and  the  con- 
tinuity of  thought  and  purpose  broken  ? — and  a  girl  the  cause!  fit 
object  of  adoration  for  him  who  aims  at  the  sovereignty  of  nature  I 
But  enough  ;  is  all  in  train  for  the  final  operations  ?'' 

*'  All  is  prepared/'  answered  Mervyn  ;  "  the  apparatus  has  been 
fixed,  and  its  powers  approved  ,-  nothing  is  needed  but  the — " 

'*  — They  are  here/'  interrupted  the  other  with  a  meaning  smile ; 
and  throwing  open  the  lid  of  a  large  oblong  box,  he  pointed  to  its 
contents,  Mervyn  gazed  for  a  moment,  and  then  turned  abruptly 
from  the  sight- 

From  the  period  of  this  interview  the  two  students,  together  with 
the  dog,  who  never  left  them,  shut  themselves  up  within  the  walls 
of  the  old  mansion.  Again  was  the  deep  reil  glow  of  the  furnaces 
visible  on  the  hill  side,  and  the  throbbiug  of  powerful  machinery 
beard  by  those  who  ventured  more  nearly  to  approach  the  building, 
ilMiy  were  the  reports  propagated  as  to  the  pursuits  of  its  mysten- 
<MI  oce«|iiiDts :  illidl  dutlUery,  coining,  even  magic  was  hinted  at ; 
t3l  llwaew  mad  oilier  nunoors  equally  improbable,  reaching  the  ears 
^  Me.  IVmmCj  tluft  gqrtkimit  sallied  forth  for  the  purpose  of  in- 
$mmaDg  MertTii  of  ibor  cxutrace,  and,  at  the  same  time,  o£  satisfy- 
cuiMMlj  OB  die  subject. 

iimifrf  kni  vHlioot  embarrassment,  and  in  some  mea- 

i^lke  obioctoriits  visit,  ushered  him  at  mice  into  the 

oMrfc  wm^  wm  hm  OMerted,  solely  the  £>cene  of  chemical 

As  lis  flfaire  gMWd  in  helples^s  bewiklorment  on  the 

■•  of  weovili  oad  eooaplicated  instruments  that  met  his 

ih^  «■»  «f  eicfj  one  oif  which  he  w  as  as  perfectly  and 

^iMtHft  wm  WBiw  cumitri  gentleman  need  be ;  his  con- 

ol  the  immediate  object  oi"  his  pre- 

nt  of  that  mysterious  and  universal 

kvani  and  Volta. 

%^  betraying  the  excitement  which  that 
tt  blm, — '*  Mighty  as  are  the  results 
,  tke  adcnee  is  jet  but  in  infancy  ;  should  it 
cvtr  be  tie  fbrtane of  ^flo  to  Mlow  it  to  its  maturity,  we  may  %vell 
believe  tie  grtot  secrtti  of  dcolkn  would  l>e  unfoldeit,  and  the 
^eij  demeelo  tienoelv^  bo  oMle  subject  to  his  control  1  Where 
^"^cKild  be  tlie  Hmil  to  bis  koovledge  or  bis  power  ?  the  boaa  of 
Arcbiraedes  mi|^t  in  Terr  &ct  be  realised/' 

"  Well,  well,  IDT  dear'Mcrryii/'  said  the  old  gentleman  bacliing 
hortily  om  of  tie  qMrtmeDl.  "  I  dare  say  you  are  perfectly  right, 
hat^  for  my  port,  I  coofeos  I  mm  reasonably  well  sati.sfied  with  the 
establisbed  course  of  nature;  and  if  you  do  think  of  introducing 
«iy  serious  alterations  in  the  economy  of  the  globe,  I  should  take 
•n  espedal  fmvour  if  you  would  wait  till  I  am  fairly  out  of  it." 
Teiipon  3fr.  Penrose,  mounting  his  horse,  rode  homewards, 
fng  the  while  on  the  presumptuous  vanity  of  the  present  ge- 
,  and  full  of  wonderment  as  to  what  the  world  would  come 
After  the  lapse  of  some  months,  the  student  once  more 
i  his  visits  to  the  IlaU  with  greater  consttimcy  than  ever ; 
•  the  nature  and  fre<]uency   of  his   i^'lc-d-iitcx  with 


THE   ADEPT, 


177 


Gertrude,  that  that  young  lady  had  occasian  to  display  but  little 
astonishment  when,  on  the  eve  of  departure,  he  made  formal  de- 
claration of  his  love.     It  was  finally  arranged  that,  at  the  expiration 
Lof  a  year,  during  which  Mervyn  w^aa  anxious  to  visit  certain  of  the 
'oreign  universities,  he  shoultl  return  as  the  avowed  suitor  of  Alisa 
^loyd  ;  till  then^  he  desired  their  engagement  might  remain  undis- 
lelo^ed* 

For  some  time  Gertrude  heard  frequently  from  her  lover ;  his 
aon  appeared  heightened  by  absence,  and  he  «poke  ardently  and 
L anxiously  of  the  approaching  end   of  his  probation.     Suddenly  hia 
r communications  became  vague  and  incoherent ;  at  length  they  alto* 
t  get  her  ceased.     Weeks,  months  flew  by  ;  the  period  allotted  for  his 
>  absence  expired,  and  still  no  news  of  Mtrvyn.     Few,  probably,  are 
*o  favoured  or  so  philosophical  as  to  pass  through  life  without  expe- 
riencing, on  some  occasion,  doubt  of  the  love  which  they  have  stored 
up  in  their  heart  of  hearts  as  the  riche.st  treasure  to  be  possessed  on 
earth  ;  an  apprehension  which  turns  all  joy  to  bitterness,  and  brings 
[home  with  tenfold  force  the  stern  monition  of  the  wise  man, ''  vanity 
E>f  vanities,  all  is  vanity."    That  Mervyn  indeed  was  false  Gertrude's 
I'Suileless  nature  would  not  permit  her  to  believe  possible  ;  and  her 
lifears  turned  rather  upon    his  personal   safety.      The  Squire,  too, 
rhojie  ideas  of  perils  by  travel  were  somewhat  exaggerated,  being 
derived  for  the  most  part  from  the  misadventures  of  Sin  bad  the 
Sailor  and  Robinson  Crusoe  conlributed  not  a  little  to  her  distress 
^by  his  alarming  suggestions.      Perhaps  he  had  been   skinned  and 
sted  by  the  cannibals,  and  subsequently  served  up  by  way  of  cold 
oint  upon  a  side-tahle;  perhaps  he  had  been  buried  by  the  side  of 
[•ome  defunct  princess,  or  carried  away  bodily  by  strange  birds; 
rperhaps  —  but  there  was  no  end  to  his  suppositions.     Conjecture, 
Ifiowever,  was  cut  short  by  the  unannounced  return  of  JMervyn  him- 
laelf,  who,  with  his  friend's  dog,  made  his  appearance  late  one  even- 
pjng  at  the  hall. 

The  quick  eye  of  Gertrude  did  not  fail  to  detect  a  very  considera- 
ble alteration  both  in  the  person  and  demeanour  of  her  betrothed ; 
Lliia  usually  staid,  yet  graceful  bearing  seemed  to  have  given  place  to 
Im  coarse  and  blustering  air,  which  was  in  too  good  keeping  with  the 
laltered  tone  of  his  conversation.     The  good-natured  Squire,  albeit 
Ltomewhat    surprised,    thought   that    such    might   probably  be  the 
[fashion  most  in  vogue  at  foreign  courts,  and  endeavoured  to  recon- 
Icile  himself  to  its  peculiarities.     As  for  Gertrude,  turning  aside  her 
iliead,  and  under  cover  of  caresj^i ng  the  dog»  she  strove  to  conceal 
'  anguish  and  disappointment.     The  noble  animal,  as  if  in  sympa- 
thy with  her  sorrow,  tended  his  huge  paws,  placed  his  head  upon 
htTT  knee,  and  looked  up  into  her  face  with  a  plaintiveness  beaming 
I  from  his  eyes  that  was  almost  startling.     It  was  singular  the  affec- 
tion which  the  brute  exhibited  towards  one  he  had  never  seen  be- 
fore ;  and,  indeed,  his  general  manner  and  appearance  seemed  un- 
like and  superior  to  that  of  creatures  of  the  same  species  in  this 
I  country ;  there  was  a  variety  of  expression,  and  a  seeming  intelli- 
1  gence  in  his  aspect,  that  might  have  furnished  forth  a  fund  of  argu- 
I  ment  in  support  of  the  "  untutored  Indian's  "  simple  creed. 

Bui  many  circumstances  far  more  momentous  and  inexplicable 
than  that  of  the  unlooked-for  atUichment  of  Uufus  arose  to  distract 
poor  Gertrude.     Her  lover  showed  himself  not  only  uncouth  but 


178 


THE   ADEPT, 


cold ;  he  appeared  to  shun  evervthin«5  that  might  lead  to  a  private^ 

interview,  and  conducted  hiraself  with  very  evident  embarrassment 
when  betrayed  into  one  unawares  ;  and  though,  availing  hitnself  of 
the  Squire*^  general  invitation,  he  cunlintied  in  the  house,  not  a  word 
ever  fell  from  his  lips  res{>ecting^  the  redemption  of  his  plighted 
troth.  His  attentions,  indeed,  seemed  to  have  become  transferred  to 
her  cousin  Hermione;  who,  partly  from  vanity,  partly  from  happen- 
ing to  have  no  other  flirtation  on  hand,  seemed  ready  enough  to  en- 
courage thera.  Gertrude's  cheek  grew  day  by  daj^  more  wan^  and 
her  heart  more  cold,  but  not  a  look  or  word  of  reproach  escaped 
her*  Her's  was,  in  truth,  a  gentle  spirit^  little  fitted  to  battle  with 
the  crosses  of  the  world,  and  she  bowed  her  head  to  the  stroke  with 
a  calmness  and  resignation  founded  on  a  surer  hope.  For  hours  she 
would  sit  brooding  over  her  blighted  love,  and  half- unconsciously 
bestowing  her  caresses  upon  Rufus,  w^ho  seemed  to  have  devoted 
himself  entirely  to  her  service,  watching  her  steps  by  day,  and  at 
night  stretching  his  enormous  frame  before  her  chamber  door. 
There  were  even  times  when,  to  her  heated  imagination,  the  dog  a}>- 
peared  to  know  and  to  be  a  partaker  of  her  misery  ;  and  the  thought, 
fanciful  as  it  was,  inspired  her  with  a  warmer  ailection  for  the  ani- 
mal than  she  would  have  cared  to  admit  perhaps  even  to  herself. 

One  morning,  when  attended  as  usual  by  her  four-footed  compa- 
nion, she  was  w^andering  along  a  green  and  narrow  valley  that  mean- 
dered round  the  mountain's  base,  an  abrupt  turn  brought  her  before 
a  considerable  encampment  of  gipsies.  No  one^  however,  was  visi- 
ble save  some  half-dozen  ragged  httle  urchins,  who  were  rolling  on 
the  mossy  bank,  and  a  woman  seated  at  some  distance,  and  ap- 
parently engaged  in  preparing  food  for  her  absent  friends.  On  the 
approach  of  Gertrude  the  former  arose,  and  advancing,  begged  in 
the  jargon  of  her  tribe  to  be  allowed  to  tell  her  fortune. 

*•  Cro&B  the  poor  gipsy *b  hand,'*  she  said,  **  with  a  piece  of  silver, 
and  she  will  tell  you  of  your  lover  and  your  husband,  whether  he 
ehall  be  dark  or  fair,  noble  or  simple,  young  or  old,  true  or  false, 
pretty  lady  ;  wliat  journeys  are  in  store,  what  surprises  are  nearj 
what  happiness  or  sorrows  shall  befal  you,  pretty  lady/* 

Yielding  to  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  Gertrude  placed  a  coin  in 
the  woman's  hand,  and  extended  her  own.  As  the  gipsy  gazed 
upon  itj  her  manner  became  gradually  changed  and  perturbed ;  she 
raised  her  eyes  and  looked  with  interest  at  the  lady's  face.  "  Yours 
is  no  common  lot,*'  she  said  at  length,  **  but  whate'er  it  be,  it  paasea 
my  skill  to  shew  :  there  is  a  mystery  therein  and  marvel  beyond  the 
power  of  palmistry  to  penetrate  ;  take  back  your  gift,  lady,  I  may 
receive  none  from  a  hand  like  thine."  So  saying,  the  baffled  fortune- 
teller thrust  back  the  piece  of  silver,  and  quickly  disappeared  be- 
neath the  drajiery  of  her  tenL 

Spite  of  all  her  better  reason  could  urge,  Gertrude  felt  in  a  great 
measure  awed  and  depressed  by  the  woman's  language;  and,  with  a 
slow  step  and  heavy  heart,  she  retraced  her  way  towards  the  Hall^ 
pondering  as  she  went  on  the  ominous  response,  and  filled  with  a 
vague  presentiment  of  approaching  ill  She  had  scarcely  passed  the 
little  wicket  which  admitted  her  into  the  flower-garden,  when  she 
perceived  the  whole  establishment  to  be  in  commotion ;— servants 
were  hurrying  to  and  fro — dogs  yelping — and  high  above  the  din 
was  beard  the  Squire's  voice  caviling  loudly  for  his  horse^     Hushing 


THE    ADEPT. 


!•» 


in  without  having  been  able  to  gather  any  clue  to  the  disturbance 
fr<im  the  distracted  menials,  she  discovered  the  two  maiden  aunts  in 
violent  fits  of  hysterics,  and  a  little  pet  spaniel  with  great  presence 
of  mind;  availing  himself  of  the  confusion^  by  seizing  on  the  neglected 
viands  prepared  for  breakfast.  The  eau&e  was  at  length  explained, 
llermione  had  Qed  from  her  father's  roof,  and  Mervyn  wa^  her 
companion. 

In  a  few  minutes  I\Ir.  Penrose  was  in  the  saddle,  and  in  hot  pur- 
suit. Accompanied  by  Riifus,  who  joined  eagerly  in  the  cliase^  the 
indignant  father  galloped  at  full  speed  to  Caernarvon »  where  he 
learnt  that  the  fugitives,  'who  had  evidently  been  delayed  by  unfore- 
seen circumstances,  had  set  out  but  ten  minutes  before  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Chester 

Flinging  himself  upon  a  fresh  horse  the  Squire  dashed  off  in  their 
track,  ordering  his  servant,  who  had  now  come  up,  to  collect  assist- 
ance and  follow  forthwith.  For  same  eight  or  ten  miles  Mr.  Penrose 
held  on  at  the  best  pace  his  steed  could  compass,  till  the  pcxir  brute 
In  his  staggering  gait  and  labouring  breath  exhibited  such  tokens  of 
distress  that  his  rider  was  on  the  point  of  reining  up,  when  a  sudden 
turn  of  the  road  disclosed  the  object  of  pursuit  surmounting  a  steep 
hill  about  half  a  mile  in  advance.  Once  more  plying  whip  and  spur 
with  redoubled  energy,  the  Squire  premised  furiously  forward,  and 
on  reaching  the  summit  of  the  acclivity,  discovered  the  carriage 
itself  lying  crushed  by  the  side  of  the  roadj  Hermione,  was  ex- 
tended,  pale  and  motionless,  upon  a  green  »lope  at  a  little  distance, 
while  Mervyn  was  busily  assisting  the  postboys  to  extricate  the 
floundering  horses. 

*•  Villain!"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  throwing  himself  to  the 
ground,  and  seizing  his  late  guest  by  the  collar :  *'  my  daughter ! 
Give  me  back  my  daughter!** 

"  Stand  off!  '*  cried  IVIervyn  fiercely*  *'  I  am  in  no  mood  for 
trifling;  stand  off,  if  you  heed  life." 

So  far  from  relaxing  his  grasp,  Blr,  Penrose  charged  the  postboys, 
to  whom  he  was  well  known,  to  assist  him  in  securing  his  prisoner. 

"  Fool !  madman  !  **  said  the  latter,  as  he  endeavoured  to  shake 
off  his  assailant.  "  The  mischief,  then,  be  on  y^our  own  head  I  "  So 
tying,  with  a  powerful  effort  he  hurled  the  old  man  violently  from 
ira*     Mr.  Penrose  staggered  for  a  moment,  then  fell  backwards  be- 

8th   the  very  hoofs  of  the  still- plunging  wheelers.     Throwing  a 

■ied  glance'  upon  his  prostrate  victim*  Mervyn  sprang  upon  the 

the   former  had  but  ju>t  relinquishedj  and   followed  by  the 

I,  who  at  that  instant  reached  the  scene  of  action,  galloped  off 

rasa  the  country. 

As  moon  as  a  fresh  vehicle  could  be  procured,  the  Squire,  together 
with  his  daughter,— the  former  in  a  state  of  complete  insensibility 
the  contusions  he  had  received,  the  latter  recovered  from  her 
roan  and  frantic  with  grief  at  the  calamity  of  which  her  folly  had 

oved  the  cause,  were  conveyed  home,  Mr.  Penrose's  injuries 
such  as  precluded  the  possibility  of  recovery,  and  having  lin- 
gered nearly  a  week,  he  expired,  bestowing  his  pardon  and  blessing 
upon  the  repentant  Hermione,  Meanwhile,  notwithstanding  all  the 
ejtertions  of  the  police,  no  trace  could  be  discovered  of  the  mur- 
derer ;  anil  after  a  fruitless  search  for  some  some  months,  it  was  con- 
cluded that  he  must  have  made  good  his  escape  to  the  Continent. 


Two  je&rs  elapsed^  and  Gertrude,  who  had  accepted  an  invitation 
to  reside  with  a  younger  brother  of  the  Squire,  a  London  surgeon  of 
eminence,  was  recoTering  something  of  her  former  calmness  and 
eotttcntmeitt.  when  an  event  occurred  which  once  more  brought  the 
pm  with  fearful  vividness  before  her.  It  was  a  bright  spring 
morning,  and  anxious  to  enjoy  the  pure  air  ere  it  became  clogged 
and  clouded  with  the  smoke  of  some  million  chimneys, — she  was 
SMtDtering  at  an  early  hour  towards  one  of  the  parks  Uiat  l^y  at  no 
great  distance  from  her  uncle*s  mansion.  She  had  entered  the  gate- 
way and  returned  the  salutation  of  that  *'  Green  man  and  still "  who 
sat  sentinel  thereby,  when  a  person  shabbily  dressed,  approached  at 
a  rapid  pace  from  an  opposite  direction.  His  looks  were  turned 
constantly  behind,  as  if  under  the  apprehension  of  pursuit:  and  on 
Gertrude's  attempting  to  give  him  way,  by  one  of  those  simultaneous 
digressions  which  so  perpetually  occur  under  similar  circumstances, 
he  ran  directly  against  her ;  their  eyes  met,  and  in  that  thin,  worn, 
and  squalid  figure,  she  recognized  Mervyn  ! 

A  diazinesa  seized  her,  her  limbs  trembled,  and  she  would  have 
fallen  had  not  the  former  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  supported  her 
to  a  seat.  As  the  faintness  passed,  she  beheld  her  former  lover  gazing 
upon  her  face  with  a  look  of  such  intense,  such  unutterable  woe  as 
might  have  disarmed  a  far  more  vmgeful  spirit  than  possessed  poor 
Gertrude. 

For  some  time  both  remained  speechless*  "  Thank  heaven/'  said 
JSIervyn  at  length,  "  for  this  blessing  vouchsafed  me  at  ray  need ! 
O  dear  and  injured  Gertrude,  how  have  I  longed  and  prayed  for  a 
moment  like  this !" 

••  1  am  at  a  loss  to  guess,**  replied  Gertrude,  '*  for  what  purpose 
you  can  have  desired  to  meet  one  whom," — she  paused. 

*'One  who,"  continued  her  companion,  '*  has  been  so  deeply, 
foully  sinned  against.  Spare  me  not,  Gertrude;  alas!  you  know 
not  half  roy  crime — ►half  ray  misery,  and  yet  as  there  is  heaven  above 
and  earth  beneath,  I  am  not  guilty  of  the  deeds  you  deem  me." 

**  I  thank  you,  sir,  for  remindmg  me  of  the  gulpli  between  us — 
let  me  pass  ;  further  converse  is  impossible." 

"*  Stay  for  one  moment ;  hear  me  !  Bid  you  but  know  the  myste- 
rious nature  of  those  dreadful  transactions,  how  my  soul  abhors 
what  my  body  was  constrained  to  enacts  you  would  pity  rae,  Ger- 
trude, and  pardon  me/' 

**  This  is  madness ,-  I  am  but  a  simple  girl,  sir,  and  pretend  not  to 
compass  these  contradictions ;  enough,  we  must  part,  and  we  must 
^jaeet  no  more." 

*No,  no,"  returned  Mervyn  passionately;  '*ray  days  are  num- 
bered, but  ere  1  lay  down  the  wearisome  load  of  life,  you  must 
know  all/' 

At  this  moment  some  sound  seemed  to  strike  upon  his  ear ;  as  he 
turned  his  head,  his  arras  fell  by  his  side,  his  whole  frame  became 
rigid,  and  the  dampness  gathered  visibly  upon  hia  brow. 

**  He  is  on  my  track — farewell,  Gertrude*  I  ara  innocent  of  blood- 
shed ;  he — he  is  the  murderer/' 

So  saying,  the  wretched  man  darted  off  with  the  speed  of  light- 

ng^  and  disappeared  among  the  neighbourmg  trees.      Gertrude 

still  standing  startled  and  coufuscJ  by  the  abrupt  departure  of 

»mpanion,  when  the  deep  baying  of  a  dog  caught  her  attention^ 


THE   ADEPT. 


181 


and  in  a  few  moments  with  brtstlea  erect  and  muzzle  bent  low  to  the 

Lground  as  if  in  the  act  of  hunting,  Rnfus  galloped  up;  the  animal 

aused  on  approaching  the  agitated  ^rl,  but  instead  of  soliciting  her 

Icwresse^,  as  had  been  hia  custom,  he  just  disclosed  his  formidable 

ng3,  uttered  a  deep  growl,  and  made  off,  apparently  following  by 

scent  the  footsteps  of  his  master. 

Completely  bewildered  by  Mervyn's  extraordinary  conduct,  and 
the  incoherence  of  his  language,  Gertrude  hurried  homeward. 
Vague  shadowy  thoughts  would  present  themselves  to  her  view, 
but  of  a  nature  so  terrible  and  monstrous  that  she  shuddered  at  con- 
templating them-  Her  ideas,  however,  soon  took  shapes  more  i¥an- 
[dering  and  fantastic  still,  till  her  brain  growing  dizzy  with  the 
thick-coming  fancies,  she  fell  fainting  on  the  floor.  An  attack  of 
brain-fever  succeeded,  which  left  her  at  the  expiration  of  a  month 
shattered  both  in  mind  and  body, 

"What  on  earth  can  have  become  of  your  uncle?"  said  Mrs.  Pen- 
rose, who  was  suffering  from  the  combined  efl'ects  of  an  over- done 
dinner  and  a  dull  newspaper, — *' where  can  he  be?  Past  nine,  and 
]  no  message.  Ah!  that  odious  profession  !  it  's  enough  to  ruin  the 
Kemper  of  every  medical  man's  wife  in  the  world,— not  to  mention 
their  cook's.  For  my  part,  I  think  married  men  have  no  business  to 
be  doctors." 

Gertrude  being  too  feeble,  even  had  she  been  disposed,  to  under- 
take the  defence  of  her  uncle's  calling,  contented  herself  with  the 
.usual  admission  that  "it  was  indeed  very  provoking/'     Fortunately 
•for  the  latter,  further  discussion  was  precluded  by  the  appearance  of 
the  surgeon  himself,  before  whom  his  wife  was,  for  sufficient  rea- 
sons, commonly  silent  on  the  demerits  of  the  aforesaid  **  odious  pro- 
fession/'    ftlerely,  therefore,  hinting  at  the  deferred  dinner,  and  the 
consequent  soddenness  of  boiled,  and  aridity  of  roast,  she  affection- 
\9Ui\f  inquired  if  anything   of  peculiar  importance   had  detained 
Idai. 

"  A  most  singular  case  has  occupied  me/'  replied  Mr.  Penrose, 
"one  of  hydrophobia,  and  a  most  extraordinary  specimen  of  a  most 
extraordinary  class.  The  patient,  to  whom  I  was  summoned  by  an 
old  pupil,  was  severely  lacerated  in  the  throat  some  few  weeks  past, 
in  an  encounter  with  a  ferocious  dog  ;  he^  it  seems,  succeeded »  after 
a  desperate  struggle,  in  destroying  the  animal,  in  whom,  by  the 
way,  no  traces  of  the  disease  were  discoverable  upon  examination. 
Symptoms  of  rabies,  however,  soon  developed  themselves  in  the 
(sian^  among  the  most  remarkable  of  which  was  a  delirium,  or  ra- 
ther monomania,  for  on  all  other  points  his  mind  appeared  perfectly 
gane,  which  never  left  him,  and  tlie  particulars  of  which  he  was 
anxious  to  communicate  to  some  person  of  scientific  eminence. 

He  commenced  by  staling,  that  in  early  life  he  had  applied  him- 
elfto  the  study  of  the  more  abstruse  departments  of  chemistry,  and 
more  particularly  to  the  examination  of  electrical  and  magnetic  phe- 
nomena; that,  assisted  by  a  friend  possessed  of  similar  taste,  he  hatl 
so  far  penetrated  the  arcana  of  Nature,  as  to  be  enabled,  by  means 
,  of  galvanic  agency,  to  detach  at  will  the  spirit  from  its  tenement, 
f  and  even  to  transfer  it,  with  every  attribute  of  identity,  into  another 
corporeal  frame. 

He  went  on  to  say  that  ere  long  an  oppoitunity  occurred  of  bring- 
ing this  discovery  to  bear  upon  the  person  oi'  his  friend  who  had 


182 


WHY   rs  THE  SKY    SO    BRICHITLY    BLUE  t 


fallen  mortally  woimded  in  n  duel  abroad,  and  with  whom  a  solemTi 
enf^agement  had  been  contracted,  that  at  the  approachinjv  decease  of 
either,  the  resoyrcea  of  their  art  should  be  called  fi^rth  to  perpetuate 
his  existence  in  some  other  shape.^ — Here  his  narrative  became  wild 
and  incoherent  in  the  ex:tren*e  ;  but,  from  what  I  could  learn,  he 
seemed  to  fancy  that  the  body  of  the  animal  who  had  fallen  by  his 
hand  had  been  by  turns »  according  to  the  provisions  oV  this  strange 
compact,  the  recipient  of  both, — 

At  this  moment  a  piercing  scream  from  Gertrude  interrupted  the 
narrative  :  she  had  fallen  back  upon  the  sofa  in  a  state  of  hysterical 
eonvulsian*  This  attack  unhappily  proved  but  the  prelude  to  a  re- 
lapse of  her  terrible  malady  ;  and  although  her  physical  health  was 
Lin  some  measure  restored  by  a  return  to  her  native  hills,  her  mind 
never  recovered  its  tone.  For  some  few  yearn  she  lingered  on, 
^k  "  Sunk — deep  Mink  in  neoond  child bood^i  ni^hk** 

Then  came  the  closing  scene,  the  passing-bell,  and  the  narrow  bed. 


WHY  IS  THE  SKY  SO  BRIGHTLY  BLUE? 

Why  18  die  sky  so  brightly  blue  ? 

i^weec  Alother  f  tdl  ma  tbii  I  pray ; 
While  fttar»  fto  ^nily  Rhhiin^;  through, 

Make  night  more  beautiful  thati  day. 

Say  I  arc  they  apirits*  cye«,  which  ^le 

With  reliant  hmtre  here  Wbw, 
To  lure  ui  with  tlieir  tremWin^  rmy* 

From  eiLrtli-i^iorn  icenes  of  gnilt  and  woe  ? 

Or  dn  the  friends  so  long  departed. 

Within  their  1  us  trans  orbits  dwell. 
And  bend  they  o'er  tbe  broken- hearted, 

Whofte  breaati  with  bopeLesa  angutah  t well  ? 

I  love  not  rtiucli  the  noonday  lun. 
All  glorioii*  thoiiph  his  mdiancc  W ; 

But  when  his  burning  course  u  run. 
Then  night  h  beautiftil  to  me* 

Tlie  weat-wind  mumiuring  through  the  treci^ 
Strains  of  such  silvery  sweetness  woke  i 

Tb^it  ftoHitinjir  onward  with  the  breeze, 
Methought  some  gentle  angel  spoke. 

The  flowers  breathe  round  their  odours  nvre. 
Heaven's  l«mps  in  cloudles*  ether  move ; 

And  the  husliM  atillncs*  of  the  air. 
Allures  the  heart  to  peace  and  love. 

Sweet  Mother !  should  thy  gentle  breast 
Pillow  my  bead  when  death  is  nigh  ; 

Oh  !  weep  not!  for  eternal  rest 
Muftt  needs  be  sweet  io  yonder  sky. 

11.  6.  R* 


183 


THE  PENALTY  AFTER  DEATH, 


It  is  "  a  pretty  considerable  '*  long  time  ngo  since  a  person  of  the 
name  of  Harpix  lived  in  a  small  country  town.  He  was  a  retail 
dealer,  and  although  he  Iiad  failed  several  times,  contrived  to  have 
amassed  a  decent  property.  Many«  by  the  bye>  are  of  opinion,  that 
bankruptcy  is  the  only  game  at  which  a  man  loses  nothing  if  he  plays 
his  cards  well.  One  thing  is  certain,  tliat  in  his  case,  he  had  reduced 
many  poor  devils  to  beggary,  especially  his  brother  Ulrich,  who  had 
entrusted  him  with  all  his  inheritance.  No  one  knew  what  had  become 
of  this  Ulrich ;  some  thought  that  he  hud  been  seen  round  about  the 
country  with  a  band  of  gypsies.  His  brother  said,  '^It  is,  God  knows, 
very  possible ;  but  I,  for  my  part,  neither  care  to  know  nor  will  know 
anything  about  him,  and  if  he  shows  himself  here — ^then— "  And 
this  lime  he  did  not  lie,  for  when  Ulrich,  one  evening,  like  the  prodigal 
son,  returned  to  him,  and,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  begged  for  pity,  and 
promised  to  lead  a  new  life,  Mr,  Harpix  knew  him  not,  shut  the  drnir 
in  his  face,  turned  his  back  upon  him,  and  threatened  to  give  him  up 
to  justice,  should  he  be  minded  to  come  a  second  time, 

John  PheiJfer,  the  barber^  a  simple,  good  sort  of  man,  who  had 
carried  on  a  snug  little  business  with  the  buxom  Louisa,  the  but- 
cher's daughter,  had  also  been  reduced  to  want  througlj  Mr.  Harpix, 
and  was  sadly  put  to  it  to  m:^ke  both  ends  meet  with  his  barber-sur- 
gery, for  people  then  wore  longer  beurds,  and  did  not  require  bo  much 
docti>r*a  stulTas  at  the  present  day-  As  Louisa,  however,  continued  to 
present  a  child  t«>  her  husband  every  year,  the  poor  barber  was  in  great 
•traits  hnw  to  feed  so  many  mouthH  with  his  razor,  and  had  he  not  been 
a  gocKl  Christian,  he  would  stran  have  cut  liis  throat  with  it. 

Mr.  Harpix  was,  notwithstanding,  looked  upon  as  an  honourable  man, 
and  much  prized  as  a  jolly  companion,  for  he  was  humble,  sweet- 
spoken,  modest  in  word  and  deed,  flattered  every  one  he  conversed 
with,  and  agreed  with  them  in  all  they  said,  and  now  and  then  gave 
some  of  them  entertainments  at  his  house,  and  besides  playing  the 
bankrupt,  took  a  hand  at  ombre,  whist,  and  plt|uet  ;  he  could  smoke 
his  pipe,  talk  politics,  and  drink  drams ;  in  short,  he  was  a  man  commc 
Ufani,  after  the  prevailing  taste  of  the  country-town.  Then  what  had 
others  to  do  with  his  commercial  transactions?  The  citizens  of  the 
town  had  then,  as  now,  their  own  ways  of  thinking,  and  one  was — 
*'  Don't  trouble  yourself  with  other  people's  affairs*  Let  every  man 
answer  for  his  own," 

Otte  evening  Mr,  Harpix  nnd  his  old  housekeeper  were  deeply  engaged 
in  conversation,  A  great  fat  hog,  just  slaughtered,  lay  in  the  outer 
room  upon  a  table,  covered  with  a  cloth,  Gertrude  was  the  confidante 
of  her  master ;  she  was  seated  opposite  to  him,  and  was  moved  to  tears, 
fat  she  was  old  and  did  not  relish  her  food  so  much  as  she  had  done  in 
years.  She  riveted  her  eyes  on  her  muster,  who  with  much 
iinesa  was  swallowing  tit-bit  after  tit- bit,  and  said,  "  I  can't  con- 
Reive,  master,  how  you  can  wt  there  so  quiftly,  and  eat  with  such  an 
ippetite,  when  you  have  so  many  sins  upon  your  conscience." 

"  What  are  yon  again  chattering  about  }**  exclaimed  Mr*  Harpix. 


184 


THE  PENALTY  AFTER  DEATH. 


**  Havie  done  with  your  alip-slopp     Did  I  not  yesterday  receive  the 
sacrament;  have  I  not  made  confession^  and  promised  amendment?" 

*'  Yes,  but  that  generally  does  not  last  long,"  remarked  Gertrude- 

*'  How  do  you  know  f/ia//'  answered  Mr.  Harpix-     '*  Since  vest 
day  I  have  not  sinned,  that  is  something ;  for  if  I  panned  off  up 
Peter  Gunther  a  couple  of  eJls  of  cloth,  the  ccilonrs  of  which  would  not" 
atand,  that  can't  be  reckoned  among  my  misdeeds.     There  is  a  proverb, 
th&t  saysy  *  when  a  fool  cheapens,  it  puts  money  in  the  trader's  purse/  " 

"Yea,  that  is  but  a  little  peccadilio/*  replied  Gertrude  ;  **  but  your_ 
brother  Ulrich,  and  poor  John  Pheiffer^  they  press   upon  my 
science,*' 

*'  Well  i"  remarked  Mr,  Ilarpix.     "  If  /  can  bear  this  Alp  upon  ; 
shoulders,  ihej^  may,  I  think — " 

*'  But  tell  me,"  said  Gertrude,  "  about  your  conscience.     Bo  you  1 
liere  in  hell  and  the  devil  ?" 

'*  No.     That  is  a  stupid  superstition/'  rejoined  Ilarpix.     "  Our  new 
sexton  thinks  that  bell  means  a  bad  conscience,  and  as  I  have  nu  ha 
conscience — " 

*^Have  you  a  good  one?"  exclaimed  Gertrude. 

"  Why/'  replied  Mr.  Harpix,  *'  that  I  can't  say ;  my  conscience 
neither  good  nor  had,  hut  betwixt  and  between — equipoised  in  th 
scale,  and  that  is  the  most  reasonable  of  all  consciences,'* 

"  But,*'  said  Gertrude,  '*  if  you  to-day  or  to-morrow  should  be  calle 
before  the  dear  Lord  God  ?*' 

"Oh  !"  answered  Mr.  Harpix,  with  a  frightful  grin,  *'  the  dear  Lord 
God  calls  me  not,*'  Thereupon  he  became  black- blue,  sat  motionless 
as  a  piUar,  and  uttered  not  another  word. 


"We  can,  however,  get  the  hog,"  said  the  now  no  longer  buxoniji^j 
but  thin  and  faded,  Louisa  to  her  husband,  the  barber,  as  .she  sat  witll^^ 
him  at  a  deal  table,  where  a  bit  of  cheese,  a  hiuf  of  black  bread,  and  a 
bottle  of  stale  beer  formed  all  their  supper,  whilst  six  hulf-naked  chil- 
dren slept  beside  them  on  straw. 

*'  No,  Louisa !"  exclaimed  John  Pbeiffer ;  "  in  Heaven's  name*  NoJ^_ 

*'  Eh  *  What  ?**  bhe  replied  ;  '*  has  not  the  old  rogue  stolen  all  mj 
dowry?" 

*'  That  is  true  enough/'  said  the  barber ;  "  but  because  he  is  a  villain 
shall  we  be  like  him  ?" 

"  We  shall  never  have  done  with  this  tittle-tattle."  said  Louisa^H 
"  He  has  robbed  me  of  all  the  means  of  supporting  these  poor  babes^H 
He  stuffs  himself,  in  his  armchair,  with  fut  pork  till  be  chokes.  He 
has  just  killed  a  great  hog,  and  with  that  we  could,  for  at  least  eight 
days,  assuage  the  hunger  of  our  Utile  children.  1  know  that  the  bog 
lies  upon  the  table  in  the  outhouse.  Come,  John  Pheitfer  I  show  that 
Vou  are  a  man  and  a  father.  No  one  will  see  it  done  ;  the  watchman 
18  asleep." 

"But  God  does  not  sleep/'  sighed  John  Phciffer- 

"  God  knows  that  I  only  take  back  a  small  part  of  my  own  property," 
exclaimed  Louisa,  *'  Follow  me,  if  you  are  a  man.  ]  go  with  a  quiet 
conscience,  and  will  answer  for  my  deed  at  the  last  judgment."  ^— 

*'You  are  a  dear  girl,"  said  John    Pheiffer,  "  and  I  am  a  good^H 
natured  easy  fool,  aj»d  must  do  as  you  bid.     For  once  I  will  yield  tS^^ 
vou,  if  you  promise  me  never  again  to  carry  off  hogs,  for  JMr.  Harpix 
It  a  great  pigsty  at  home/* 


THE  PENALTY  AFTER  DEATH, 


IHli 


"  Come  timet  come  rhyme/'  said  Louisa.     "  Follow  me  r 

With  that  they  proceedecl  toAvards  the  house;  that  was  at  some  di8' 
taace,  and,  .separated  from  the  rest  by  garden  walls  and  hedges,  lay  at 
the  end  of  the  strett.  The  night  was  dark,  and  the  watchman — 
Louisa  was  right — slept  simjidly. 

Mr.  Harpix  had  died  of  apoplexy.  When  Gertrude  had  long  stared 
at  her  master,  and  he  at  her  with  wide-open,  glassy  eyes,  withtjiit 
making  any  answer,  she  was  suddenly  seized  with  horror  and  affright, 
and  exclaimed,  '"'The  devil  has  carried  him  oWV  Whereupon  she  ran 
out  to  fetch  the  old  servant  Paul.  They  shook  the  dead  man  roughly- 
Paul  e«tack  a  bit  of  pork  into  hh  mouth,  poured  a  glass  of  spirits  down 
his  throat — it  was  all  of  no  avail,  and  they  were  »oon  fully  convinced 
that  Mr.  Harpix  was  really  no  more. 

Now  they  laid  the  hog  on  the  floor,  and  placed  the  corpse  on  the 
table,  and  rolled  it  up  in  the  cloth  which  had  covered  the  aninml- 
Oertmde  hastened  to  the  constable's,  where  she  knew  the  parson  and 
the  sexton  were  merry-making,  to  announce  the  news.  Paul's  office 
was  to  watch  the  dead  body. 

Paul  w^as  an  honest  fellow,  but  he  had  one  failing ;  he  was  too  fond 
of  looking  to  the  bottom  of  his  glass*  That  evening  he  hud  hitd  a 
drinking-bout,  so  that  his  imagination  began  to  work  in  that  ghwimy 
corpse-room,  and  haunted  him  with  all  sorts  of  grim  visions.  He  had 
never  heard  of  Dante's  Inferno,  nor  seen  the  Last  Judgment  of  Michael 
Angel o  in  the  Vatican  ;  but  he  localized  both  in  his  own  way.  Thus 
Beelzebub  appeared  to  him  w^ith  a  long  counsellor's  wig,  and  in  a  black 
gown,  with  a  roll  of  parcliment  under  his  arm,  and  a  hummer  in  his 
band*  Ilim  followed  sundry  impsj  with  horn  lanterns,  and  pitchfurks. 
Beelzebub  sat  himself  down  at  a  table,  and  began  to  set  up  at  auction  the 
members  of  the  deceased.  And  now^  Paul  saw,  with  astonitibment, 
how  one  bought  the  belly,  that  vvas  out  of  all  measure  enormous,  and 
Sold  extravagantly  dear;  a  second  purcliased  the  heart,  that  was  ex- 
tremely small,  and  very  cheap.  The  lungs  fetched  the  highest  price 
of  all,  "for,"  said  the  devil,  "they  will  make  an  excellent  bellows 
below."  Whenever  a  sale  was  effected,  Beekebub  knocked  with  his 
hammer  on  the  tablej  till  the  house  trembled  ;  and  every  time  that  an 
imp  had  paid  for  his  member  in  hard  doUurs  be  went  up  to  the  corpse, 
and  stuck  into  it  his  pitchfork  to  take  away  his  purcliase.  So  tbev 
continued  to  do,  one  after  another,  till  the  brains  wt^re  put  up,  whicli 
no  one  hid  for,  so  that  the  devil  was  obliged  to  nudte  thi^iij  a  present  to 
the  aillieist  of  the  fiends.  As  a  finishing  flonrish,  he  struck  so  hard  with 
bis  hammer  on  the  table,  that  the  light  fell  out  of  the  candlestick,  and 
was  extinguished.  It  was  pitch-dark  in  the  room — an  astonisliing 
noi%e  was  heard,  and  a  blue  light  flared  up.  Paul  fell  senseless  on  the 
ground,  and  saw  two  silent  hgures  enter,  who  speedily  lifted  up  the 
corpie,  and  carried  it  oflF. 

The  la^t  part  of  this  vision  was  no  fancy  ;  for  John  PheiflTer  and  his 
irife  really  entered,  by  the  mtmnshine,  into  the  room,  at  the  very  mo* 
meat  when  the  candlestick  fell,  and  the  light  went  out,  and  vanished 
with  the  corpse^  under  the  idea  that  they  had  got  pofisessiou  of  the 
tlsughtered  hog. 

As  soon  as  Paul  was  recovered  from  his  swoon,  he  struck  a  light,  and 
fiot  finding  IMr,  Harpix  any  longer  on  the  table,  he  said  with  resigna- 
tiun,  •*  Yes,  that  is  all  right.  The  Jevil  has  got  him."  Thereupon,  be 
betook  himself  to  the  next  rtioni,  took  the  hog,  and  lifted  it  on  the 

VOt.  XVIII.  ^ 


186 


THE  PENALTY  AFTER  DEATH. 


table,  where  the  auctiou  was  held,  spread  over  it  another  cloth^  set  the 
light  in  a  cup  with  water,  so  thut  it  might  do  no  injury,  and  saJd, 
**  There  is  no  ii*e  in  watching  over  a  hog,"  and  went  to  bed, 

Bleanwhile  Gertrude  arrived  at  the  constable's.     He  hud,  as  bus  { 
been  said,  a  party.     The  pastor  and  the  sexton  were  there.     Tlie  sex- 
ton wa*  called  out,  because  he  was  most  in  her  way,  and  knew  how  to  | 
ingratiate  himself  with  people,  and  wa>i  besides  not  so  rigid  in  his  prin- 
ciples as  the  preacher*     As  soon  as  Gertrude  had,  with  tearful  eyes,  J 
related  the  mournful  event,  they  were  all  much  affected.     They  were 
seated  round  a  punchbowl,  and  men  ha]f-seas*over  are  as  ready  to  cry  ] 
as  to  laugh,     **  He  was  a  dear  soul,  however,"  said  oue.     *'  We  shan't 
so  easily  find  his  like  again/'  said  a  second.     '*  All  the  world  counted  | 
him  a  devilish  good  felhnv,"  said  a  third*     *'  A  right  jovial  companion, 
observed  a  fourth.     "  We  have  played  many  a  game  together,"  chimed 
in  the  first  speaker.     *'  We  have  em[itied  many  a  bottle  together," 
said  the  sexton.     All  but  the  pastor  were  silent, 

**  Yes,  our  Herr  pastor  will  have  to  make  a  funeral  oration  over  i 
him,"  said  the  constable. 

**  No  I  most  certainly  that  I  will  not/'  answered  the  preacher,  tak-  j 
ing  up  his  hat  and  stick.  **  I  know  nothing  g(x»d  to  say  of  him,  and  it 
is  too  late  to  reproach  a  man  with  his  sins  when  he  is  a  corpse,  if  he 
was  a  sinner,  let  him  aiii^wer  now  for  his  otifences.  God  be  merciful 
to  his  soul !"  Therewith  he  wished  them  all  good  night,  and  went 
home. 

Whilst  he  was  on  his  way  home,  the  rest  made  a  circle  round  the  sex- 
ton, and  said,  **  He  is  a  hard-hearted,  unfeeling  man,  our  Herr  pastor. 
LriKteu  to  me.  Brother  sexton  I  Thou  Ciinst,  to  my  mind,  preach  as  i 
wel!  as  he.  What  say'st  thou  ?  Shall  we  this  night  pay  our  late  friend 
a  visit  in  his  death-chamber  ?  I  would  that  thim,  Atanic  pede,  make  a 
speech  over  him  ;  fur  thou  hast  not  drunken  so  much^  but  thou  canst 
stand  upon  thy  pi  us/' 

"  Oh/'  answered  the  sexton,  *'  as  to  that,  I  can  never  preach  better 
than  when  1  have  had  a  good  jollificatioa,  for  then  the  spirit  is  in 
me/* 

"  Thou  shall  not  go  without  thy  fee/*  exclaimed  the  constabte. 
'*  We  will  club  tugetlier  for  thee.  Thou  hast  long  wished  for  a  pair  of 
black  cloth  breeches  and  a  new  hat.     These  thou  shak  have,"  ] 

**  Well/'  said  tlie  sexton,  *"  1  feel  mygelf  now  in  a  right  cue  for  it.*'  ' 
They  went  towards  the  dead-chamber. 

Gertrude  opened  the  dtM>r ;  they  found  the  lamp  burning  in  the  cup. 
'*  Pour  Paul,"  Siiid  she,  *'  is  gone  to  bed  ;  he  had  not  the  courage  to 
watch  alone  w  ith  the  corpse :  I  xee,  however,  that  the  lad  has  been 
sensible  enough  to  take  him  uut  of  the  hog- trough  and  lay  him  on  the 
table.  That  is  much  more  proper.  Will  you  take  a  peep  at  him 
gentlemen  ?  He  lo<iks,  indeed,  shocking  blue  in  the  face,  for  he  died, 
of  an  ajHjplectic  fit." 

**  N«>  I  we  will  nut  look  at  him,"  called  out  the  guests.  It  was  mid- 
night, the  night  air  had  somewhat  sobered  them  on  the  way^  and  they 
felt  aU  in  a  shii'er. 

The  sexton  walked,  however,  cheerfully  up  to  the  table  where  the 
dead  man  lay,  cleared  his  husky  throat,  and  spoke  in  the  following 
miinner : 

"  At  this  table,  devout  friends  and  brethren  I  we  have  oianv  a  time 
sat,  and  emptied  many  a  good  bottle  of  wine  with  the  dear  decea««di 


THE  PENALTY  AFTER  DEATH. 


187 


^ 


who  noAv  lies  there,  and  cocks  yp  hh  nune.  And  yet  be  was  the 
healthiest,  fattest,  and  most  joviaJ  of  us  ull,  proving  the  truth  of  the 
old  adage  J — '  To-day  red,  to-morraw  deud/  As  to  the  deceased  s 
corpse,  or  outer  man,  it  must  be  owned  that  Le  \vm  none  of  the  hand- 
somest ;  there  are  many,  however,  who  are  uglier.  His  small  pign* 
eyes,  indeed,  twinkled  somewhat  in  his  head  ;  he  w:is,  notwithistand- 
ing,  thick  behind  the  ears,  rtnd  groped  about,  and  »tuck  Im  sjiotit 
into  everything.  His  hair  stuck  up  very  bristly,  because  he  was 
no  dandy,  and  did  not  lose  much  time  about  his  toilet.  His  belly 
CTttvitated  down  to  his  legs  as  low  as  if  he  had  been  a  Lord  Miiyor. 
He  was  not  a  man  of  many  words,  and  this  people  excused,  l>ecause  he 
had  jiomething  grunting  in  his  voice  ;  and  perhaps,  also,  he  rather  too 
often  dealt  in  repetitions  of  his  thoughts  and  opinions  :  i^til),  he  was  a 
quiet,  steady,  thick^set  man,  without  fine  feelings  or  high-flown  oo- 
Uons  of  any  kind,  patient  and  circumspect,  who  only  screamed  out 
when  he  felt  the  knife  at  his  throat,  which  no  one  can  blame  him  for. 
He  was  also  enterprising,  and  was  not  ashamed  often  to  pry  into,  and 
to  get  at,  what  would  have  caused  any  other  than  himself  a  hundred 
qualms  and  i^cruples  of  conscience,  therefore,  he  was  blessed,  and 
increased  daily  more  and  mure;  till  at  lust,  even  by  reason  of  his  ex* 
cessivc  heidth,  he  was  fated  to  die  a  quick  death  without  pain,  from 
which  Heaven  defend  us  !  Some  think  that  he  had  something  in 
Jum  of  the  brute — those  were  his  foes  and  calumniators,  who  did  not 
appreciate  him.  Now  that  he  is  dead,  11  nd  we  can  see  through  him, 
we  find  in  his  innermost  being  thitt  he  has  much  in  common  vvjih  the 
most  celebrated  characters  that  have  ever  lived.  Fare  thee  well !  my 
hearty  good  fellow  l  If  thou  canst  look  back  from  the  kingdom  of  the 
defid^  it  will  melt  thine  heart  to  see  thine  old  pot-companions  about 
thy  remains,  with  folded  hands,  and  tears  in  their  eyes.  They  love 
thee  very  dearly,  and  huve  promised  me  a  pair  of  cloth-breeches  and 
a  new  hat,  if  I  would  preach  a  funeral  oration  over  thee.  And  that 
I  have  now  done,  and  hope  that  we  are  all  satisfied  with  it.     Amen  i" 

Am  he  was  thus  speaking,  the  cloth,  which  bad  been  loosely  thrown 
orer  the  corpse,  fell  down,  and  discovered  to  all  present—the  slaugh- 
tered hog  I     A  monstrous  laugh  ensued,  and  they  fell  upon  the  poor 
iexton  with  a  burst  of  mockery.     He  was  now  unable  to  restrain  him- 
jaelf,  and  called  out, 

•*  I  have  not  told  a  single  lie:  every  word  that  I  have  said  is  applic- 
able to  the  subject ;  1  have  deserved  my  new  hat  and  blacks." 

'*  That  hast  thou,"  they  exclaimed  in  chorus;  '*for  a  hog  he  was,  and 
thou  ha«t  made  him  one."  Therewith,  they  went  away  laughing  and 
joking,  without  troubling  themselves  about  the  context  of  the  matter, 
and  left  the  jjerplexed  Gertrude  alone  in  the  death-chamber. 

While  all  this  was  passing,  John  Pheiffer  and  the  daring  Louisa 
reached  home,  without  any  adventure  on  the  road,  with  their  booty, 
»et  down  the  corpse  iii  the  empty  kitchen.  Louisa  took  the  axe, 
tip  the  chopping- block,  and  said  to  John,  *'  Now,  take  up  the  hi>g, 
tnd  lav  it  on  the  block,  and  I  will  cut  the  meat  into  joints,  and  buU 
it,"  With  these  words,  she  tore  oflP  the  cloth.  Astonished  as  were 
the  sexton  and  his  suite  when  they  found  a  hog  in  the  place  of  Mr* 
Uarpix,  John  and  Louisa  were  still  more  so  when  they  saw  there  Mr. 
Uarpix  in  place  of  the  hog.  They  could  not  speak  far  horrnr,  for  the 
oorptte  lay  there  in  his  green  bedgown,  with  his  nightcap  on  Iris  head. 


188 


THE  PENALTY  AFTER  DEATH, 


and  sMppera  on  liis  feet,  black-blue  in   the  face,  and  stared  at  tlieoij — ^ 
with  wide-open  ghissy  eyes.  w 

As  soon   as  they  had  collected  themselves,  Louisa  satd,  "  Here  h«| 
cannot   remain.     Away  with   him  t     Quick  !     Where  shall   we    dra_ 
him  ti»?*'     '*  We  will  set  him  down  at  the  door  of  the  French  peruke^ 
maker,"  thought  John  Pheitfer ;  "  he  is  no  good  friend  to  me  ;  he 
ever  infrinj^ing  on   my  privileges,  and  shaves  people  \v\wn    lie  ought 
only  to  friz  their  hair."     They  now  bestirred  themselves,  and  dragge* 
the  corpse  to  the   door  of  the  perrutjuier*B.     John  Phieffer  Htuck  i\lri^ 
Harpix  bolt  upright  ng;iinst  the  wall.     Louisa  returned  Iiome :  John 
however,  who  was,   like  all  barbers,  full  of  curiosity,  hid  himself  at  j 
iittle  distance  roum!  the  corner,  to  see  the  upshot  of  the  affair. 

The  perruquier,  I\Ions.  Narcisse,  had  also  been  at  a  party  that  nigh  til 
and  had  got  a  little  tipsy.  He  was  a  haggard,  dark-coloured,  oldislll 
Frenchman,  wtio  had  served  for  many  years  as  a  soldier,  and,  after  the] 
peace,  had  set  himself  up  in  this  tovvji,  where  he  carried  on  the  wig 
making  Viusiness,  and  had  married  a  young,  pretty,  we  11 -con  ducted  J 
girl,  who^ — but  without  rea^jon — -made  her  husband  very  jealous. 

When  now  Mons.  Narcisse r  with   his  Spanish  cane  in  his  hand,  ail 
steadily  as  his  inebriation  admitted,  had  popped  over  the  great  stouetj 
of  the  bad  pavement,  in  order  not  to  splash  liis  white  stockings,  anq 
saw  Mi.  Hiirpix  standing  at  his  door,  in  neglige,  he  believed  it  to  bdJ 
a    fortunate    admirer  of  his  wife,   who  had  taken   advantage   of  hitl 
absence  to  carry  on  an  intrigue  with  her.    His  champagne-blood  boiledj 
in  all  hi^  veins,  and  after  some  energetic  expletives,  which  nn educated  1 
Frenchmen  commonly  use  on  sucli  occasions,  called  out — *^Ab,  Sa«J 
zanne  I  miserable  creature!     N*as  tu  pas  plus  de  goilt  que  de  prefere 
un  monstre  a  un  horn  me  com  me  il  faut,  que  ton  pro  pre  epoux  ?     Maiti 
attends,    vieux  gaillard !     Je    te   payerai  le  compte."     And  withoul 
alloAving  the  gallant  time  for  flight,  he  pounced  upijn  him  like  a  haw| 
Qpon  a  pigeon,  and  pummelled  him  till  the  corpse  fell  at  his  feet. 

Scarcely  had    I\l ons.  Narcisse  discovered  that  the   man   was  dead 
when  lie  became  white  as  a  sheet,  for  he  thought  that  he  had  murdered 
him.     lie  stcH»d  for  aome  time  irresolute ;  scratched  his  head  with  i 
comb,   and   repeatedly  said — ''  Que /aire  f"     As,  however,  like    mo 
Frenchmen,  he  possessed   pr/scttce    d'csprii,  he  suddenly  lifter!    thai 
corpse  upon  his  buck,   and  slipped  it  into  the  dead-house  of  the  old! 
gothic  church,  that  lay  a  considerable  distance  «»ff.     Then  he  made  all] 
ha»te  home,  undressed  himself,  and   laid  himself  down  by  the  side  i 
his  wife,  who  was  in  a  deep  sleep^ 

Now  it  happened  this   very   same  night,   that    a  band  of  g\  p«ie 
whom  Ulrich,  Mr.  Harpix's   brother,  had  joined,  had  taken  up   theii 
night's  quarters  in  a  neigh [Hjuring  wood.     They  had  been  all  over  Ger* 
many,  Hungary,  and  Italy  ;  but  the  desire  to  revisit  the  place  of  one'd 
birth,  nets  even  in  the  most  depraved  spirits  ;  and  what  was  a  stronp 
inducement  In  this  case  to  Ulrich,  a  longing  to  avenge  himself  on  hii 
hard-hearted  brother.      He    was    now    beciMne  a  perfect  king  of  thflj 
gypsies,  had  had  many  occasions  of  showing  his  prudence  and  bravrryJ 
was  blindly  adored  aud  obeyed  by  his  people,  and  had  for  wives  two  i 
the  handsomcht  girls  of  the  horde. 

The  gvpsies  had  catight   some  cats,  which  they  had  roasted,  nnd 
washed  down  witli  sundry  bottles  of  brandy.     As  soon  as  their  mettli 
was  up,  UJrich  called  out — *'  Be  alive,  comrades!  now  let  us  go  to  mfl 
hrother'a  house,  and  knock  loudly  at  hie  door,  till  he  is  black  about  the 


THE    PENALTY    AITTER    DEATH. 


189 


eyes.  Take  mth  you  a  flint,  ftteel,  and  tinder,  and  let  tbe  red  cock^ 
when  the  day  breaks,  be  crowing  on  the  old  villain's  roof  I" 

A  general  drunken  *'  Hurra  !  "  showed  that  all  were  deliglited  with 
their  ctiptain'8  j»roposition.  Thereupon  he  crept  with  ft  select  few  into 
the  town,  and  promised  those  who  remained  behind,  that  he  would 
entertiiiii  them  with  a  splendid  firework. 

As  soon  as  they  reached  the  church,  and  Ulrich  s  eyes  fell  on  the 
red,  lofty  walls,  and  the  golden  cross  that  glittered  in  the  moonlight 
on  the  top  of  thespire,  he  felt  a  tii^htening  at  his  heart,  and  tears  came 
into  his  eyes;  hut  this  tender  emotion  soon  gave  way  to  his  thirst  for 
rengeance.  He  entered  the  churchyard,  and  gazed  upon  the  tomh- 
stones  of  his  parents,  that  were  in  a  sad  state,  and  overgrown  with 
gmsa  and  weeds.  **  Here  they  lie,"  he  sobbed^  **  and  the  dug  Jias  not 
!  had  heart  enough  to  keep  in  repair  the  last  resting-place  of  our 
Ats,  and  weed  their  graves/' 

Aft  soon  as  the  gypsies  heard  that  the  father  and  mother  of  their 
ciiptaia  lay  buried  here,  when  all  set  to  work.  They  pulled  up 
the  weeda,  cleaned  tbe  stones,  scratched  with  their  nails  the  mould 
from  out  the  letters,  tore  the  flowers  by  the  roots  from  the  neighbour- 
ing graves,  and  planted  them  on  that  of  bis  parents,  and  their  moiiu- 
inentM  now  stood  in  good  and  decent  trim.  Then  Ulrich  opened  tbe 
church-drK#r  with  a  picklock,  and  entered  in.  He  visited  the  font 
where  he  had  been  baptized,  stood  before  the  spot  where  the  pastor 
had  confirmed  him,  whilst  tears  coursed  down  his  cheeks,  *'  Here  I 
bad  come  and  prayed  like  an  honest  man  with  my  family  about  me,— 
happy,  and  with  the  happy,"  be  exclaimed,  '*  bad  it  not  been  for  that 
fccuundreL     Revenge !  revenge  I  " 

Thus  saying,  he  rushed  out  of  the  church,  and  called  to  his  fellow- 
comrades  to  go  with  him,  and  i^et  fire  to  his  brother's  house.  He  found 
them  in  the  dead-bouse,  full  of  surprise — encircling  a  corpse.  He 
approached,  bent  down,  at  once  recognized  his  brotlier,  burst  into  a 
frightful  laugh,  and  cried  out — *'  By  the  just  God,  it  is  he  I  The 
devil  has  taken  him  !  Now  J  am  his  heir.  Bed-gown,  nif;bt-cap,  and 
slippers  are  mine  ;  these  will  I  carry  in  triumph  to  my  JMirza  and  my 
8ale,  but  this  body  belongs  to  tbe  gallows.  This,  whilst  he  was  alive, 
he  nchly  merited,  and  now  that  he  is  dead  he  shall  pay  the  penalty  of 
his  good  deeds.  Wliy  should  that  three-legged  creature  we  passed 
outside  the  town,  inland  tliere  without  a  rider?  Bring  him  to  the 
dead-house,  and  bind  him  wilh  a  rope  under  his  belly,  but  so  that  he 
6oe&  not  tumble  down,  for  he  was  always  a  good  climber  but  a  bad 
rider  1 " 

Scarcely  was  this  said,  when  the  gypsies  despoiled  IVIr.  Harpix  of  his 
night-cap,  gown,  and  slipperji,  with  which  booty  Ulrich  hastened  to  his 
wives  in  the  wood  ;  whilst  the  rest  hung  up  Mr,  Harpix  to  the  gallows 
out  side  the  town.  As  soon  as  John  Pheitler,  who  had  been  an  invisible 
spectator  of  the  whole  of  these  occurrences,  had  seen  Mr.  Harpix  thus 
reach  his  proper  place  of  destination,  be  slipped  home,  and  related  the 
whole  story  to  his  Louisa. 

The  gypsies  broke  up  their  encampment  at  day-break  and  vanished, 
and  Mr.  Harpix  hung  on  the  gallows.  A  singular  circumstance  now 
Qocarred. 

A  bosom-friend  of  Mr.  Harpix,  Mr.  Tang,  who  lived  five  miles  off, 
was  that  morning  riding  towards  the  town,  meaning  to  celebrate  his 
birthday  with  his  intimate  acquaintance.     As  he  was  riding  on  fast, 


190 


THE  PENALTY  AFTER  DEATH, 


BO  m  to  arrive  before  the  heat  of  the  day*  and  Raw  a  sinner  roclcing 
backwards  and  forxvards  in  the  wind  an  the  gallows,  he  could  not  deny 
himself  the  innocent  gratification  of  going  nji  lo  it,  in  order  to  take  i 
nearer  view  of  the  criminal,  for  such  speclaciea  had  a  great  attraction  i 
for  him.  He  never  went  to  the  theatre  to  see  a  comedy,  for  he  de-  j 
spised  mch  raree-i*hows,  as  he  called  them  ;  and  as  to  tragedy,  he  smd 
that  one  had  misery  and  qiinlnis  of  conscience  enough  at  home,  with- 
out having  to  pay  money  for  seeing  them  represented  on  the  «tage* 
But  heat  the  same  time  never  missed  an  execution,  and  look  with  him 
his  little  children  ;  for  that  hardens  them«  he  said^  and  adds  ta  their 
phviiiological  ac(|nirements, 

I'he  horse  was  wiser  than  his  master,  for  he  did  not  approve  of  sudi  j 
sights,  shied,  and   made  several  side  hfmnds,  so  that  Mr*  Tang  ' 
obliged  to  get  off;  be  fastened  him  to  a  tree,  and  crossed  on  fmit  over  the] 
field.     Think,  reader,  of  bis   horror  when  he  came  to  the  foot  of  the  J 
gallows,  and  saw  that  honourable  and   respectable  man,   Mr.  Harpix^ 
his  bosom  friend,  and  accomplice  in  all  his  wordly  transaction!*,  dang* 
ling  on  the  gallows  I 

*' Woe  is  me!  all  is  come  to  light  1"  he  exclaimed>  and  lore  hi«  j 
clothes,  altliough  he  was  no  Jew.  '*  Then  I  am  at  last  sold  and  be-  j 
trayed.  Con  Id  not  the  chatterbox  hold  his  tongue  P  He  was  a  malUj 
cious  old  rascal,  and  if  he  was  born  to  be  hung  it  must  have  been  hi«l 
only  comfort  to  think  that  1  shall  have  to  keep  him  company.  Coraeti 
on  him  fur  corrupting  my  good  heart  to  take  a  false  oath,  and  to  bum] 
the  old  deed,  that  was  so  good  a  security  without  it.  Now  there  wiHl 
be  a  hue  and  cry  against  me  for  perjury  and  forgery,  A  gaol — a  trial! 
— -torture — sentence  of  death  await  me.  This  is  a  fine  way  of  cele^l 
brating  one*s  birthday.  Well,  then,  I  will,  in  Heaven's  name,  make| 
away  with  my  sell,  rather  than  fall  into  the  clutches  of  the  law.  Self- 
done  is  well-done  ! " 

With  these  words  he  loosened  the  garter  from  hii  knee,  made  a  alip-l 
knot  in  it,  and  hanged  himself  in  a  weeping-willovv-lree  not  far  from 
the  gallows,  right  opposite  to  his  bo«om  friend. 

No  one  in  the  town  could  conceive  how  or  why  all  this  took  place, 
and  how  tw^o  such  respectable  men  as  Mr,  Harpix  and  Mr.  Tang,  who 
had  never  been  tried  for  any  crime,  should  the  one  have  been  hangedj 
and  the  other  have  hanged  himself.  , 

"  I  would  give  a  hundred  ddlars,"  said  the  rich  old  head  of  tbe| 
police,  the  next  morning,  as  John  PheifiTer  waa  bhaving  hiati  "if  I  ' 
knew  the  rights  of  this  wonderful  btory." 

**  A  word's  a  word^ — a  man  's  a  man,"  said  John  PheiflFer ;  "if  your  i 
honour  will  give  me  the  hundred  dollars,  and  your  word  of  honour  noul 
to  betray  me,  then  I  will  relate  the  whole  of  it  to  you.  I  am  as  innocent 
as  a  lamb!"     lie  tlien  recounted  all  tlie  adventures  of  the  past  nighul 

The  old  magistrate  wondered  beyond  measure,  bad  pity  on  the  poor] 
barber,  gave  him  the  promised  hundred  dollars,  and  John  Pheiffer  joy-» 
fully  hastened  home  with  them  to  his  wife, 

Slime  time  after,  as  8O0n  as  Mr,  Harpix*s  property  ivaa  sold^  ImmIba 
got  back  her  dowry,  and  became  as  round  and  blooming  as  ever*  The 
children  no  longer  slept  upon  straw ;  they  were  seen  every  morning 
rosy-cheeked  and  merry,  with  their  scliyol-btKika  strapped'  on  their 
backs  in  a  satchel,  going  out  of  the  house  to  schooL 


191 

THE  GAOL  CHAPLAIN; 
OR,  A  DARK  PAGE  FROA[  LIFE'S  VOLU^fE, 


CHAPTER    LXIV* 


THE   NBW   MAGISTRATE. 


<•  As  benerotence  is  the  mORt  Rodable  of  all  virtues,  lo  it  is  of  the  lurfrest  extent ; 
fdf  there  i*  not  any  man  either  sc»  ^uat  or  so  little,  bat  he  h  yet  e4iptthle  of  g:iving 
and  of  reoeirtng  benefiu/^ — Sen£ca. 

My  brief  holiday  being  expired,  I  resumed  with  clieerftdness  my 
pn»on  <]ytiesi.  During  my  absence  a  new  magistrate  had  been  added 
by  a  cold  seal  to  the  commission— ^^ I r»  Wor ledge.  PVom  this  gen- 
tleman much  was  expected.  He  was  active,  earnest,  clear-*^ighted, 
and  thoroughly  independent  of  party.  His  after- career  fulfil  led,  to 
a  aignal  extent,  the  hopes  of  those  who  had  entrusted  him  with  the 
administration  of  justice.  His  political  bias  none  con  Id  discover. 
He  held  that  all  men,  iV*  office,  are  subject  to  influences  which  out 
of  place  they  would  repudiate  and  disclaim  ;  that  none  can  be  safely 
trusted  witb  power,  *'  I  am  the  adherent,"  said  he,  "  of  neither  Sir 
Robert  nor  Lord  John.  My  politics  are  peace  and  good  order." 
Some  of  his  colleagues  thought  he  shrunk  more  than  was  advisable 
from  the  infliction  of  punishment.  "  Pooh]  pooh!"  was  his  an- 
swer— **  We  are  to  reconcile  where  we  can,  and  to  punish  where  we 
must.  I  have  a  favourable  view  of  my  kind  ;  and  find  many  in- 
stances of  generosity,  kindness,  and  good  faith  among  my  fellows." 

Frequently  when  a  petitioner  for  a  summons  has  come  before  him 
— desperately  angry — and  determined  to  visit  with  the  full  rigour  of 
the  law  some  unhappy  delinquent^ — ^the  offence  being  one  of  a  petty 
and  pardonable  nature — ^Ir.  Wor  I  edge  has  quietly  remarked — 

**  Well,  my  man!  you  shall  have  a  summons  if  you  desire  it;  but 
gt>^walk  in  my  garden  for  twenty  minutes — and  then  return  to  the 
Hibjecti**  In  more  instances  than  one  the  result  has  been — "  Well, 
dr,  rU  try  Tom,  or  Bob,  or  Jem  (as  the  name  might  be)  once  more: 
HI  go  home  as  I  came.     I'll  take  out  no  summons/' 

At  other  times  a  culprit  has  been  brought  before  him  in  custody 
of  the  constable — heated  and  obstinate — smarting  under  the  severity 
of  some  sentence  which  he  avowed  he  wasn't  "  desarving  of  ;"^ — 
•*  fully  determined  ttot  to  pay  "some  fine,  or  not  to  comply  with 
ftoioe  magisterial  order  imposed  upon  him.  Hodge,  clenching  his 
hawthorn  stick — his  voice  and  manner  alike  betokening  defiance,  has 
vociferously  declared — he  **  wouldn't  submit;"  he  would  "go  to 
gaol  first" — that"  he  would" — and  '"  stop  there— ^and  die  there;"  he 
**  didn't  care  what  became"  of  him — not  he;  he  **  wouldn't  pay — 
never — come  what  would  of  it/' 

"  Very  well  !  I  understand  you  ;"  was  Jlr.  Worledge's  ready  re- 
mark upon  these  occasions — ^' you  need  not  give  yourself  the  trouble 
to  repeat  vour  determination.  Now,  if  I  enter  at  all  into  this  matter 
I  must  adjudicate  upon  it;  and  the   consequences  will  be  serious. 


192 


THE    GAOL   CHAPLAIN. 


But  before  I  do  bo — Constable,  do  you  bear  ? — take  this  young  lad, 
and  walk  him  twice  round  the  shrubbery  field;— slowly — ^you  un*H 
derstand  rae  ? — slowly,  and  then  let  me  see  him  again/*  B 

The  issue— sufficiently  often  to  justify  the  wiadoro  of  the  experi- 
ment— ^has  been  that  Hodge,  looking  considerably  cooler  and  quieter, 
and  making  his  best  bow  on  entering  "  the  presence/'  has  said — 
•*  Please,  sir,  IVe  thought  better  of  it!  I'll  pa^  tlie  money;  and 
there's  an  end  on  it."  m 

To  some  of  his  colleagues  Mr.  Worl edge's  tactics  were  roarveUB 
loasly  unpalatable.     His  line  of  conduct  was  said  to  shew  "  weak- 
ness ;'*  "  undue  sympathy  with  the  people ;"  "  unnecessary  and  un- 
befitting condescension  ;  and  a  '*  craving  appetite  for  popularity/ 
Mr*  Worledgc  pursued  his  course  unmoved.     •*  Nothing'' — ^said  he  J 
in  reply  to  some  moving  representations  from  his  brother  magis- 1 
trates — ''  nothing  shall  deter  me  from  using  every  lawful  expedient 
I  can  muster  to  keep  a  man  out  of  gaol     He  is  ruined  ever  after- 
wards; —temper — habits — feelings — alike  vitiated.     It  is  the  worst] 
of  schools,  I'm  persuaded." 

His  ideas,  too,  relative  to  the  remedies  for  crime  were  abominably  , 
simple.     He  repudiated  all  theories ;    would   have   shut  up  Miss  \ 
Martineau  among  the  incurables,  and  whistled  when  mention  was 
made  to  him  of  the  opinions  and  writings  of  Professor  Pryme.     His  i 
prescription   comprised    one   word — "  Employment."     He  maii 
iained  that  an  idle  population  was  necessarily  a  vicious  population, 
and  rice  ttrgd^     Of  the  labourers  he  spoke  thus : — '*  Set  them  to 
work.     Work^  in  every  village  and  hamlet  in  the  kingdom  can   be 
iWnd  tbefD — mirk  that  will  wcU  repay  the  cmt  of  labour — if  landowners 
vil]  bat  give  themsdves  tbe  trouble  of  seeking  it  out  and  setting  it  { 
•-gom^     Low  w^es  are  preferable  to  no  bread.     If  you  desire  your 
htnma/lamSs  to  Ik  free  frooi  the  visits  of  the  midnight  marauder,  the 
bi^fai^  wmk  the  neeDdnTT*  find  the  labourer  work.*'    On  the  sub- 
ject of  OB^nftiatt  Mr,  H^oried^e's  views  were  still  more  offensive. 
HedcBoiiiicedit  nMevn^y*   He  declared  it  to  be  opposed  to  scrip- 
tatrml  pgccaqit^  imimiiiwi  Immanity ,  and  common  sense.   He  had  the  au- 
dacitv  to  dedbre  thii  br  cnigntion  we  got  rid  of  the  middle  class, — 
tbat  ^MSA  whidi  Is  inwisalile  to  a  nation,  and  particularly  to  a  com- 
mcrcia]  naiioit.     He  asserted  that  it  is  the  middle  class  which  gives 
eiii|iloyiiic!Dt  to  %km  poor,  wiucli  projects  and  carries  out  schemes  in- 
▼ohm^  specuhliwi,  o«tlBy«  and  enterprise.     He  maintained  that 
cbe  withdrawal  of  tli»  dans  from  our  shores  was  an  experiment 
rhicb  eanricfaed  other  Ittods,  but  impoverished  our  o\rn  ; — left  us 
Ded  with  thb  legncT — a  star\ing  refuse  of  population — their 
s  and  the  measss  of  employing  them  being  withdrawn.    He 

refore  denoonced  the  fluent  Lord  A^ ,  the  philosophic  Lord 

B ,  and  the  classical  Sir  Thomas  C ,  as  "  emigration  mad/'       \ 

There  never  was  such  a  heretic  on  the  score  of  commonly- received 
"^initttif,  aa  the  plain-spoken  and  imperturbable  Afr.  Worledgel 

\jid  yet,  buoume  as  he  was,  there  was  nothing  mawkish  in  hit 

t  of  sefitiment.     He  ridiculed  those  declamatory  personages  who 

vcTutiH'tit  and   iui3>v  :.  uching  the  suiferings  of  prisoners;  and 
comfortable.     *•  Keep,"  was  his  line  of   , 

.  „.     .  -eT  out  of  a  gaol  as  long  as  you  are  able, 

*v  '  dnmcr  ressari/     But,  once  there,  let  the 

r  GiUjij  are  pLccs  of  punishment — nut  of  re 


THE   GAOL   CIIAPLAIN, 


19^ 


laxation  or  amusement :  and  us  places  of  punishment  let  gluom^  and 
restnunt»  and  correction,  and  privation  characterize  them/*  His 
ftympathies  mij;ht  be,  as  waii  asserted  of  him,  with  the  masses  ; 
,  but  be  never  forgot  the  dignity  or  independence  of  his  office.  He 
ECtedj  he  remembered  well,  judiciafii/  between  man  and  man:  and 
never,  at  the  termination  of  any  controversv  or  difference  held  be- 
fore him,  and  decided  by  him,  appealed  to  either  party  for  their  ap- 
probation of  his  ruling.     It  is  not  always  thus.     Would  it  were  ! 

But  his  religious  creed  was  most  open  to  remark  ;  and,  touching 
this  a  curious  trait  is  extant  respecting  him.  The  vicar  of  his  parish 
was  non-resident :  and  his  place  was  supplied  by  a  curate,  the  Rev. 
Yarcombe  Spinks, 

Mr.  Spinks  hdd  but  one  sermon  for  the  whole  fifly-two  Sundays 
in  the  year.  Festival,  or  fast- day,  h  was  all  the  same  to  him.  He 
never  preached  but  one  sermon,  and  that  *'  on  the  iniquities  of 
Popery/*  There  was,  'tis  true,  a  new  head-piece  and  crupper.  The 
text  was  changed,  and  the  conchision  re-modelled.  In  other  respects 
the  dose  was  **  the  same  as  before  T'  Mr.  Worledge  listened  with 
exemplary  attention  to  this  same  sermon  for  eleven  consecutive  Sun- 
dayg.  On  the  twelfth  his  patience  failed  hira;  and  he  addressed  a 
few  words  of  expostulation  to  his  miidster. 

**  Are  not  the  pains  you  are  at  present  taking,  Mr.  Spinks,  super- 
fluous? There  is  not  a  sin^jle  Roman  Catholic  in  the  parish,  nor 
within  nine  miles  of  ua.  I  am  a  Protestant.  My  tenants  are  all 
Protestants,  The  congregation  to  a  man  is  Protestant.  Your 
flock  mainly  consists  of  poor,  unlettered,  labouring  men,  passing 
their  lives  in  the  threshing-floor,  at  the  plough-tail,  or  beside  the 
wheat- stack.  Ploughing,  sowingt  harrowing,  and  reaping,  make  up 
the  daily  routine  of  their  unambitious  lives.  What  care  they  to 
know  what  false  doctrines  are  embodied  in  the  '*  creed  of  Pope  Pius 
IV. ;"  or  what  erroneous  views  may  be  found  in  '  Dr.  Bonaventura's 
Psalter  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary  >*  Wfirthy  Mr.  Spinks,  do  es- 
chew controversy,  and  give  ua  a  plain  simple  sermon  on  Christian 
practice/' 

So  spoke  Mr.  Wot  ledge  ;  but  his  pastor  replied, 
**It  is  highly  requisite  that  these  poor  people  should  know  well 
the  wickedness  taught  by  Pope  Pius  IV.,  and  perpetuatetl  in  his 
creed  ;  and  also  what  an  improper  and  idolatrous  psalter  St.  Bona- 
ventura's  psalter  is.     This  truly  reprehensible  saint — " 

•*  They  will  never  be  able  to  pronounce  his  name  V  ejaculated  Mr. 
Worledge  with  a  sigh. 

**  Deserves  every  censure  that  can  be  cast  upon  him/*  continued 
Mr,  Spinks,  "and,  for  my  own  part,  I  shall  never  cease  laying  bare 
the  iniquities  of  popery  till  it  is  rooted  out  of  the  land." 

"My  reverend  friend!"  exclaimed  the  Justice,  **  listen  to  me  for 
one  brief  moment.  During  six  days  of  the  week  I  am  compelled  to 
hear  and  know  much  of  strife,  much  of  calumny,  much  of  envy,  much 
of  unju»t  assertion  and  reckless  conclusion:  on  the  Sabbath  I  wish 
— is  it  unreasonable  f — to  be  soothed  by  other  and  different  topics.  I 
desire  to  hear  something  inculcating  reverence  and  obedience  to- 
wards my  IMaker  — charity  and  compassion  towards  my  fellow 
creatures." 

•*  Think  of  the  bloody  massacre  of  St,  Barlliolumew  V  cried  Mr, 
Spinksi  in  sepulchral  tones. 


CHAWAiy, 


-Ab  act  ^  Mr 


WV> 


^nTS 


i  the  Justice,  **  and 

\itr 

efend  it,  sod  ftdmtre  it, 
at  Rome  to  eotnmenio- 

iid  Mr.  Worledge, 
I  SccicUfy  credit  for  better  taste* 
idi  that  is  eliciting,  and  distre^s- 
kof  lifee  week^-^-on  the  sev^enth, 
» «f  r»l  and  peace/' 
Mr.  Spoik'a  will  inii  sod  inexorable 


Tlie  JttStiee  left  Ua  parklk  efaarch,  and  aarijgnfd  ^  fo  doing  this 
■oai,  tbag  H  gave  bin  no  pleture  to  hear»  every 
tiitf  m>  many  tboitsandi  of  hia  fellow  subjects 
t  CDTidoped  in  a  sioogfa  of  error,  aapentkioii,  and  idolatry^  which 
dber  woidd  throw  off  otilj  to  wake  in  endleaB  niaery. 

Sa^  waa  the  nev  magirtjate. 

"Once  more  anongst  us,  eh,  Mr*  CleaTcr?**  Thus  his  greeting 
ran  on  my  return-  **  Your  holiday  has  been  short,  1  hope  jou 
have  made  the  most  of  it.  Mr.  Osterl y,  your  substitute,  has  been  a»- 
aidoooa  and  very  judicious.  I  have  heard  him  repeatedly  address 
the  prisoners.  His  remarks  were  plain,  simple,  and  short ;  no  fana- 
ticism and  no  0ighu  of  fancy  in  them;  but  intelligible,  fall  of 
charity  and  common  sense.'* 

"  Too  moderate,  far  too  moderate,"  interposed  Mr.  Watson  Cura- 
berstone  from  the  opposite  comrr,  with  a  very  condemnatory  shake 
ai  the  head ;  **  they  want  fire ;  there  *8  no  cayenne  pepper  in  them  I" 

*'  I'm  a  plain  man/*  observed  the  new  magistrate,  in  his  usual 
gentle  tones,  "  and  detest  all  high  seasoning,  in  Divinity  more  es- 
pecially." 


CHAFTSH    UtT. 


**  People  leldom  improve  when  they  bare  no  otJier  modrl  but  themielrea  to  i 
aflter/' — GoLOftitiTH. 

Thb  addition  of  a  new  visiting  magistrate  to  the  list  of  tho^e  who 
*'had  the  oversight "  of  us,  was  not  the  only  change  which  had  oc- 
curred in  the  prison  during  my  absence,  A  new  surgeon  had  been 
appointed.     He  with  vhom   I   had   co-operated   for   so  many  years, 

f)rofessed  himself  weary  of  the  continual  change  of  rules  and  regu- 
atjons  which  were  sent  down  by  successive  Home  Secretaries  for 
the  governttnce  of  the  medienl  officers  in  all  gaols  anil  houses  of  cor- 
rection within  the  realm.  He  declared  his  memory  unequal  to  the 
tjuk  of  renumbmn^  the  conflicting  cmlea  which  different  political 
chiefs  promulgated  from  the  Home  Office.  What  was  right  to-day 
became  wron^  to-morrow.  He  never  knew  whether  praise  or  cen- 
sure awaited  him.  No  human  being  ihnt  he  was  acquainted  with 
could  steer  a  fuile  cnur^ie  amid  such  clashing  and  convicting  instruc- 
ts.    The  **  pressure  from  without  **  waa  too  strong  for  him :  he 


THE  GAOL   CHAPLAIN* 


1^5 


yielded  to  its  influence^  and  retired.  His  succesaor  was  Dr.  Totlrigg, 
better  known  as  **  Old  Scratch/'  This  latter  cognomen  was  be- 
stowed upon  him  from  the  closing  incident  of  his  matrimonial  life. 
The  Doctor  held  that,  where  tempers  do  not  completely  accord, 
brief  commynications  are  judicious.  Acting  upon  this  idea,  during 
a  temporary  absence  from  honie,  he  desired  that  he  might  be  plagued 
by  no  letters,  but  that  the  newspaper  might  be  forwarded  with  un- 
deviating  regularity  :  '*  a  broad  scratch  on  its  cover,"  he  added^ 
"would  apprise  him  that  Mr<,  T.  was  well/'  For  eleven  days  the 
newspaper,  duly  scratched,  reached  him ;  on  the  twelfth  and  thir- 
teentn  day  no  scratch  appeared.  He  wrote,  angrily  enough,  to  in- 
ouire  why  it  was  omitted.  The  reason  was  coolly  given — '*  Mrs, 
Todrigg  was  dead  /  " 

The  deceased  lady  had  peculiarities  on  her  side.  She  was  a  wi- 
dow, amply  dowered,  when  the  Doctor  wooed  her  ;  and  it  was  whis- 
pered that  his  overtures  met  with  a  ready  and  gracious  hearing 
mainly  in  consequence  of  *' a,  slight**  which  was  offered  the  lady  in 
the  early  days  of  her  widowhood,  and  which  her  chafed  spirit  never 
surmounted.  Mr.  Daubuz^  her  first  husband,  had  been  gathered  to 
his  fathers  about  six  weeks,  and  his  w^ealthy  relict,  ponderous  alike 
in  purse  and  person,  was  stalking  about  in  all  the  pomp  and  para- 
phernalia of  comfortable  woe,  when  it  occurred  to  her  that  black- 
edged  visiting-cards  were  proper  for  a  person  in  her  truly  afflicted 
drcum stances,  and  she  betook  herself  to  the  counter  of  the  principal 
bookseller  of  the  little  town  in  which  she  sojourned.  The  party 
was  also  a  printer  on  a  paltry  scale,  renowned  for  drink,  and  for  the 
unfailing  carelessness  with  which  he  conducted  a  declining  business. 

The  widow  sat  down  hastily,  and  rested  where  she  could,  and  as 
soon  as  she  could,  her  corpulent  person  ;  and  the  while  talketl  and 
groaned,  and  alluded  to  the  many  virtues,  excellences,  and  oddities 
of  the  late  lamented  Mr.  Daubuz, — no  oddity,  by  the  way,  appeared 
so  totally  indefensible  to  his  surviving  relatives  as  that  of  leaving  to 
this  uneducated  woman  his  entire  property, — and  ever  and  anon 
applied  a  cambric  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  and  looked  as  desolate* 
sad,  and  sorrow- stricken  as  her  plump  figure,  rosy  cheeks,  and  ronnd 
laaghing  eyes  would  allow. 

The  purchase  made,  Mrs.  Daubuz  rose  hastily  from  her  seat,  as  if 
overcome  by  the  topic,  and  sought,  *'with  ponderous  step  and 
slow,"  her  widowed  home»  As  she  proceeded  onwards,  she  fancied 
those  who  overtook  and  passed  her  appeared  extremely  mirthful, 
and  **  ha<I  a  very  comical  stare  in  their  eye,''  Ere  long  she  dis- 
tinctly caught  the  words,  '*  These  very  extensive  premises  to  let. 
An  early  application  is  desirable/' 

**  Where  can  these  be?"  murmured  the  widow.  "Premises?  I 
know  of  none  vacant  in  Boddlebury/' 

And  the  wondering  lady  paused,  and  scanned  the  street  inquisi- 
tively. No  empty  domicile  met  her  eye,  and  once  more  she  got 
under  weigh.  She  had  panted  onwards  a  few  yards,  when  she  was 
once  more  brought  up  all  standing  by  a  burst  of  laughter  from  some 
parties  behind  her,  and  by  the  same  perplexing  declaration  about 
**  extensive  premises  "  and  "  early  application." 

•*  I  wish  I  was  well  out  of  this — ^  that  1  do/'  was  the  stout  lady's 
comment;  *' I 'ni  always  timersome  when  I  walks  abroad  alone. 
And  I  've  htertl  afore  now  tluit  people  have  been  hustled  as  they  *ve 


196 


THE  GAOL   CHAPLAIN, 


trudged  along  in  broad  daylight,  Mrs,  Boby  was  in  BIni]ioghaii], 
and  she  &aid  a  genteel  cracksman — " 

"  Capilal ! "  cried  a  voice  behind  her.  '*  That 's  an  advertisement! 
— as  good  as  Rof}ins*s — shorter,  bat  quite  as  pointed.  Shall  we  stop 
her?" 

"Robbers!  I  thought  as  much/' echoed  the  lady,  "Oh!  if  I 
could  but  see  one  of  the  new  police ! — and,  gracious  !  to  think  of  a 
twenty-pound  note  in  my  purse,  and  a  matter  of  seventeen  shillings 
in  my  left-hand  pocket!  Given  to  me  ! — 1  say,  given  to  me,  if  I 
eaves  'em  now.  But  1  shan't  1  Well^  if  I  ever  walks  abroad  again 
alone—" 

**  Madam/*  said  the  youngest  of  the  two  springalds,  accosting  her, 
and  endeavouring  to  command  a  grave  expression,  **  permit  me  to 
make  you  acquainted  with  a  circumstance — " 

*'  I  *ve  too  many  acquaintance  as  it  is/'  responded  the  lady,  mend- 
ing her  pace  with  every  energy  she  could  command. 

*'  But  really,  ma'am,  this  circumstance  is  so  unusual,  that  your 
knowledge  of  it  is^ — " 

*'  All  *s  one ! "  ejaculated  the  lady,  keeping  up  her  pace,  under  the 
full  conviction  that  both  herself  and  her  purse  were  in  imminent 
peril.  '*  Let  me  go  on  my  w^ays  of  sorrow,  Xiamentation  and  woe 
is  before  me.  I  haven't  a  furthing  in  the  world — ^not  a  farthing — I 
mean  to  spare*  And  my  mourning  weeds  should  protect  me. — Burn 
the  fellow  !  " — this  was  an  aside — "  one  of  Mrs*  Boby*s  cracksmen,  I 
dare  to  say.     Never  saw  a  robber  so  genteelly  dressed  in  my  life ! ' 

^*  You  will  regret,  madam j  not  listening  to  our — " 

**  Shall  I  ?"  cried  the  delighted  Mrs,  Daubnzj  as  she  hastily  lelt 
the  high  road,  and  entered  a  small  paddock*  '*  Now,  villains,"^ — and 
she  faced  round  on  her  assailants, — **  I  've  arrived  at  my  own 
grounds;  and,  if  yon  dares  to  mislest  rae,  1 11  send  tor  Bowser,  the 
pariah  constable,  and  have  you  both  taken  to  the  round-house/' 

A  peal  of  laughter  was  the  response, — a  second  and  a  third  reachetl 
the  heated  lady's  ears. 

*'  Them  laughs  as  wins/'  cried  she  exultingly.  *'  \  'm  safe  1 — 
pusSy  bank-note,  silver,  and  all  !  *' 

And  in  high  good-humour  the  trinmphant  woman  passed  into  her 
mansion.  There  her  attendant  toadee^ — wealthy  widows  are  seldom 
without  an  animal  of  this  description — came  forward  with  a  shriek. 

*'  Oh  !  my  blessed  and  lovely  Mrs.  Daubuz,  where  ftave  you  been^ 
and  what  indignities  have  you  suffered  V 

"  Indignities  \  I  like  that.  No,  my  dear, — ^no  indignities  have 
fallen  to  my  share.  But  I  *ve  defeated  two  of  the  swell-mob.  They 
w  anted  to  draw  me — me  ! — into  conversation,  and  then  rob  me.  But 
I  've  not  lived  to  bury  two  husbands  for  nothing,     I  've  done  'em.'* 

And  Mrs.  Daubuz  uttered  a  moat  complacent  chuckle  at  the  re- 
collection of  her  late  triumph. 

*' O  my  dearest  friend  I"  shrieked  Miss  Filch,  "my  gentle  and 
ever-honoured  Mrs.  Daubuz,  look  here!"  And  the  toatlee  pointed 
to  an  enormous  placard  pasted  on  the  dress  of  her  portly  hostess^, 
directing  public  attention  to  **  capacious  premises,"  and  suggesting 
the  wisdom  of  an  *' early  application." 

*' Indeed  !*' cried  tfie  widow  angrily.  "And  so  I've  been  suf- 
fered to  sit  down  on  a  posting-bill,  larded  with  paste,  and  to  carry 
it  away  with  me, — ay,  and  to  walk  with  it  up  and  down  the  town 
for  three  quarters  of  an  hour,^ — and  none  to  undeceive  me  !  *' 


THE  GAOL    CHAPLAIN. 


Miss  Fitch  sobbed. 

*•  Savcnges  !  "  resumed  the  widow, 


'  worse  nor  savcnges  1 


-and 


she  lore  the  placard  to  fraginetits — '*  to  permit  me  to  stalk  about  in 
this  fashion,  to  make  myself  a  world's  wonder  I  Well  might  the 
boobies  I  passed  grin  firorn  ear  to  ear  \ " 

**  infamous  !"  ejaculated  to,idee. 

**  1 11  leave  the  town^"  continued  the  exasperated  lady.  **  It  has 
seen  the  last  of  my  money  :  I  abandon  it.  I  '11  seek  another 
home/* 

She  did  so,  and  within  six  months  found  it  under  the  roof  of  Dr. 
Todfigg, 

Unhappy  lady  !  it  seemed  as  if  a  bookseller's  shop  was  forbidden 
ground  to  her.  Shortly  after  her  nuptials  with  the  doctor,  it  oc- 
curred to  her  that  books  were  wanted  in  her  new  dwelling^,  and  she 
betook  herself  to  the  head  of  a  large  firm  in  a  neighbouring  borough- 
town. 

The  principal  partner,  a  somewhat  forma!  and  punctilious  person- 
age, was  in  the  shop  when  she  entered,  and  to  him  she  .iddressed 
herself. 

"  1  want  a  libcn/,  I  can't  do  without  iL  I  must  have  one  at 
once.*' 

**  Certainly,  madam,  by  all  means.  What  line  of  reading  do  you 
prefer  >'* 

'*  How  d'ye  mean  ?" 

'*  Scientific,  religious ;  or  do  you  incline  to  works  of  fiction, 
poetry,  or  history  ?" 

"  Oh,  gammon  !  Don't  beat  the  bush  in  that  fiishion,*'  observed 
the  lady,     "  Say  your  say,  and  have  done  with  it/' 

"  1  mean,  madam/'  observed  the  astonished  bibliopole,  ''  that, 
with  regard  to  this  intended  purchase  of  books,  you  would  be  gooil 
enough  to  indicate  the  nature  of  their  contents  ?*' 

'•  Burn  their  contents  I  "  was  the  lady's  rejoinder  ;  "  I  mind  their 
outsides.     Give  me  books  with  good,  gay,  handsome  kivers*" 
#  «  #  #  « 

^It  never  struck  the  ill-starred  Dr.  Todrigg  that  his  lady,  having 

'  her  pr.jperty  under  her  own  control,  aotl  the  power  of  willing  it 
as  she  pleased,  might  perchance  exercise  the  authority  vested  in  her 
somewnat  strangely  and  capriciously.  It  may  be  she  was  diificuU 
to  please,— it  may  be  he  was  deficient  in  attention  ;  at  all  events,  the 
coolness  with  which  he  curtailed  their  correspondence  rankled  in 
her  recollection.  An  hour  or  two  before  her  strange  career  closed, 
she  called  for  her  will. 

•*  1  have  left,"  said  she,  '*  to  the  doctor  a  legacy  ;  but,  as  he  has 
scrimped  our  correspondence  to  a  8cratch>  I  '11  try  the  effect  of  one 
here" 

Ho  saying,  she  deliberately  erased  the  bequest  from  the  document. 

"A  scratch  to  some  purpose! "  was  her  comment,  as  she  returned 
the  paper  to  its  hiding-place.  It  was  a  melancholy  scratch  for  the 
Doctor;  for  it  consigned  him  for  life  to  the  post  of  feeling  the  pulse 
and  patching  up  the  constitution  of  convicted  felons. 

The  blow  was  unexpected,  and  caused  him  life-long  vexation. 
More  than  this,  it  engendered  a  very  indifferent  n pinion  of  the  %rex, 
which  he  never  cared  to  conceal.  He  might  have  been  a  wealthy 
widower : — as  it  was — Puoh  Old  Scratch  ! 


196 


THE  RET.  RICHARD  HARRIS  BARUAM. 

ATimom  cr  -  thm  kcouisbt  i.sgkxd6." 

'vrrs  a  T'Zt.r-KMiY  tm^z-m  a  dmavisg  bt  bichau>  i.ax£,  a  b.a.] 

WATTsnf^  tbe  dear  sIlt  on  a  samnier's  erening,  and  the  bright 
sfevf  wfiV*:  fiiirter  oo  it5  £ne,  and  dart  their  radiance  around,  whilst 
tke  earth  fmks  in  their  preaenee,  ve  fancy  that  we  may  rejoioe  in 
\  £ar  erer ;  bat  alas !  in  a  few  brief  nKMnents  dark- 
and  sweep  acroat  oar  firmamenL  One  by  one 
J  orbs  dtsppear,  and  the  borixoo,  sparUin^  no  longer,  is 

reioped  in  a  dreanr  expanse  of  cheerless  gloom.  So  it  is  in  the 
For  awhile  the  briliiant  Hgfats  of  its  sphere  shed  their 
halo  aionnd,  and  all  is  glowing  and  daaaling  where  they  shine.  The 
gleams  of  iT»*g*"*»**»*  and  the  flashes  of  intellect  illumine  the  scene, 
and  we  fondly  hope  that  the  fleet  mortal  pleasure  will  be  immortal ; 
but  the  glories  frde  awar,  and  the  shadows  of  death  gradually  wrap 
the  whole  in  oblivion,  llie  stars  will  shine  again  fixxm  the  heavens, 
and  our  own  and  other  eyes  will  again  and  again  bdmld  them  ;  but 
there  is  no  returning  for  the  friends  we  hare  loved  and  lost, — there 
is  no  rekindling  of  the  luminaries,  and  stmetimes  the  meteors,  of 
oar  brief  existence,  who  hare  cheered  its  thorniest  paths;,  and  adorned 
its  Tery  sterility  with  the  lustre  of  their  gladsome  influence.  The 
Aatt  or  reason  is  concluded,  the  flow  of  sotd  is  o'er. 

We  cannot  but  reflect  sorrowfully  on  the  number  of  the  distin- 
guished ornaments  of  our  age  who  have,  within  a  few  years,  been 
taken  from  us.  learing  no  succession  to  fill  their  vacant  chairs ;  for 
the  hurried  pursuits  of  Mammon  seem  to  have  absorbed  the  faculties 
of  the  rising  generation,  and  produce«t  ^  great  change  in  sodety. 

The  Rev.  Richard  Harris  Barham,whoee  recent  and  premature  death 
has  made  a  deep  gap  in  the  society  of  a  huge  circle  of  friends,  has  left 
a  memory  embalmed  in  genuine  and  permanent  regret.  Of  him  most 
truly  might  it  be  said,  in  the  language  of  the  great  Roman  lyrist, 

^  Cul  pudor,  et  justitue  iorar, 
Inoomipta  fides,  nudaque  rerius, 
Quando  uilum  inreniec  parem  ?** 

Of  his  features  and  his  talents  the  present  number  of  this  MisceU 
laity,  to  which  he  has  contributed  so  many  admirable  emanations  of 
his  wit  and  genius,  preserves  a  record, — the  characteristic  resem- 
blance of  a  man  universally  esteemed,  and  a  poetic  touch  of  that 
good  feding  which  won  for  him  so  eviable  an  share  of  reciprocal 
aflection  and  general  r^ard. 

The  father  of  Mr.  Barham  resided  in  the  ancient  cathedral  dty  of 
Canterbury,  where  the  subject  of  the  present  sketch  was  born,  and 
in  the  neigfabottrhood  cxf  which  the  family  had  been  for  many  years 
loeated.^  In  person  he  was  physically  inclined  to  that  corpulency 
which,  in  our  English  constitutions,  is  usually  attributed  to  a  con- 
^Mfetd  diapoaition,  a  kindly  heart,  and  the  sunshine  of  good  temper. 
^  thai  m  it  may,  he  unquestionably  transmitted  those  amiable  qua- 
tht  eY«n  nature,  the  i^enerous  sympathy,  and  the  playful 
•<— to  hia  aoo.    From  hia  boyhood  Mr.  Barham  was  a  humor- 


THE    REV.   RICHARD    KARRIS    BARUAM. 


199 


ist ;  in  proof  of  which  it  may  be  mentioned,  that  he  was  chief  leader^ 

or  president,  of  a  school  and  juvenile  association  in  hia  native  place,  . 
who  assumed  to  themselves  the  title  of  The  Wig  Club,  and  who^ ' 
disguised  in  legal,  clerical,  and  sporting  wigs  of  every  sort,  from  the 
judge's  fuO-bottom  to  the  pedagogue's  scratch,  be&idea  other  mas- 
querade habits,  were  wont  to  meet  in  choice  divan,  and  play  auch 
fantastic  tricks  as  more  frequently  attend  the  inventions  of  the  cle- 
verest men,  when  seeking  recreation  from  severe  studies  and  toils, 
than  could  be  expected  from  the  sallies  of  youth.  But  here  reigned 
whimsical  debate  and  ludicrous  fancy, — ^the  microcosm  of  the  future. 

In  these  early  years  an  accident,  when  leaning  his  arm  out  of  a 
carriage  window,  seriously  shattered  his  elbow,  and  partially  crip- 
pled it  for  life.  This  had  a  considerable  effect  upon  bis  future  des- 
tination and  the  course  of  his  studies ;  for,  as  he  was  restraiued  from 
athletic  exercises,  and  exposed  to  hiconvenience.  pain^  and  farther 
injury,  he  applied  sedulously  to  reading,  and  in  due  time  became  a 
ripe  scholar,  with  a  mind  richly  stored  with  various  literature. 

His  education  was  finished  at  Brazennoze  College,  Oxford,  where 
he  was  by  a  few  years  the  junior  of  Bishop  Copleston  ;  and  he  sub- 
sequently attained  to  a  friendship  with  that  learned  prelate  (whose  j 
gratuitous  almoner  he  in  some  measure  became),  which  lasted  la 
the  clo^  of  his  life.  Of  another  eminent  churchman,  to  whom  in 
many  respects  he  bore  a  singular  similarity,  he  was  also  a  very 
cordial  friend.  By  strange  coincidences  of  fortune,  his  college  con- 
temporary rose  to  be  the  head  of  St.  PauTs  cathedral,  the  facetious 
Sydney  Smith  to  be  Canon  Residentiary,  and  he  himself  to  be  a 
Elinor  Canon,  with  the  curious  addition  of  being  the  Elder  Cardinal 
(the  Rev.  Mr.  Packe  being  the  other), — a  preferment  the  very  name 
of  which  is  littleknown  beyond  the  precincts  of  that  noble  Protestant 
fane.  It  is,  we  believe,  a  form  or  relic  of  the  elder  church,  with 
no  duties  attached  to  it,  and  but  slight  emolument.  He  occupied 
the  canonry  house  in  Amen  Corner,  attached  to  the  canonry  of  the 
Rev.  Sydney  Smithy  and,  within  a  few  months  of  the  death  of  that 
very  popular  writer,  there  he  died.  Of  the  witty  canon  he  was  wont 
to  tell  the  liveliest  anecdotes,  and  repeat  his  htmmuts  with  an  unc- 
tuous pleasantry  all  his  own  ;  so  that  it  would  have  been  difficult  to 
determine  whether  the  original  je^t  or  the  embellished  story  was  the 
more  pungent  and  entertaining.  Nor  did  his  o^wjeux  d' esprit  fnW 
far  short  of  those  of  his  popular  coadjutor.  His  conversation  was 
the  happiest  mixture  of  sound  wisdom  and  playfuhiess;  and  many 
of  his  lighter  compositions,  such  as  the  ^'^Song  on  the  Queen's  Ct)- 
ronation/' abound  in  whimsicality  of  idea,  enhanced  by  equal  whim- 
fticality  of  style. 

In  the  Rev.  Mr,  Barham  were  finely  blended  the  solid  and  the 
agreeable,  the  grave  when  occasion  required  it,  and  the  mirthful  | 
■when  relaxing  within  the  convivial  circle  of  attached  companions. 
These  qualities  endeared  him  to  all  who  knew  him  and  apprecirited 
hit  value  as  a  sagacious  counsellor,  and  were  familiar  with  the  rich 
treat  afforded  by  his  moments  of  social  converse.  Among  these  lite- 
rary associates  might  be  named  Theodore  Hook,  who  largely  benefited 
by  his  excellent  and  disinterested  advice,  and  had  much  reason  to  be 
grateful  for  his  services  on  many  a  trying  occasion.  This  peculiar 
position,  in  relation  to  a  great  number  of  individuals,  was  the  result 
of  lii«  admirable  character  ;  for  his  gentleneas  of  manners  invited  con- 


800  THE   REV.    RICHARD   HARRIS   BARHAM. 

fidence;  indeed,  we  never  met  with  a  man  so  much  referred  to  and 
oonaulted  respecting  die  difficulties  or  disputes  of  others  as  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Barham.  In  affairs  connected  with  literature,  and  in  family  and 
other  transactions  of  the  nicest  delicacy, — in  all  questions  of  difference 
within  the  scope  of  his  wide  acquaintence,  it  was  next  to  a  certainty 
that  he  should  be  sought  out  to  prescribe  the  remedy  or  heal  the 
wound.  He  was  indeed  the  conciliator  and  the  peace-maker !  To 
the  honour  of  the  gentleman  he  added  the  liberality  of  the  Christian 
minister.  Ever  ready  to  smooth  asperities,  and  to  excuse  venial  faults 
or  weaknesses,  his  countenance  sternly  turned  from  trickery,  false- 
hood, and  baseness ;  and  if  the  just  yet  lenient  Barham  repudiated  a 
fellow-creature,  assuredly  he  was  most  undeserving  even  of  pity. 

As  an  author,  he  contributed  much,  and  during  many  years,  to 
several  popular  periodicals,  —  the  Edinburgh  Review,  Jblacknrood'jt 
Magazine,  and  the  Literary  Gazette  among  the  number ;  but  his 
most  popular  series  of  papers  were  given  to  this  Miscellany,  under 
the  title  of  "  The  Ingoldsby  Legends."*  Of  these  poetical  pieces  it 
18  not  too  much  to  say,  that  for  originality  of  design  and  diction,  for 
quaint  illustration  and  musical  verse,  they  are  not  surpassed  in  the 
ISnglish  language.  "  The  Witches'  Frolic"  is  second  only  to  "  Tam 
O'Shanter ;"  and  the  *'  Hon.  Mr.  Sucklethumbkin's  Story  of  the  Exe- 
cution" is  as  satirical  a  reproof  of  a  vile  morbid  appetite  as  ever  was 
couched  in  laughable  measure.  But  why  recapitulate  the  titles  of 
either  prose  or  verse, — the  lays  of  dark  ages  belonging  to  the  fables 
of  St.  Cuthbert,  St  Aloys,  St.  Dunsten,  St.  Nicholas,  St.  Odille,  or 
St  Oengulphus, — since  they  have  been  confessed  by  every  judgment 
to  be  singularly  rich  in  classic  allusion  and  modem  illustration. 
From  the  days  of  Hudibras  to  our  time,  the  drollery  invested  in 
rhymes  has  never  been  so  amply  or  felicitously  exemplified ;  and  if 
derision  has  been  unsparingly  applied,  it  has  been  to  lash  knavery 
and  imposture. 

Among  the  public  institutions  to  which  the  Rev.  Mr.  Barham  was 
attached  we  may  mention  the  Literary  Fund,  in  the  distribution  of 
whose  benevolent  funds  he  took  an  active  interest. 

For  several  months  he  endured,  with  calm  resignation,  a  painful 
malady  of  the  throat ;  and  died,  aged  fifly-six,  of  an  ulceration  of  the 
larynx,  which  defied  all  medical  skill.  He  formerly  held  the  living 
of  St.  Gregory  by  St.  Paul,  but  two  or  three  vears  ago  was  preferred 
to  the  benefice  of  St  Augustine  and  St  Faith.  He  was,  as  we  have 
noticed,  a  Minor  Canon  and  Cardinal  of  St  Paurs,  and  Priest  of 
the  Chapel  Royal. 

He  married  Caroline,  third  daughter  of  Captain  Smart,  of  the 
Royal  Engineers,  a  union  eminently  congenial  and  happy  ;  and  by 
her  had  nine  children,  six  of  whom  di^  before  him,  and  near  to 
whom  he  was  buried  in  the  rector's  vault,  under  the  altar  of  St. 
Gregory's  Church.  His  widow  survives  him;  and  two  daughters 
and  a  son,  Richard  Dalton,  the  inheritor  of  much  of  his  father's 
talent  He  is  also  in  the  Church,  and  rector  of  Lol worth,  near  Cam- 
bridge. 

For  the  subjoined  lines,  the  last  production  of  Thomas  Ingoldsby, 
a  few  days  before  his  deadi,  we  are  indebted  to  the  kindness  of  his 
family. 

*  Since  oullected  and  published  in  2  Tok.  Bwo.  Hit  popular  novel,  "  My  Coosin 
Nioolat,**  was  also  published  in  3  vola. 


201 


"  AS  I  LA  YE  A  TH  YNK  YNGE. ' 

THB    LAST   LINKS   OF   THOMAS   INGOLDSBY. 
1. 

As  I  laye  a-thynkynge,  a-thynkynge,  a-thynkynge, 
Merrie  sang  the  Birde  as  she  sat  upon  the  spraye ; 
There  came  a  noble  Knyghte^ 
With  his  hauberke  shynynge  brighte. 
And  his  gallant  heart  was  lyghte. 
Free,  and  gaye ; 
As  I  lay  a-thynkynge^  he  rode  upon  his  waye. 

2. 

As  I  laye  a-thynkynge^  a-thynkynge,  a-thynkynge. 
Sadly  sang  the  Birde  as  she  sat  upon  the  tree ; 
There  seem'd  «  crimson'd  plain^ 
Where  a  gallant  Knyghte  laye  slayne^ 
And  a  steed^with  broken  rein 
Ran  free. 
As  I  laye  a-thynkynge^  most  pityful  to  see. 

3. 

As  I  laye  a-thynkynge,  a-thynkynge,  a-thynkynge, 
Merrie  sang  the  Birde  as  she  sat  upon  the  boughe  ; 

A  lovely  Mayde  came  bye. 

And  a  gentil  youth  was  nyghe^ 

And  he  breathed  manie  a  syghe 
And  a  vowe. 
As  I  laye  a-thynkynge,  her  hearte  was  gladsome  now. 

4. 
As  I  laye  a-thynkynge,  a-thynkynge,  a-thynkynge, 
Sadly  sang  the  Birde  as  she  sat  upon  the  thorne ; 
No  more  a  Youth  was  there. 
But  a  Maiden  rent  her  haire. 
And  cried  in  sadde  despaire, 
"  That  I  was  borne ! " 
As  I  laye  a-thynkynge,  she  perished  forlorne. 


VOL.  XVIII. 


202  AS   I    LAYE    A-THYNKYNGE. 

5. 

As  I  laye  a-thynkynge,  a-thynkynge,  a-thynkynge. 
Sweetly  sang  the  Birde  as  she  sat  upon  the  briar ; 

There  came  a  lovely  childe^ 

And  his  face  was  meek  and  mild. 

Yet  joyously  he  smiled 
On  his  sire ; 
As  I  laye  a-thynkynge^  a  Cherub  mote  admire. 

6. 
But  I  laye  a-thynkynge,  a-thynkynge,  a-thynkynge. 
And  sadly  sang  the  Birde  as  it  perch'd  upon  a  bier ; 
That  joyous  smile  was  gone. 
And  the  face  was  white  and  wan 
As  the  downe  upon  the  swan 
Doth  appear. 
As  I  laye  a-thynkynge — oh !  bitter  flow'd  the  tear  ! 

7. 

As  I  laye  a-thynkynge,  the  golden  sun  was  sinking, 
O  merrie  sang  that  Birde  as  it  glitter'd  on  her  breast ; 
With  a  thousand  gorgeous  dyes. 
While  soaring  to  the  skies, 
'Mid  the  stars  she  seem'd  to  rise. 
As  to  her  nest ; 
As  I  laye  a-thynkynge,  her  meaning  was  exprest : — 
**  Follow,  follow  me  away. 
It  boots  not  to  delay," — 
'Twas  so  she  seem'd  to  saye, 
"  Here  is  rest  ! " 

T.  I. 


203 


EARLY  YEARS  OF  A  VETERAN  OP  THE  ARMY  OF 
WESTPHALIA, 
BETWEEN  1805  AND  1814. 

Kino  Jeromb  was  conducted  with  great  pomp  into  a  brightly-illu- 
minated mine,  where  the  captain  of  the  mines.  Von  Moolem,  pierced  a 
shaft,  on  which  he,  as  a  pupil,  precisely  fifty  years  ago  to  a  day,  had 
commenced  his  calling ;  and  thus  the  jubilant  could  have  desired  no 
more  brilliant  celebration  of  that  day  than  what  fell  to  his  lot.  The 
King  was  here,  as  on  the  whole  route,  good-humoured  and  condescend- 
ing. When  we  renewed  our  journey,  he  rode  along  the  top  of  the 
narrow  hollow  way,  in  which  we  marched  two  by  two :  and  the  com- 
mon people,  who  really  loved  the  King,  were  enchanted  whenever  he 
came  in  their  way,  though  they  indeed  stopped  short  their  joyous 
songs  in  order  to  evince  their  veneration  by  a  profound  stillness. 
Now  this  was  exactly  what  Jerome  cared  not  to  have,  but  called  out 
to  them,  in  his  gracious,  engaging  manner,  "  Eh  bien,  mes  AUemands, 
chantez,  fumez  ! "  and  he  rapped  delighted,  as  he  spoke,  upon  his  brown- 
topped  boots  with  his  riding-whip.  The  like  rejoicings  took  place  at 
Goslar,  upon  the  King's  entrance,  and  there  our  duty  as  escort  was  at 
an  end;  for  his  Majesty's  equipages  stood  ready  for  him  to  pursue 
his  journey  through  Brunswick  to  Hanover.  I  remained  with  the 
escort  a  short  time  in  Goslar,  and  then  pushed  on  to  my  regiment, 
which  had  marched  to  Hanover,  where  it  continued  some  months,  and 
then  went  back  to  Cassel. 

Very  bright  recollections  associate  themselves  with  the  entrie  of 
Madame  Letitia,  the  Empress-mother,  who  now  came  to  visit  her  son 
fur  the  first  time  as  King.  She  traversed  imperial  realms  and  king- 
doms, obeying  the  behests  of  her  sons ;  and  the  most  renowned  and 
greatest  among  them  had  brought  all  these  crowns  into  his  family  at 
the  point  of  his  sword,  thus  exalting  it  to  the  first  place  in  astonished 
Europe.  At  William's-hohe,  then  styled  Napoleon's-hohe,  the  mother 
was  received  by  her  children,  and  reposed  there  a  few  days,  previously 
to  making  her  solemn  entrance  into  the  capital.  Great  preparations 
were  made  for  her  reception  ;  the  whole  garrison  was  drawn  out  in 
gala  dress  at  the  castle  and  place  d^armes ,  the  burgher-companies,  in 
uniform,  formed  a  line  from  the  gate  to  the  castle ;  the  bells  rang^ 
and  at  intervals  a  salute  of  one  hundred  guns  welcomed  the  mother  of 
the  King  to  his  capital. 

The  houses  in  the  streets  through  which  the  train  passed  were  fes- 
tively adorned  with  wreaths  of  flowers  and  tapestry  hangings,  the  whole 
offering  was  a  richly-ornamented  and  pompous  spectacle.  It  might 
be  eleven  o'clock  in  the  day  when  Madame  Letitia  appeared.  She  sat 
in  a  carriage  gilded  throughout,  built  in  Paris  expressly  for  this  occa- 
sion, of  an  antique,  noble  form,  the  side-panels  of  which  were  en- 
tirely composed  of  panes  of  plate-glass,  held  together  by  golden  rods. 
Fair  pages,  dressed  in  white,  and  blue,  and  gold,  clustered  upon  the 
carriage  wherever  it  was  possible  to  cling.  This  magnificent  equipage, 
preceded  by  twelve  running  footmen,  with  staves  in  their  hands,  was 
drawn  by  eight  white  horses,  whose  snowy  manes  and  tails  were 
interwoven  with  gold  and  purple  ribbons,  and  each  was  led  by  a  groom 
of  the  stables,  who  was  also  in  gala  dress. 


T!»  aIzsc.  :ae  »y— >^«^  BBL  amzxscs^  »  veC  »  the  gardes  du 
ORB.  i*-«fMn  iiTT-j^  -m^  w^ntmrr  <rntzx.  TTarcg,  JiFv^ETcr,  attracted  little 
r  SKXOK  :Tir  uI  ^Fne&  iigg  'araed  'st^wTz-b^  Madaaae  Lethis,  who 
liwui  JKS-  irTii.  jauiiiymg  ancznBlj  iase  31  nl^ttxaon  to  all  sorroand- 
JEC  SK  r^K  izcveBiua  sail*!  15  io*  iraa^irr  Las  been  ao  often  and 
w  nnlr  aaczrxaez.  -sac  :ai»5e  iiseczcr  T:3ifff  vill  scAee  for  oompre- 
ni  rnaSi  snftniBBHii  daemMBttzated  on  ail  aides  iior  the 
Ir:  ^Jey  '▼ou  lasw^  asMi  sae-  bappinesa  of  beholding  that 
■*nigTTfgnan>iai  ^rvmuBi.  liljE*  rgniiryiVe  in  her  fiue  and  in  her 
1.  :«5C9iIifccaia  -ic  2as  at  aaee  anelandiolj  and 
ae  isriiLrxfsbei  vhh  lifl&  Soon  after  en- 
^^  th&jcaaT,  If  ning  on  the  King's 
T!ii&  'zmpa  TmrrriKtf  isac ;  inen.  ai^iwaed  a  ylendid  drawing- 

a  tibe  evcnoc*  with  other  such  feo- 


f  'wrriiaii:  snirv-uffi  w-»  inca  vp  in  the  j^ear  1812  by  rumours 

^  wk;^  Vncn  aomi  ?gpfrT*g£  anarausan  in  tW  news  that  the  Emperor 

SnVMBA.  ind.  twoceit  -var  j^kibr  Rufrii,  whidi  we  alao»  as  his  na- 

jBBoL  nliisit.  imniii  juvs  u  nks  pars  za.   In  the  montli  of  March  I  was 

'.'SI.  TiMik  as  -nnr  Kvy  wa»  bcanght  tagether,  and  we  shortlj 

^nov^  taie  Lisszbf ,  by  Ginas  GWan,  to  War- 

^  mrmrim  4C  che  great  am  j  was  eTOCted,  which 

:  £!>  imnir  3e  cwnninit  4C  General  Vandanune,  as  eighth  regi- 

Cnr  ^y^noBL,  wm  kbc  ta  Pragve,  and  I  was  qvartered  in  Uie 

K  1  F'ttisui  jnrr.  ^oie  -vife  4I  a  staroste,  or  pcrsan  in  office,  who 

wa  ^vnn  ier  jiwawiiMa  a  saaill  prvttj  dweUiitf:,  and  was  a  very 

ixnuMi&e  ~ji«ce«.     Li  ii«  iae  sfn^  erenings  I  and  many  of  my 

uYft^  &M  ^  fiawmaiii  in  ^icr  iiciie  garden,  where  we  often  found 

"^^^     iiL»4  iitfv  mt  ^ja-vvneti  i&mt  «Br  ssarch,  and  £uther  destination, 

jvfli  v.-uoi  sie  rv?^cfM  bos  IrnLe  gatd  iar  ns»  and  pn^iheaied  that  we 

j|j —    mj«c  AIT  AKCncon  ia  Bawii, — a  piediction  which  could 

\0^'^  tiCSKia  s  'VKKTW  ?tiJLjni«at  tbin  it  had.     From  Warsaw  out  we 

jM  ^  ^^f^^  -KMwaL  IAS      We  2;ai  not  any  quarters  at  all ;  for  the ' 

^   «  3«  laii  vinrs  spmforktgd  to  the  gen^als.    The  masses  id 

j^^  ««fi>t  ^&««  ^  4]e»«c.  -n  iiMi^iif3Mtt  ta  the  thinly-peopled  territory, 

j^  «■c^  %sia  ^tsR'rtKe^cwiM.  w«e  dnraig  seren  weeks  in  biTonac. 

•v  Hi%^ii«w*«ei  ^s»«  ^»«^  'WT  ^^    Already  in  Warsaw  the  forage 


k4M^  4Bf^«  .  «r  iMTje*.  in  cwKqacnoe^  wwre  great  snfferers, 

y^  91^  $4a.  4(  ^^'iOK  w«  <raBped  the  Niemen,  and  the  want  of 
»  wL  MMt  »m«Mii  with  etvry  step  of  our  progress  into 
TiUox  iDM^  ^  jvstna  tbst  emy  asan  should  take  care  of 


ict^o&aal  rf  sD,  whether  to  friend  or  enemy. 

i^.^,n1             gjuu-tjU  nuar^L*  a  wztT  in  lequisition  of  provisions^ 
**W.^  ^^  ""^"""  . jTLjIi^  ^\  t^  «.,«i     However 


^^mTs  a9f««nt<d  W*ier  of  it  for  ours. 

«fti  HiiiiwaBC  T^TT  fiszt  ti  the  lerrice  might  be,  still  lied  a 
He  VHn  »T  cwnrsAri  wlia  were  mardung  in  dose  columns. 
^  ^  1^^  ^1^  aUatted  to  sndi  a  party,  and  an  open, 
.^  «dcr,  dinsli^  the  end  and  aim  id  the  detachment, 
i|  to  the  oficer.  Maps  were  entirely  wanting  to  us, 
if;  we  took,  therefore,  the  first  well-trodden  bye-road 
to  lead  to  a  village  or  farm ;  but  it  was  always  neces- 


OF    THE   ARMY    OF    WESTPHALIA. 


205 


sary  to  draw  near  tlietn  with  great  precatitioxii  becauBe  tbeir  inmatefi 
generally  fled  at  our  approach,  and  hid  themselves  in  the  forests.  Our 
first  endeavour,  upon  such  occasions,  was  to  procure  carts  and  horses, 
urnce  we  did  not  take  these  with  us,  and  then  to  make  Rome  of  the 
party  mount,  and  so  form  an  advanced  guard  and  patrol,  wliile  some  of 
the  others  drove  the  carts.  Were  we  then  so  lucky  as  to  make  a  con* 
stderabte  gathering,  it  was  essential  to  its  safety  that  we  should  get  in 
all  speed  to  the  regiment  with  it.  Upon  these  excursions  a  little 
chimneysweeper  was  of  the  most  important  service  to  me.  In  Puland 
he  had  run  a  long  way  after  my  carriage,  imploring  me  to  take  him 
into  my  service,  haviiig  made  his  escape,  he  said,  from  a  very  cruel 
tnaater.  I  consented  to  hire  him,  in  the  next  little  town  had  him 
clothed  as  a  servant,  and  his  fidelity  and  devotedness  to  my  person 
never  allowed  me  to  repent  that  compassionate  action.  The  youth 
spoke  Polish  excellently,  also  a  little  Russ,  which  insured  to  me  many 
advantages.  He  was  always  at  my  side,  would  permit  no  other  to 
wait  on  me,  and  followed  me  not  only  to  Moscow,  hut  from  thence. 
Mo«t  unfortunately  he  went  afttray  from  me  in  the  retreat^  and  I  never 
besrd  of  him  again* 

In  this  manner  the  march  went  on  to  Orszo,  the  loss  in  men  and 
borses  continued,  and  the  cavalry  and  artillery  were  more  and  more 
coflfounded  together*  A  great  numherof  a  mm.  unit  ion- waggons  were  left 
here  for  want  of  horses,  and  the  hulk  of  the  army  was  so  in  want  of 
provisions  that  horseflesh  was  already  in  use ;  there  was  the  same  de- 
ficiency in  brandy.  The  battle  of  Wittepsk  was,  as  is  well  known, 
gained  by  the  Emperor  in  person  ;  the  army  afterwards  concentrated 
iUeJf  near  Orsza,  where  it  crossed  the  Nieper  under  the  Emperor's  di- 
rections, and  then  marched  to  Smolensko,  which  was  bombarded  on  the 
15th  of  August.  The  combat  was  lively  and  long  undecided:  after 
the  upper  town  was  taken  there  was  a  severe  struggle  for  the  possession 
af  the  lower  town,  lying  on  the  other  side  of  the  Nieper,  which  was 
obstinately  defended  by  the  Russians.  The  upper  town  is  surrounded 
by  a  stone  wall,  through  which  holes  were  broken  to  admit  of  cannon 
being  pointed  and  iired  against  the  lower  town.  I  had  to  make  a  re- 
port to  Davoust,  and  found  the  Marshal  by  one  of  those  cannon  as  he 
stood,  overlooking  on  one  part  the  work  of  the  French  sappers  below 
Its  eonstructing  the  pontoons,  and  also  surveying  the  passage  of  the 
greimdiers  over  the  same.  These  heroes,  commanded  to  the  storming 
party »  presented  an  imposing  appearance,  as  they  pressed  on  with 
slemdy  composure,  musket  in  hand,  as  soon  as  the  planks  were  laid  on 
wbicb  they  were  to  wend  their  way.  The  murderous  fire  of  the 
Russian  artillery  thinned  momentarily  their  foremost  ranks;  but  over 
the  bodies  of  their  fallen  comrades,  precious  and  dear  to  them,  they 
st4!pped  in  those  instants  without  a  wail — without  even  granting  them 
s  look — into  the  vacated  place.  They  cuncealed  their  sorrow,  as  they 
did  their  exultation  at  being  on  advance  to  the  enemy,  and  only  the 
most  unshaken  gravity  reigned  in  the  features  of  these  veterans  of  a 
liundred  fights. 

In  consequence  of  the  operations  by  our  array  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  river,  the  Russians  delivered  up  the  town ;  and  to  the  assault  upon 
Smolensko  succeeded,  on  the  H>th,  the  battle  of  that  name,  which  was 
also  won  without  any  extraordinary  e^orts  on  the  side  of  the  allies.  It 
w«s  perceptible  that  the  Russians  did  not  lay  much  stress  upon  the 
muntcnance  of  the  place^  as  afterwards  became  still  more  evident* 


9)6  EARLY    TEARS    OF    A   VETERAN 

We  fofond  as  we  marched  along,  that  many  of  the  inhabitants  had  fled^ 
wad  that  their  dwellings  were  burned  down^  even  the  considerable 
twvs  of  Viasmo,  Dorsgabnsch,  and  Chyast  were  in  flames:  however, 
after  getdng  ponession  of  them,  our  soldiers,  among  whom  at  that  time 
pufuLt  dixifiline  subsisted,  always  succeeded  in  mastering  the  fire,  so 
tkai  part  of  the  houses  could  be  occupied  by  us.  The  whde  country 
vas  faraged :  and  what  the  reserve  had  spared  was  set  on  fire  by  our 
■yirni     thus  preparing  and  consummating  our  eventual  destruction. 

And  thns  the  army  moved  on  against  Russia's  ancient  capital.  The 
Rtwm  coBtended  fmr  their  homes  and  hearths,  we  for  our  existence. 
A  ^beodTe  battle  was  unavoidable ;  the  destiny  of  two  nations  was  at 
«li^e. 

Amoi^  the  BumenNds  foraging  and  requisition  parties  appointed  to 
■ie»  whidi  until  now  had  be^  luckily  accomplished,  I  will  here  men- 
tMD  Doe  aesr  Wiasma,  €ve  days  before  the  battle  of  Mogaisk.  It  exhi- 
lits  t^  psiniial  stnatioo  through  which  every  particular  division  of 
tke  tmopi;  was  oonstnined,  as  I  have  already  said,  to  make  expeditions 
fir  tbor  lOBVt  s&bsisteiioe,  and  in  the  most  threatening  danger,  thereby 
weskemng  ibe  wMe,  and  always  costing  great  sacrifices. 

1 3«0BSTipd  <vders  fram  the  General  of  my  division  to  go  out  with  a 
fMffXT  «B  reqiuBtMB  ta  levy  contributions,  and  to  take  the  left-hand 
wmiimm  Saiaksdco  to  ^Ii^aisk  with  seventy  foot,  collected  among 
em:3^-%tiIlMi«R  aBdmanndos  in  different  regiments,  and  about  twenty 
dbviwDJ^  w  caQed,  far  they  were  taken  from  among  the  same  fellows 
aad  nrinxite^  jqtm  sort  farm-horses,  with  or  without  a  saddle,  since 
tke  oraosiT  pMfile  either  had  arms,  or,  as  I  formerly  mentioned,  fled 
•B  tiie  a;^B>aacii  «f  «nr  detadiments.  Twenty-five  waggons  were 
plawd  ax  BT  dis^iasatMSi, — that  is  to  say,  small  one-horse  carts,  not 
B«e&  ^^^^^  ^^^'^  A  wheelbarrow,  and  no  drivers  thereto ;  but  the  in- 
iuLtJT  \^  the  whip  in  chai^  as  well  as  their  arms ;  they  sat  on  the 
cirts'diwoccmbered  of  their  harresacks  and  belts,  with  their  loaded 
Baskets  Inside  them.  With  these  weak  forces  I  took  my  way  under 
the  usxi^  rxvctstMiurT  regulations.  Within  a  few  miles  nothing  was 
to  be  fixiad.  the  pivcedii^  corps  as  well  as  the  advanced  guard  had 
cleared  all  away.  If  I  would  respond  to  the  <Nrder  given  me  I  must  go 
fiuther  on,  and  that  I  determined  to  do,  it  being  a  point  of  honour  with 
me  to  succeed  and  procQie  a  feast-day  for  my  necessitous  comrades, 
many  of  whom  envied  me  this  commission.  Going  northwards  we  met 
evident  tokens  that  those  parts  were  not  entirely  stripned  of  their  pro- 
duct ;  we  made  good  repasts,  the  horses  were  right  well  foddered,  and 
we,  though  in  constant  anxiety,  yet  considered  ourselves  extremely 
well  off  after  snch  long  abstinence.  On  the  evening  of  the  second  day, 
daring  which  I  had  proceeded  bat  slowly,  with  all  the  drcumspectton 
required  by  the  nature  of  the  ground,  of  intermingled  forest,  plain  and 
liemth,  I  rMK^hed  the  seat  of  the  Russian  Count  P— «-. 

This  was  <a  magnificent  structure  of  quadrangular  form,  and  compo- 
sing properly  four  palaces,  in  whose  interior  court  were  a  sumptuous 
chapel,  and  charming  flower-garden.  Undoubtedly  nobody  had  ex- 
pected such  an  irruption  into  this  retired  part  of  the  country,  for  I 
tband  the  steward,  who  was  a  German,  in  the  highest  state  of  surprise 
and  alarm.  The  whole  establishment  evinced  profound  security,  nus- 
bandry  was  uninterruptedly  going  on,  rich  furniture  adorned  the  noble 

Ttments,  and  even  the  plate  had  not  been  put  aside.  After  I  had 
mmed  the  place  as  well  as  my  weak  forces  allowed,  and  ordered  a 


OF   THE  ARMY   OF   WESTPHALIA.  207 

patrol  between  post  and  post^  I  made  the  steward  acquainted  with 
what  I  required,  namely^  as  much  provision  as  we  could  carry  away, 
besides  provender  for  our  horses.  Through  the  terror  occasioned  by  so 
sudden  an  invasion,  which  had  worked  its  due  effect,  all  the  farm  pro- 
duce was  placed  at  my  disposal,  and  I  selected  from  its  rich  abun- 
dance only  what  the  regiment  stood  most  in  need  of. 

The  most  essential  part  of  my  commission  was  inexecutable,  that  re- 
garding horses :  I  found  merely  a  few  unserviceable  beasts ;  the  best 
had  b^n  taken  away  by  the  owner.  I  obtained  all  I  required  in  other 
respects,  flour,  oats,  brandy,  and  above  all,  after  rather  a  careful  inves- 
tigation, an  inappreciable  treasure,  which  at  that  time  was  indeed 
among  the  most  rare  and  precious  objects,  consisting  of  several  hun- 
dreds of  the  choicest  well-bodied  wine.  When  our  horses  had  been 
suitably  attended  to  and  foddered  in  their  splendid  stalls,  I  took  care  that 
nothing  should  be  wanting  to  myself  ana  my  detachment.  After  so 
much  abstinence  we  ate  with  double  pleasure  the  well-flavoured  dishes 
served  up  to  us,  and  drank  in  like  manner.  The  common  soldiers  were 
helped  from  my  table;  for  in  war,  and  particularly  on  urgent  occasions, 
there  is  the  greatest  enjoyment  in  sharing  with  one's  comrades,  and 
whenever  it  is  necessary,  officer  and  soldier  eat  without  any  derogation 
of  rank  from  the  camp-kettle. 

That  I  was  on  my  guard,  and  notwithstanding  our  good  living,  and 
apparent  confidence,  did  not  neglect  my  duty,  and  thereby  saving  my 
own  life  and  that  of  my  subormnates,  will  appear  ftrom  the  following 
relation.  To  afford  me  assistance  in  conducting  so  mixed  and  irregu- 
larly-formed a  detachment.  Sergeant-major  Lippe  had  been  sent  to  me. 
This  was  a  young,  active,  high-spirited  man,  who,  were  he  in  life,  and 
if  the  same  train  of  affairs  had  continued,  would  certainly  now  stand 
in  an  elevated  position,  since  he  already  at  that  time  had  drawn  upon 
himself  the  attention  of  his  superiors  by  his  bravery  and  usefulness. 

This  Lippe  I  sent  out  with  some  soldiers  in  the  evening,  on  patrol. 
I  was  persuaded  that  he  would  do  my  bidding  punctiliously  ana  with 
circumspection.  I  had  myself  already  reconnoitered  the  adjacent 
grounds,  and  was  besides  weary,  for  I  had  been  two  days  and  nights 
without  rest,  and  could  not  make  use  of  my  horses  for  a  while,  since 
they  were  equally  exhausted  with  fatigue.  After  making  these  ar- 
rangements 1  abandoned  myself  to  rest  and  to  sleep,  out  of  which  I 
was  awakened  by  the  steward,  who  came,  as  he  said,  to  terminate  his 
business  with  me.  In  the  course  of  conversation  I  advised  him  to  con- 
ceal all  the  valuable  objects,  particularly  the  costly  silver  plate,  since 
in  the  present  circumstances  I  could,  though  with  the  best  intentions, 
only  answer  for  myself,  and  not  for  my  people.  He  thanked  me  in 
the  name  of  his  master,  expressing  also  his  own  personal  acknow- 
ledgments for  the  delicacy  I  had  shewn  ;  and  his  real  gratitude  was 
not  slow  in  making  its  appearance. 

About  eleven  o'clock,  after  I  had  enjoyed  a  transient  slumber,  came 
Lippe  to  me,  with  the  report  that  there  were  suspicious  movements  and 
sounds  in  our  neighbourhood.  In  the  adjacent  forest  behind  the  hill 
were  small  troops  of  men ;  there  was  also  heard  the  trampling  of  horses. 
As  I  was  issuing  forth,  in  order  to  arrange  for  the  needful,  my  friend, 
the  steward,  made  his  appearance  in  a  cautious  and  mysterious  manner. 
First  convincing  himself  that  we  were  alone,  and  that  he  was  therefore 
exposed  to  no  danger  of  his  communication  being  betrayed,  he  thus 
addressed  me  :  ''  I  come  to  put  you  on  your  guard,  Captain.    You  are 


Wm  EARLY  TEARS  OF  A  VETERAN,  ETC, 

mj  ootrntrrman,  too  hare  bat  dooe  what  it  wag  your  duty  to  6a,  and 
bmTe  aToided  whatever  that  permitted  you ;  I  acknowledge  it  with 
the  liv^est  thank fulnesa,  and  therefore  Inform  you,  that  the  seal  of 
the  dependants  under  my  charge  is  preparing  your  destruction,  and 
thsl  of  your  followers.  More  I  dare  not  say.  Take  this  warning 
from  your  German  countryman^  but  call  to  mind  also  that  I  eal  Rus- 
siao  hread^  and  must  not  therefore  say  more/'  Instantly  I  patrolled 
with  some  of  the  infantry,  and  found  Lippe's  report  confirmedj  as  well  i 
fts  the  superintendant*8  warning.  With  a  few  men  I  slid  along  a 
brook  grown  over  with  bu&hes,  and  approached  the  forest.  A^Bler 
watching  a  short  time,  I  saw  plainly  a  great  troop  of  men,  without, 
however,  (what  is  always  observable  by  the  experienced  soldiert)  any 
gleaming  of  the  firearms,  from  whence  I  inferred,  what  tranquiUiaed 
me  greatly  for  the  moment,  that  our  opponents  might  be  armed  vrith 
the  to  us  already  well-known  pikes.  As  softly  as  1  had  come,  so  went 
I  back ;  and  I  awakened  quietly  my  other  soldiers,  and  had  the  horaea 
put  to,  for  I  had  providentially  caused  the  cars  to  be  loaded  over  night* 

Taking  it  now  for  granted  that  opposition  would  be  made  to  our  re* 
treaty  my  grand  object  was  to  have  as  many  disposable  combatants  as 
might  be.  To  effect  this  the  most  active  of  the  infantry  must  each  con- 
duct four  carts,  whilst  they,  sitting  upon  the  first  of  the  train,  fastened 
the  hones  of  the  carts  following  to  that  preceding ;  by  this  means  I 
strengthened  considerably  my  sinews  of  war,  and  could  if  necessary 
bring  into  action  three  parts  of  the  men  guarding  the  convoy.  I  also 
pre-arranged  the  necessary  equipment  for  a  square  in  closure  formed 
Dj  waggons  or  carts  as  in  our  case,  and  accomplished  it  in  the  follow- 
ing day  during  the  march.  This  construction  is  too  well  known  to 
need  any  description.  Thus  prepared,  at  about  three  o'clock,  long 
before  sunrise,  I  sent  forward  a  proportionahly  strong  advanced 
guard,  to  which  I  could  only  superficially  indicate  the  direction  of 
our  retreat,  since  we  had  no  guides,  nor  any  exact  knowledge  of  the 
country.  My  endeavour  must  accordingly  be  to  reach  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible the  high  road,  where  I  might  hope  to  find  saft-ty  or  a  reinforce- 
ment* 31  y  strong  rear-guard  followed  at  a  great  distance,  I  with 
them^  until  day  dawn;  and,  after  our  passage  over  the  stream  above 
mentioned,  I  had  the  bridge,  which  was  from  fifteen  to  twenty  feet 
broad,  broken  down,  in  order  to  throw  as  many  obstacles  as  possible  in 
the  way  of  our  pursuers,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  being  unmolested 
during  a  league  and  a  half. 

Suddenly  the  scene  changed.  Our  way  lay  through  a  viEage  in  the 
pkin,  and,  as  we  approached  it,  my  advanced  guard  was  greeted  by  a 
volley  of  fire-arms  out  of  the  nearest  houses:  and  in  this  premature 
attack  was  my  good  luck  ;  for  had  the  enemy  allowed  me  to  come  with 
my  column  into  the  middle  of  the  village,  and  then  assailed  me  with 
the  superior  force,  which  1  should  ouly  too  late  have  been  made  aware 
of,  it  is  certain  that  we  must  one  and  all  have  perished*  But  what 
was  intended  for  our  destruction  served  us  as  a  warning.  I  quickly 
aent  forwards  some  videttes  to  take  the  village  in  Hank,  and  I  myself* 
with  the  reiit  of  the  detachment,  cut  obliquely  across  the  fields,  clear- 
ing our  way  through  the  hedges,  and  so  arrived  in  the  plain  on  the 
ether  side,  keeping  as  distant  a»  possible  from  the  town,  and  from  the 
edge  of  the  forest. 


209 


THE  3iARCHION£SS  OP  BRINVILLIERS, 

THE    POISONER    OP    THE    SEVENTEENTH    CENTURY. 

A    BOMANGB    OF   OLD    PARIS. 

BY   ALBERT  SMITH. 

[with   aw  ILLUStliAT'ION   AT  /.  LSSCB.] 

CHAPTER   XXr. 

Marie  has  Louite  in  her  power. — The  la«t  Caroiiisal. 

Not  a  word  was  exchanged  between  Marie  and  Loaise  GaQlhier 
during  their  journey  from  Uie  Hotel  de  Cluny  to  the  Rue  Sl  Paul. 
Onte  obIj  was  the  silence  broken^  when  the  Marchioness  desired  the 
drirer,  with  some  impatience,  to  urge  his  horses  onward  with  some* 
thiag  more  o^  speed  than  the  leisure  proeression  which  then,  as  now^ 
was  the  chief  attribute  of  the  voilures  de  remise  of  the  good  dty  of 
Paris.  During  this  period  she  never  removed  the  mask  ^ra  her  fiMse^ 
and  Louise  was  not  particularhp  anxious  to  know  the  station  of  het 
new  aoqvaintance.  It  was  sufficient  cause  for  congratulating  herself^ 
to  find  that  ahe  Was  away  from  the  trystiog-place  of  Lauaun's  de^ 
bandied  c6mpaiiion8,  and  once  more  breathing  the  pure  air  of  the 
streets,  instead  of  the  tainted  stmosphere  of  the  hoteL 

The  Pont  de  la  Tournelle  was  at  that  period  the  highest  up  the 
river,  with  respect  to  the  stream,  for  crossing. to  the  other  side;  noWj 
the  bridges  of  Austerlitz,  Constantine,  and  Bercy  span  the  Seine  bt-t 
yond  this,  which  still  elists.  The  carriage  lumbered  across  the  He  St. 
lionis,  and  traversing  the  other  arm  of  the  river  by  the  Foot  Marie, 
tiassed  along  the  quay,  until  it  stopped  at  the  Hotel  D'Aubray  in  the 
Rue  St.  Paul. 

As  fhey  stopped  at  the  porie  cockere,  the  Marchioness  looked  out, 
and  perceived,  to  her  dismay,  that  it  was  open,  and  that  the  windows 
which  opened  into  the  court  were  lighted  up,  whilst  forms  could  be 
seen  passing  and  repassing,  showing  that  there  was  a  large  company 
assembled  within. 

The  vehicle  had  scarcely  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase  when 
Marie's  own  maid,  Fran^oise  Houssel,  appeared  at  the  entrance.  The 
light  of  the  carriage-lamp  fell  upon  her  face,  which  was  ghastly  pal^ 
and,  to  all  appearance,  distorted  with  pain.  She  was  breathing  Ib 
agony,  and  could  not  speak  for  some  seconds  after  she  had  opened  the 
door. 
j/  '*  Heaven  be  praised  that  you  are  returned,  Madame ! "  at  length  she 

said.  ''  Tour  brothers  have  come  back  from  Offemont  this  evening, 
with  a  party  of  gentlemen  living  near  the  chateau.  Monsieur  Fran- 
cois inquired  after  you ;  but  I  tmd  him  you  had  retired." 

*'  Something  ails  you,  Fran^oise,"  observed  the  Marchioness.  "  Are 
you  ill?" 

'*  I  have  been  in  agony,  Madame,  the  whole  afternoon,  as  if  I  had 
swallowed  some  pins  that  were  red-hot." 

*'  You  have  taken  something  that  has  done  you  harm/'  continued 
Aiarie,  as  she  descended  from  the  carriage.  "  What  have  vou  eaten 
to-day?" 

VOL.  XVIII.  Q 


210  THE   MABCHIONESS   OF   BRINYILLIERS. 

••  Nothings  madnBe,**  replied  her  domestic,  "  but  the  confiture  you 
^Te  me  fur  breakfist ;  and  that  could  not  have  hurt  me." 

*^  Oh  nukT  answered  Marie,  as  if  she  thought  the  subject  too  insigni- 
ficant fjr  further  notice.  But,  after  a  moment  or  two,  she  added, 
•*  BiKides*  I  partook  of  that  myself,  you  know." 

As  she  spoke,  she  turned  a  gaze  of  the  most  intense  scrutiny  upon 
Fran<p«se's  ^ice  :  but  no  trace  of  any  emotion  would  have  been  visible 
up^ML  her  own  features,  had  she  been  unmasked.  Then  bidding  Louise, 
who  was  reossmred  by  the  apparent  respectability  of  the  house,  to  fol- 
low her.  they  went  up  stairs,  preceded  by  the  panting  girl,  who  could 
scarcely  hold  the  li^t  limp  she  cairied  before  them. 

As  she  nnched  her  chamber, — the  one  in  which  her  interview  with 
Sitiate^rnxx  tuok  place,  after  the  scene  at  Theria's  apartments,  that 
in  its  sei;!xeL  led  t^  so  osiich  of  crime  and  misery,-^-she  took  a  small 
CL^iaec  dawn  frvm  tW  tup  «f  a  baresn,  and  opening  it,  discovered  a 
!^w  tfc  jctle  bucties.  Fnim  aae  of  these  she  let  fall  a  few  drops  of 
swoK  c.u*»icr'Ie!ss  ixfc  rxcvf  a  ritss  «f  water,  and  told  Fran9oise4o  or  ink 
i<^.  v^eQ  s2e  ▼'Kiili.  w:n»«t  Aaiht*  experience  immediate  relief.  The 
jCT-l  MM  t3i»  inii;£ic  BBt  swnlhwiJ  it, — in  the  course  of  a  minute  or 
iw-i  ikK-idE*n^  "ier«f  t»  Ve  fi^wntifflr  free  from  pain,  as  she  poured 
'tiT^  jut  jjiBwes  ff  ^ttcaie  t»  her  mistress  for  this  prompt  remedy. 
5h2e  WIS  ^3e*x  ami  tut  sW  might  retire  to  bed,  without  any  fear  of  a 
"^ntr*' ^Hcg  IT  'mt  sajaiiT ;  and  she  accordingly  withdrew. 

>k#  jw%!r  1^  *:»  Mr  ckaed  npoo  her  than  Marie  took  the  mask 
f««ar  2«r  iv^  iM  nr*anciag  tofwards  Louise,  who  was  standing  close 
t*  rv  «arv»n«!C9^  w^ere  i£e  htd  kept  during  the  short  conversation 
H>t<>««^ac  ^-'QuoMNe  nnc  ker  ssstms*  seized  her  arm,  and,  looking  full 

■  J^  «M<  >jis»Jtf^  ntf  =  W*  set  W«re  at  Versailles." 
-  >  fu  «nr  :zM  JLAPtaammff  ic  BRBviDicn,''  replied  the  Langnedo- 
.•««»,  MCi£r>  «  wmtfucffy  fCK?  «c  smyainy  in  a  tone  the  calmness  of 
»i)i<./  ift«.«M»Mie^  JC:iire^  Aiif  sae  eaAniwired  to  withdraw  her  arm. 
*  :?^i*»K*  rvfftiiM  a*  IfirrciMiieas :  *  we  do  not  part  yet."  And  she 
iti^^pd^  >jr  «^wl9lllrtlla  jfber  ier  :o>wtzdb  the  door,  turning  the  heavy 
riiic^  ;«IM  wttUmroic  tiip  ker.     ^  Tkere  !*  she  continued,  "see  how 


I  it  lift  ftir  VMtt  to  aeteorrt  t»  leave  me — how  completely  you  are 
i^  9fejr  ^Hvne.    \<#w,  listeo  to  nre.  and  attend  as  vou  would  to  the  ex- 


[•  |«wt  npsn  y»ar  dviajr  bed." 

SfeftllMr  the  ami  ^fLmtise  from  her  grasp,  and  regarded  her  for  a 

to  Wi«*  wi>k  a  look  of  the  dendtiert  hate.    The  beauty  of  her  fea- 

^ly  ^*V >  *^^^"'' ^  ^  ^^  cootonioBs  produced  by  the  passions  that 

Ml^^ViniiV  w^kin  her;  the  terrible  impassibility  of  her  countenance 

l%Wf»  •■■  •**  g««d  at  Looise  with  an  expression  that  was  almost 

^*i  ^y^  y^^^*  «*  J^***"  «he  continued,  in  a  low,  deep  voice, 

iMk^w jprn  of  all  her  eflbrta,  betrayed  her  emotion  by  its  quivering. 

»11»  W^unolet  that  amid  diarm  awav  Sainte-Croix's  affections  is 

^J^^P^   }  ^*°  deatroy  it— with  ai  litUe  care  as  I  would  the 

•*V  ^^f^  «  a  mountebank ;  and,  when  it  is  once  disposed  of,  I  can 

j||»-*Jie--ajid  queen  of  all  his  love.     Do  vou  understand  me  ?" 

«V     •*— ^  X  interfered  with  you  ?"  returned  the  Languedocian. 

1  TOO  until  we  met  at  Versailles,  when  I  first  learned 

a  love— or  rather  the  feeling  which  I  took  for  love— 

d  from  me.     I  did  not  wish  to  cross  your  path  again. 


THE    MAECHIONESS    OF   BRINV1LLIER8, 


211 


Heaven  knowi  it  was  not  my  own  doing  that  I  met  jou  this  even- 
ing/' 

She  spoke  these  words  in  a  tone  that  the  Marchioness  had  hardly 
looked  for.  But  Louise,  gentle  and  retiring  as  was  her  nature,  felt  in 
whose  presence  she  now  stood,  and  her  spirit  rose  with  the  circum- 
stances, until  her  eye  kindled  and  her  cheek  flushed  with  the  emotion 
of  the  interview.  She  was  no  longer  the  pale  and  trembling  girl;  she 
felt  that  Marie  had  crushed  her,  by  weaning  away  Gaudin's  affections^ 
and  she  replied  accordingly. 

Marie  was  astonished  at  the  manner  in  which  she  spoke.  She  went 
on: — 

'*  You  appear  to  forget  in  whose  presence  yon  now  are,  or  you  would 
not  so  address  me/' 

*•  It  is  from  feeling  too  keenly  whom  I  thus  address  that  I  do  so/' 
m^ied  Louise.     **  What  would  you  have  me  say?** 

•■  I  would  have  yon  recollect  the  wide  difFerence  that  exists  between 
oor  poiitionsj"  answered  Marie.  "  I  am  the  Marchioness  of  Brinvil- 
licrs/* 

•"  We  OQght  to  know  no  difference  of  rank/'  returned  Louise  ;  "  a 
hapless  attachment  has  placed  us  all  on  the  same  leveL  Whatever 
Gaudin'^s  station  is»  or  may  have  been»  his  love  raised  me  to  his  own 
position — one  which  the  Marchioness  of  Brinvilliers  did  not  think  be- 
neath her.  I  thought  she  would  have  been  above  so  petty  a  cause  for 
qoarreh" 

"And  from  these  set  speeches/*  rejoined  Marie,  '*  which,  doubtless^ 
have  been  conned  over  until  you  got  them  by  heart,  to  make  an  etfect 
when  they  might  he  called  for,  you  have  lowered  yourself.  Sainte- 
Croix  has  long  since  forgotten  you*  Have  you  no  spiritj  thus  to  pur* 
sue  a  bygone  lover  who  has  discarded  yon  ?" 

**  AJas,  madam  I  I  have  loved,'*  said  Louise,  with  a  tone  so  tearful, 
so  hopeless,  hut  so  firm,  that  the  Marchioness  paused,  baffled  m  her 
plans  of  attack,  but  not  knowing  what  new  ground  to  take  up.  Lnuise 
continued,  after  a  short  silence,—'*  And  if  love  with  a  great  lady  be 
what  it  is  to  me,  a  poor  country  girl,  you  would  not  ask  me  why,  de- 
spite Gaudin's  neglect,  I  still  hang  upon  the  memory,  not  of  him,  but 
of  the  love  he  firt^t  taught  me  to  feel." 

As  she  spoke  she  snnk  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  her  tears  flowed 
hst  and  freely. 

The  ^Marchioness  paced  impatiently  up  and  down  the  room.  At 
length,  stopping  before  the  seat  on  which  Louise  had  fallen,  she  said 
abrnntlv, 

"  Will  you  root  out  this  passion  ?*' 

"  I  cannot/'  replied  the  Langnedocian  through  her  tears. 

**Then  life  and  it  must  end  together,"  said  the  Marchioness  half 
interrogatively. 

•*  It  may  be  so,"  said  Louise.  But  immediately,  as  if  suddenly 
awakened  to  a  new  import  in  the  words,  shading  her  long  hair  from 
her  face,  she  exclaimed, 

"  You  would  not  kill  me  l '' 

A  strange  slow  smile  crept  over  IVIarie's  face,  which  had  by  this 
lime  recovered  its  usual  stony  impassiveness,  as  she  said, 

'*  We  are  rivals  !  '* 

But  as  Louise's  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  with  a  look  of  wonderment, 
at  that  moment  a  sudden  burst  of  laughter  from  the  room  on  the  oppo* 


Il±  THE   XABCmOKSSS  OF   RRDnOLLIEBS. 

ate  sde  mi  the  Lmdia^  in  wkkh  F^an^ois  and  Henri  D' Anbraj,  with 
their  compnnimSfe  were  caroosing:,  arrested  the  attention  of  the  Mar- 
duBoesB.  She  walked  to  the  door,  undosed  it»  and  listened.  A  Toice 
was  heard  proposing  the  toast,  "  Sneoess  to  your  <Mmi  as  a  creditor, 
aad  a  king  incarceratioa  to  Sahite-Cnnx !  "  llien  followed  the  dink  of 
ghipi,  and  the  rtroi  of  the  gnests  as  they  honoured  the  pledge. 

The  Mardiioneas  turned  pole,  and  denched  the  handle  of  the  door 
she  held  until  the  blood  forsook  her  fingers ;  she  appeared  to  forget 
the  presence  of  Louise ;  and  redosing  Uie  door,  when  the  noise  had 
subsided,  she  walked  to  the  bureau,  and  opening  the  box  whidi  we 
have  before  described,  beean,  half  mechanically,  to  arrange  the  small 
rials  with  which  it  was  filled.  All  was  now  silence  in  the  chamber, 
broken  only  by  the  measured  ticking  of  the  pendule  on  the  chimney- 
piece.  It  might  hare  lasted  some  fire  mmute^  when  Fran^oise 
Roussel  entering  the  room  cautiously  by  the  parte  derobie,  whispered 
her  mistress,  who  flushed  at  the  tidings,  and  hastily  closed  the  box. 
Then,  opening  the  door  which  led  to  a  small  room  contiguona  to  the 
apartment,  she  said  to  Louise,— 

'*  In  here :  not  a  word — ^not  a  motion  as  yon  Talue  life."  Louise 
oibeyed  mechanicallT,  and  as  the  door  dosed  upon  her,  Gbudin  de 
Ssinte>^raix  entered. 

Marie  threw  herself  into  his  arms ;  all  her  jealousy  for  the  mo- 
ment Tanished  at  finding  herself  once  more  at  his  side. 

*"  You  are  free  then?    she  ssked,  after  this  passionate  greeting. 
'*  For  the  time,  Marie/  replied  Gaudin.    '*I  hare  appeased  Des- 
mi»  with  part  of  tbe  moneY  I  raised  on  your  carcanet.     I  did  not 
tali  the   Exempt  so  rdentless  a»  my  new  creditor,  your  brother 

^  Fr&noois !"  exclaimed  the  Mardiioness.  *'  He  is  here — ^in  the 
ncvt  TyiMr.  I" 

'  I  kw^rn  it,"  said  Sainte-Croix,  "or  I  should  not  have  employed 
four  th<^.<;aBd  francs  to  grease  the  palm  of  the  Exempt.  I  came  to 
«ivak  with  him — to  tell  him  to  his  teeth  that  he  had  disgraced  the 
wiznc  of  ^rentieman  by  that  attempt  to  crush  me." 

At^  he  $poke  he  supped  towards  the  door  communicating  with  the 
Wiv^nc^pi^ic^^  a^  if  to  carry  his  threat  into  execution.  Marie  laid  her 
V*«v.  KTNia  hi»  ana. 

:V   jv<  ^  in,  Gaudin,"  she   said:     '* there  will  be  bloodshed. 
^   «K  >4<ety«MMl  bv  his  friends  and  neighbours.     You  will  be  mur- 

'  i  mV^  >^*  exv-iaimed  Sainte- Croix,  "  I  shall  not  foil  alone,"  and 
W  >»M»8«N^  AT  ^^•*^i*  the  door. 

*  ^'Vitnr  >ii  mm<)mc  war/*  said  Marie,  as  she  pointed  to  the  casket 
%^N^ ««^  )#wa <M  h^  t^ew    ''This." 

^ft^iiH  A>v>t;\  ^titaft>)  ai  h«r  with  a  gloomy  and  meaning  smile.  ''  This 

^Mk"^  W  «mnL  '^  iW  «ii^y««tiott  is  yours.    Be  it  so  :  there  will  be  no 

^MM  lyMM,  «t  aU  ewnts ;  and  we  may  rid  ourselves  of  one  who, 

wilt  &e  tttoei^  «iiisi  eirr  be  a  serpent  in  our  path.     Is  Henri  with 

Nil** 

«^  Ht  K**  aMweted  Mariew 

**  Then  ia^  enough  for  two,"  muttered  Sainte-Croix  who  had  taken 
phM  from  its  compartment,  and  was  hdding  it  up  to  the  light  of 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OF   BRINVILLIERS.  213 

Must  Henri  die  too  ?"  said  the  Marchioness.  "  He  is  so  young 
9  gay — ^has  been  so  kind  to  me.     We  were  almost  playmates." 

And  a  trace  of  emotion  passed  over  her  brow. 

'*  Both  or  neither/'  replied  Sainte-Croix :  '*  decide  at  once.  I 
shall  await  your  determination." 

And  he  seated  himself  at  the  table^  coolly  humming  the  burden  of 
a  chanion  d  hoire. 

There  was  a  fearful  struggle  in  Marie's  mind.  But  the  fiend 
triumphed^  and  no  agitation  was  perceptible  in  her  voice  when^  after 
a  moment's  reflection,  she  replied,  '*  Both." 

''  Now  for  an  agent  in  the  work.  You  cannot  trust  any  of  youf 
own  domestics.  I  foresaw  something  like  this,  and  have  brought  my 
instrument/'  said  Oaudin.  He  rose,  and  drawing  aside  the  curtain, 
beckoned  from  the  window.  The  signal  was  answered  by  a  cough 
from  below,  and  followed  by  the  appearance  of  Lachausaee,  who  had 
evidently  expected  the  summons.  He  clumsily  greeted  the  Marchi<^- 
ness,  and  dropping  his  hat,  awaited  Gaudin's  orders. 

"  Let  Franfoise  find  a  livery  of  your  brother's  people,  and  give  it 
to  this  honest  fellow,  Marie/'  said  Sainte- Croix. 

Marie  went  to  give  the  order,  and  Gaudin  developed  his  plan  briefly, 
but  clearly,  to  Lachaussee.  It  was,  to  mix  with  the  attendants  at  the 
carouse,  nimished  with  the  phial,  which  Sainte-Croix  took  from  the 
box  and  gave  him ;  then  watching  his  opportunity,  he  was  to  mix  a 
few  drops  of  its  contents  with  the  wine  of  the  brothers.  Assuming 
the  dress  which  Fran^oise  soon  brought,  Lachaussee  left  the  apart- 
ment, leaving  Sainte-Croix  and  the  Marchioness  to  await  the  result.  ^ 

The  room  in  which  Francois  and  Henri  D'Aubray  with  their 
country  friends  were  assembled  was  large  and  handsome.  Lights 
sparkled  upon  the  table,  and  played  brilliantly  among  the  flasks,  cups, 
and  salvers  which  covered  it,  in  all  the  rich  profusion  of  one  of  those 
luxurious  suppers,  which,  altbouch  not  carried  to  perfection  until  the 
subsequent  reign,  were  already  admirably  organized  and  most  popular 
among  the  gay  youth  of  the  Parisian  noblesse. 

Francois  d'Aubray  was  seated  at  the  head  of  a  long  table ;  his 
stern  and  somewhat  sullen  features  contrasting  strongly  with  the 
boyish  and  regular  face  of  his  younger  brother  Henri,  who  sat  on  his 
right.  The  company  consisted  almost  entirelv  of  provincial  aristo- 
cracy,— those  whose  estates  joined  that  of  D'Aubray  at  Offemont,  in 
Compiegne.  There  was  more  of  splendour  than  taste  in  their  cos- 
tumes :  the  wit  was  coarser,  tooy  and  the  laughter  louder  than  Pari- 
sian good- breeding  would  have  sanctioned. 

"  And  so  you  have  run  down  your  game  at  last,"  said  the  Marquis 
de  Vilieaume,  one  of  the  guests,  to  Francois. 

"  Yes, — thanks  to  Desgrais,"  was  the  reply.  "  Sainte-Croix  is  at 
this  moment  in  the  hands  of  the  Lieutenant-civil,  and,  if  I  know 
aught  of  his  affairs,  he  will  not  soon  reappear  to  trouble  the  peace 
of  our  fiEunily." 

"  Man  dieu  I  Fran9ois,  vou  are  too  severe,"  gaily  interrupted 
Henri.  "  Gaudin  de  Sainte-Croix  is  a  hon  gargon,  af^r  all ;  and  I  am 
half  inclined  to  quarrel  with  you  for  tracking  him  down,  as  if  he  were 
a  paltry  bourgeois" 

"  Henri,"  said  Fran9ois,  turning  sharply  towards  him ;  *'  no  more 
of  this.  Our  sister's  honour  must  not  be  lightly  dealt  with.  Sainte- 
Croix  is  a  villain,  and  deserves  a  villain's  doom." 


14  THE   MABCHIONESS  OF   BRINVILLIERS. 

^  A  tniix  to  £iinil J  grieTmnoes  !"  roared  a  red-faoed  Baron,  hearilj 
■oCed  and  sparred ;  ooe  of  tbose  Nimrods  who  were  qaite  as  ridicu- 
Ms».  and  mocii  more  namerous  in  the  France  of  Loois  Qoatorze, 
kwa  ^bKsr  iautaton  of  the  ^*  Jockey  Clab"  of  the  present  day.  ''  Deb- 
ar-4a3iua^  is  a  boorgeois  sport  compared  to  stag-huntingy  after  all ; 
he  ^olIt  amosement  for  young  gentlemen." 

**  W^«re  is  Antoine  Brinvilliers  ?"  asked  another  guest  of  Fran* 
;aia.  **  He  ooght  to  be  very  grateful  to  you,  for  your  care  of  Madame 
ka  Msrqnise's  reputation." 

**  Oace  far  all,  messieurs/  said  Fran9oi8,  who  turned  crimson  at  the 
■a&d  taunt :  "  no  more  words  of  our  sister,  ix  our  family  concerns, 
w  Wi  x;sT  oooDe  of  it." 

*  A  t)KBt  V  cried  Hairi«  rising.     "  Aux  Amomrt  /" 

*  la  BcT^madr  **  roared  a  chorus  of  voices.     ••  And  let  hammpes." 
TVp  ^uw  cspB  so  called — heirlooms  in  the  family  of  D'Anbray, 

««r  bcvQ^^  &Kwazd  by  the  attendants.  Lachaussee  had  entered 
dk^  iwat  vkflst  thte  canrenation  we  hare  narrated  was  in  progress ; 
Sfet.  cskfa^  ^  psftce  at  the  buiet,  had  silently  and  sedulously  offid- 
ai»d  UMi^ift  tbe  acher  attendants,  without  exciting  notice.  Almost 
«>crT  cne^C  kai  iis  wiiants  there,  and  such  was  the  confusion  of 
£ncra»^  laaa  tibe  fresesce  of  a  strange  Talet,  wearing  the  Brinvilliers' 
cauio::^  «:»  sue  I^dcIt  t»  call  forth  remark.  He  it  was,  who,  taking  a 
Weue  4C  Rizrui^.  ■•w  staMoed  himself  behind  the  chair  of  Fran- 
^HK.  wi>^  sxii^acascKllT  Irftia^  his  cup,  did  not  observe  that  the  hand 
w^k^  ULec  h  lie»i  a  f^2il^  a2id  that  some  drops  of  the  contents  min- 
ted wh^  liie  viae. 

The  eublKs-  «f  mcntptt  was  fwr,  and  they  were  passed  from  hand 
to  hand.  FrsDv^tts.  si^  driskii^.  handed  hu  to  Henri,  who  honour- 
ed his  own  toast  like  a  baniy  drinker.  As  he  passed  it  to  De  Ville- 
anme,  Lachaossre.  prrtei>din|r  to  lYsch  over  him  for  something,  con- 
trived  to  knock  the  gohWf  mm  his  hand  and  spill  its  contents.  A 
storm  of  abuse  for  h»  avkw^srdness  was  the  result,  under  which  he 
managed  to  leave  the  room,  with  as  little  Botice  as  he  had  caused  by 
entering  it. 

Chafed  by  the  wine  they  had  dnink,  the  mirth  of  the  party  waxed 
wilder  and  louder.  Songs  were  sucf ;  games  at  tennis  and  ombre 
arranged ;  bets  settled ;  pariies  de  ckasses  organised.  The  revelry 
was  at  its  highest  pitch,  when  a  smes  of  kmd  and  sudden  shrieks 
was  heard  from  the  staircase.  It  was  a  woman's  voice  that  uttered 
them  ;  and  a  rush  was  directly  made  by  the  guests  in  the  direction  of 
the  sound. 

They  found  Louise  Ganthier  struggling  in  the  hands  of  some  of  the 
valets  on  the  landing-place.  The  room  into  which  she  had  been  hur- 
ried by  the  Marchioness  had  another  exit,  which  ^-as  unlocked.  This 
she  had  soon  discovered  on  regaining  her  presence  of  mind ;  and  in 
attempting  to  leave  the  hotel  by  it,  she  had  been  seen  and  rudely 
aeiaed  by  the  servants,  who  were  amused  by  her  terror.  To  D'Au- 
bray's  guests,  flushed  as  they  wero  tiith  wine,  the  sight  of  a  woman 
was  a  new  incentive,  and  poor  Louise  would  have  fared  worse  at  the 
hands  of  the  masters  than  of  the  servants,  had  it  not  been  for  the  in- 
terposition of  Fran9ois  d'Aubray,  who,  pressing  through  the  crowd 
thttt  surrounded  the  frightened  and  fiednting  girl,  bade  all  stand  back 
hk  a  tone  that  enforced  obedience. 

"Vho  aro  you  ?"  he  asked,  "  and  what  business  brings  you  here  ?" 


THE  MABCHIONESS   OF   BRINVILLIERS.  215 

''  I  am  a  poor  girl ;  broaght  here  for  what  reason  I  know  not,  bj 
Madame  la  Marquise,  not  an  hour  since,'*  replied  Louise,  reassured  by 
the  calmness  of  his  manner,  which  contrasted  strangely  with  the  wild- 
ness  and  recklessness  of  all  around. 

"  Mort  de  ma  vie  I  by  Madame  la  Marquise  I  "  cried  Henri.  "  She 
is  here,  then  ?" 

"  We  entered  together,"  said  Louise. 

"  Ha  1 "  exclaimed  Fran9oi8,  with  a  savage  ferocity,  that  made  him 
fearful  to  look  upon,  "  she  is  playing  fast  and  loose  with  us*  On  your 
life,  girl,  is  this  the  truth  ?" 

*'  It  is  the  truth,"  replied  Louise. 

'*  And  where  is  the  Marchioness  ?"  he  asked,  thickly,  and  in  a  woice 
almost  inarticulate  from  passion. 

*'  In  her  apartment,  when  I  left  her,"  said  the  Languedodan. 

"  Alone?"  asked  Fran9oi8. 

"  Some  one  entered  the  room  as  I  quitted  it,"  was  the  answer. 

Francois  D'Aubray  hardly  awaited  her  reply.  Springing  like  a 
tiger  across  the  landing-place  to  the  door  of  Marie's  boudoir,  he  cried^ 

"  Stand  by  me,  genUemen,  for  the  honour  of  Compieene  !  De  Ville- 
aome !  down  into  the  court-yard,  and  see  that  no  one  leaves  the  hotel 
by  that  way.  You,  Messieurs,  guard  the  issues  here.  Henri !  come 
you  with  me." 

And  he  attempted  to  pass  into  his  sister's  apartment. 

"  Open ! "  he  roared,  rather  than  shouted, — "  open !  harlot !  adul- 
tress !— open  ! " 

There  was  no  reply.  He  shook  the  door,  but  it  was  locked  within, 
and  resisted  his  frantic  efforts  to  break  it  open. 

"  By  the  ante-chamber  ! "  said  Henri,  pointing  to  the  open  door  by 
which  Louise  had  arrived.  Fran9ois  comprehended  the  direction,  al- 
though rage  had  almost  mastered  his  senses.  Rapidly  the  brothers 
entered,  and,  passing  through  the  apartment  of  Louise's  captivity, 
found  the  entrance  communicating  ^vith  Marie's  boudoir  unfiEistened. 
Flinging  it  open,  they  rushed  into  the  room. 

Marie  de  BrinviUiers  was  standing  by  the  fire-place,  pale,  but  calm. 
By  the  secret  door,  which  he  held  open,  listening  to  the  steps  and 
voices  in  the  court,  stood  Sainte-Croix,  his  sword  drawn,  his  teeth  set, 
—a  desperate  man  at  bay. 

Franf ois  D'Aubray  strode  across  the  room,  and  with  his  open  hand 
struck  his  sister  on  the  face,  hissing  through  his  clenched  teeth, 
"  Fiend ! " 

Marie  uttered  no  cry,  made  no  motion,  though  Oaudin,  with  a  ter- 
rible oath,  sprang  forward,  and  would  have  run  Fran9ois  through  the 
body,  had  not  a  sign  from  the  Marchioness  restrained  him. 

"  You — ^you — Sainte-Croix  ! "  cried  Henri,  crossing  swords  immedi- 
ately with  the  other,  as  his  brother,  stopping  short  in  his  progress  to- 
wards him  reeled,  and  stumbled  against  the  chimney-piece. 

''Look  to  your  brother,"  said  Sainte-Croix,  as  he  put  by  the  furious 
thrusts  of  Henri, — **  and  to  yourself,"  he  muttered,  as  with  a  sudden 
expert  wrench  he  disarmed  him. 

Marie  crossed  to  Sainte-Croix.     "  It  works ! "  she  whispered. 

"  Henri ! "  gasped  Fran9oi8,  as  the  froth  gathered  round  his  leaden 
lips,  and  the  cold  sweat  rose  in  thick  beads  upon  his  forehead,  '*  what 
is  this  ? — Give  me  some  water." 

He  made  a  spring  at  a  glass  vase  that  stood  on  a  bracket  neax  b\m> 


216  THB  MAMCmaSWBS  OF   BRINVILIJSR& 

filed  witk  vnter ;  but,  as  if  Uioded  at  the  instant,  misaed  his  mark, 
aad  fell  hearily  oo  the  floor.  His  brother  raised  his  arm,  and,  on 
letting;  it  go,  sank  passivd  j  bf  his  side. 

**  He  is  dead !"  exclaimed  Henri,  as  a  pallor,  far  beyond  that  which 
kflfnr  wonld  haTe  prodnoed,  orerspread  his  own  features. 

"  It  is  apoplexy  l"  said  one  of  the  bystanders.  "  In  his  passion  he 
kaa  ruptured  a  vessel  of  the  brain." 

The  goests  crowded  round  the  body.  8ainte-Croix  and  Marie  look- 
ed at  one  another  as  they  awaited  the  pangs  of  the  other  yictim. 


CRAPTBB  xxn. 
8«iiite-Croiz  diaooren  die  great  secret  sooner  than  he  expected. 

A  Psw  weeks  passed,  and  the  terrible  erents  of  the  last  chapter 
«re  almost  forgotten  by  the  volatile  people  of  Paris,  and  even  by  the 
prvrincials  who  had  bc^n  present  at  the  double  tragedy,  for  Henri 
d'Aubray  had  followed  his  brother,  although,  from  his  robust  health 
and  strmig  constitution,  he  had  battled  more  vigorously  against  the 
effscts  of  Uie  poison,  his  sufferings  being  prolonged  in  consequence.  It 
is  unnecessary  to  follow  the  horrid  details  of  the  effect  of  the  Aqua 
Tofllana,  or  to  describe  the  last  agonies,  when  '*  il  se  plaignait  d'avoir 
tin  foyer  brulant  dans  la  poitrine,  et  la  flamme  interieure  qui  le  devo- 
rait  semblait  sortir  par  les  yeux,  seule  partie  de  son  corps  qui  demeur^ 
▼ivante  encore,  quand  le  reste  n'etait  deja  plus  qu'un  cadavre.**  It 
wiU  suffice  to  say  that  no  suspicion,  as  yet,  rested  upon  the  murderers. 
The  bodies  were  examined,  in  the  presence  of  the  first  surgeons 
of  Paris,  as  well  as  the  usual  medical  attendants  of  the  D'Aubray 
family ;  and,  although,  everywhere  in  the  system  traces  of  violent  or- 
ganic lesion  were  apparent,  yet  none  could  say  whether  these  things 
had  been  produced  by  other  than  mere  accidental  morbid  causes.  Testa 
would,  as  in  the  present  day,  have  soon  detected  the  presence  of  the 
poisons — the  more  readily,  as  they  were  mostly  mineral  that  were  used, 
but  the  secret  of  these  reagents  remained  almost  in  the  sole  possession 
of  those  who  made  them  :  and  the  subtlety  of  some  of  their  toxicologi- 
cal  preparations  proves  that  the  disciples  of  Spara  were  chemists  of 
no  mean  order.*  People  wondered  for  a  little  while  at  the  coincidence 
of  the  several  deaths  occurring  in  one  family,  and  in  a  manner  so  simi- 
lar, and  then  thought  no  more  of  the  matter.  The  cemetery  received 
the  bodies  of  the  victims :  and  the  Marchioness  of  BrinvillierSf  now 
her  own  mistress,  and  the  sole  possessor  of  a  magnificent  income,  shared 
it  openly  with  Sainte-Croix,  aod  the  hotel  in  the  Rue  St.  Paul  vied 
with  the  most  celebrated  of  Paris,  in  the  gorgeous  luxury  of  its  festi- 
vities. But  the  day  of  reckoning  and  heavy  retribution  was  fast  ap- 
proaching. 

We  have  before  alluded  to  the  Palais  des  Thermes — the  remains  of 
which  ancient  edifice  may  still  be  seen  from  the  footway  of  the  Rue 

*  Much  has  been  written  upon  the  Aqua  Toffuia,  especially  with  respect  to  its 
"^-ped  power  of  killing  at  any  ii^terval  of  time  after  it  had  been  administered.    No 
J  is  now  known  that  would  thus  exert  any  species  of  action.   The  only  example 
i  can  be  brought  forward  to  support  the  possible  truth  of  this  sutement  is  the 
from  the  bite  of  a  mad  dog,  which  will  remain  dormant  in  the  system^  it  is 
iwn,  for  several  months. 


THE   KARCHIONESS   OF  BRINVILLIERS.  21 7 

de  Im  Harpe>  between  the  Rue  du  Foin  and  the  Rue  des  Mathurins 
— as  being  the  most  important  ruins  marking  the  occupation  of  Paris 
by  the  Romans.  The  researches  of  various  individuals  from  time  to 
time,  have  shown  that  this  palace  was  once  of  enormous  extent,  ex* 
tending  as  far  as  the  small  stream  of  the  Seine  which  flows  beneath 
the  Hotel  Dieu ;  and,  indeed,  in  the  cellars  of  many  of  the  houses, 
between  the  present  site  of  the  large  salle  and  the  river,  pillars  and 
vaulted  ways,  precisely  similar  to  those  in  the  Rue  de  la  Harpe,  have 
been  frequently  discovered ;  added  to  which,  before  the  demolition 
of  the  Petit-Chatelet,  a  small  fortress  at  the  bottom  of  the  Rue  St. 
Jacques,  the  remains  of  some  ancient  walls  were  visible  running  to- 
wards the  Palais  from  the  banks  of  the  Seine. 

There  were  soulerrains  stretching  out  in  many  other  directions; 
the  whole  of  the  buildings  adjoining  were  undermined  by  them,  the 
entrance  to  the  largest  having  been  discovered,  by  accident,  in  the 
courtyard  of  the  Convent  des  Mathurins,  within  a  few  months  of  the 
date  of  our  romance.  And  these  must  not  be  confounded  with  the 
rough  catacombs  to  which  we  have  been  already  introduced,  hewn  in 
the  gypsum  as  chance  directed,  but  were  regularly  arched  ways  from 
ten  to  sixteen  feet  below  the  surface  of  the  ground  communicating 
with  one  another  by  doors,  and  supported  by  walls  four  feet  thick* 

The  ruins  of  the  Palais  des  Thermes  and  the  adjoining  vaults,  al- 
though not  open  to  the  street  as  they  are  at  present,  had  long  been  the 
resort  of  that  class  of  wanderers  about  Paris  now  classified  as  '*  Boke^ 
miens,"  until  an  edict  drove  them  to  the  Catacombs  of  the  Bievre  and 
the  Cours  des  Miracles  to  establish  their  colonies.  The  shelter  of  the 
Palais  *'  fjBVorisent  les  frequentes  d^faites  d'une  pudeur  chancelante" 
was  ordered  to  be  abolished;  and  the  entire  place  was,  in  a  mea*- 
sure,  enclosed  and  let,  at  some  humble  rate,  as  a  storehouse  or  cellar 
for  the  tradesmen  in  the  Rue  de  la  Harpe. 

The  winter's  evening  was  closing  in,  cold  and  dismal,  as  Gaudin  de 
Sainte-Croix  was  traversing  the  streets  between  the  Place  Maubert 
and  the  Rue  de  la  Harpe,  a  short  time  after  the  events  we  have  de- 
scribed. The  front  of  the  Palais  des  Thermes  was  at  this  period  con- 
cealed from  the  street  by  an  old  dwelling-house,  but  the  porte-cochSre 
was  always  open,  and  he  passed  across  the  court,  unchallenged,  to  the 
entrance  of  the  large  hall  that  still  exists.  Here  he  rang  a  rusty  bell, 
which  had  the  effect  of  bringing  a  man  to  the  wicket,  who  wore  the 
dress  of  a  mechanic.  He  appeared  to  know  Sainte-Croix,  as  he  ad- 
mitted him  directly,  without  anything  more  than  a  humble  recogni- 
tion ;  and  then  giving  him  a  small  end  of  lighted  candle  in  a  split 
lath,  similar  to  those  used  in  cellars,  he  left  him  to  go  on  at  his  own 
will. 

Oaudin  crossed  the  large  salle,  the  sides  of  which  were  covered  by 
wine-casks  piled  one  on  the  other,  and  entered  a  small  archway  at  the 
extremity,  which  was  at  the  top  of  a  dozen  steps.  Descenaing,  he 
went  along  a  vaulted  passage,  and  at  last  reached  a  species  of  cellar, 
which  was  fitted  up  as  a  laboratory.  By  the  light  of  the  fire  alone, 
which  was  burning  in  the  furnace,  he  discovered  Exili. 

"  You  have  brought  my  money,"  said  the  physician,  half  interro^- 
tively,  as  he  turned  his  ghastly  features  towards  Sainte-Croix.  "  Five 
thousand  crowns  is  light  payment  for  the  services  I  have  rendered  you. 
It  should  have  been  here  before." 

**  I  regret  that  1  have  not  yet  got  it,"  answered  Gaudin.     "  The 


218  THE  MABGHI0NE88  OF  BBUfTIIXIBU. 


greater  part  of  the  possessions  which  have  fallen  to  Ifwhrnie  de  Brin- 
Tilliers  cannot  yet  be  made  available.  I  went  this  nuvning  to  the  Jew 
who  before  aided  me,  on  the  Qua!  des  Orf  evres,  to  get  some  money,  but 
he  was  from  home." 

It  is  true  that  Sain te- Croix  had  been  in  that  direction  during  the 
day,  but  it  was  with  a  far  different  object*  To  elude  the  payment  of 
Exili's  bond  he  had  determined  upon  destroying  him,  running  the  risk 
of  wlLitever  might  happen  subsequently  through  the  physician's  know« 
lei%e  of  the  murders.  And  he  had,  therefore,  ordered  a  body  of  the 
Goriie-Royale  to  attend  at  the  Palais  des  Thermos  that  evening,  when 
tiKT  wwild  receive  sufficient  proof  of  the  trade  £xili  was  driving,  in 
kai  cft^^fccitT  of  alchemist. 

^  It  must  be  p^,  however,"  said  £xili,  *'  and  by  daybreak  to-mor- 
ivv  morning.  Look  you.  Monsieur  de  Sainte-Croix,  I  am  not  to  be 
p«t  oiF  luke  Tour  grovelling  creditors  have  been,  with  your  dull,  ordi- 
■arr  de^csw  To-morrow  I  start  for  England,  and  I  will  have  the 
■omey  with  me." 

**'  I  ttfU  you  I  cannot  procure  it  by  that  time,"  said  Gaudin.  **  A  day 
«iBL  be  «f  CO  consequence  to  you." 

"^  Xo  bxn««  thin  it  may  be  a  matter  of  life  or  death,— a  simple  affair, 
I  ^riTLt  vcc»  with  either  of  us,  but  still  worth  caring  for.  Ha !  what 
»ths?"' 

He  Lid  rcr^^iselv  brushed  his  hand  against  Sainte- Croix's  cloak,  and 
in  the  {\v&et  of  It  he  felt  some  weighty  substance.  The  chink 
asurvd  him  it  w;£S  gold. 

'^  You  cancot  hare  that,"  said  Gaudin  confusedly ;  ''  it  is  goins 
with  n*.e  to  the  cJin:ing-table  this  evening.  Chavagnac  has  promised 
me  ZDT  r^Terge  at  De  LsuzunV 

**  You  hjLve  rich  jewels,  too.  about  you,"  continued  Exili,  peering  at 
him  with  a  ft  srful  ej^pression.  *'  The  carcanet,  I  see,  has  been  re- 
deemed, and  bccvmies  tou  m  ell.  That  diamond  clasp  is  a  fortune  in  it- 
self." 

The  guxe  of  the  physician  grew  every  moment  more  peculiar,  as  he 
^:)U^  At  GAudiu*^  rich  attire. 

'*  IWrHarv.'"*  cried  Sainte-Cruix :  "if  3rou  touch  one,  I  will  hew  you 
dowu  ji»  I  h^klIJ  a  i!i^.  Not  one  of  them  is  mine.  They  belong  to 
^  Mjuvhivu««s^  v»f  BriuTilliers." 

^^  Na>  .^  rv(*li<^i  Kxili.  chancinc  his  tone,  "  I  did  but  admire  them. 
l\M»rv  t^<o>  a  (rucv  to  this.  >V  ill  you  promise  me  the  sum  named  in 
the  K*^«.  tv*-«H«t\*w  ?'' 

*^  IVuuvn^w  you  shall  have  it."  said  Sainte-Croix. 

**  I  am  satisfied.^  said  the  physician.  "  I  was  annoyed  at  the  mo- 
ment, but  it  has  ivjui^ed.^ 

And  ho  tu^nt^l  r\mnd  to  the  furnace  to  superintend  the  progress  of 
oome  ^^r\^|>aration  thst  ^^as  ova|H>ratingover  the  fire. 

•'M  hat  haro  you  iht^re?"  asked  Gaudin,  who  appeared  anxious  to 
proliuig  the  intor\-io\v.  and  carry  on  the  time  as  he  uest  might. 

•'  A  venom  nuire  deadly  than  any  we  have  yet  known— that  will  kill 
like  lightning,  and  leave  no  trace  o(  its  presence  to  the  most  subtle 
tests.     1  have  Ixx'n  \«xvks  preparing  it^  and  it  approaches  perfection." 

**  You  will  give  me  the  secrvt  ?"  aNkod  Gaudin. 

"  As  soon  as  it  is  finished,  and  the  time  is  coming  on  apace.  You 
ave  arrived  op|K»tunely  to  assist  me." 


.      4 


% 


THS   MARCHIONESS   OF  BRINVILLIERS.  219 

He  took  a  mask  with  glass  eyes  from  a  shelf^  aud  tied  it  round  his 
face, 

"Its  very  sublimation^  now  commencing^  is  deadly,"  continued 
Ezili ;  "  but  there  is  a  medicated  veil  in  the  nostrils  of  this  mask  to 
decompose  its  particles.  If  you  would  see  the  preparation  completed 
you  must  wear  one  as  well." 

Another  yisor  was  at  his  side.  Under  pretence  of  re-arranging  the 
string  he  broke  it  from  the  mask^  and  then  fixed  it  buck  with  some  re- 
sinous compound  that  he  used  to  cover  the  stop])ers  of  his  bottles>  and 
render  them  air-tight.  All  this  was  so  rapidly  done  that  Sainte-Croix 
took  no  notice  of  it. 

"  Now,  let  me  fix  this  on/'  said  Exili>  "  and  you  need  not  dread  the 
fvponr*  :  Besides,  you  can  assist  me.  I  have  left  some  drues  with  the 
porter  ifhich  I  must  fetch^"  he  continued^  as  he  cautiously  fixed  the 
.TiMMr  to  Sointe-Croix's  face. 

"  I  will  mind  the  fiumace  whilst  you  go/'  said  Gaudin^  as  he  heard 
an  ftdiaceiit  bell  sound  the  hour  at  which  he  had  appointed  the  guard 
to  arriTe.    **  There  is  no  danger  in  this  mask^  you  say  ?" 

"  Nfme/*  aaid  ExilL  "  You  must  watch  the  compound  narrowly  as 
Mon  as  yon  see  particles  of  its  sublimation  deposited  in  that  glass  bell 
■whidi  overhangs  it.  Then,  when  it  turns  colour,  remove  it  from  the 
famaoe." 

Anxiooa  to  become  acquainted  with  the  new  poison,  and  in  the  hope 
that  aa  soon  as  he  acquired  the  secret  of  its  manufacture,  the  guard 
would  arrive,  Gaudin  promised  compliance  gladly.  Exili,  on  some 
trifline  excuse,  left  the  apartment;  but,  as  soon  as  his  footfall  was 
beyond  Sainte-Croix's  hearmg^  he  returned,  treading  as  stealthily  as  a 
tiger*  and  took  up  his  place  at  the  door,  to  watch  his  prey.  Gaudin 
waa  atill  at  the  furnace,  fanning  the  embers  with  the  cover  of  a  book, 
aa  he  watched  the  deadly  compound  in  the  evaporating  dish.  At  last, 
tlie  small  particles  began  to  deposit  themselves  on  the  bell-glass  above, 
aa  Exili  bad  foretold,  and  Gaudin  bent  his  head  close  to  the  prepa- 
ration to  watch  for  the  change  of  colour.  But  in  so  doings  the  heat 
of  the  furnace  melted  the  resin  with  which  the  string  had  been  fas- 
tened. It  gave  ivay,  and  the  mask  fell  on  the  fioor,  whilst  the  vapour 
of  the  poison  rose  full  in  his  face,  almost  before,  in  his  eager  atten- 
tiouj  he  was  aware  of  the  accident. 

One  terrible  scream — a  cry  which  once  heard  could  never  be  for- 
gotten— not  that  of  agony,  or  terror,  or  surprise,  but  a  shrill  and 
violent  indrawing  of  the  breath,  resembling  rather  the  screech  of  some 
huge  hoarse  bird  of  prey,  irritated  to  madness,  than  the  sound  of  a 
human  voice,  was  all  that  broke  from  Gaudin's  lips.  Every  muscle  of 
his  face  was  at  the  instant  contorted  into  the  most  frightful  form: 
he  remained  for  a  second,  and  no  more,  wavering  at  the  side  of  the 
furnace*  and  then  fell  heavily  on  the  fioor.     He  wus  dead ! 

Exili  hud  expected  this.  His  eagerness  would  hardly  restrain  him 
from  rushing  upon  Sainte-Croix  as  he  fell ;  and  scarcely  was  he  on  the 
ground  when  the  physician,  dashing  the  rest  of  the  poison  from  the 
furnace,  darted  on  him  like  a  beast  of  prey,  and  immediately  drew 
forth  the  bag  of  money  from  his  cloak,  and  trani»ferred  it  to  his  own 
pouch.  He  next  tore  away  every  ornament  of  any  value  that  adorned 
Gaudin's  costly  dress ;  finally  taking  the  small  gold  heart  which  hung 
round  his  neck,  inclosing  the  morsel  of  pink  crystal,  which  had  at- 


220 


THE    MARCHIONESS   OF   BRTNVTLLIERS, 


tnicted  Exili*8  attention  the  first  night  of  Ins  sojourn  in  the  Bastille 
As  he  opened  it  to  look  at  the  beryl,  he  observed  a  tliin  slip  of  vellum 
folded  under  it  within  the  case,  on  which  were  traced  some  faint  cha- 
racters. By  the  liglil  which  Sainte-Croix  had  brought  with  him,  and 
which  was  burning  faintly  in  the  subterraneous  atmosphere,  he  read 
the  following  words  with  difiiculty  : — 

**  Beatrice  Spara  to  her  child^  on  ihe  eire  of  her  execution*  Home^ 
A.D.  1()42.     An  amulet  against  an  evil  eye  and  poisons/' 

A  stifled  exclamation  of  htirror,  yet  intense  to  the  most  painful  de^ 
gree  of  mental  anguish,  escaped  him  as  the  meaning  came  upon 
him.  For  a  few  seconds  his  eyes  were  riveted  on  the  cf ystsl,  as  if  \ 
they  would  start  from  his  head  ;  his  lips  were  parted,  ancl  his  breath 
suspended.  Then  another  and  another  gasping  cry  followed  ;  again  he 
read  the  ljnes>  as  though  he  would  have  altered  their  import ;  but  the 
simple  words  remained  the  same,  and  fearful  was  their  revelation,^ 
until,  covering  his  face  with  his  hands,  he  fell  on  his  knees  beside  the 
body.  Gaudin  de  Sainte-Croix — the  unknown  adventurer — the  sol- 
dier of  fortune,  whom  nobody  had  ever  dared  to  question  respecting 
his  parentage  was  his  own  son  ! — the  fruit  of  his  intimacy  with  the 
Sicilian  womaUj  from  whom  at  Palermo  he  had  learned  the  secrets  of  | 
his  hellish  trade,  iti  the  first  instance  to  remove  those  who  were  ini- 
mical to  the  ilaismi.  The  child  was  not  above  two  years  old  when  he 
himself  had  been  compelled  to  *!y  from  Italy;  and  he  had  imngined 
that*  after  Iier  execution,  the  infant  had  perished,  unknown  and  nn- 
cared  for,  in  the  streets  of  Rome. 

For  some  minutes  he  remained  completely  stupified,  but  was  aroused 
at  last  hy  a  violent  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  vault;  and  immedi- 
ately afterwards  the  man  who  ovvntd  the  house  in  the  Rue  de  la 
Harpe  rushed  in,  and  announced  the  presence  of  the  guard,  who,  not 
finding  Sainte- Croix  to  meet  them,  as  they  expected,  had  made  the 
coctper  conduct  them  to  Exili's  laboratory*  He  had  scarcely  uttered 
the  words  when  Hieir  bristling  halberds,  mingling  with  torches^  ap- 
peared behind  h 

**  Back  !"  screamed  Exili  as  he  saw  the  guard,— "keep  oflTJ  or  I 
can  slay  pu  with  myself,  so  that  not  one  shall  live  to  tell  the  tale." 

The  officer  in  command  told  the  men  to  enter  ;  but  one  or  two  re- 
membered the  fate  of  those  in  the  boat-mili  whom  the  vapour  bad 
killed,  and  they  hung  back, 

"  Your  lives  are  in  my  hands,"  continued  the  physician,  "and  if  yea 
move  one  step  they  are  forfeited.     I  am  not  yet  captured." 

He  darted  tlirou^h  a  doorway  at  the  end  of  the  room  as  he  spoke^ 
and  disappeared.  The  guard  directly  pressed  onward ;  but  as  Exili 
passed  out  at  the  arch,  a  mass  of  timber  descended  like  a  portcullis, 
and  opposed  their  further  progress*  A  loud  and  fiendish  laugh  sounded 
in  the  soutei'Tiiiu,  which  got  fainter  and  fainter,  until  they  heard  it  no 
more. 


THE   MARCHIONESS    OF    DRINVILLrEBik 


221 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

MftUen  beoomie  very  seriotii  for  all  parties. — The  DJBCovery  and  ilie  FVighu 

*'Ah!"  said  Mftitre  Picard,  with  a  long  expression  of  comfortable 
jktigue}  and  the  same  shudder  of  extreme  enjoyment  wltich  he  would 
Haire  indulged  in,  had  he  just  cre[»t  inio  a  bed  artificially  warmed, 
"Ah  !  it  18  a  great  thing  to  enjoy  yourself,  having  done  your  duty  as  a 
man  and  a  Garde  Bourgeoise  i" 

And  he  sank  into  an  easy  chair  in  which  he  would  have  been  hidden 
but  for  his  rotundity,  and  propping  wp  his  little  legs  with  another  seat, 
lighted  a  mighty  pipe,  the  bi>wl  whereof  was  fashioned  like  a  dragon's 
head  which  vomited  forth  smoke  from  its  noettrib  in  a  manner  terrible 
to  behold. 

It  was  a  cold  night*  There  were  large  logs  of  wood  blazing  and 
cradcling  up  the  chimney,  from  the  iron  dogs  ;  and  amongst  the  glow^ 
iiitf  ember*  that  surrounded  them  various  culinary  utensils  were  im- 
h^ded,  some  of  which  seat  forth  fragrant  odours  of  strong  drinks  or 
Bftvotiry  extracts^  whilst  on  a  spit»  formed  of  an  old  rapier,  was  impaled 
a  pheasant,  which  the  Gascon,  Jean  Blacquart^  was  industriously  turn- 
ing round  as  he  sat  upon  the  tioor  with  his  back  against  the  chimney- 
projection,  hnmming  a  student's  song,  to  which  he  made  the  bird 
revolve,  in  proper  measure. 

Everything  looked  very  comfortable.  The  cltilh  was  laid  for  supper, 
and  bright  pewter  vessels  and  horn  mugs  with  silver  rims  caught  the 
light  from  the  fire,  which  likewise  threw  its  warm  glow  upon  the  ceil- 
ing, and  made  the  shadows  dance  and  dicker  on  the  w^alls.  It  was  nut 
•0  pleasant  without.  The  frost  was  hard ;  the  snow  fell  heavily  ;  and 
the  cold  wind  came  roaririg  up  the  narrow  streets,  cli a^i ng  all  the  cut- 
purses  and  evil  company  before  it,  much  readier  than  all  tiie  enards  of 
the  night  could  have  done,  even  at  t be  points  of  their  halberds. 

*' I  think  you  might  change  yuur  love-song  for  ♦*-  sprigbtly  dance^ 
Jean/*  said  ^laitre  Picard.  **  Vonr  tender  pauseN.  *fiiring  which  the 
spit  »tops,  do  but  scorch  the  breast  of  the  bird,  whilst  the  back  pro  tits 
noL** 

"  It  is  an  emblem  of  love,  in  general,*'  replied  the  Gascon  ;  "  seeing 
that  our  breast  is  doubly  warmed  therehyj  whilst  our  hack  comes  off 
but  badly,  especially  if  our  sweetheart  is  expensive,  and  requires  of  one 
the  price  of  three  doublets  to  make  one  robe." 

"  I  was  in  love  once,"  said  IVIuHre  Picard,  *'  but  it  is  a  long  time  ago. 
It  waates  the  substance  of  a  portly  man.  H-id  1  not  eaten  twice  my 
ordinary  allowance  I  should  have  fallen  under  liie  attack.  The  pre- 
sents, too,  which  I  offered  to  ray  lady  were  of  great  value,  and  none 
were  ever  returned/' 

"I  never  give  presents,**  observed  the  Gascon,  *^  for  I  have  found  in 
maDv  hundred  cases  that  my  abaction  is  considered  above  all  price,  and 
reeeived  as  such.'* 

'*  But  suppose  a  rival  of  more  pretensions  comes  to  oppoae  you  ?*' 
said  Mult  re  Pi  card. 

"I  never  had  a  rival,"  said  Blacquart  grandly;  '*and  I  never  shall. 
Admitting  one  was  to  presume  and  cross  my  path,  he  would  tind  no 
ordinary  antagonist.  With  this  stalwart  arm  and  a  trusty  !>lflde,  I 
would  mince  him  before  he  knew  where  he  was."     And,  in  his  enthu- 


222  THE  XABCHIONESS   OP  ^mnmXIERS. 

BHB.  ke  cangiit  hold  of  the  handle  of  the  rapier,  whidi  formed  the 
ipit.  and  hrmndished  h  about,  perfectly  forgetting  the  pretence  of  the 
>  mad  firmlj  eoorinced  that  his  chivalric  enerffiea  ware  really 
He  t«ol^  no  heed  of  the  remonstrance  of  MaStre  Picard, 
a  igrfiigw  and  rxolent  knocking  at  the  street  door,  so  frightened 
koH  m  tike  midaX  of  his  imaeinary  bravery  that  he  let  the  rapier  fall, 
amd  bird.  spit,  and  all  tumbled  on  the  floor. 

"^  Ca»  deA!  h  made  me  jump,"  observed  the  Oascon.    "  What  can 
k  W.  as  t^  tmae  ofn^t  ?** 

'*  T«ia  02  iad  oot  if  3roii  go  and  see,"  replied  Maitre  Picard  from 
Kmnu  aia  pifv- 
**  Siauiw^.  k  ifciwld  be  SMie  wickedly-disposed  students  come  again 
^TCK  !»*''  i«^j.i  irtd  RhcqniTt,  ''  and  they  were  to  bind  me  hand  and 

'  '  e£  Tou  without  my  protection  ? — Ugh  \" 

T^  uaic  errTTMMrWtt  was  provoked  by  a  repetition  of  the  knocking 


Maitre  Picard,  until  he  looked 
is  out  to-night  for  their  own  amusement, 

Hsa  a  4.njit  Fi''  '^^  ■'  ■  to  stir  away  from  the  fire  plaee,  the  6at- 
'  \  cW  dear.    But,  bdfore  he  opened  it,  he  inquired 


1*1 

.  L  nn&mr  Gdaer,"  said  a  well-known  voice.  ''  Are  tou  dead 

wc  »  j<«  W  it  r    Opem  the  door ;  quick !— quick  !" 

}r  ^  iiiinw  i<  iiMnt.  Blacquart  soon  unbarred  the  door, 
XteCmM  JB&f  t^  apuztmenU  He  was  scarcely  dreaaed, 
J  f^TBORCLT^  Httvc  swb  kMae  in  great  precipitancy. 
-^  3^ sse  Rcar^  .**  be  exc^tfsed,  **  yoa  must  come  over  with  me  di- 
?tctL*r  ^f  oe  P^aee  Muxbert.  A  terrible  event  has  come  about.  M. 
G«DCs  «de  Sizate^CMx — ^* 

*^  WetU  v^at  of  him  ?^  asked  tbe  Bourgeois,  aroused  from  his  half- 
jAkvgT  of  confbrt  and  tobacco  by  Glazer's  haggard  and  anxious  ap- 


'  He  is  dead  !"  replied  Philinpe.  "  He  lodged  with  us,  or  rather 
kad  a  room  to  carry  on  his  chemical  experiments,  and  we  have  just 
beard  that  his  body  has  been  found  lifeless,  in  tbe  vaults  of  the  Palais 
des  Thermes." 

*'  Murdi^pd  ?"  iiskod  both  the  Gascon  and  Maitre  Picard  at  once. 
*M  know  not."  uiiNworod  Glaaer;  ''a  hundred  stories  are  already 
Abouti  but  w<»  arc  t0(»  Innvildered  to  attend  to  any.     However,  he  has 
If^ft  n^rly  all  his  nosacssions  in  our  keeping,  and  we  must  immediately 
itMl  them*  up  until  th(»  pleasure  of  the  authorities  be  known." 

"  It  is  the  ivMce  of  the  Commissary  of  Police  of  the  quartier,"  said 
Matire  IHcdrd. 

**  I  know  ill"  answered  Glaier,  impatiently.     ''  But  M.  Artus  is  ill 

III  bwli  and  he  has  deputed  ^*ou  to  witness  the  process,  as  a  man  of 

od  report  in  his  juriMliction.     His  clerk,  Pierre  Prater,  has  started 

our  Mllie*     I  nrav  you  come,  without  more  loss  of  time." 

It  WM  a  sad  trial  Amt  MaUre  Picard  to  leave  his  intended  banquet, 

ptehdly  to  the  merdra  of  the  Gascon,  whose  appetite,  in  common 

th  ml  pertaining  to  all  weakened  intellects,  was  enormous.    But 

V  of  the  caae»  and  Philippe  Glaser's  empressemcmi,  left  him 

|«lUng  oir  the  duty ;  and,  hastily  gathering  together  his 


THE    MARCHIOKESS   OF    BRINVILLIERS. 


223 


cloak  J  arms,  and  other  murks  of  his  authority,  he  turned  oatj  not  with- 
out much  gmmblinpfj  to  accompany  Glazer  to  his  fiither's  house  in  the 
Place  Maubert,  which  was  not  above  ten  minutes*  walk  from  the  Rue 
des  Mathurins. 

Lftte  as  it  was,  the  news  of  Sainte-Croix's  death  had  travelled  over 
that  part  of  Paris  contiguous  to  the  scene  of  the  event:  and  when 
Philippe  and  the  Bourgeois  arrived  the  court  was  filled  with  people, 
who  had  collected*  in  spite  of  the  inclemency  of  the  weather,  to  gain 
some  authentic  intelligence  connected  uitb  the  catastrophe.  The  fact 
that  Kxili  was,  in  some  way  or  another,  connected  unth  the  accident, 
had  already  given  rise  tfi  the  most  marvellous  stories  the  principal  one 
liieing  that  the  devil  had  been  seen  perched  on  the  northern  tower  of 
Notre  Dame  with  the  wretched  physician  in  his  grasp,  preparatory  to 
carrying  him  off  to  some  fearful  place  of  torment,  the  mention  of 
which  provoked  more  crossings  and  holy  words  than  all  the  masses 
which  the  gossip ers  had  attended  for  the  last  week. 

Elbowing  his  way  through  the  throng,  ftlaitre  Picard  assumed  all  his 
wonted  importance,  whilst  he  ordered  Philippe  to  admit  no  one  but  the 
membtjrs  of  his  household ;  and  then,  accompanied  by  Pierre  Frater, 
the  Commissary's  clerk,  he  ascended  to  the  room  which  Gaud  in  had 
occupied. 

It  teemed  with  that  fearful  interest  which  sudden  death  throws 
around  the  most  unimportant  objects  connected  with  the  existence  of 
the  victim.  The  pen  lay  upon  the  half-finished  letters;  a  list  of  things 
to  be  attended  to  on  the  morrow  wa-H  pinned  to  the  wall ;  and  the 
watch  was  ticking  on  its  stand,  althou^^h  the  hand  that  had  put  it  in 
action  was  still  and  cold.  On  the  table  were  some  dice,  at  which  their 
I  owner  had  evidently  been  working,  to  render  their  cast  a  certainty  at 
the  next  game  of  hazard  he  engaged  in.  A  flagon  of  wine,  half 
emptied,  a  book  marked  for  reference,  a  cloak  drying  before  the  expi- 
ring embers  of  the  fire-place,  each  inanimate  article  spoke  with  terrible 
meaning. 

"  YoQ  have  the  seals,  JSIaitre  Frater,"  said  the  Bourgeois  ;  "  we 
will  secure  everything  until  we  have  further  orders/* 

The  clerk  of  the  Commissary  produced  the  othcial  seal,  together  with 
some  lung  strips  of  parchment  to  bind  them  together  ;  and,  assisted  by 
Philippe,  they  proceeded  to  attach  them  to  everything  of  importance 
in  the  room.  ^  But  whilst  tliey  were  thus  engaged,  a  confused  murmur 
was  heard  in  the  court  below,  and  M  nit  re  PI  card,  looking  from  the 
window,  saw  a  carriage  drive  through  the  parte  cochere  as  hastily  as 
the  snow  would  permit.  A  man  sprang  from  it,  closed  the  door  after 
him,  and  the  next  minute  came  up  the  staircase  hurriedly,  and  almost 
forced  his  way  into  t!ie  room. 

'*  There  is  no  admittance,  monsieur/'  said  the  little  Bourgeois  pre- 
senting his  halberd. 

But  the  intruder  was  already  in  the  centre  of  the  chamber. 
*'  I  am  the  valet  of  M.  dc  Sain  te- Croix,  andmynameis  Lachaussee/* 
he  aaid.     **  I  oppose  this  proceeding  of  sealing  up  his  effects." 
"On  what  grounds?"  asked  the  clerk,  Frater. 

*' Because  there  is  much  that  is  my  own  property,*'  replied  Lachaus- 
»ee,  "You  will  find  one  hundred  pistoles,  and  the  same  number  of 
iilver  crowns  in  a  canvas  bag,  in  that  bureau.  JVly  master  gave  them 
to  me,  and  promised  still  further  to  transfer  three  huudred  livTes  to 
me.     You  will,  without  doubt,  find   that  he  has  done  so;  if  he  haa 


S4  TSK  M1BCH]09E»   0¥  BaDmUJEBS. 

■■C  jnn,  Murr  inod  tiOHi  mr  wmd  ttofi  cvcrrtyi^  is  right  whicb  I 

-*  W«  (£•  aoc  inac  jmr  wwxL  ■■liiir,"  »id  tke  derk ;  "  bat 
w^  cumx.  ac  prfMesc  xrv^s  S3  xa  Tua  s»  mociL  as  a  pin  from  thb 
FH^.  WtiBK  zhe  mbsmIb  MTft  bokjiSL  by  iLe  aotiicrities,  whose  serTants 
w  aeneiT  ifv.  smi  xsder  w&sk  «rien  ve  nov  act,  juu  may  rest 
'  UttS  t^  zBtesesb  or  ■•  one  wiS  be  or^riooked." 

s  tri^:  rsa  snreh-  will  mc  pot  me  to  such 
fm  wmtk  h  will  he,*  sKsweicd  Lschaussee^  chang- 
:hii  tsB«. 

'  We  Tccrei  it,"  aas^eied   Slakie  Piend  with   much  grandeur^ 
r  W  haiA  hesd  fnm  P^sre  Fn&er  what  he  was  to  say ;  ''  we  regret 
has.  at  priLSiLal,  tW  law  is  perensptorT.* 
Ii  I  here  as  JMJf  acn  with  yoa,"  said  Ladiaossee,  "  I  will  bring 
i  wiMw  pasBblTy  SBST  hare  saaMw"* 
Befiare  they  had  iMe  to  reply,  he  left  the  room,  and  in  the  course 
«£  a  MiEiiie  leiaiBed,  \m  iaaiin^  hack  with  him,  to  the  astonishment 
«£  cvvry  oae  pracatt,  the  itavdiiooeas  of  BriaTilliers. 

Mane  was  psfe  so  marble.  Her  beantifiil  hair,  usually  arranged 
with  sack  carefal  taste,  was  haogii^  about  her  oeck  and  shoulders  in 
wild  oocfsBK :  her  eyes  glistened,  and  her  lips  were  blanched  and 
yiiMvgf-  She  had  eridcntly  left  home  hurriedly,  wrapping  abuut 
her  Ctf  iist  iiimiiili  that  caaie  to  hand»  which  she  drew  closely 
ler  ifore.  lirim  the  indemency  of  the  weather.  And  yet, 
ai  skie  thea  did,  the  picture  of  agony  and  consternation,  from 
she  Bade  TisiUe  efforts  to  master  her  excitement,  and 
Vv»ra»al  dupbcity  which  had  long  become  her  nature,  to 
viK^  whom  she  was  confronted,  respecting  the  real  state 

jf  ler  >finbz:£S> 

^^  jMilM  wiJalx  St  the  assembled  party  as  she  entered,  and  at 
^c  j^r  ^«^  1^  ^7«B  ywuig  Glaaer,  whom  she  was  well  acquainted 
•rci.  *&-  w^  i3i*^  ilrwiy  seen.  Glad  to  meet  with  any  one  who  knew 
Mr,  wiMT  ssca  dCOLWtances,  she  directly  went  towards  him,  and 
,sw«CK  iia-  tn  sir  ^Vr?^*^  exclaiming^  in  a  hollow  and  trembling 

""I™^-  j^oimw  — «»  ^^"^  an,— this  is  indeed  terrible !" 
»4M0r  aMt^^M^  s  irr  j«aaMO-|daoe  words  of  consolation  to  her ; 
^^  ^^  jg^  tittiML  s«  access  of  riolent  hysterics  placed  the 
r_5^  Snnaiif  w  co«iaehension  of  his  words.     He  sup- 

«  TVw         -^ai*  «  ^M   IB  i*ism  jhmt  t»  foUov,  the  author  hai  taken  from 

^^i^"^*!mijw<  «ir^  3«ni50j«w  :a  km  fomemotky  bearing  the  date  of  the 

r?T  *1L?^^M.  iicniiwm  rr-^ir  ai  iaiL  «»e  time  back,  at  a  book.*hop  in  the 

«M.  — —  *      ^^  j^  i,  :%^.^  m  Ht4iKia».  Pkria.    By  the  similarity  of  the 

^j|^  ^^ipj^  V  M  ^  MB*  R«aB  mBC  ^  ti™^  referred  to  by 

m  SM  v'-*i«»  ^^^fcvirw  -  aai  two  bear  imprint,  *«  A  Parii. 

C«Mr  Ju  f^iMSN. «.  dbta  Jaci|cMa  ViUery,  rue  VieiUe  Bou- 

- «'  ttm  Asrwe^flA^  "^  pr^ten  ;**  the  second  is  a  copy  of 

L>^r  .  ^  tibt  i^u^  s  eke  defence  of  M.  Nirelle,— "^  De 

Le  tJaanT*    m  cueOmt  pitm ration.    They  were  all 

t  ^  ^^  wccdfr  lieMi     The  foUowini^  extract  from 

__ ^^  BJilw^t  laiiStM : — *•  i*  Public  en  attend  U  d^- 

^  ««M«  finfaffnti*tt  i(«ae  cbwoa  a  fimr  op  qui  doit  oontribuer  a  sa 

r^stt  Wf«M..    U  «H^nr  <(Uitf  Msssurras  qui  out  traraille  arec  tant  de 

•^i4U^  2«»cirv>N:»&Aucv»  d\:n«  «£ure  aussi  importante.  en  punissant 

llMT  srrwM.  KV«t<ffi«lrvQC  «iv  paivib  crimes,  dVitant  plus  daB|{ereux 

isvtin     ' 


THE   MAHCniONESS    OF   BRINVTLLIERf* 


B25 


)l%«>rted  her  to  a  chair,  and  Frnter,  PicJird,  and  their  attendants  gather- 
ed round  her  in  silence,  as  tliey  watched  her  convulsed  form  with  feel- 
ings of  real  pity  ;  for  the  attachment  existiuii;  between  Gaudin  and 
herself  was  now  no  secret.  The  only  one  perfectly  unmoved  was  La- 
chaussee,  and  he  regarded  her  with  an  expreasion  of  unconcern,  show- 
ing that  he  doubted  the  reality  of  the  attack. 

In  a  few  minutes  she  recovered  ;  and  starting  up  from  her  seat* 
«ddresHed  herself  to  Pierre  Fmter,  wlio,  from  his  clercly  look,  her 
jierception  t*nahled  her  to  tell  was  the  chief  person  in  authority. 

*^  Monsieur,"  ahe  said,  **  I  know  not  what  Lachaussee  has  sought  to 
obtain  ;  hut  there  is  a  small  box  here  belonging  to  me  alone,  whicli  I 
presume  there  will  be  no  objection  to  my  carrying  away  with  me* 
Philippe  Gkxer  may  divine  the  nature  of  the  papers  it  contains.  He 
will  explain  it  to  you/* 

*'  Madame,"  replied  the  Clerk,  **  it  pains  me  to  repeat  the  same 
answer  to  you  which  I  gave  to  the  valet  of  M.  de  Saiute- Croix  ;  but 
nothing  can  be  moved  except  with  the  consent  of  the  Commissary,  my 
master/' 

**  Nothing  of  ^I.  de  S^inte-Croix's  property,  I  am  aware/'  replied 
the  ^larchioness :  **  but  this  is  mine^ — my  own, — do  you  understand? 
Seel  there  it  is! — you  must  give  it  to  me, — indeed,  indeed  you 
tnust/* 

As  she  spoke  she  pointed  to  the  small  inlaid  cabinet  which  has  been 
before  alluded  to,  and  which  was  visible  behind  the  glass-front  of  a 
secretary  between  the  windows.  She  repeated  her  request  with  re- 
newed energy.  And  well,  indeed,  she  might  ;  for  it  was  that  box 
which  had  furnished  the  most  terrilile  poisonji  to  her  victims. 

*'  Indeed,  madame/'  answered  Frater,  firmly  but  respectfully,  *'  you 
cannot  have  it  at  this  moment/' 

**  You  must  give  it  to  me  I"  she  exclaimed,  seizing  the  Clerk  by 
the  hand.  '*  It  contains  a  matter  of  life  and  death,  and  you  cannot 
tell  whom  it  may  affect.  Give  me  the  box  ;  my  position  and  in- 
fluence will  free  you  from  any  responsibility  for  so  doing.  You  see, 
the  seals  have  not  yet  been  put  on  the  bureau ;  it  can  be  of  nn  con- 
sequence to  you  in  the  discharge  of  your  duty.     Let  me  have  it.'' 

She  let  go  his  hand  and  went  towards  the  bureau.  But  Frater 
stepped  before  her,  as  he  exclaimed : 

"  Pardon  me,  madame;  and  do  not  oblige  me  to  forget  my  gal- 
lantry, or  that  politeness  which  is  due  to  a  lady  of  your  station,  by  for- 
getting your  own  proper  sense.  The  cabinet  can  only  be  delivered  up 
to  you  upon  the  authority  of  M.  Artus/* 

*'  Ana  where  is  he  ?"  she  inquired  hurriedly. 

"  He  is  ill — at  his  house  in  the  Rue  des  Nayers/*  answered  the 
Clerk,  "  Ti>-inorrow  he  willj  without  doubt,  give  you  every  assist- 
ance/' 

**  To-morrow  will  be  too  late  I"  exclaimed  IVIarie.  **  I  must  see 
him  now — ^this  instant.  An  rcuoir^  messieurs;  I  shall  hope  in  a  few 
minutes  to  bring  you  his  order  that  you  may  deliver  me  my  cabinet/* 

And  without  any  further  salute  she  turned  and  left  the  room, 
ii?« nesting  Lachaussee  to  await  her  return. 

iler  exceeding  anxiety  was  placed  to  the  score  of  her  attachment 
to  Sainte-Croix  ;  and  as  she  quitted  the  apartment  the  others  went  on 
with  their  duties  in  silence.  Lachaussee  seated  himself  in  a  recess 
of  the  chamber   and  watched  their  proceedings;  and   Philippe   col- 

VOL.  XVIII.  TS^ 


THE   MAKCHTOMEaS   OF    BRTNTILLIEBS; 


Itcted  a  fevr  tbings  together  which  belooged  to  hia  fodicrj  md  eon- 
si&ted  principally  of  some  chemical  glasses  and  eraporatuig  disliesy 
pUciog  them  in  a  box  by  themselves  to  be  mowed  awmj  as  aooa  aa  it 
was  permitted. 

But  scarcely  (iv9t  minutes  had  elapsed  ere  anoliier  carriage  dnvre 
into  the  court,  and  Desgrais,  tlie  active  Exempt  of  the  Mar^ckausiie, 
c&me  up  statrs  to  the  apartment^  folIo\ved  br  one  or  two  agents  of  the 
police*  As  he  entered  the  roomj  he  cast  his  eve  over  the  different 
pieces  of  furniture,  and  perceiving  that  the  jucficiid  seal  was  already 
upoa  many  of  them,  nodded  his  head  in  token  of  approral.  Then 
Itiming  to  Fhilippej  he  said, 

'*  Monsieur  Glazer,  there  will  be  no  occasion  to  iaamweaieace  you 
by  detaining  your  own  goods.  'Whatever  you  will  desenbc  ai  youri, 
shall  be  at  once  made  over  to  yfju,  on  your  signalafcw" 

*'  You  are  very  good,"  replied  Philippe;  "hot  evisTthiiig  belong- 
ing to  us,  in  the  care  of  this  poor  gentle  man »  was  of  little  consequence. 
There  is,  however,  that  little  caibinet»  which  mty  be  retvmed  to  its 
owner,  who  is  most  anxious  to  have  it*  It  has  been  eunestly  claimed 
by  the  Marchioness  of  Brinvilliers.** 

*•  The  iMarcliioness  of  Brinvilliers  I'*  exclaimed  De^rais  with  some 
emphasis.     *'  And  you  say  she  was  anxious  to  carry  it  away  ?'* 

**  Just  as  I  have  told  you :  in  fact,  her  solicitude  was  remarkable." 
Deagrais  was  sUent  for  a  minute* 

•■  Stop !"  at  length  he  said ;  "  we  will  examine  this  cabinet  that 
appears  so  precious.     I  have  reasons  for  it," 

Bt  his  directions  Pierre  Prater  took  down  the  inlaid  box  from  its 
slielf,  Maitre  Piaird  being  too  short,  and  placed  it  on  the  table.  The 
Qlhers  collected  eagerly  round,  especially  Lachaussee,  who  at  the  first 
mention  of  it  had  left  his  seat.  Sainte-Croix's  keys  were  discovered 
la  one  of  the  drawers  of  the  table,  and  Desgrais  selecting  one  of  curi- 
eusly-wrought  steelj  applied  it  to  the  Jock.  The  lid  instantly  flew 
^>en. 

"  Here  is  a  false  top.'*  said  Desgrats,  "  with  a  written  paper  lying 
open  upon  it.     Let  us  see  what  it  says,'' 

And  taking  the  document,  he  read'  as  fi>llows  :-^ 
"  *  1  humbly  ask  of  those  into  whose  hands  this  cabinet  may  fall, 
wboerer  tliey  may  be,  to  deliver  it  to  the  Marchioness  of  Brinvilliers, 
Si  present  living  in  the  Rue  Neuve  St.  Paul ;  since  its  contenu  are 
of  inifiortance  to  her  alone,  and  her  welfare  apart,  cannot  be  of  the 
difhtest  interest  to  any  one  in  the  world.  Should  she  have  died 
Mw^  "»*?*  3^t  the  cabinet  be  burnt,  exactly  as  it  is,  without  opening 
ll,  or  disturbing  its  contents/ 

••  The  paper  concludes/*  continued  Desgrais,  *'  with  an  appeal  to 
tW  respecting  the  sincerity  of  this  request,  and  a  half-implied  male- 
^*1«on  upon  those  who  may  refuse  to  grant  it." 

*"  1  presume,  monsieur,  now  that  your  curiosity  is  satisfied  thus  far, 
I  may  take  the  box  with  me  to  Madame  de  Brinvilliers/'  said  La* 

*^  Stop  I"  replied  the  Exempt,  as  the  other  stretched  forth  his  hand, 

^  ^-.  ;*  ""Other  paper.     It  is  a  receipt  for  a  sum  of  money  delivered* 

vorlc  performed,  and  signed  *  Lachaussee/  " 

was  pronounced,  LachausiCe  fell  back  from  the  table, 

a  few  indistinct  words,  approached  the  door  ;  but  Dea- 


THE   MA£ 


OF   BRINVTLLIERS. 


227 


**YoTi  appear  interested  in  ibis  aflTair,  monsieun  and  cannot  yet 
leave  ns.  Guards,  place  yourselves  «t  the  doorway^  and  let  no  one  pan 
bat  with  my  orders." 

Two  of  the  patrol  wbo  had  entered  ivitL  the  Exempt^  toolc  up  their 
station  at  the  door*  crossing  their  halberds  before  it*  A  dead  silence 
reigned,  and  the  curiosity  of  all  was  raised  to  the  most  painful  inten- 
sity. Lachaussee  leant  back  against  the  bureau,  and,  folding  hta  arma, 
g&Eed  steadily  at  the  proceedings,  but  no  visible  token  betrajred  his 
emotion. 

**  This  affair  requires  some  little  extra  investigation/'  said  Desgrais. 
^'  This  false  lid  must  open  with  a  spring,  as  there  is  neither  lock  nor 
liandle  to  it/*  He  held  the  cabinet  up,  and  turning  it  round,  discover- 
ed one  of  the  studs  that  ornamented  it  of  a  darker  colour  than  the  rest 
as  if  &om  constant  handling.  Hi^  experienced  eye  told  him  that  this 
should  be  the  one ;  he  pressed  it  accordingly,  and  the  partition  turned 
up  with  a  jerk  against  the  side.  A  single  and  hurried  expiration  es- 
caped his  lips.  He  inverted  the  cabinet,  and  turned  its  contents  on 
the  table:  they  consisted  of  a  number  of  little  packets,  boxes,  and 
phials,  mostly  sealed  up^  and  distinguished  by  various  inscriptions. 

"  '  Sublimate  !*  *  Vitriol  I'  '  Opium  !'  *'  exclaimed  Desgrais,  as  he 
read  each  aloud.  "  Mori  bleu  I  messieurs,  we  are  about  to  make 
some  strange  discoveries  Y* 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  pass,"  said  Philippe  G Inzer  to  DeRgrais,  "  I 
think  there  is  no  one  below,  and  I  fancied  I  beard  the  bell  sound/' 

'*  Of  course,"  replied  the  exempt ;  "  but  return  as  soon  as  yt>u  con- 
veniently may.  We  sboll^  perhaps,  hereafter  need  you  as  a  witness  to 
these  revelations, 

Fhili{}pe  hastily  promised  compliance,  and  then  quitting  the  apart- 
ment, hastily  ilew  aown  stairs  to  bis  father's  shop.  The  old  man  had 
retired  to  rest  early,  but  his  man  Panurge  was  fast  asleep  upon  one  of 
the  tables  so  soundly,  that  it  required  no  very  gentle  treatment  from 
Philippe  to  waken  him. 

*'  Ho  I  Panurge !"  cried  his  young  master,  in  a  sharp,  but  low  voice, 
**  awmke,  man,  unless  you  wish  every  wretched  bone  in  your  miserable 
carcase  broken.     Do  you  bear  me  ?" 

*'  Hippocrates  sayetb  that  erysipelas  upon  the  baring  of  a  bone  is 
evil/*  muttered  Panurge,  wbo  mixed  up  his  sleeping  studies  with  his 
waking  faculties. 

•*  Pshaw  !"  cried  Philippe,  "  I  will  give  you  cause  for  it  all  over  you 
if  you  do  not  attend.     Rouse  up,  I  tell  you.** 

And  he  gave  Panurge  such  a  mighty  shake  that  would  have  aroused 
him  Imd  he  been  in  a  trance.  As  it  was,  it  immediately  restored  the 
assistant  to  the  full  exhibition  of  what  faculties  be  possessed,  and 
he  awaited  Glazer's  further  orders. 

*'  Vou  know  the  bouse  of  Monsieur  Artus,  the  Commissary  of  police^ 
in  the  Rue  des  Noyces?" 

'*  I  do,**  replied  Panurge :  "  he  hath  been  ill  of  a  choleric  gout,  for 
which  we  gave  him  the  juice  of  danewurt — " 

'*  The  peat  on  what  you  gave  him  V*  said  Philippe,  "  so  long  ns  you 
know  where  he  is  to  be  found.  Now  look  you  ;  go  ofl*  there  directly, 
and  if  you  lose  no  time  on  the  way  you  will  probably  tind  the  Mar- 
diioness  of  Brinvilliers  at  bis  bouse.  Give  this  note  to  her,  and  only 
li>  her  as  you  value  your  useless  life.'* 

He  hastily  wrote  on  a  scrap  of  paper : — 


mi*wfwiiiiJ4«>  tsr 


bgl—giBg  to  M. 
from  tbe 


r  -vriL  ^w»  it  war  mmtmiuLMULe^     Be  cmfid  hmr  jmk  pro- 
t  '  P.  6/' 

''  J^MK.  -Up**  «nt  TUioDe^  sMOy  iiI£B^  ^e  aatr  ;  aodretorn  here 

odk     Pmt  Uk  r*  be  cootinoed, 
[  be  jutiuw  fadwJ,  if  mere  gallant* 
fv  ^wmi.  ink  jb  •iia  ae  ieciCB  «£  wUck  ker  csraKer  appcia  to  hare 

WTmanr  jui^Iie  ^rilaiitf  Pjumae  aet  aC  ao^  daser  was  returning 

W  tiro  air  tW  puce,  wi^  had  I^acbanaaee  in  coa- 


Be: 

-*  We  «iail  .enuiig  tbe  teikea af  jasr  f iilfcf r  aad  jourarif  to-mor- 
nvir.  3L  Gamer,  ^  luatyae  laeae  <£JMjma  articles.  I  bave  pot  a  aeal 
«p^  tbesiu  md  anac  Md  ywl  lanen&ne  lor  tbeir  aale  keepinir.'' 

-*  I  iesamnee  sy  semr  kiepc  a  pi'inif  i,*  exthimaed  Lacfaanaaee, ''  aa 
iiiila  mat  md  Trapat.  Y<ia  kcve  a»  r^it  tm  detaim  me  apoa  tbe  mere 
dreBmaCBicr  «  mj  name  jjiMaiLJuc  aa  tkal  paeee  of  paper." 

•*  I  wiSL  imuDe  jnnmt  ^yjarioia  fe^  aoar  aiaag  I  mar  do  too,"  ana- 
iPLiuii  D^acan..  eautly.     Tbes.  tmrsjag:  ia  tbe  goards,  be  added : 

-'Tia  wuL  commct  tikm  pvnwt  t»  tbe  CbatrieC  And  now,  M. 
F^iCKr-  ^nK  eat  aujwajM.!  mie,  witk  llxhre  Picard  to  tbe  Rne  dea 
Xr««e»  winavt  ama  mi  tme.  We  ^nW  ptvbabl  j,  ^ere  l%bt  upon  tbe 
JuRBBMnna  <2k-  Bfeui>uaivrv* 

Pinm^V  bHct  was  na  ks  tbaaot  aa  be  besrd  tbe  name  proooanced. 
He  acmftoflseiy  taihiaiaMtfd  to  i— uue  tame  d^T  m  Peagrais'a  d^ 
b£s  xe^esbaest,  be^igia^  bim  to  atop  whilst  the 
>  a£  tbe  artts^  were  xvtziaaaaed,  aad  pmsii^  artidea  of  outer 
ymm  bis,  by  itaamM  ^  tbe  cold,  arbicb  be  pretended  be  oonld  not 
A  iew  aiaktcs  w«re  cafaed  io  tbis  manner,  and  tbeo  tbe  gnard 
^gpMted  aowa  tbe  Place  ifaabert,  Philippe's  obIj  hope  being  that 
Piunipe  bad  aireadr  gvC  there. 

Wbikt  tbis  scene  of  fearfol  interest  was  being  enacted  at  61aser*s, 
11  arae  bad  racbed  tbe  boose  of  tbe  Commissarj  of  Police.  Some  of 
tbe  domeoica  were  sitting  up  lor  farther  orders  from  Deagraia,  and 
br  tbem  she  was  informed  that  M.  Artos  could  not  be  disturbed.  Bj 
£nt,  howerer,  of  bearr  bribes,  giTii^  them  all  the  money  she  had 
about  her,  wbidi  was  no  inooosiderable  sum,  she  was  uahered  into  the 
apartment  of  the  Commisaary,  and,  to  him,  in  a  few  hurried  words,  she 
made  known  the  object  of  her  risit.  But  her  eamestneaa  waa  so 
strange,  that  M.  Artus  requested  she  would  wait  until  the  next  day, 
when  he  ahould  bare  reoeired  the  report  of  the  proceedings  from 
his  agents.  Had  she  shewn  less  anxiety,  he  would  doubtless  ha^e 
granted^  what  ahe  so  urgently  desired. 

Finding  there  was  no  chance  of  assistance  from  tbis  quarter,  she  left 
the  room  in  an  agony  of  terror,  and,  scarcely  knowing  what  course  to 
puraue,  was  about  to  return  to  the  Place  Maubert,  when  Panurge  ar- 
rived with  Ghizer'a  note.  She  hastily  read  it,  and  the  contents  struck 
her  like  a  thunderbolt.  "Then  all  is  over!"  she  exclaimed;  and, 
without  exchanging  another  word  with  the  assistant,  or  any  of  the  ofli- 
mla,  ahe  flew  through  the  streets,  half  clad  as  she  was,  with  the  snow 
deep  on  the  pound,  and  the  thoroughfares  wrapped  in  the  obscurity  of 
ft  winter  night,  in  the  direction  of  her  hotel  in  the  Rue  St.  Paul. 


229 


A  CUHVET  OB  TWO  IN  THE  CAREER  OF 
TOM  WILKINS. 


BY   CBABLE8    WHITEHEAD. 

•'Nought  but  a  thorougb  reformation  of  miimiers  in  every  parttcu- 

IttFj — ^nothing  less  than  uti  infudmi  of  new  lift?  into  my  moral  economy, 
through  all  its  ramtlicationsj  will  avail  to  meet  the  exigency  of  the  case, 
and  suffice  to  make  me  a  res|>ectah!e  man.  I  am  now  two^and-thirty. 
I  have  been  a  md  dt»g  in  my  time.  I  have  neglected  several  excellent 
ojiportunitieN,  and  thrown  away  many  good  chimces-  If  I  Uisgusit  Whib- 
ley,  I  lose  my  last  friend,     I  will^ — I  must  tmll  up." 

This  soliloquy  esc^iped  me  as  I  re* folded  Wliibley's  letter,  and  re- 
turned it  to  its  envelope.  Whibley  was  my  late  father's  partner.  He 
was  an  old  bachelor,  with  many  of  the  peculiarities  that  attach  to  such 
tLs  prefer  a  celibate  existence  ;  but,  although  t^K*  regular,  methodical, 
chronometrical,  he  was  a  worthy  old  creoture;  for  I  really  believe  his 
many  written  exhortations  to  me  would  have  been  accounted  admir- 
able, even  hud  they  not  been  fohled  over  the  ten -pound  notes  that 
icoompanied  them.  But  I  had  great fy  di.'^guKted  him  for  8c»me  time 
past  by  certain  proceedings  not  conformable  to  the  rigid  exactions  of 
propriety  and  reason  ;  and  his  advice,  or  rather  reproof,  had  of  late 
been  delivered  plainly  and  orally,  seeking  to  derive  no  zest  or  emphasis 
from  the  old  lady  of  Thread  needle  Street,  hut  relying  f«>r  its  effect 
iimply  upon  its  own  unadorned  merits  of  sense  and  diction. 

His  letter  came  to  actiuaint  me  t!iiit  he  had  spoken  in  my  favour  to 
an  East  India  Director,  who  had  all  but  promisi^d  to  procure  me  an 
appointment  ;  and  the  writer  requested  to  see  me  at  eleven  o'clock 
precisely  on  the  fnlltiw^ing  morning. 

The  perusal  of  this  letter,  as  1  have  mure  than  indicated,  operated 
upon  me  as  a  moral  stimulus.  A  vibion  of  what  might  be  done  (pru- 
dence preceding  me,  and  paving  the  way)  with  two  or  three  hundred 
a-year  filled  every  creek  and  cranny  of  my  brabi.  A  smnll,  hut  ele- 
gantly-furnished house,  rose  like  an  exhalation  at  my  bidding.  An 
amiable  and  interesting  wife,  bUth  an  one  as  would  make  Whibley 
himself  curse  his  forty  yt*ars*  obstinate  apathy,  walked  into  it  at  once, 
and  presided  over  domestic  affairs  ;  and  in  a  minute  or  two,  clmhhy 
and  well-favoured  cliildren,  with  strenuous  persistence,  climbed  up  my 
ahlns,  and  settled  themselves  ufion  my  knee-pans-  The  two  or  three 
handred  expanded  betinieH  into  two  thousand.  Thomas  Wilkins,  Esq., 
Secretary  to  the  East  India  Cuniputiy,  received  the  thanks  of  the  Di- 
rectors in  a  gold  snuff-box,  inlaid  with  diamonds,  and  returned  Ins 
acknowledgments^  after  a  teu-gniuea  dinner  at  the  Albion. 

Diligence,  sobriety,  cuntinence  of  speech,  gravity  of  aspect,  virtues  I 
had  hitherto  little — -nay,  not  at  all,--=-cultivatedj  these  must  be  brought 
into  play,  must  he  enlisted  in  n\y  service,  ere  I  could  hope  to  procure 
this  prefennent,  or  to  acquire  these  blessings.  But  how  to  fortify  my- 
wlf  against  n  barely  possible  relapse  into  my  old  irregular  courses? 
Wiwly  conscious  of  the  weakness  of  human  nature  in  general,  I  was 
aware  of  my  own  share  of  it  in  particular.  I  seized  a  pen  and  a  sheet 
of  fiKjUcap,  and  proceeded  to  take  measures  that  my  grM>d  rcsolutioui! 
tiiould  not  vanish  as  quickly  as   they  had   come.     "  Carpe  diein  ;" 


230  A   CURVET   OB  TWO*  IN   THE 

"  ProcnwtmaUon  is  the  thief  of  Ume ;"  *'  Tempusfugit ;"  "  Time  and 
tide  wait  far  no  man;" — sereral  thrifty  maxims,  wise  axioms,  and 
moral  reflections,  the  whole  interspersed  with  sundry  more  ^miliar 
and  encouraging  exhortations,  such  as, ''  Go  it,  lad," — ''At  'em  again, 
my  boy," — **  Keep  moving,  Tom  Wilkins"  —  these  I  committed  to 
paper  in  my  best  nand  ;  and,  as  a  painstaking  shaver  never  omits  to 
whet  his  razor  upon  a  strop,  so  I  intended  to  draw  my  manuscript 
finom  my  desk  diumally  at  matinsj  to  the  end  that  my  worthy  resolves 
•hoold  always  bear  a  keen  edge. 

Having  completed  this  round-text  transcript,  all  at  once  came  into 
my  mind  that  admirable  speech  of  Ulysses  to  the  son  of  Peleus,  in 
Troilus  and  Gressida,  wherein  the  sagacious  counsellor  impresses  upon 
Adiilles  the  necessity  of  a  kind  of  perpetual-motion  perseverance. 
"  What  human  being,  unless  he  be  a  wretch  rusted  to  the  very  core  by 
dbth,  could  resist  the  eloquence  of  such  reasoning  ?"  I  exclaimed,  after 
lefierrine  to  and  reading  the  speech  in  question ;  but,  as  I  found  it 
rather  toug,  I  forbore  copying  it,  as  I  had  designed,  and  contented 
myself  with  transferring  the  s^t  of  it  to  my  memory. 

**  Franklin !  wisest,  or  if  not  wisest,  worldliest  of  men,  you  were 
light  when>  inspired  by  the  muse,  you  struck  off  that  fine  couplet, 

*£ail7  to  bed,  and  eaiiy  to  riie. 
Makes  m  man  healthy,  wealthy,  and  wise.*  ** 

When  a  fellow  gets  up  betimes,  he  has  the  day  before  him :  he  can 
take  Time  by  the  fore-lock,  and  give  it  such  a  plaguy  pull  as  to  make 
the  old  ras<^  believe  that  you  want  to  have  him  all  to  yourself. 
Health,  wealth,  wisdom,  and  Wilkins  for  ever  !" 

In  a  word,  having  all  day  long  fortified  the  mental  part  of  me  by 
every  instigation  to  prudence  £at  memory  could  recal  or  ingenuity 
create,  towards  evening  I  stimulated  the  physical  portion  of  my  duplex 
being  with  two  glasses  of  grog  (I  had  gone  to  the  cupboard  for  the 
purpose  of  shivering  my  spirit-bottles) ;  and  about  half-past  eight  I 
stepped  into  bed  with  a  kind  of  Socratic  magnanimity,  not  unmingled 
with  a  placid  scorn  of  mv  more  fallible  fellow-creatures. 

I  passed  a  restless  and  perturbed  night,  and  was  just  about  to  sink 
into  a  sweet  and  refreshing  slumber,  when  the  clock  of  St.  Martin's 
striking  the  self-appointed  hour  of  five,  caused  me  to  open  my  recently- 
dosed  eyes,  and  my  admonitory  manuscript,  which  I  had  pinned  to  the 
bed-curtain,  stared  me  in  the  fieice.  Then  ensued  such  a  wrestlings 
match  between  duty  and  inclination, — such  a  contest  between  the  bed- 
stead and  the  clothes-horse, — as  kept  my  dubious  hand  in  mid-air,  and 
held  it  suspended  over  the  tassel  of  my  night-cap.  Habit,  familiar 
toad !  squatted  upon  my  pillow,  and  poured  a  leperous  distilment  of 
poppies  into  mine  ear,  suggesting  in  this  wise : — "  Don't  make  a  fool 
of  yourself,  Wilkins,  by  any  manner  of  means.  Be  wise :  take  your 
nap  out.  '  Sleep  while  you  may,'  as  the  song  says.  Throughout  the 
length  and  breaath  of  the  land  not  a  lark  has  yet  pulled  his  head  from 
under  his  pinion.  If  you  get  up,  you  '11  assuredly  catch  rheumatism, 
lumbaco,  or  a  catarrh,  that  '11  stick  to  you  during  your  mortal  sojourn. 
What!  you  will  make  such  an  ass  of  yourself,  will  you  ?  You  've  no 
business  to  get  up  these  four  hours.  Go  to  sleep,  yon  over-virtuous 
puppy." 

Despising  and  defjring  these  base  suggestions,  I  sprang  from  my 
coudi,  washed  myself  as  qnickly  as  alternate  yawning  and  tneeiing 


CAREER   OP  TOM   WILKINS, 


2SI 


would  let  me,  and,  having  completed  my  toilet,  stole  down  stairs  in 
silence,  and  issned  into  the  cool  and  bracing  air.  It  was  a  lovely  sum- 
mer morning  ;  the  sun  had  risen  a  considerable  height,  and  was  bathing 
the  chimney-pots  with  his  own  particular  splendour,  and  giving  homely 
bricks  and  mortar  a  touch  of  the  sublime.  I  surveyed  the  beauty  of 
the  scene  as  1  walked  along,  and,  casting  my  eye  upon  the  blinded 
windows  on  the  second  floors^  niourned  over  the  wicked  sluggishness  of 
iDankind. 

*'  Now,"  cried  I,  with  a  new-born  zeal  which  elicited  my  own  com- 
mendation, '*  if  the  nasal  grindery,  the  snores  at  this  moment  in  course 
of  unconscious  escape,  could  be  aggregated,  could  be  formed  into  one 
mighty  volume,  it  were  a  sound  to  tear  hell's  concave* 

'  Falsely  luxiirioua  I  will  oot  man  arise  ?*  "  &c. 

I  repeated  that  fine  passage  of  Thomson  several  times,  to  keep  my 
energies  in  due  propulsion,  and  at  length  found  myself  at  Paddington. 

And  here,  arrived  at  this  suburb,  1  could  not  but  acknowledge  that 
this  so  early  pedestrian  discipline  (being  inwardly  unprepared)  was 
imther  trying  to  man,  considered  as  a  locomotive  machine. 

"It  is  true,"  said  I,  resting  myself  on  a  milestone,  '*  and  it  may  be 
altogether  natural,  that  I  feel  a  strong  present  bias  towards  hot  rolls, 
ftnd  recognise  within  me  a  monstrous  yearning  after  the  coffeepot* 
ile&piration«  I  confess,  has  become  a  difficult  process  ;  my  joints  have 
lost  their  wonted  oleaginous  lubricity,  and  the  calves  of  my  legs  are  as 
hard  as  the  nether  millstone.  But  on— on.  Practice  makes  perfect, 
I  have  at  lea«t  two  hours  and  a  half  good.  Hygeia  beckons  me  along 
the  Edgeware  Road,  and  if  I  can  but  reach  Kilburn — '* 

There  is  a  road-side  public-house  not  very  far  down  the  pleasing 
entrance  to  our  vast  metropolis  which  I  have  just  mentioned.  I  drew 
np  before  it.  The  scene  instructed  me  to  pause*  It  was  one  that 
Inorland  was  well  skilled  to  paint.  Three  loads  of  hay,  and  their  at- 
tendant carters  seated  on  the  bench  in  front  of  the  house,^ — two  youngs 
one  of  the  middle  age*  As  I  was  calmly  taking  in  the  rustic  scene^ 
my  eye  ab'ghted  on  one  of  the  outside  shutters  of  the  parlour-window, 
whereon  was  painted  "  Fine  Roman  Purl/' 

"  Fine  Roman  Purl  i "  tjuoth  I,  with  that  sagacious  intonation 
wherewith  your  dry  humourists  are  apt  to  bring  forth  *'  Your  most 
obedient '' to  an  unreasonable  proposition;  **  Fine  Roman  Purl  I  I 
have  heard  of  this  same  beverage.  It  *8  an  undoubted  fact  that  the 
Homans  held  possession  of  this  our  isle  of  Britain  during  a  hundred 
▼ears,  more  or  less.  What  so  likely  as  that  the  mixture  may  have 
been  transmitted  from  the  Romans  down  to  us  ?  Perhaps  this  very 
drink  found  favour  with  the  legions  of  Julius  Caesar,  and  was  passed 
from  hand  to  hand  by  the  cohorts  of  Germauicus,  And  now  I  remem- 
ber to  have  heard  that  tlds  same  gtw>d  stufF  is  an  excellent  stomachic, 
and  gives  tone  and  vigour  to  our  hard-working,  early-rising  artizans.  I 
might  do  a  worse  thing  than  take  a  pull  at  the  transalpine  prepara* 
tion." 

So  saying,  and  with  a  corresponding  intent,  I  entered  the  house, 
ordered  a  pint  to  be  compounded  for  me,  and  took  my  seat  on  the 
bench  between  the  youthful  Damon  and  Cory  don  and  the  middle-aged 
Damtetas. 

I  had  not  long  been  in  possession  of  my  liquid,  which  I  discovered 
to  be  of  singularly  seductive  flavour,  before  the  generosity  of  my  na- 


23S  A  CUEVET   OR   TWO   IN   THE 


sateH  tfvsmmlr^  to  lij  the  elderly  swain,  whom  I  have  called 

tJbe  back  of  his  hand  orer  his  mouth,  and 

in  this  unsophisticated  manner  gave 

SdC  tee-total  medals  had  been  struck  in  vain  fur 

I  *'  explained  his  asking  eve,"  and  re- 

,  bet,  giving  him  largess  to  the  ameont  of  a 

:  jun  BB&e  CTKSJiBs  that  mT  smaller  measure  should  be 

TTuM  vsMCZiT  Tuecsaatlj  adjusted,  I  became  joked  in 

Hiteous  yokels,  who,  I  itmd^  were 

iniiffmatioa  upon  points  on  which  I  was 

j:  m  waOMBo^daiE  bow,  as  mv  second  pint  Wqpa  tm 

:  JK  ncnciibicxl  a^Jun  gradually  heighteBCiiL  jast  hmm 

r  iamL  omevg:  became  animated,  emphmaL.  unii  n»- 

rznsff  jiM«3  7RIXT  inrish,  does  it  ?     Anil  ini'liUi^bc  ? 

'     Mil  'lactfT.  wbat  of  if  ?     Potatoes  ^ikndftii^.buc 

'   ^.'tmmifi— 5'i«  laerer  saw  anything  iiiit'  tsni.  wiu 

i£  miniiriB  I  int  at  least  twenty  tanoy.  jm£  hud 
--.t^^-wij-  i'l  jiBBbailical  ejaculadoos  wiisL  vttt  re^ 
TM  sr^  mCbdaesuQL  At  length  the  throe  jmauns  ne>-> 
b  3inxisiiciL  '«*ca:  oiqiiicalies  each  of  bif:  iwn.  imiMr 
■at  ■cumgi  Mnmif-  rwfk :  The  loads  of  bay  smttminl  : 
ivt  Ksse^iiua&r  shf  I  ba£  maoe  a  &ial  application  ti> 
iBBK.  -ssf  I  si^TK  «im£"  ^^"**^^»*>  insfi  ibeae  magicai  1 
Si  vrniAtt  i^cvt  ^  wia£  Tiumc  vsx  jQarBiiii^  rapidity. 

W^ita  I  anitf  ^  v  iK-^  imf  (opued  my  eyes,  the  ftrm  tunc  cne 
vancLL  r^*^  ili:..  ▼!».  ^  AfCKOiL  a  jierpexdicular  hay*fork  ;  anii,  woiue  I 
vafr  T^c  '-tnij-Tw.:im£  12  iL»  jCTtcpe  and  useless  expenditure  fc  «W 
4ca!ar  fioiiouiid^  A  ix:r«  fA».  '='  r«<uid  as  the  moon,"  oTerbunc  usaat^ 
A&i  iii  lie  ▼tiiX  irun  itj  r-j^^Ti . 

*  Euas  b«!C^r.  r  ><<?  > '  j^ic::«c  ui  il]-r«gulated  voice  into  my  ear. 
vkka  Trbriciic  ctwLIt  ^ivc  ary  sra^orium.  "  You  told  us  yot  wmi 
gsin^  baaak  lu  Li/Ctka.     ^^*lcr>*  d«ia  live  ?" 

I  ttciafled  ihe  ^ueriat  v*c  this  Lead  as  well  as  I  could,  and  w&»  mc 
asrry  to  bear  that  be  aad  his  cumpanijns  would  pass  the  end  of  the 
street  in  which  I  re»ideJ»  on  their  way  to  the  Haymarket,  and  that  he 
would  take  care  tu  siand  me  down  at  the  comer. 

Having  giveu  this  assunmce,  the  philanthropic  clown  vanished  over 
the  wheels,  and  presently  the  waggon  was  put  in  motion.  In  doe 
time  my  slumbers  were  broken  in  u|H>n  by  my  attentive  friend,  m'hii 
requested  me  to  allow  myself  to  be  handed  down  to  his  auxiliaries  be- 
low. My  descent  safely  accomplished,  the  jolly  tnumvirate  hade  me 
good  morning,  and  shook  me  by  the  hand,  and  I  made  the  won4  of  my 
way  (between  kerb  and  area  railinp)  to  my  own  lodging. 

Biy  knock  at  the  door  was  heard  by  my  landlady,  who  came  oot  ii.tit 

the  area  to  see  who  could  have  made  so  palsied  an  application  fm  ab- 

■ittuice,  with  a  hce  such  as  a  diligent  housewife  ooounonly  weort- 

sn  ihe  is  suddenly  withdrawn  from  the  wash-tub  to  amirtT  the 

Mtberer,  and  who  now  beheld  me  waving  about  cm  the  6oar'-ixu^ 

\  a  willow  of  Babylon^  muttering  in  what  might  have  passed  for  a 

jylonish  dialect. 

i  i^'lt  isn't  that  Wilkins,  all  mops  and  brooms,  mav  I  ncrer — 


CAREER    OF    TOM    WILKINS. 


283 


She  wuK  gone»  bnt  niad€  an  instant  presentiitioii  of  herself  at  tlie 
ojH'H  jitrcel-dtxif. 

"  Well,  what  on  earth  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself,  Mr.  Wil- 
kin5^"  said  .nhe,  **and  at  this  time  o'niorninjLr,  und  after  the  lecture  on 
tentjierance  you  gave  me  last  night  before  yiui  went  ti>  bed?  What  in 
L the  world  have  you  been  about?  Don't  cunie  anear  me — donX  If 
I  you  don't  smell  for  all  the  world  like  JMrss*  Jar  vis's  new  sofy,  as  she 
wiU  have  is  all  horsehair.  Here  's  a  hit  o*  clover  sticking  in  yoiur  ear. 
Stand  still  now — do/* 

With  this  she  turned  me  about^  and  divested  me  of  my  fldherenl 

agrarian  produce.     Having  bo  done^  she  looked   me  earnestly  in  the 

(jAoe,and  made  that  almost  indescribable  and  utterly  unwriteahie  cluck, 

atended  to  signify,  *'  Lor  a  mercy  !  what  a  sad  pity  !  "'and  then  chis|»- 

[sag  her  hands»  and  throwing  them  into  her  lap,  burst  into  a  violent  fit 

^of  iaughter. 

My  gravity,  however,  was  unmoved,     **  Goodman,"  said  I,  in  a  sort 
of  grind irjgly  emphatic  voice,  tuking  her  by  the  cap-strings,  '*  brandy* 
-water,  green  tea,  haddock.     Must  be  to  my  time*     Won't  be  too 
[Iste.     Can't  keep  Whibley  waiting.'* 

'  Not  you,   indeed,'*  said  Mra*  Goodman,  making  nie  acquainted 

'  with  the  staircase, — "  not  you,  indeed — 1  should  think  not.     There, 

go  along  up,  and  lay  down  for  a  few  minutes*     I  41  set  you  to  rights. 

I  wasn't  the  wife  of  an  exciseman  twenty- three  years,  and  not  to  know 

what '11  set  a  man  upon  his  legs  in  less  than  no  time." 

And  she  did  set  me  up^m  my  legs,  by  the  aid  of  a  mixture  more 
ciinducive  to  corporeal  stability  than  any  gauging  stick  ever  leaned 
upt»n  by  sophisticated  exciseman. 

Thus  physically  restored,  and  with  so  much  skill  and  facility,  I  re- 
ftulvetl,  nevertheless,  to  eschew  such  prolonged  peregrinations  for  the 
Itme  to  come,  and  to  avoid  purl  us  I  woiild  a  pestilence,  and  taking 
another  survey  of  my  code  of  morals,  which  pleased  me  w^ell,  I  un- 
derwent a  final  inspection  from  my  careful  landlady,  got  into  a  cab, 
and  was  driven  into  the  city< 

Now,  I  had  no  particular  wish  to  draw  ud  before  Whibley 's  house^ 
for  your  honest,  striving  applicants  generally  tnivel  on  foot,  having 
nothing  further  to  do  with  cabs  than  to  be  splashed  by  them.  Accord- 
iiigly,  I  got  out  in  tlie  Poultry,  and  paid  the  fare,  and  was  about  to 
dive  down  Bucklersbury,  when  a  walking-stick  in  my  ribs  arrested  iiiY 
progress,  and  my  friend  Stalker  stood  before  me. 

"  Ha  I  Tom,"  said  be,  ''  how  d'ye  do  ?  What 's  the  matter  ?  Why, 
your  phiz  looks  as  long  as  an  Irish  debate,  and  as  white  as  the  purity 
of  a  railway  committee.  Been  visited  by  the  apparition  of  a  man  in 
black,  with  a  cane  under  his  nose?" 

"  Oh  no,  Lord  bless  you  I  never  better  in  my  life.  AnxioUs—a  little 
anxious.  Going  to  pull  up.  Stalker, — ^turn  over  a  new  leaf, — have  be- 
gun to  wash  the  blackamoor  white,  —  got  olf  the  outer  coat  of  sabk% — 
have  indeed.'* 

•*  Ha  !  hu  !  ha !  "  shouted  Stalker,  nearly  sending  his  head  through 
the  pastrycook's  witidovv. 

*'  Don't  detain  me  now,  that  '^  a  good  fellow  \"  said  I  ;  "  must  keep 
my  appointment  with  old  Whibley — twelve  o'clock  precisely." 

*'  An  appointment  with  old  Whibley  V  returned  Stidker  derisively, 
^aa  though  he  knevv  old  Whibley  well,  und  was  perfectly  aware  that 
to  kec[»  an  ap[»oiutnicnl  with  him  was  of  the  slightest  consctjucnce  in 


234 


A   CURVET    OR   TWO    IN    THE 


Kfe,  *'  See  V  pointing  witb  his  stick  to  the  clock  of  Bow  Church,  '*  it 
wants  twenty  minutes*  If  )^ou  *d  tt>ld  me  you  were  going  to  keep  an 
appoiatment  with  the  manager  of  a  cemetery  I  might  have  believed 
you.  Have  an  anchovy  sandwich  and  a  g!a»s  of  sherry.  It  '11  do  you 
good/' 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  It  docs  want  twenty  minutes.  Ko  —  no,  I 
can't.     You  *11  let  me  go  within  the  twenty,  will  you  ?" 

*'  Honour !" 

"  And  so  you  're  going  to  pull  up,  are  you  ?"  remarked  Stalker, 
when  we  were  comfortably  seated  in  the  coffee-room,  with  a  pint  of 
sherry  before  us. 

'*  Yes ;  I  *ve  passed  my  Reform  BilU  and  put  all  my  vices  in  Sche- 
dule A.     Wilkins  new  revived.     I  began  thi»  morning," 

*' Very  well.  Ha!  Began  this  morning?  How's  that?  What 
are  you  staring  at?     Anytliing  the  matter  with  my  face?     What?" 

"In  confidence,  Stalker, — -implicit  confidence/* 

And  I  told  him  all  without  reserve.  I  could  not  help  it.  ^ly  code 
of  morals,  my  early  purl,  my  return  to  town  on  the  load  of  hay^ — all.*' 

How  Stalker  laughed  when  he  had  done  staring  I  He  shrieked 
again.  They  only  who  have  been  to  the  Tower  to  see  the  wild  beasts, 
can  form  a  conception  of  it.  He  wanted  his  merriment  to  have  a  hori* 
zontal  movement ;  but  llie  waiter  came  in  just  as  he  was  going  to 
throw  himself  upon  the  tkvor. 

"  Wilkins,**  said  he,  when  the  pain  in  his  side  had  somewhat  abated, 
'*  you  're  the  greatest  fool  I  ever  honoured  with  my  acquaintance. 
Don't  you  know,  there  's  no  one  requires  humouring  so  much  as  a  man*a 
own  self?  You  can't  c^^me  the  old  saint  over  him>  take  my  word  for 
it.  1 11  tell  you  a  story,  I  was  once  proceeding  down  a  bye-street, 
when,  behold  1  there  was  my  friend  Jones  walking  a  little  way  before  me. 
Nobody  in  sight,  feeling  skittish,  and  knowing  the  milkv  nature  of  the 
man,  what  do  I  do,  but  go  quietly  behind  him,  and  jump  upon  Ida 
back  ?  His  back  !  'tis  pa.Ht  blushing  to  think  of.  If  you  could  but 
have  seen  how  sneakingly  I  slid  down  that  man's  vertebra:  when  an 
angry,  astonished,  and  sdfrnge  face  over  the  shoulder  glared  into  mine, 
you  'd  have  pitied  me.  Now,  that  *s  what  you  sudden  reformers  do. 
You  mistake  a  stranger  for  an  old  acquaintance,  make  yourselves  too 
familiar,  and  suffer  an  jgnominious  defeat/' 

There  was  reason  in  what  Stalker  had  said.  I  began  to  feel  I  had 
no  right  to  expect  to  be  better  than  my  neighbours  alt  of  a  sudden.  I 
was  thoroughly  ashamed  of  my  own  virtue,  and  hanging  the  head,  was 
so  completely  abashed  that  I  could  put  no  detaining  hand  upon  StaJker'a 
arm  when  he  lifted  his  stick,  and  fixing  its  hook  in  the  pendant  handle 
of  the  bell-pull,  summoned  the  waiter,  and  ordered  another  pint  of 
sherry. 

**  And  what's  your  business  with  Mr,  What 's-h is- name ?  "  resumed 
Stalker,  puuring  me  out  another  glass  of  wine,  for  he  saw  I  needed  it. 
**  Has  he  any  interest  with  the  iViissionary  Society,  or  can  he  recom- 
mend you  as  teacher  to  a  Sunday-school  ?" 

**  Now,  Stalker,  don't  be  too  hard  upon  me/'  said  I,  deprecating  ri- 
dicule. *'  I  '11  never  do  so  any  more,  I  assure  you.  I  won*t  make  my- 
self respectable,  —  I  won't,  indeed.  No  *^Wmbley  's  going  to  get  me 
into  the  India  House/* 

'*  The  India  House !"  said  Stalker,  li^nth  momentary  animation. 
*'  Yea, — a  good  thing;  won't  it  be?*' 


CAREER   OF   TOM    WILKINS, 


23S 


**  I  don't  know  that,"  returBe<!  Stalker.  "  Wound  up  Ibr  a  certain 
number  of  hours,  go  through  your  round,  and  atop  again,  for  one  or  two 
hundred  a  year." 

•*  It  tt  a  permanence,  Stalker/* 

"A  permanence!"  echoed  he,  in  a  tone  as  though  instability,  or  a 
temporary  condition  of  things,  were  far  preferahJe.  "A  permanence  I 
Yvu  wouldn't  find  it  so.  You  'd  never  he  to  your  time.  Past  twelve 
before  your  head  would  ever  be  under  the  shade  of  the  portico/* 

"  Past  twelve  !"  I  recollected  myself.  '*  By-the-bye,  what 's  o'clock? 
It  inust  be  over  one*" 

'*  Never  mind^^^it  dou^,"  anid  Stalker,  pulling  me  on  to  my  seat. 
*'  Why  don't  you  do  as  I  da?     Dabble  in  shares/' 

*'  In  shares  !  what  shares  ?" 

Everybody's  making  his  fortune  by 
Why,  I  expect  lo  clttar  a  thousand  by 


Write  for  shares, — watch  the  market, 

We'U, 


**  Railroad  shares,  to  be  aure. 
'em  every  day,  as  easy  as  lying, 
the  Imperial  Himalayans," 

"  You  do  >'' 

"  Ay-    1  *ll  put  you  up  to  it. 
^^ell  at  a  premium, — pocket  the  tin.     Bleet  me  here  at  four. 
bave  a  steak,  and  1 11  tell  you  all  about  it/' 

*♦  I  will.  You  expect  to  clear  a  thou*iimd  by  the  Himalayans  1  And 
no  trouble?" 

"  None  in  the  least*  India  House  I — pshaw  1 — ^bang  the  ]ong*stooled 
asthmatic  life.     You  '11  be  back  to  your  time  ?** 

I  hurried  out.  And  yet  it  occurred  to  me,  once  more  in  the  bland, 
tuntihiny  air^  with  my  myBtified  eyes  **  as  tbougb  they  loved  what  e'er 
they  looked  upon,"  what  need  of  haste,  since  it  was  pa«t  two  ?  And  to 
meet  old  Whibley,  one  of  the  most  moiiytrous  bores  that  ever  took  the 
vital  spirits  out  of  an  exhausted  listener !  I  proceeded  to  his  house  at 
m  very  sedate  pace. 

"  I  won't  see  him  ! "  exclaimed  Whibley  to  the  servant,  who  an- 
nounced my  arrival.  "  Didn't  I  tell  you  to  sJmt  the  door  in  his  face 
when  he  came  ?" 

**  My  dear  Mr.  Whibley,  a  thousand  pardons,"  said  I,  entering  ab- 
ruptly, like  the  gentleman  in  a  ^arce.  "  But,  my  dear  sir,  what  'a 
the  matter?" 

Whibley  was  grinning  horribly  over  his  great  toe,  which,  wrapped 
in  flannels,  wa»  elevated  on  a  footstool, 

*'Ah,  Whibley  I  Whibley  V*  said  I,  shaking  my  head  comically,^ 
**  the  gout  again  I  This  would  never  be  but  for  the  ^Kirt,  the  claret, 
the— " 

*'  Hold  your  tongue,  you  worthless  rmscal  I    Be  offr*  cried  Whibley. 

"Well— I  beg  pardon — I  went  too  far  there,"  said  I,  balancing  my- 
self with  the  back  of  a  chair,  into  uhicb  I  contrived  somehtAv  to  seat 
myself.  **  You,  like  me,  I  know,  are  no  grt^at  drinker.  But  you  really 
should  take  more  exercise.  In  a  dry,  warm  day,  like  this,  for  instance. 
You  *11  never  be  better  till  you  do.  Consider,  —  suppose  it  should  % 
up  into  your  stomach.     But  I  hope  not, — ^no, — I  do  hope  not/* 

Whibley  made  a  hideous  face  at  me  before  he  spoke. 

'*  When  Satan  tempted  Job,"  said  he,  "  how  did  he  hope  to  succeed 
with  him  ?" 

*'  Why,  you  know,  my  dear  Whibley,"  said  I,  —  "Job I  ah  1  to  be 
sure,  by  the  uH)ictions  he  put  u\nm  him;*' 

'* And  what  were  they?"  asked  Whibley. 


236 


THE    CAHEER    OF    TOM    WILKINS- 


"Why,  yiM  know,  the  afllictions  were — **' 

"  His  comforters  I  **  roared  Whibley*  **  A  nil  now,  ]\Iaijter  Wilkim, 
a  word  wkb  you.  You  won't  do  for  me.  I  can't  recommend  jjucIi  h 
fellow  us  you*  It's  past  two,  and  I  said  eleven.  I  cry  off.  1  *ve 
written  to  my  friend,  tbe  director,  and  liere's  the  letter/'  and  he  fthook 
it  at  me  in  terror  em.  You  're  irreclaimable.  You  never  rvill  sow  your 
wild  oats.  Master  Wilkins. " 

** 'Zounds,  Whibley  !'*  said  I,  "  I  'm  always  sowing  'em;  but  they 
grow  so  fast,  and  yield  sucb  abundant  crops»  that  if  I  don't  start  a  Fe- 
gaaua^  or  get  a  good  thoroiigh>going  nightmare,  my  moral  granary 
won't  contain  *em." 

"  Did  ever  any  one  hear  such  a  beast  1 "  cried  Whibley.  "  Be  off* 
I  Ml  interest  myself  for  you  no  more.  What  *8  the  matter  with  yoa  ? 
What  a  frtcei     Have  you  got  the  erysipelas?     You've  teen  drinking,** 

I  made  a  motion  as  of  one  deeply  shocked  and  otfended,  and  managed 
to  slide  one  or  two  more  peppermint-drops  into  my  mouth. 

"  Why  weren't  you  here  at  eleven  ?**said  Whihley,  a  little  mollified. 

'*  The  truth  is/'  I  replied,  **  I  was  unavoidably  detained.  I  knew 
when  you  got  the  ap|>ointment  for  me  I  must  make  an  appearance^ and 
was  most  anxious  not  again  to  tax  your  generosity.  My  i^ent  had 
promised  to  dispose  of  my  few  Himalayan  Imjieriala — " 

**  And  you  really  have  been  trying  to  do  something  fur  yourself?" 
cried  Whibley,  brightening  up, —  who  would  gladly  have  seen  me  en- 
gaged at  a  street- crossing  rather  than  doing  nothing,  *'  Now,  Tom,  1 
have  hopes  of  you." 

We  now  talked  over  the  matter  of  the  appointment,  and  1  almost 
brought  him  round,— a  circumstance  that  so  elated  my  sjnrits  that  I 
could  scarce  contain  myself.  Dry,  heavy  dii>course  soon  wearies  me. 
In  an  evil  moment  he  painted  to  the  mantelpiece,  and  said,^ — 

**  Give  nie  that  b*itlle,  Turn." 

I  arose  fxiv  that  purpose,  and  trmk  np  the  bottle* 

*'  'Jenkins's  Ad  Ettrnitatem  Tincture/  "  said  I,  reading  the  labd. 
•*  What  on  earth,  my  dear  sir,  is  this?'* 

"  For  my  gout,"  replied  Whibley, — ''Jenkins's  own  recipe.  He  was 
the  fellow  who  lived  seventeen  years  longer  than  Parr." 

"  Ob,  I  rementher  now,"  said  I,  '*  it '»  vile  stuff-  I  *ve  heard  of  it. 
A  decoction,  no  more,  of  southern-wood,  commonly  called  *  old  man."  " 

'*  You  don't  mean  that,  Tom  Wilkins  ?  Now,  gently,  —  no  nuti- 
sense." 

"  It's  notorious,*'  said  1,  thinking  to  make  him  laugh  (but  /  never 
had  tlie  gout,)  —  **  you  might  as  well  think  of  curing  the  iigue  by  an 
infusion  of  as  pen -I  eaves.  Now,  if  yon  would  take — nig  lit  and  morn- 
ing, mind, —  a  tables poonful  of  *  Wandering  Jew's  Julep/  and  rub 
the  part  nlTected  three  times  a  day  with  *  Last  Man's  Lotion' — " 

* '  Tom  ! — I'om  W i I k i  n s  I* ' 

But  1  must  needs  go  on*  "  I  have  heard  a  high  eulog^um  of  the 
virtues  of  *  3letbuselah*s  Mixture* ;  but — " 

Here  Whibley  dealt  me  with  his  crutch  such  a  crack  upon  my  bump 
of  ideality  as  caused  the  organ  of  caution  to  start  into  unnatural  pro- 
minence* 

**  Jle  otf  V*  roared  Whibley,  partially  rising,  and  attempting  to  refresh 
my  memory  with  a  second  application, — **  if  ever  1  ihiiiK  of  you,  speak 
to  you,  st^e  ytJU  again,  niiiy  my  right  hand  fiirget  its  euoning," 

'^irytiu  should,   I   hope  it  will,  especially  with   that  confounded 


VOLTAIRE   TO   THE    QUEEN   OF  PRUSSIA.  237 

crutch,"  thought  I,  aa  he  brandished  and  bellowed  me  out  of  the 
room. 

A  fig  for  Whibley !  an  intemperate  and  furious  old  vagabond,  against 
whom  articles  of  the  peace  ought  in  strict  justice  to  have  been  exhibit- 
ed. I  would  disdain  to  have  recourse  to  him  again,  or  to  take  any- 
thing at  his  intercession.  I  returned  to  my  friend.  Stalker.  He  cheer- 
ed me  with  hopes  of  share-built  prosperity,  and  we  made  a  night  of  it. 
I  remember  getting  up  in  the  night,  lighting  my  candle  with  a  lucifer, 
and  burning  my  code  of  morals. 

But  I  discovered,  after  a  few  month's  anxious  and  torturing  sus- 
pense, that  poor  Stalker  had  not  only  deceived  me  but  himself.  Not 
a  share  was  to  be  had  for  love,  however  many  might  have  been  got  for 
money.  Meanwhile,  Whibley  took  unto  himself  a  young  wife ;  and  I 
was  made  acquainted  with  the  secret,  when  I  ventured  a  penitent  ap- 
plication, that  the  was  now  his  right  hand,  and  that  she  was  never 
likdy  to  forget  her  cunning. 

When  I  last  saw  Stalker,  he  was  looking  ruefully  at  a  machine  con- 
taining baked  potatoes.  He  remarked  that  the  vending  of  the  vege- 
table was,  doubtless,  a  profitable  employment  during  the  winter 
months.  As  to  shares,  he  whispered  in  my  ear  something  about 
**  li>bby  the  best  share-market,*'  and  hazarded  a  mysterious  allusion  to 
the  "  Railway  Department  of  the  Board  of  Trade."  We  sighed  and 
parted. 

''  Nothing,"  says  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  with  his  usual  double-dervise 
moral  power, — *'  nothing  will  compensate  for  the  want  of  prudence  ;  and 
negligence  and  irregularity,  long  continued,  will  make  knowledge  use- 
less, wit  ridiculous,  and  genius  contemptible."  The  reader  mil  see 
that  I  am  a  living  instance  of  the  truth  of  our  gigantic  sage's  position  ; 
and  that  negligence  and  irregularity  bear  no  more  relation  to  prudence 
than  a  Pennsylvanian  bond  to  an  intention  of  payment.  Vain  and 
empty  babbling, — jesting  at  wrong  times  and  seasons,  —  never  being 
true  to  his  time,  — these  affect  a  man's  interests  most  injuriously ; 
while,  on  the  other  hand,  a  discreet  tongue,  a  demure  face,  and,  above 
all,  his  presence  projected  at  the  minute, — these  virtues  lead  a  man  on 
to  fortune  ;  for,  as  an  ingenious  friend  of  mine  was  wont  once  to  ob- 
serve, ^'  the  clock  at  the  Horse  Guards  is  not  far  from  the  Treasury." 


VOLTAIRE  TO  THE  QUEEN  OF  PRUSSIA. 

A  LITTLE  truth  will  always  modify 
The  flattering  import  of  the  greater  lie  : 
Last  night,  for  instance,  as  in  dreams  1  lay. 
Led  in  imagination's  fitful  way. 
To  kingly  rank,  methought  my  lot  was  changed. 
And  sudden  joy  o*er  all  my  senses  ranged  ; 
Methought,  too,  that  I  loved,  and  dared  t*iropart 
To  you,  Elmire,  the  secret  of  my  heart  I 
Waking,  the  fiction  of  my  dream  to  prove, 
I  find  I  've  lost  my  kingdom,— not  my  love. 

G.  T.  F. 


238 
OTHRYADES. 

BT  W.  Q.  J.  BARKER,  ESQ. 

[A  dispute  having  arisen  between  the  Spartans  and  Atheniaiu 
about  some  lands,  three  hundred  men  of  each  nation  were  chosen  to 
decide  the  matter  by  combat.  Only  two  Athenians  sorvived,  both 
of  whom  ran  away ;  and  the  sole  remaining  Spcrtan,  OrHRrADEs  by 
iiame>  unwilling  to  survive  his  countrjmen,  wrote  upon  his  target 
**  Vici,"  and  then  slew  himself.3 

The  sammer  day  is  well-nigh  done. 
Swiftly  the  chariot  of  the  sun 
Descends  towards  the  glowing  west. 
In  mingled  gold  and  ruby  drest ; 
No  leaf  moves  on  the  forest-tree. 
Scarcely  a  wavelet  carls  the  sea. 
The  birds  sit  silent  in  the  bowers. 

And  Nature,  hosh'd  in  deep  repose. 

So  beautifiil  and  tranquil  shows. 
That  hallow'd  mama  the  peaceful  hour. 
Amid  the  long  graH  blossoms  spring. 
With  various  ooloors  slistening, — 
Purple,  and  white,  and  crimson  sheen. 
Surrounded  by  the  emerald  green ; 
While  others  rival  in  their  dye 
The  azure  of  the  cloudless  sky. 
But,  though  serene  all  nature  be. 
On  mount  and  vale,  on  shore  and  sea. 
And  though  the  scene  itself  is  fair. 
There  lack  not  fearful  tokens  there : — 
The  ffrass  hath  caught  a  sanguine  hue. 
The  dowers  are  wet,  but  not  with  dew. 
And  crush'd  have  been  their  petals  sweet 
Bv  hasty  tread  of  heavy  feet ; 
And  broken  arms  lie  scattered  round 
Itt  wild  disorder  o'er  the  ground  ; 
Hi*<kWr«  which  fatal  darts  have  bored. 
Ami  shattered  helm,  and  shiver'd  sword ; 
AttU  bright  the  western  sunbeams  glance 
i\ji  taller^  plume  and  gory  lance ; 
KUft|>  mkksl  sight  of  all,  the  slain 
i\uMib<r  in  hc«DS  the  bloody  plain, 
Wtlh  maitfWd  brow,  and  frozen  limb. 
Am)  |(lMhr  «T«bslls  stsrbg  dim, 
TfMh  whk)i  liie  last  pang  firmer  clench'd, 
liocka  in  their  own  rra  heart-stream  drench'd. 
Hands  which  so  hat  the  falchion  clasp. 
Ye  scarce  can  wrendi  it  from  their  grasp ; 
Grim  features  stamp'd  with  pride  and  hate. 
That  fearless  dared  approaching  fate ; 


OTHRYADES.  239 

And  warriors  young,  and  veterans  old. 
Alike  indomitably  bold. 
Now  stark,  and  stiff,  and  void  of  breath. 
The  hideous  forms  of  various  death. 

But  why  such  scene  of  carnage  ?     Say, 
What  feud  has  caused  this  bloody  day  ? 
Did  ravish'd  Beauty's  pillaged  charms 
Call  the  fierce  combatants  to  arms. 
As  Helen  once  all  Greece  inspired 
With  vengeance,  until  Troy  was  fired? 
Did  lucre  tempt  them  to  the  fight  ? 
Warr'd  they  to  win  a  nation's  right  ? 
Or  did  opposing  princes  wake 
The  conflict  for  ambition's  sake^ — 
The  mighty  conflict  which  should  wear 
A  crown,  that  glitt'ring  pledge  of  care  ? 

Two  rival  cities  claim  had  laid 

To  acres  broad  of  fertile  glade, 

And  long  to  words  confined  their  strife. 

Reluctant  each  to  draw  the  knife. 

Not  that  they  fear'd  :  Fear  had  no  claim 

To  Athens,  or  to  Sparta's  name  ;^ 

But  months  roU'd  on,  and  either  state. 

Grown  wearv  of  the  long  debate. 

Resolved  at  last  to  trust  the  cause. 

That  baffled  thus  their  skill  and  laws. 

To  the  stem  test  of  battle's  tide. 

And  let  strong  hearts  and  arms  decide. 

With  this  intent,  each  city  chose 

A  band  to  combat  with  its  foes,— 

Three  hundred  men  on  either  side. 

Stoutly  array 'd  in  martial  pride. 

They  met, — they  battled, — and  they  died  ! 

Morn  saw  the  glitt'ring  falchions  bare — 

When  noontide  parch'd  the  sultry  air. 

Still  raged  the  contest  on  the  plain. 

Amid  the  dying  and  the  slain  ; — 

When  evening  over  hill  and  dale 

Began  to  draw  her  shadowy  veil. 

Of  that  six  hundred  brave  and  fair 

Three  only  breathed  the  vital  air. 

Two  tum'd  and  fled — One  warrior  stood. 

Sole  victor  of  the  day  of  blood. 

Alone  he  stood — his  beaming  eye 
Flash'd  with  the  light  of  triumph  high ; 
And,  as  around  the  field  he  gazed. 
His  cheek  with  deeper  crimson  blazed. 
Alone  he  stood— along  his  soul 
What  visions  in  that  moment  roll ! 
His  task  at  least  was  nobly  done. 
And  Sparta  had  the  victory  won. 


240  OTHRYADES- 

But  where  were  they  who  by  his  side 
Mareh'd  gaily  forth  at  morning  tide. 
In  manhood's  prime,  the  brother  band 
With  whom  he  swore  to  fall  or  stand  ? 
Look  o'er  the  valley,  and  behold 
Their  breathless  corses  stiiT  and  cold ; 
Gored  is  each  breast,  yet  every  hand 
Firmly  retains  its  trusty  brand. 
With  all  those  gallant  heroes  gone. 
To  Sparta  must  he  wend  alone. 
And  none  beside  declare  the  tale 
Of  slaughter  in  that  chamel  vale  ? 
Awhile  he  look'd  on  earth  and  sky, 
Then  proudly  turned,  resolved  to  die. 

*'  Yes,  coldly  are  ye  sleeping  round. 
Where  your  best  life-blo*d  sUins  the  ground  ; 
Like  mountain  stream,  'twas  plenteous  shed. 
Gladly  for  SparU's  right  ye  bled  ; 
And  now  where  cloudless  summer  smiles 
Around  the  Heroes'  radiant  isles. 
From  weary  toil  and  labour  free. 
Your  bright  abodes  of  bliss  shall  be. 
Oreen  wreaths  to  hang  upon  your  shrine 
Shall  Jjacedsemon's  virgins  twine. 
And  many  a  solemn  lyric  tell 
How  in  our  country's  cause  ye  fell. 
And  shall  I,  your  companion  sworn, 
A  lonely  victor  home  return. 
The  only  Spartan  who  to-day 
Scatheless  escaped  the  sanguine  fray  P 
No» — upon  some  fraternal  breast. 
With  you  I  also  sink  to  rest — 
Our  mingled  gore  the  turf  shall  stain. 
Scarce  parted  ere  we  meet  again. 
Nor  need  I  doubt,  the  conflict  won. 
That  Sparta  will  applaud  her  son. 
And  all  Laconia's  jomt  acclaim 
Transmit  to  future  years  my  name ! " 

One  word  upon  his  shield  he  wrote — 

That  little  word  the  story  told — 
Traced  in  triumphant  characters. 

The  magic  syllables  behold  : 
"  Vici ! "     With  an  unfalt'ring  hand 
He  grasp'd  once  more  his  glitt'ring  brand. 
Plunged  the  bright  weapon  in  his  side. 
And  'mid  his  slaughter'd  brethren  died. 

Bankii  of  the  Yore. 


241 


EARLY  YEARS  OF  A  VETERAN  OF  THE  ARMY  OFJ 
WESTPHALIA, 

BETWEEN  1805  AND  1814. 


I  WAS  now  enabled  to  assemble  my  wirule  division,  and  placed  the 
carts  in  such  a  pusitiun  that  a  square  could  instantaneously  be 
formed  by  tbem,  imd  I  then  allowed  a  little  repose  to  men  aiid 
hoFses.  As  we  were  again  putting  ourselves  in  motbn,  after  a  brief 
halt,  1  was,  through  a  new  apparition,  put  completely  out  of  doubt  as 
to  the  danger  of  our  situation*  Out  of  the  left-side  woody  headland 
came  trotting  towards  us  between  sixty  and  seventy  regular  dragoons. 
That  they  were  regular  troops  was  proved  by  their  uTanceuvres,  From 
all  quarters,  as  if  growing  out  of  the  earth,  bearded  Russians  ap[)eareJ, 
armed  with  pikes;  and  exactly  opposite  to  me  I  perceived  a  handsome 
man  in  the  Russian  national  costume,  who,  judging  him  by  his  dress 
jind  deportment,  must  be  the  leader  of  our  adversaries.  This  man  was 
extraordinarily  well  mounted,  and  surrounded  by  a  swarm  of  irregular 
Cossacks,  who,  at  his  command,  halted  within  musket-shot  of  us.  Upon 
this,  he  pranced  forwards  somewhat,  and  spoke  to  us  tirst  in  French, 
and  then  fluently  in  our  own  language,  on  learning  that  we  were  Ger- 
nmns.  He  required  us  to  lay  down  our  arms,  promised  us  good  treat- 
ment, as  we  were  Germans,  and  added,  that  he  knew  right  well  how 
we  had  only  by  constraint  turned  our  arms  against  the  Russians,  and 
much  more  to  the  same  purpose.  This  seductive  invitation,  in  the 
face  of  such  apparent  danger  of  defeat,  was  of  the  greatest  assistance 
to  ray  enterprise*  I  remarked  that  many  of  my  soldiers  wavered,  al- 
though I  gave  them  my  word  that  the  moment  of  their  passing  over  to 
the  enemy  would  be  that  of  their  death,  since  I  only  too  well  knew 
that  pardon  from  the  Russian  levin  en  masne  was  out  of  the  question. 
It  was  no  matter  to  them  whether  an  enemy  were  German  or  French- 
Eirery  foreign  soldier  they  called  a  **  Franzus,"  and  to  such  death  was 
irrevocably  sworn* 

To  the  above  requ]!»ttion  followed,  on  my  side,  the  declaration  that  I 
was  firmly  resolved  not  to  surrender.  Nevertheless,  the  enemy  granted 
OS  a  quarter  of  an  hour  for  consideration,  which  I  used  in  cidJiiig  upon 
my  men  to  exert  every  effort  for  their  liberty,  expressing  my  firm  con- 
viction to  them  that  our  desitructiun  was  inevitable  if  we  had  the  mis- 
fortune of  failing  iuto  the  hands  of  the  Russians,  and  that  we  had 
better  one  and  alJ  fight  even  to  the  very  last  man,  and  die  with  our 
arms  in  our  hands.  Besides,  we  had  no  infantry  opposed  to  us ;  and 
against  cavalry,  if  my  soldiers  held  out,  I  could  defend  myself. 

A  horrid  circumstance  now  took  place  to  increase  our  perplexity,  and 

r»ke  more  eloquently  for  the  truth  of  my  assertion  than  I  could  do. 
Serjeant  of  infantry,  named  Koch,  well  known,  as  I  learneil  after- 
wards, for  a  coward,  had  crept  clandestinely  under  a  car,  and  run  over 
to  the  Russians.  To  his  misftirtune,  he  fellin  with  the  kv^€  en  masi^e; 
and  at  the  very  instant  of  our  remarking  his  ^ight,  he  was  pierced  with 
pikes  and  struck  with  the  knout* 

This  occurred  before  our  eyes.  I  needed  no  more  to  insure  me  the 
best  endeavours  of  my  subordinates  ;  I  received  from  uU  sides  t!ie  lond 
tuiammous  assurauces  that  they  would  stand  by  me  unlliJichingly,  and 

VOL.  XVIII.  a 


242 


EATtLY    YEARS    OF    A    VETERAN 


obey  my  orders  implicitly.  Tlie  short  remaining  time  I  used  so 
post  my  infantry  within  the  wapgon-square,  that  they,  while  under 
shelter  themselves,  could  lire  on  all  sides  freely.  The  reserve  were 
placed  ill  the  middle,  atid  the  disinouiited  cavalry  in  the  usual  manner. 
My  measures  thus  takiftij  1  sent  round  some  Ixittles  of  wine  by  way  of 
stimuJus,  which  had  a  marvelhms  effect,  and  were  not  spared.  When 
our  opponents  saw  that^  instead  of  surrender,  we  were  preparing  for 
defence^  the  command  was  bounded  fur  attack.  First,  the  irregular 
Cossacks  swarmed  around  us;  but  some  musket-shots  wvre  sufficient 
to  keep  those  cuwards  iit  a  proper  distance.  The  foot  iei^t^e  en  maite 
hardly  ventured  to  approiich,  having  an  equal  deference  for  regular 
infantry  tire ;  only  the  dragoons  kept  a  firm  front  to  us^  besides 
makiiig  several  attacks  in  a  body  upon  us. 

IVIany  of  my  siildiers,  and  among  them  my  poor  Lippe,  were  wounded 
by  carabine  shots.  Our  loss,  however,  bore  no  proportion  to  that  of 
the  enemy;  they  suffered  considerably,  which  raised  to  the  highest 
pitch  the  fury  of  their  leader,  who  endeavoured  niore  and  more  to  ex- 
cite his  retreating  soldiers  to  make  another  attack.  Aly  situation  was 
bec*vming  more  critical,  and,  after  a  painful  conflict  with  myself,  I  re* 
sorted  to  my  la^t  resource,  and  held  out  the  inducement  of  some  pieces 
of  gold  to  the  soldier  who  should  shoot  the  enemy's  leader  from  hi» 
horse,  persuaded  that  on  his  fall  the  vehemence  of  the  assault  would 
ahate;  und  this  calculation  was  only  too  just.  Two  minutes  sufficed: 
the  well  directed-shots  performed  their  oflice ;  the  handsome  Russian 
and  his  horse  came  down  together.  Scarcely  did  his  party  perceive 
him  wounded,  when  they  all  ttocked  round  him,  and  endeavoured  to 
hasten  with  him  into  the  forest.  That  moment  was  made  good  use  of, 
— ^a  sharp  fire  from  the  riflemen  and  the  reserve  into  this  disorderly 
assemblage  took  effect  :  it  dispersed  in  precipitation,  and  the  dragoons 
also  retreated  into  the  forest,  I  broke  up  immediately.  All  depended 
upon  our  fiurling  a  secure  poisition  for  the  approaching  night.  With  a 
few  soldiers  I  rode  on  at  a  little  distance  from  the  rest  to  a  gentle 
eminence ;  and  there,  since  evening  had  already  set  in,  had  again  an 
inclosure  constructed.  Our  thirst  was  quenched  in  haste  from  a  broi»k, 
our  camp-kettle  filled,  and  at  iill  the  angles  of  our  fortification  a  dou- 
ble guard  appointed,  who  lay  upon  the  earth  ;  in  short,  every  measure 
having  been  taken  for  our  security,  w^e  must  abide  the  event.  It 
wnuld  have  been  madness  to  send  out  patrols ;  they  would  have  been 
but  a  useless  sacrifice,  since,  according  to  all  probability,  I  was  not  only 
watched,  but  must  expect  to  be  again  attacked.  Neither  would  I  per- 
mit any  fire  to  be  made,  since  that  would  not  only  have  betrayed  our 
position,  but  have  made  us  a  secure  mark  for  the  enemy's  shots.  I 
left  one-third  part  of  my  men  to  repose  at  a  time,  the  others  stood 
continually  in  a  posture  of  defence.  However,  I  soon  became  aware 
that  only  very  few  fell  asleep ;  the  anxiety  was  too  great ;  repose  tied 
from  us.  As  to  myself,  answerable  for  the  lives  of  so  many  persons,  I 
was  besides  kept  awake  by  the  continu^ll  reports,  and  obliged  to  en- 
quire into  them.  My  poor  Lippe  could  be  in  that  respect  of  no  use  to 
nie,  for  he  lay  wounded,  as  I  said,  in  a  cart,  suffering  much  from  a 
ball  that  had  passed  through  his  leg.  I  had  need  enough  of  his  assist- 
ance ;  for  now  at  this  post,  now  at  that,  a  suspicious  movement  was  re- 
marked. Midnight  w,is  long  passed,  and,  contrary  to  my  expectation^ 
I  had  not  been  attacked ;  but  the,  to  us,  well-known  system  of  the 
Kussinns  at  that  time,  never  to  carry  on  warlike  o[>eratious  at  nighty 


4 


4 


OF   THE    ARMY    OF   WESTPHAtTA. 


243 


was  also  liere  observed  ;  0DI7  just  before  dawn  was  an  attack  to  be 
expected  with  nny  great  probability.  At  all  events >  the  fall  uf  the 
leader  mast  have  frustrated  any  regularly  concerted  plan,  or  it  would 
have  been  otherwise  inexplicable  to  nre  how  I  could  have  been  per- 
mitted to  pas*  the  night  so  peaceably  in  such  an  unfavourable  locality* 
The  rude  multitude  also  was  scared  away  by  their  disinclination  to 
fight  against  Hre-arms.  Thi*t  explains  itself  easily:  the  country  people 
being  serfs,  dare  not  carry  any  weapons  of  the  kind  ;  and  thus  the 
usage  of  them  was  strange  to,  and  even  unknown  by  them,  which 
accounts  for  their  panic. 

In  support  of  this  assertion,  I  will  here  relate  an  authentic  anec- 
dote. A  hautboy  of  the  French  grande  armie  had  been  belated 
during  the  retreat  in  a  retired  village,  and  wa«,  though  in  bright  day- 

"  Ught,  al  tempting  to  reach  the  army,  which  was  m  progress  on  the 
ligh  road,  when  he  was  suddenly  assaulted  by  four  or  five  Cossacks  of 
he  letfit  en  maise^     With  great  sang  froid  he  broke  off  short  the 

tpiouthpiece  of  his  instrument  (a  bassoon),  took  shelter  in  a  ditchi  and 

ppimed  at  tbe  enemy,  who  instantly  turned  about,  and  our  hautboy 
luckily  reached  the  high  road  in  safety. 

At  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  having  sent  a  patrol  in  the 
direction  we  were  to  take,  and  not  receiving  any  unfavourable  report, 
I  broke  up  as  quietly  hs  possible,  always  expecting  to  stumble  upon 
the  enemy,  and,  in  this  presumption,  increasing  my  attention  with  the 
Advancing  day.  We  had  proceeded  nearly  a  league,  and  nothing  sus- 
picious had  shown  itself:  I  began  to  breathe  more  freely,  when  I  re- 
ceived a  report  from  the  advanced  guard,  that  in  a  village  just  before 
us  there  was  a  commotion,  which  undoubtedly  indicated  military 
movements.  I  could  but  believe  that  during  the  night  our  retreat 
had  been  cut  off  by  the  enemy.  Under  these  circumstances,  it  was 
tm possible  to  avoid  a  reconnaissattce.  I  went  on,  therefore,  with  my 
cavalry  and  hidf  my  infantry,  leaving  with  a  non-commissioned  officer 
exact  instructions  with  regard  to  the  convoy,  as  well  as  the  necessary 

I  signals.  In  all  stillness  1  came,  at  the  head  of  my  detachment,  close 
to  the  village,  and  here  ended  my  anxieties  as  well  as  my  little  ad- 
venture ;  fur  with  indescribable  joy  I  knew,  by  the  challenges  and 
expressions  which  in  the  Italian  language  penetrated  my  ears,  that  we 

iiiad  allies  in  front  of  us,  instead  of  enemies.  I  rode  forwards  with  a 
small  escort,  which  occasioned  no  slight  alarm  in  the  Italian  detuch- 
ment,  since  they  also  were  in  apprehension  of  a  surprise.  We  were 
nmtually  undeceived  in  the  most  ugreeable  manner:  and,  as  the  divi- 
»ion  was  also  going  out  for  contributions,  1  had  only  time  to  wihh  its 
leader  good  luck,  and  to  give  him  part  of  my  provisions,  after  wliich  1 
hastened  on  with  my  detach  mentj^  and  towards  evening  was  able  to 
report  my  good  success  to  the  general.  He  expressed  his  satisfaction 
to  me ;  for  we  had  really  brought  a  good  supply)  which  Lad  been  but 
little  encroached  upon,  except  as  regards  the  wine. 

A*  I  drew  near  to  the  bivouac  of  my  regiment  I  heard  the  roaring 
of  cannon,  which  ceased,  however,  before  we  reached  it ;  and  1  letirned, 
on  my  arrivul,  that  two  Russian  redoubts  had  been  carried.  Another 
piece  of  news  also  awaited  me:  Njipoleon  had,  by  proclaniation,  an- 

I  liaunced  the  battle  for  the  7th  ,*  and,  as  it  was  on  the  evening  of  the 

I  6th  that  I  returned  to  my  regiment,  I  found  enough  to  do  in  making 
the  requisite  preparations. 

The  evening  before  the  battle,  many  of  my  comrades  met  at  my 

R  1 


844 


EARLY    YEARS    OF    A    VETERAN 


qoiLrters  to  partuke  of  a  very  frugal  supper,  wliich  was  eaten  with 
many  a  joke  upon  th*;  simpJicity  of  our  luble,  m  the  firm  expectation 
that  we  were  soon  to  exchange  it,  in  conquered  IMoscow,  for  that  of 
LucuUus.  My  friend  Poblotzki,  t»f  the  7th  infantry,  of  whom  mention 
has  l>e^n  already  niaUej  vvben  arrested  with  me  at  Alunster,  was  one  of 
us,  as  often  happened  ;  for  he  was  a  good-tempered,  lively  companion, 
and  was  always  a  welcome  guest  to  our  officers.  Upon  this  evening, 
howevefi  be  was  thoroughly  gloomy  and  taciturn,  which  soon  i^truck 
us,  and  gave  rise  to  many  inquiries  on  our  wile.  Then  he  told  me 
that,  in  spite  of  every  mental  effort,  he  could  not  overcome  a  dork 
foreboding  that  the  approaching  day  would  be  his  last.  Although 
we  used  every  effort  to  divert  him  from  this  idea,  and  each  of  us 
in  particuliir  tried  to  enliven  him,  we  did  not  succeed ;  be  held 
by  his  notion,  and  soon  took  leave,  begging  of  me  at  his  departure 
**  to  fill  up  for  the  last  time  hia  field -can  teen/*  Alas !  his  presenti- 
ment did  nut  deceive  him  ;  fur,  as  I  was  riding  on  the  morning  of 
the  8th  to  receive  orders  for  the  day,  upon  my  inquiry  who  had 
fallen  of  the  7th  regiment,  Poblotzki  was  the  first  officer  named.  A 
cannon -ball  had  taken  off  his  thigh  close  to  the  trunks  but  not  killed 
him  immediately ;  for  he  had  torn  his  shirt,  in  order,  if  possible  to 
stop  the  bleeding;  but  then,  apparently  in  the  belief  that  all  was  use- 
lesKj  he  resorted  to  his  canteen,  that  he  might  stupt^fy  himtielf  into 
insensibility  of  the  dreadful  pain.  In  this  condiliun  he  wos  found  by 
his  friend.  Lieutenant  Von  Walmoden  (whose  extraordinary  history  I 
will  also  presently  relate),  who  iu^mediately  put  him  on  a  horse  to 
convey  him  to  the  field-surgery  ;  but,  after  a  step  or  two,  the  struggle 
was  over,  and  his  spirit  had  fied.  I  rode  witli  Walmoden  to  the  spot 
where  niy  pi>or  friend  lay,  and,  ha^'ing  found  him,  bad  a  grave  dug,  in 
which  we  interred  him,  and  erected  a  small  wooden  cross  upon  the 
mound,  fur  which  hh  poor  mother^  who  was  a  zealous  Catholic^  after* 
wartis  warmly  thanked  me. 

For  the  purpose  of  rehiling  Walmoden's  remarkable  adventure,  I 
must  leave  the  course  of  my  narrative  for  a  while,  and  refer  to  a  later 
period  in  which  it  occurred,  when  Walmoden  was  lying  sick  in  a  Jew's 
house  at  Witepsk.  It  was  in  the  month  of  January,  in  the  moat 
frightfully  cold  weather ;  tlie  bouses  were  thronged  with  sick,  and 
Death  demanded  many  offerings,  —  so  many*  that  the  carts  which 
made  the  tour  of  the  streets  every  morningt  to  be  laden  with  di«» 
dead  bodies^  could  hardly  suffice  to  contain  them.  After  a  few  days' 
sickness,  Walmoden  also  was  ejected  as  one  of  the  unfortunate  dead, 
and  was  tossed  like  a  bundle  of  straw  upon  a  cart,  which  moved 
with  its  dismal  burthen  towards  the  Dnieper,  the  great  grave  af 
those  pitiiibie  oljjects.  Major  Stockhausen  jmd  Lieutenant  Krause, 
of  tlie  Westphalian  armvj  vvere  accidentally  behind  this  waggon,  in 
which  the  various  dead  lay  one  over  the  other  ;  one  attracted  their 
atteittiuii,  who,  with  his  head  and  amis  hanging  down,  touclied  the 
ground*  They  looked  more  narrowly,  thought  they  recognised  Wal- 
moden, and,  upon  a  still  closer  insiiection,  ascertained  that  it  was  he. 
They  were  both  acquainted  with  his  family,  and  therefore  required  the 
body  to  be  transmitted  to  them  from  the  cart,  intending  to  procure  for 
him  at  least  a  private  grave ;  and,  while  pursuing  their  way  with 
it,  they  met  the  regimeutal  surgeon.  Stark Joff,  who  accompanied  them 
to  their  quarters,  and  there  used  meRUS  to  osoertain  whetht-r  Wal- 
moden was  indeed  a  dead  man.     The  consequence  was,  that  the  latter 


OF   THE   ARRIY    OF    WESTPHALIA. 


Mo 


ne  to  life  again,  and,  with  good  nursing,  got  quite  well  in  a  short 
time.  He  often  jocularly  said  to  me  afterwards,  "  Well,  you  »ee  the 
man  that  is  born  to  be  hanged  will  never  be  drowned." 

After  this  episode,  I  return  to  my  narration  of  affairs  in  general. 
The  progress  of  the  ballle  of  Alojaisk  has  been  so  much  spoken  of,  that 
I  will  say  but  little  of  it.  Our  victery  wii»  complete.  However,  the 
Russian  army  turned  back  towards  Aloscow  in  great  order.  We  fol- 
lowed at  their  heek,  Hrmly  beHeviuji:  that  there  must  yet  be  a  hot 
engagement^  and  advancing  therefore  with  great  precaution.  Our  ad- 
vanced guard  was  incessantly  engaged  with  the  rear-guard  of  the  Rus- 
sians ;  but  it  never  came  to  a  serious  fight,  for  the  latter  continuously 
retreated  ;  and  at  length  even  this  conflict  ceased,  as  the  RusHians, 
instead  of  faUing  back  upon  Moscow  itself,  abandoned  the  city  to  the 
enemy,  and  took  a  southern  direction.  The  fatigues  and  difficulti^ 
which  we  had  struggled  through  on  the  march  were  now,  as  we  were 
m  near  to  ^loscow,  to  be  no  more  thought  of.  The  glad  expectation 
of  finding  all  things  there,  steeled  our  courage  and  our  strength  ;  and 
if  either  relaxed,  we  did  but  call  out  to  each  other  the  name  of  the  so 
ardently  desired  city,  which  produced  an  almost  magical  effect  upon  us. 

At  length,  when  we  had  crossed  the  woody  eminence  named  the 
Holy  Hill,  which  lies  close  to  Moscow,  the  great  majestic  city  stood 
before  us  bright  in  the  morning  sunshine.  We  looked  down  into  it  as 
into  a  new  world  ; — a  loud  cry  of  exultation  ran  through  our  ranks— 
we  pressed  each  other's  hands~we  congratulated  each  other — the  tu- 
mult of  joy  was  a  11- pervading.  Even  the  Emperor  from  his  exalted 
point  of  view  surveyed  with  indubitable  joy  the  city  lying  before  us, 
with  her  countless  cupolas  and  towers,  which  extending,  after  the 
manner  of  the  Chinese,  in  wide,  extravagant  divisions,  were  connected 
together  by  chains,  preseniing  to  us  an  entirely  novel  and  strange  ap- 
pearance. 

Asia  and  Europe  seemed  here  to  meet, — a  new  quarter  of  the  world 
opened  to  usj-^and  our  breaMs  heat  high  in  joy  and  pride  on  having  at 
Jenglh  attained  this  goal  of  our  vast  exertions  and  hardships. 

The  army  halted,  the  advanced  guard  entered  the  city,  while  the 
guards  pitched  their  tents  before  the  gates;  and  the  Emperor  antici- 
pated tnat  next  day  the  magistrates  would  make  their  appearance,  to 
deliver  up  the  keys  of  the  place.  Since  that,  however,  did  not  hafjpen, 
the  guards  occupied  the  city,  and  the  troops  of  the  line  followed  the 
retiring  enemy  along  the  road  to  Taralino.  How  great  was  our 
amuzement  when  we,  as  if  threading  a  city  of  the  dead,  found  it  com- 
pletely emptied  uf  human  beings  ! — thus  making  an  impressive  con- 
trast with  the  condition  in  which  we  discovered  everything  within  it. 
The  shops,  the  dwellings,  the  places  of  general  resort  were  as  well 
arranged  and  well  filled  as  is  the  case  in  other  great  towns,  presenting 
ever)  thing  that  can  charm  the  sight  or  induce  cupidity.  There  was 
also  a  great  quantity  of  provisions,  particularly  of  colonial  produce ; 
but  since  there  were  no  peculiar  regulations  in  the  army  in  this  re- 
spect, they  fell  into  the  hands  of  a  few  individuals,  who  established 
victualling  stores  themselves,  and  carried  gluttony  to  the  highest  ex- 
cess, whilst  the  soldiers  at  the  gates,  destitute  of  all  thing^s,  were 
feeding  on  horse-flesh.  Tbey  had,  however,  an  incredible  superabun- 
dance of  gaudy,  useless  objects ;  and  precious  articles,  such  as  Persian 
sbawb<  magniticent  furs,  gold  and  silver  vessels,  all  dragged  away  by 


-  ~     -.     "TTEIiAN 

ET*    Z'Z'2tZBr.    Jill    TF>rB    »ift>r»!a  wz!i 

fe.  ~z.rr.-    T   z-rftia    •!   none-    ^<  »-• 

£.     JIl.      =.-1^     >a«^    ^CSIiiiiCell.     1^    ir- 

^   jTTzgyTrr^  nr  "lit  vniQir  «a- 
-1    -    z_r—    uarrers    »f  "se  rrr  ii 

-  :       wHi     ^U^t^    jv   '.He    nr:- 

r-trf^T     z±    ITT   ^    nUiin    Ls   '^itfusibf*. 
c    -tt:  •    '--4    -sizr^-i*  si  c-ir    r  tic 


^      ,-  -      zzr^     -^    -=.     —-=-:■:     : — I'lzziO.    c    t.    **  Tutf  3Ljr<:jJ 

_-       ^     li      ...  «F— 1^    -       i^i  :   Err vf. •"»'»»•.  "lie  ilriailiii  :c 
^    .-^  _         i-_r-^     T  r^*    III.'    .a   I  ■"--  i:itr«T^.  Xir«:.^^:c 

^:    z:  -  — -   ^-    -*   .   ""smtK^iC-  •  t-,jiii  ii-sCLi-  fr.-x 
^     ^.       .7     !_•:     :^-     *    ir    »**^  ''•"a  cST    -"^  ^  iri-i  -t  the 

.  *..  ^-      .    ...      -    n"    -^    «=ea  s:^=--  «ii  .c '  icrt  izJ 

—  --      ...  -  .  „        • 

^^«s.     •c'.e-      "    ~*.      -^       --  .■"■.«^'-:j^*     -i:  -•"^'r-».     11'.        -  ic    i.— r*2\»r 

^,^^»  ,^  -^  **  •  .  ?  — -».  ^  -  «:..  lie  -^.Ti^c  If  !.»  *i:*r:vr. 
.  uv  '^  ■-*  -.";  — ^^-•^.:---  i  1  ;-si  %  .&  ii  j«  ;.:«-  scc  •  :*  ±1 
*  '*.    «s-  .        •  ••    **:" —     -*   h-a"    ::nc  lit:  njyir.t."  »iC:?  i^carra 

"*     .,M-^  W5.    -*-    -    ■»»•':-• — =•    "•*«■    *:=•-    "-le-    %t!^  AUi   ::•  ca;.>ie 


I  «»  vrsi^t:  4   iMiTKC^  o^A^c^  H^c  lijouc  iui:,€»,  bul  uiii\ 


OF   THE  ARMY    OF    WESTPHALIA. 


S4r 


so  for  to  mention  it  as  may  serve  for  a  clue  to  the  important,  extraor- 
dinary events  of  one  individual  life  ;  and  I  tlierefory  may  return  to  my 
own  experiences  during  the  cunfl  a  juration,  the  fearful  picture  of  which 
and  its  dread  accessnrifs,  so  far  as  I  witnessed  thenij  can  never  be 
effaced  from  my  memory. 

Thus  were  we,  on  the  night  of  the  14th  of  Septemher,  driven 
out  of  our  ahove-menttoned  puhice  hy  the  iire,  which,  on  our  awaken- 
ing, encompassed  us  on  all  sides,  ai^d  iljing  to  the  German  suburh, 
a  quarter  till  then  uninjured,  the  gu;irds,  w^ho  were  quartered  there, 
received  us  in  a  comrade-like  manner.  Here  we  endeavo^ured  to 
keep  the  soldiers  of  the  regiment  as  much  as  possible  together;  hut, 
as  I  have  before  pointed  out^  every  trace  of  discipline  had  disappeared, 
and  each  man  followed  hiB  owe  will,  and  his  own  peculiar  gratification. 
When  the  fire  relaxed,  we  looked  about  in  the  city  for  a  new  dwelling- 
place,  and  discovered  one  in  the  cellars  of  a  burned-down  palace,  near 
one  of  the  public  promenades*  We  found,  to  our  great  surprise,  the 
place  inhabited}  and  truly  by  an  old  long-bearded  Russian^  whom  we 
did  not  chase  away>  but  considered  him  as  our  landlord,  and  left  him 
undisturbed.  Here,  with  the  ready  inditference  of  soldiers  in  the 
fieldj  we  settled  ourselves  comfortably,  agreeably  even  ;  for  we  were 
speedily  supplied  with  aU  that  was  needful  towards  housekeeping. 
What  we  were  soon  the  most  in  want  of  was  tobacco,  and  1  com- 
missioned my  sergeant  Lippe,  now  quite  cured  of  hiji  wound,  to 
procure  me  some*  After  a  long,  useless  search>  be  discovered,  also  in 
a  cellar,  an  old  Russian,  to  whom  he  held  out  a  five- franc  piece,  re- 
peating the  word,  tobacco.  At  first  the  old  Scythian  shook  his  head 
witb  great  indiflerence,  and  then  stood  like  an  inanimate  guardian  be- 
fore an  arched  cellar,  provided  with  an  iron  grate.  At  the  sight  of  a 
second  five-franc  piece  life  returned  to  him  ;  he  traversed  the  vault, 
carefully  closing  the  grate  behind  him,  and  came  back  with  a  good 
bandful  of  long  Turkey  tobacco.  It  was  now  Lippe's  turn  to  shake  his 
bead,  and  intimate  to  the  old  man  that  he  must  have  more.  At  lengthi 
after  the  bargain  was  struck,  my  sergeant  saw  himself  in  possession  of 
a  whole  cask  of  that  glorious  weed,  which  he  brought  to  me  in  triumph, 
and  a  part  of  which  was  one  day  to  do  me  sign;il  service* 

Aa  I  said,  our  housekeeping  was  on  an  excellent  fooling ;  our  people 
knew  how  to  get  at  everything  which  could  best  serve  our  table  in 
that  desolated  city ;  and,  while  they  roasted  and  boiled,  w*e  surveyed 
the  defaced,  dilapidated  I\l oscow,  as  likewise  the  rescued  Kremlin, 
without  any  forebodings  of  our  terrific  fnture,  and  safe,  as  it  appeared 
to  US,  under  the  particular  protection,  and  in  the  immediate  vicinity 
«f  the  Emperor. 


On  the  18th  of  October  I  received  orders  to  bring  back  a  detach- 
ment of  the  8th  regiment,  to  which  I  belonged,  and  which  had  re* 
matned  behind  at  Mojaisk.  1  therefore  left  Moscow,  and  undertook  to 
eonduct  with  me  a  German  family  who  had  been  residing  there,  but 
who  now  wished  to  return  to  Germany.  This  family  consisted  of  a 
mother,  two  children,  and  a  waiting  maid.  They  sat  in  a  large,  band- 
tome  travel  ling- carriage,  drawn  by  four  horses,  and  laden  with  all  the 
property  the  lady  bad  been  enabled  to  save,  on  which  account  the 
poor  woman  was  in  no  small  anxiety  as  to  the  progress  of  her  journey* 

TUis  carriage  was  followed  by  my  own,  a  magnificent  English  state- 


248 


BALLAD. 


carriage,  containiii|!,  besides  my  other  property,  the  oiost  beautiful  and 

c<i»tly  furs,  which  I  had  bought  for  b  son<r*  This  carriajje  was  out  of 
one  of  the  first  repoj^itories  in  Moscow.  Even  in  tliat  abandoned  mi- 
serable city  everything  could  yet  be  had  for  gold,  which  wag  often  ex- 
changed for  articles  having  a  thonsiind  times  its  vahie. 

This  carriage  I  had  with  tne  a  long  time;  it  was  even  conveyed 
over  the  Beresina,  which  might  be  accounted  a  fable.  It  was  a  sick- 
waggon  for  our  wounded  ;  and  at  length  1  only  left  it  behind  at  Wilpa, 
because  the  horses,  staggering  with  hunger,  were  no  longer  abJe  to 
drag  it  along. 

We  arrived  without  accident  at  Mojaisk,  where,  after  a  cordial  se* 
paration  from  my  protcgl-e^  I  reported  myself  to  the  commander  of  the 
division,  Lieutenant-General  Schulz»  with  whom  I  was  personally  ac- 
quainted, and  by  him  most  l(indly  received,  I  had  much  to  relate, 
also  much  to  hear,  of  the  tmmeasnruble  distress  which  began  to  predo- 
minate everywhere,  JVL»jaisk  as  yet  forming  an  exception  ;  for,  through 
the  arrangements  made  by  General  Allixj  the  harvest  had  been  saved 
and  housed  ;  our  soldiers  threshed,  ground,  and  baked  excellent  bread* 
General  Schulz  himself  was  on  the  foottDg  of  a  prince.  To  the 
sumptuosness  of  a  palace  he  had  added  all  the  movable  luxuries  which 
can  be  thought  of.  We  hoped  to  spend  the  whole  winter  here  in  safety 
and  quiet,  and,  after  our  great  privations,  agreeably  too,  in  the  full  com- 
fort of  onr  earlier  lives.  But  whiit  perils,  what  woen  had  we  not  soon 
afterwards  to  encounter  ! — ^woes  such  as,  since  that  period^  have  never 
been  encountered  in  such  full  measure,  many  of  them  never  even 
singly  experienced.  Calamity,  need,  and  disquietudes  never  indeed 
vanish  entirely  out  of  human  life,  but  show  themselves*,  now  here,  now 
there,  under  various  forms;  however,  in  times  like  the  present,  they 
are  necessarily  more  transient,  since  hardly  can  all  tliose  circumstances 
Again  concur  which  made  our  KuJferings  at  that  time  not  only  fearftd 
in  themselves^  but  also  of  such  long  duration. 


BALLAD. 


BY   WiLLfAtf   JONCfi. 


Wno  1  fives  thee  not,  Agnea  ! — sweet  raaiflen,  who«e  brofr 
L^  pure  ft*  the  s.orihcam,  that  shines  over  it  now, 
That  rellect*  hack  thy  heauty,  and  doth  hut  etihance 
Thif  amiiti  of  ihy  FeatureH,  the  light  of  thy  glanc«  ! 
Wliat  craven  could  wound  thee  with  tlum^htji  t>f  thine  ill  ? 
Or  Talne  nne  distres*  ihee,  with  wfonl*  that  would  chill  I 
Tf>fi  Ifively  for  either,  take,  take  thy  repose, 
Thuugh  the  tht»rn  hkioro  t^de  it,  stiH  fair  blonmii  the  rose ! 

Who  love«  ih«^  not,  Agnes  \ 

Who  lovea  thee  not,  Agnea  !  «o  pentle  and  gw>d  ! 
Thy  spirit  eotild  tioften  o'en  man*s  darkest  onxKl. 
Thon  art  h'ke  the  rainlK^vir^  whose  art-h  set  mi  high. 
Subdues  the  wild  tempest,  and  lightens  the  sky  I 
How  dioerJess  and  sad.  wotild  this  witderneu  h«^ 
If  earth  were  bereft  of  such  dear  one«  as  thee  1 
The  tones  of  whme  voice  can  gladness  impart. 
But  whose  virtue,  like  aiig«li',  is  frahn^ss  of  heart  .* 

Who  lores  thee  not,  Agnei  1 


249 


ENNOBLED  ACTRESSES. 

BT  MRS.  MATHBWS. 

*»  In  ooEDcdiet,  tli«  duties  of  the  vanoii»  situations  of  life  are  held  out  to  triew, 
and,  &8  it  trere,  reflecti^i  from  a  mirrnr.  The  office  of  parents  and  the  proper  con- 
duct of  children  are  faitlifuUy  delineated,  and^,  what  to  young  men  may  be  ailvan* 
tagcmu,  the  vices  of  profliffate  fharacters  exhibited  in  thar  true  colours,  .... 
No  Christian  need  be  deterred  from  attending  them/' — Lltther, 

"  U-Tiat  entertainment,  what  pleasiire  ho  rational  as  that  afforded  hy  a  well- 
written  and  weU-atned  play,— whencse  the  mind  may  receive  at  once  it*  fill  of  im- 
provement and  delight  ?"— Dr.  Johnson, 

Biography,  when  honest,  is  like  what  Coleridge  said  of  wine : 
'*it  invents  nothing,  it  only  iaUlex** 

In  the  progress  of  women  of  unquestioned  lives,  those  whose  early- 
steps  have  been  evenly  and  well  directed,  and  their  onward  paths 
thoi^e  of  plea^iantness  and  peace,  there  are  no  *'  moving  accidents," 
which  can  furnish  forth  a  narrative  calculated  to  amuse  the  wonder- 
weking  puhlic.  Indeed,  it  is  the  privilege,  as  it  should  be  the  pride, 
of  the  gentler  sex,  for  the  most  part  to  glide  noiselessly  through  the 
world,  in  silent  prosecution  of  their  appointed  duties,  their  virtues 
appreciated — but  not  proclaimed — by  those  to  whose  well-being  and 
happinefis  they  contribute.  In  the  story  of  such  lives,  the  narrator, 
inapt  to  "  invent/'  finds  it  extremely  difficult  to  '*  tattle  J*  Thus  many 
amiable,  excellent  beings,  both  in  public  and  private  life,  leave  no 
memorial,  but  are  perished  as  'though  they  ne'er  had  been^"  while, 
happily,  there  be  some  few  that  have  left  a  name  behind  them 
Ibftt  their  praises  may  be  reported.  In  the  latter  portion  must  be 
ranked  the 


COUNTESS  OF  CRAVEN. 

MiS0  Louisa  Bbunton,  daughter  of  a  respected  gentleman,  for 
many  years  proprietor  of  the  Norwich  Theatre,  was  not,  we  believe, 
originally  intended  for  the  stage,  although  her  uncommon  graces  of 
person,  exceeding  loveliness  of  countenance,  with  many  polite  ac- 
quirements, eminently  qualified  her  for  a  profession  where  extraor- 
dinary  beauty  of  form  and  face  are  deemed  essential, — indeed,  can 
only  be  dispensed  with  in  the  cas^e  of  extraordinary  talent,  though 
homeliness  is  still  a  drawback.  The  cause  of  Miss  Bronton's  coming 
upon  the  stage  may  be  explained  in  the  following  manner. 

When  Mrs.  Sid  dons,  in  her  early  career,  took  leave  of  the  Bath 
theatre  for  a  metropolitan  engagement,  she  alleged  three  ejrtsting 
reasons  for  withdrawing  from  the  patrons  and  friends  she  then  had 
for  a  more  lucrative  position,  and,  in  imitation  of  the  virtuous  ma- 
tron Cornelia,  who  when  asked  to  produce  her  jewels,  exhibited  her 
children,  Mrs.  Siddons  drew  forward  her  little  gems,  (a  son  and  two 
dftogbters,)  before  her  admiring  audience,  who  generously  and  feel- 
ingly acknowledged  the  excellence  and  sufficiency  of  this  threefold 
plea-      JSIr.  Brunton    might,  in  like   manner,  have  adduced  mani/ 


250 


ENNOBLEB    ACTRESSES. 


more  Buch  family  reasons  for  introducing  into  public  life  hh  sijrth 
daughter,* 

The  subject  of  our  present  nodee  made  her  first  appearance  on 
the  stage  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre  on  the  2f>th  of  October,  l&iS,  in  " 

the  character  o£  Ladt/  Tonmltf  in  '^*  The  Provoked  Husband,"  whicfc 
novice  as  she  was,  she  sustained  with  superior  elegance  and  judgJ 
mant*     Mi  as  Brunton  next  appeared   in  Beatrice,  in  which  repr 
sentation  she  confirmed  the  favourable  opin-on  previously  formed  i 
her  powers.     Thenceforward  keeping  the  even  tenor  of  her  way- 
she  for  four  succeeding  reasons  sustained  a  variety  of  characters 
tragedy  aa  well  as  in  comedy,  in  either  of  which  she  proved  an  ac 
knowledged  ornament. 

At  the  above-mentioned  period  w-e  had  the  pleasure  of  meetin| 
]Vfiss  Brunton  in  familiar  society,  at  the  table  of  our  early  and  es 
teemed  friends,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Litchfield,  when  she  was 

"  AiJorjied 
Witb  what  all  eanK  nnd  heaven  could  bestow 
To  make  her  amiable,*' 

There  is  always  something  indelicate  even  in  just  praise,  whenthi 
subject  of  it  is  in  a  manner  present;   but  in  a  truth-telling  page' 
even  such  records  become  a  popular  right j* 

Truly,  then.  Miss  Brunton  was  one  of  the  personally  gifled  fewj. 
upon  whose  beauty  there  were  no  dissentients.    It  was  of  that  serene 
unexacting  quality  which  engages  even  female  hearts  ;  her  youthfu 
vivacity  was  so  femininely  gentle,  so  tempered  by  delicate  discretion^ 
and  she  was  withaJ  so  outwardly  unconscious  of  her  surpassing  love 
liness,  that  envy  itself  must  have  been  pleased  to  acknowledge  iU 

Thus  liberally  endowed  by  Nature,  her  youth  guarded  by  tena 
cioualy-honourable   and   honoured  parents,  in  a  well-loved  home 
Miss  Brunton  knew  neither  cares  nor  vicissitudes.     She  might,  in 
deed,  be  said  to  have  been  '*  born  under  a  midday  sun,  there  were  i 
shadows  in  her  patb;"  and  she  had  neither  adventures  nor  miaad 
ventures  to  disturb  her  Berenity,     In  this  enviable  stjite  of  life  thel 
Earl  of  Craven  saw,  and  seeing,  loved  her.     His  devotion,  early  in 
its  beginning,  and  publicly  understood,  silenced  and  put  to  flight 
many  incipient  aspirants  to  the  heart  and  hand  of  this  favourite  of 
Nature.     The  first  of  these  she  had  obviously  bestowed  upon  him, 
who  duly  claimed  the  latter.     Briefly,  for  little  remains  to  be  told^ 
Miss  Brunton  at  the  beginning  of  December,  1807,  with  character 
istxc  modesty,  made  her  final  curtsey  on  the  stage,  without  the  forJ 
niality  of  Icave-takhig ;  and  on  the  30th  of  the  same  month,  as  th 
public    journals    announced,    ^*Misa    Brunton,    of  Covent  Garde 
Theatre,  was  married  to  die  Earl  of  Craven  at  seven  in  the  evening 
at  Craven  House,  and  the  following  day  the  happy  pair  set  off  fo 
Coorabe  Abbey/' 

The  Earl  was  in  his  37th  year,  and  his  lovely  bride  in  her  25th, 

The  Countess  of  Craven's  first  appearance  at  court  was  one  of  the 

*  31isft  Loyiui  Brunton  wai  a  youDger  thter  of  the  celebrated  acCirfs,  who  i 
ried  Mr.  Merry  (the  poet  DeUa  Crusea}^  and  of  Mr.  John  Bniiit4)a,  many  yean  j 
actor  at  Cuvent  Giirden  Theatre^  futher  of  the  pre&CMit  p*ipuliir  iir,tre»*,  Mn.  Vaw 
a  liMly  whose  talciiU,  aiiiiable  ditposition,  mid  uablemisijtfd  chwacier  render  licr  i 
hauour  14J  any  relationship. 


ENNOBLED  ACTRESSES.  251 

most  striking  imaginable.  Her  exceeding  beauty  was  vniTersally 
felt.  Those  who  \mA  only  beheld  her  at  stage  distance^  were  hvdly 
prepared  for  the  real^  day-light  loveliness  which  was  so  charmingly 
blended  with  the  first  of  feminine  graces — modesty,  for  wluch  her 
public  deportment  had  at  all  times  been  distinguished ;  and  whatever 
amount  of  loss  mi^ht  be  said  to  be  sustained  by  the  mUge  in  the  with- 
drawal of  one  of  Its  purest  ornaments,  was  more  than  indemnified 
by  the  honour  it  acquired  by  the  cause  of  her  secession  ;  whilst  the 
dignity  of  the  peerage  sufi*ered  no  deterioration  or  diminution  by  the 
exalution  of  Uiat  *'  paragon  of  animals" — an  elegant  and  chaste 
woman. 

It  may  be  assumed  the  Lady  Craven's  first  grief  was  that  of  a 
widow — ^for  she  outlived  her  noble  husband ;  since  whose  death, — ^<'for 
sorrow  ends  not  when  it  seemeth  done/' — she  has  passed  her  time  in 
comparative  retirement,  beloved  by  her  children,  and  esteemed  by 
all  who  know  her. 

By  the  marriage  of  the  present  Earl,  who  is  her  son,  she  is  now 
the  Dowager  Countess  of  Craven. 


LADY  THURLOW. 

**•  An  actress  ! — ^well,  I  own  'tis  true ; 
But  why  should  that  your  love  subdue. 

Or  bid  you  blush  for  Po%  9 
When  all  within  is  sense  and  worth. 
To  care  for  modes  of  life  or  birth 

Is  arrant  pride  and  folly. 

A  Potty  in  a  former  age 

Resigned  the  Captain*  and  the  stage. 

To  shine  as  Bolton*s  Duchess ; 
Derby  and  Craven  since  have  shown 
That  virtue  builds  herself  a  throne, 

Ennobling  whom  she  touches. 

She  who  is  artless,  chaste,  refined. 
Disinterested,  pure  in  mind, 

Unsoil'd  with  vice's  leaven. 
Has  that  nobility  within 
Which  kings  can  neither  give  nor  win,..- 

Her  patent  is  from  heaven. 

Discard  your  doubts — your  suit  prefer  j 
You  dignify  yourself,  not  her, 

By  honourable  passion; 
And  if  your  noble  friends  should  stare, 
Qo  bid  them  show  a  happier  pair 

Among  the  fools  (^fashion.*' 

HoBACZ  in  London. 

Miss  Mary  Cathbrinb  Bolton  was  the  eldest  of  five  children, 
whose  parents  were  of  high  respecUbility.  Her  father,  to  whom 
our  heroine  was  affectionately  devoted,  had  quitted  his  original  pro- 

*  Captain  Maoheath, 


252 


ENNOBLED    ACTRESSES, 


fession  of  the  law,  and  engaged  in  pursuits  which  had  proved 
fortunate,  and  left  liim  ultimately  in  great   difficulty*     M\hs  Bolton 
had  early  manifested  a  decision  of  character,   which   few   females 
reveal  even  at  a  maturer  a|[»"e ;  and  although   her   conduct  and   de- 
portment were  essentially  feminine,  she  had  no  affectation  oi*  se: 
ti mentality, — but  her  manners  were  what  may  be  termed  rcaervn 
Perhaps  the  circumstances  in  which  she  found  herself  at  the  earl 
age  of  seventeen,  called  upon,  as  she  was,  to  exert  herself  by  a  publi 
display  of  those  talents  and  acquirements,  cultivated  originally  ft 
private  life,  for  the  support  of  her  family,  were  such  as  to  draw  fort! 
a  gravity  of  reflection  and  demeanour   not  quite  natural  at  such 
period  of  life*     Happily,  however,  the  constitution  of  Miss  Bolton 't 
mind  was  too  elastic  to   be  utterly  depressed  by  cares,  enough  ti 
"  stamp  wrinkles  on  the  brow  of  youth."     Still  the  weight  of  her 
domestic  burthen  had  the  visible  effect  of  rendering  her  at  seven- 
teen   and   eighteen    more    circumspect,    staid,    and   womanly,   than 
young  ladies  under   other  circumstances  are  apt  to  be,  especially] 
amid  the  excitement  and  triumph  of  popular  admiration  ;  but  vanitjr 
formed  no  part  of  Miss  Bolton's  sensible  and  considerate  character 
Amongst  other  accomplishments,  she  was  a  good  musician  ;  and  she 
had  received  much  vocal  instruction  from  Mr.  Lanza,  through  whose 
medium  she  was  afterwards  introduced  into  public  life. 

As  soon  as  it  became  apparent  that  Miss  Bolton's  individual  tn* 
ertions  must  thenceforth  supply  the  loss  of  other  means,  and  be 
the  chief  dependence  of  her  parents  and  family  (three  sisters  and 
an  infant  brother),*  Mr,  Lanza  brought  her  out  at  the  Hanover 
Square  Rooms  as  a  concert-singer,  where  (and  afterwards  at  Willis's 
Booms),  the  young  and  interesting  dehutantts  reception  was  most 
flattering.  In  the  same  year,  lUtHJ,  Mr,  Lanza  received  an  invitation 
to  introduce  his  pupil  \o  Mr.  Harris,  the  manager  of  Covent  Garden 
Theatre  ;  and  immediately  after,  arrangements  were  entered  into  for 
JVfiss  Bolton's  first  appearance  on  the  stage,  which  took  place  at  the 
above  theatre  in  the  autumn  of  1806,  in  the  character  of  Polity,  in 
*'  The  Beggars'  Opertt/'+ 

As  it  too  often  happens  with  the  talented  and  unwary,  who,  hoping 
and  believing  all  things,  confidingly  enter  upon  a  compact  with  the 
calculating  and  cool-headed, — the  favourable  reception  of  Aliss  Bol- 
ton proved  more  profitable  to  the  proprietors  than  to  herself.  She 
had  been  engaged  for  a  definite  term  at  a  rising  salary  of  six,  seven, 
and  eight  pounds  per  week,  determinable  at  the  end  o(^  the  ^p'rsi 
season  in  fhe  event  t^' her  Jiot  succeediitg.  Her  success,  however,  was 
so  positive — indeed,  so  great — that  she  repeated  the  part  of  Poiiy 
seventeen  times;  and  performed  Roseittit  in  "  Love  in  a  Village,"  six 
or  seven  times* — no  inconsiderable  indications  of  her  particular  at- 
traction, when  two  hackneyed  operas  without  other  adventitious  aid 
were  found  beneficial  and  sufficient  to  the  treasury  so  of\en  in  one 
season.  No  new  opera  was  deemed  requisite  to  uphold  her,  and 
Miss  Bolton  had  theretbre  nothing  to  rely  on  but  her  own  powers  of 

*  One  *^(  Hivr  »iit«r8,  Mrs*  E.  Bolton,  married  Mr.  BingltJim,  lh«  barrisier,  and 

f  k  It  rvmnrkiilili*  llmt  tlui*  clmmctiT  lias  led  to  the  fteernjcre  three  of  lis  furtunattf  j 
ri"|iri!»«!nt»tivt''i,  — Jinriif'lv*  Mibh  Kriikm  (wfterwiirds  Duchess  of  BoUofi)«  ^Ii'm  Bol*'' 
ton  (nfii^rw^Anln  lUnHiMi  TJmrliiw).  -tinl,  though  hst^  not  ietut  In  our  diaar  lore, 
MiM  iit(»|»U«JU  ^ttll4Jrwiu*d»,  iwid  itilU  tlK»U|fh  now  n  Howager,  C<iuiitesa  uf  Estcx). 


T  \ 


ENNOBLED   ACTKES8E8.  253 

pleasing  in  these  almost  worn-out  pieces^  which  without  some  ex* 
traordinary  individual  attraction^  the  managers  could  not  have  per-, 
formed  probably  a  second  night  in  the  same  season  without  the  cer- 
tainty of  a  half-empty  house. 

Having  thus  achieved  the  success  upon  which  hung  the  conditions 
of  her  prolonged  engagement,  what  was  Miss  Bolton's  amazement 
when,  during  the  succeeding  vacation,  she  received  a  communica- 
tion from  an  agent  of  the  proprietary,  informing  her  that  her  success 
had  not  been  such  as  to  entitle  her  to  the  terms  originally  proposed, 
namely,  six,  seven,  and  eight  pounds,  but,  that  if  she  chose  to  accept 
four  pounds  a-week,  her  name  would  be  retained  on  the  list  of  per* 
formers!*  Dismayed  by  this  something  like  a  thunderstroke,  the 
recipient  was  heart-struck  by  it  at  the  time ;  but  her  native  energy 
revived  by  the  necessity  for  new  exertion,  and  in  the  cruel  and  try- 
ing position  in  which  this  unhandsome  offer  placed  her,  she  con« 
suited  a  friend  of  some  experience  in  tlieatrical  and  other  business, 
to  whom  this  admirable  young  woman  declared  herself  quite  pre- 
pared to  sacrifice  every  feeling  of  personal  pride,  if  by  such  sacrifice 
she  could  secure  a  solid,  permanent  good  to  her  family.  That  judi- 
cious friend  at  once  advised  her  to  put  pride  out  of  the  question,  to 
persevere  even  under  this  unfair  discouragement,  or  any  that  the 
future  might  throw  in  her  wav,  and  prove  to  the  public  and  to  her 
employers,  who  had  treated  her  so  unfairly,  that  her  talents  and 
merits  were  of  too  sterling  a  quality  not  to  outlive  the  mere  gloss  of 
novelty.  Miss  Bolton,  unlike  the  generality  of  people  wno  ask 
'  advice,  took  this  counsel,  the  wisdom  of  which  was  satisfactorily 
manifested  by  the  steadfast  hold  which  she  obtained  upon  public 
favour  to  the  end  of  her  dramatic  career ;  while  the  management 
had  reason  to  feel  its  injustice,  as  Miss  Bolton  rapidly  became  of  real 
importance  to  its  interests,  not  only  as  an  operatic  performer,  but  by 
occasionally  supporting  (elevating)  such  characters  in  comedy  as 
Lady  Grace  in  "The  Provoked  Husband,"  and  others  of  a  similar 
description,  the  impersonation  of  which  peculiarly  suited  her  delicate 
figure,  lady-like  deportment,  and  gentle  cast  of  countenance,  which 
had  in  it  an  expression  of  candour  and  innocency  truly  engaging. 

The  greatest,  as  it  proved  the  most  memorable,  of  her  later  pro- 
fessional triumphs  was  achieved  in  the  character  oi  Ariel,  in  "The 
Tempest,"  to  which  her  natural  endowments,  personal  and  vocal, 
combined  to  give  a  superior  charm.  She  was  in  effect  the  "  delicate 
Ariel"  of  Shakspeare,  "Ariel  in  all  his  quality" — an  embodied  piece 
of  poetry  ,*  and  so  thought  one  of  the  distinguished  suecUtors,  whom 
the  gods  had  made  poetical,  and  whom  "  Destiny,  that  hath  to  in- 
strument this  lower  world  and  what  is  in't,"  had  led  to  be  present 
on  this  revived  representation  of  the  bard  who  was  "  for  all  time." 

*  The  truth  was,  that  the  then  administration  of  Gotrent  Garden  Theatre  (from 
any  share  of  which,  except  stage  direction,  Mr.  Kemble,  although  a  proprietor,  was 
by  express  stipulation  excluded)  was  aware  that,  after  the  novelty  of  a  first  season, 
few  actresses  individual  attraction  would  continue  to  fill  a  theatre,  and  therefore, 
although  Covent  Oarden  had  reaped  a  harvest  from  Mist  Bolton's  suoceu  sufficient 
to  furnish  the  treasury  for  the  time  being,  and  put  the  proprietors  in  pocket  for 
the  rest  of  her  engagement,  even  had  they  fulfilled  it  to  its  purposed  close,  they 
resorted  to  one  of  those  acts  of  ungenerous  policy,  too  freqnent  with  a  short-sighted 
management,  by  speculating  upon  the  necessitous  state  of  the  young  actress's  family, 
which  would  urge  her  to  yield  her  talents  at  little  more  than  half  the  value  they 
had  been  practically  proved  to  possess. 


vmmAt  fmiwmU  wm  titervT  ;*  he  admired  the 
:  W  hii  rvCaed  tMie,  MMUgtit  oat  whatever  was 
hia  janUap's  int  tiA  on  this  oocasum  to  '*  The 
MwwifiJIi  iBpreMed  hj  the  modest  gracefulness 
^fcc;  a^HB  aad again  he  repeated  his  visits,  when 
sad.  md  sdB  sb  everj  repedtioD  found  **  mar- 
*  at  her  nwcf  who  performed  her  spiriting  to 
L  a«tr  chst^  oi  &iaa'#  "  AiOirr  bj  her  interesting 
■a  noCEs  nrit  engaged  the  heart  of  her  future 
lioB^  rrveted  the  aiecdons  of  Lord  Thnrlow^ 

KT  igmeaan  of  tk»  nnl>V to  oar  interesting 

r  ■nanpriihid  andHws  of  -  The  Rejected  Ad- 
.  3r  a  fm^mim^  aeries,  the  lines  quoted  at  the  hesd 
r :  btt  tke  BiUe  Wrer,  to  whom  thej  pointed, 
■■i«rm|  anggotBani;  his  hoDoarafale  feelings 
r«BA^  kai  *^tafted  with  better  knowledf^ 
i  nun.  11  Wve.*  thua  to  aDow  him  to  haihour  a 
JMeher  canjd  aanfid  wwadrrations  find  entrance 
afaomBflL  wUeh  had  not  to  kam  that 


I  in  IGss  fictem's  fife,  she  had 

dbepriae  they  aanght;  die  heart 
fee  aacret  look  of  her  cya  was  his," 
i  when  dadaxwd,  ahhangh  Ae  had 
appesr  thai  die  oanld  nuoi^l  be 


1:  uilk«wed.  that  hmng  first  taken  leave  of  the  green-fwom,  Misi 
Ballon.  IK  ^e  Ulk  of  November,  J813,  became  the  jerrftd  bride  of 
IttBrd  Tbutiaw.  earrving  into  a  higher  sphere  the  afectionate  good 
vidiesofal&asewliomshehad  left  to  fret  and  stmt  <Aar  hoar  upon 
theM|!e. 

Widi  sasmage— except  upon  the  stage— the  interest  of  fife's  drsma 
^acs  wt  sKcesaarflj  end;  but  the  habiu  of  Lord  and  Ladv  Thurlow 
pm<  sa  wiicljr  retired  and  so  amiably  domesdc,  that  licue  lemains 
sn  Ktee,  hot  what  the  Peerage  has  registered.  It  vrill  ^cfe  be 
Mm  that  the  wedded  happiness  of  this  noble  pair  was  increased  by 
air  harth  of  three  sons  (all  of  whom  sdll  Uve),  namely 

Klward  Thomas  Howel  Thurlow,  the  present  Lord,  bom  Novem- 

|iie»  1814.    A  nobleman  who  adds  grace  to  his  dtle  by  superior  af« 

t^iaaenti;— Thomas  Hugh,  bom  May,  1816,— and  John  £dmnnd, 

ham  •^u}y»  1817;  both  in  the  army. 

Ifin  Bolton  had,  as  we  have  said,  a  delicate  figure ;  ahe  was  tall 

•  His  Lordship  had  imbllihed  a  volume  of  poemi. 

fSa  called  by  her  admlren,  from  the  celebrity  she  acquired  by  her  perfnnnaoce 
^9aif^  heroine,  and  in  double  alluaion  to  the  ooincidenoet  of  christian  and  sir- 

}  Bdward  Howel  Thurlow,  the  second  Baron,  bom  10th  of  June,  1781,  sue- 
^Mlii  Us  nnele,  Lord  Chancellor  Thurlow  (tlie  first  Baron),  on  the  12th  ot  Sep- 

Smith. 


I   AM   NOT  ALWAYS   HAPPY.  256 

and  slender,  her  complexion  blonde,  with  *'  locks  of  gentle  lustre." 
From  her  earliest  years,  her  fair  cheek  exhibited  a  fitful  hectic  upon 
occasions  of  excitement,  which  gave  indication  to  those  who  rightlj 
interpreted  it,  of  a  consumptive  tendency  in  her  constitution ;  this 
incipient  disease  in  after  years  manifested  itself  by  more  decisive 
symptoms,  gradually  and  visibly  preying  upon  her  fragile  frame, 
and  sapping  her  vital  powers.  After  the  death  of  Lord  Thurlow,* 
on  whom  it  would  seem  "  her  life  was  grafted,**  alarming  effects 
were  elicited,  and  her  malady  found  a  fiital  termination  in  the  fol- 
lowing year.t 

Thus  was  her  family  and  the  world  deprived  of  one  of  the  most 
amiable  of  human  beings, — leaving  by  her  fair  example  an  additional 
proof  that  an  unblemished  fame  is  not,  as  some  pretend,  incompatible 
with  a  theatrical  life. 

Lord  and  Lady  Thurlow  may  be  said  to  have  died  at  an  age  when 
life  and  intellect  are  generally  in  full  vigour ;  yet  not  untimefy  was 
their  death,  if  we  consider  the  numerous  ills  that  extended  life  is 
heir  to. 

**  Happy  are  they  who  die  in  youth,  when  their  renown  is  heard ; 
their  memory  will  be  honoured,  the  young  tear  shall  falL  But  the 
aged  wither  away  by  degrees;  the  fame  of  their  youth,  while  yei 
they  Uve,  is  all  forgot ;  the  stone  of  their  fame  is  placed  without  a  tear." 

HaPPT   abb   THBT   who   DIB   IN   YOUTH ! 

•  Which  took  place  on  the  4th  of  June,  1829. 

t  Ldidy  Thurlow  expired  on  the  28th  of  September,  1830. 


I  AM  NOT  ALWAYS  HAPPY. 

I  AM.  not  alwayii  happy, — no  !  I  am  not  always  happy, — ^no  I 

My  heart  is 'often  sad.  For  every  fragile  thing 

And  chides  the  smile  upon  my  brow,  I  trusted  to  in  former  days. 

When  others  think  me  glad  !  And  where  my  hopes  would  ding. 

It  may  be  that  I  join  the  Uiugh,  Hath  droopM,  and  wither*d  fast  away; 

And  share  the  merry  jest ;  While  ev'ry  fallen  leaf, 

For  why  o*enhadow  with  a  frown  EmbalmM  in  unforgetting  lore, 

The  yet  unstricken  breast  ?  Is  consecrate  to  grief ! 

I  am  not  always  happy, — no !  I  am  not  always  happy, — no  1 

Time  was  when  mirth  could  win  The  summer  skies  may  shine, 

My  vw^rj  feeling  into  song.  And  bless  in  glory  other  hearts  ; 

For  ail  was  bright  within.  But  winter  reigns  in  mine  ! 
And  life,  without  one  dark'ning  shade,      For  cheerless  is  the  hearth,  when  those 

App6ar*d  a  heav*n  of  bliss  ;  Who  cluster'd  round  are  gone  ; 

But  I  have  learnt  to  dream  of  lands  And,  beautiful  though  all  may  seem. 

More  sorrowleis  than  this.  I  feel  myself  alone ! 


A    PRKSS-GANC;    HERO. 


257 


exposure  had  deeply  bronzed ;  and,  perched  on  the  top  of  his  head, 
he  wore  a  small  glazed  bat,  round  which  was  coiled  a  piece  of 
crape. 

A  tew  moments'  conversation  aasored  me  I  had  stumbled  against 
one  of  England's  old  defenders,  and  I  most  unhesitatingly  assert  it 
to  be  an  impossibility  to  pass  an  hoyr  in  the  company  of  one  of 
these  old  seamen  without  talking  of  the  seaj^-the  old  war?, — and 
the  brave  fighta  in  which  they  bore  away  the  palm  from  all  nations. 
These  ancient  mariners  of  the  Nelson  school  are  passing  fast  aw^ay 
from  the  earth,  and  when  w^e  accidentally  cross  the  path  of  one  of 
them,  we  linger  roimd  him  and  listen  to  his  tales  of  desperate 
bravery,  yard-arm  and  yard-arm  with  Spanish  Dons  and  blustering 
Frenchmen,  and  wonder  if  the  exigencies  of  any  future  w^ar  wiS 
rouse  up  a  simil?ir  race  of  men  to  emulate  their  bold  example. 

On  our  way  to  a  place  of  shelter,  he  rapidly  sketched  out  his  life's 
history,  first  premising  that  an  hour  previous  to  our  meeting  he 
bad  been  the  sole  mourner  of  a  cherished  friend;  the  last  link  that 
bound  him  to  earth  had  that  morning  been  buried  in  a  neighbour- 
ing village  churchyard,  and  from  whose  funeral  he  was  returning 
to  his  lonely  home  on  the  sea-beacbj  an  hour's  walk  from  our  place 
of  meeting. 

Historically  speaking,  it  may  be  said  of  some  persons  that  they 
arc  born  men^  namely,  such  whose  birth  and  youth  we  have  no 
account  of,  and  accordingly,  we  must  be  content  to  find  the  veteran 
fully  grown,  and  just  returned  from  an  eastern  voyage,  having 
escaped  the  dangers  of  climate,  the  perils  of  the  sea,  and  the  vigi- 
lance of  the  enemy's  cruisers,  to  be  kidnapped  by  those  of  his  own 
country. 

England  was  at  that  time  blockading  the  whole  of  France,  and 
to  put  a  girdle  of  men-of-w^ar  round  her  extensive  coast,  required 
more  seamen  than  could  be  raised  by  ordinary  means;  consequently, 
a  hot  press,  with  all  its  tyranny,  w^as  raging,  and  the  homeward- 
bound  mariner  found  it  impossible  to  escape  from  this  torrid  zone  of 
persecution. 

There  is  no  necessity  to  dwell  upon  the  particulars  of  the  violence 
and  the  wrong  inflicted  upon  him  ;  it  is  enough  to  say,  he  was  forced 
into  a  frigate  with  many  others^  their  crime  consisting  in  being  young 
and  hardy.  PerniisJiion  to  land  upon  their  native  soil  w^as  denied 
them  after  their  protracted  voyage,  nor  were  they  permitted  to  com* 
municate  with  their  relations:  in  vain  they  urged  the  hardship  of 
their  case,  a  deaf  ear  was  turned  to  their  complaints, — the  neces- 
sities of  the  times  were  urged  as  the  plea  in  support  of  the  tyranny, 
and  backed  by  the  press- warrant,  were  too  powerful  to  be  resisted  ; 
and  as  the  frigate  was  ready  for  sea,  further  remongtrance  was  ren- 
dered useless,  for  they  were  soon  standing  down  Channel,  bound  for 
the  I^Iediterranean* 

**  It  was  surprising,"  continued  the  old  man,  "what  may  be  clone 
by  example.  Many  of  the  pressed  men  growled  very  much  at  first, 
but  they  were  soon  either  flogged  or  starved  into  submission,  and 
finding  that  resistance  only  increased  their  troubles,  in  the  course  of 
time  they  appeared  reconciled  to  their  situation,  and  insensibly  fell 
into  the  routine  of  the  frigate's  duty:  the  new  hands  were  improved 
in  all  warlike  exerciges^ — art  doubling  their  strength  by  teaching 
them  the  use  of  it;  so  that  by  the  time  we  arrived  in   the   Medi* 

VOL,    XVII I.  T 


ships  which  were 
caused  by 

r  «ii  ^^Bsm  wsi  cDicfad  hid  tke  SwsQow,  wbere  we  propose 


Mteftl 


i«rat] 


L  df  7^  guns,  mud  the  Cura^^oa 
/,  wlioi  the  Swallow,  owing  to  the 
_  Icsi  watsr»  was  oedcred  by  signal  to 
tbe  FVcBcb  coMt  to  recaomiitTe.  The  news  flew 
fike  wOcUbi^  and  w«s  obeyed  with  alacritj.  Any 
wilk  iifcaUBfr  tlkst  btolce  'the  doll  monotony  of  a 
%oo^  in  the  t]:;eertainty  of  what  \ 
spbi^  into  the  Frenchman's  ports* 
I ;  "  fiir  of  course,"  quaintly  re- 
■estiaB  IsmI  not  been  so  far  neg- 
i  «•  be  ignflsant  of  dtm  fact,  that  Frenchmen  were 
^  said  dwt  it  was  our  doty  to  destroy  them  by 

tktj  iKscgyefted  what  afterwards  proved 

J  fourteen  gans — ^twenty-four- 

» a  laip  s^ooDer,  and  a  9>hoal  of  gun-bciats  con^ 

skaf  vuriooa  atsea  laden  with  warlike  stores  for 

Mcn  the  Eusfish  squadron,  had  run  under  the 

red. 


^tobei 


re  all  night,  watching  the  mo  ve- 
al day-break  perceived  they  were 
die  brig,  schooner,  and  gun -boats,  ob- 
1  by  the  British  fleet,   stood  out  to  sea, 
force,  and  favoured  by  a  leading 
,  howerer^  stood  her  ground  against  the 
to  the  aafeontshment  of  her  opponents,  who, 
i  to  Goniprebewi  the  cool  audacity  of  the   English 
;  battle  to  such  a  superior  force,  contented  themselves 
laiinf  auowy  manoeuvres,  after  which  they  hauled  their  wind, 
and  luadr  aaQ  for  the  iieighbounng  bay  of  Frejua. 

The  BwaOow'a  crew,  seeing  the  Frenchmen  decline  the  combat^ 
had  ^nt  hopes  of  bringing  on  an  action,  and  were  pref^aring  to  join 
the  America  and  Cura^oa  in  the  ofiing,  when  about  noon  the  brecjie 
freshening,  the  French  brig,  schooner,  and  the  shoal  of  gun*boata'| 
once  more  stood  out  to  sea  upon  the  starboard  tack. 

It  appeared  that  in  the  harbour  of  Frejus  they  had  received  a  j 
number  of  volunteers  and  a  detachment  of  soldiers  on  board  their  \ 
different  vessels^  and,  thus  strengthened,  had  plucked  up  courage, J 
once  more  determined  to  capture  the  English  sloop. 

Against  these  accumulated  odda,  the  British  tars  refused  to  fly,  or 
even  attempt  an  escape;  but»  standing  in  on  the  larboard  tack,  they 
advanced  to  meet  their  numerous  opponents,  sounding  all  the  way, 
the  leadsman  calling  out  without  the  least  sliake  in  his  voice» 
although  the  enemy  numbered  at  least  four  to  one.  Finding  that 
they  neared  the  leading  French  vessel  fast,  and  also  that  they  could 
weather  her,  the  Swallow  closed,  and*  in  passing,  gave  and  received 
a  broadside :  '*  we  then,"  continued  the  old  man,  '*  wore  dose  under 
the  brig's  stern,  hoping  by  that  mancpuvre  to  keep  her  head  off- 
'ore ;  but  we  found  it  impossible,  as  our  head»braces  were  shot 


A    PRESS-GANG    HERO. 


259 


away  ;  our  opponent  coni?equently  got  round  upon  our  larboard  side, 
and  in  that  position  we  furiously  cannonaded  her  to  leeward." 

In  the  mean  time  the  schooner  was  not  idle  ;  she  had  taken  up  an 
annoying  position  out  of  the  reach  of  the  Swallow's  guiis,  and  it  was 
only  occasionally  they  cotild  hit  her.  **  As  you  may  imagine/*  con- 
tinued the  old  manner,  *'  from  the  size  and  number  of  our  op- 
ponents, we  «iid  not  have  it  all  our  own  way  ;  and  after  sustaining  the 
unequal  fight  for  about  an  hour,  and  repulsing  the  desperate  attempts 
made  by  the  enemy  to  board  us,  we  at  last  were  compelled  to  slacken 
OUT  fire,  after  being  almost  blown  to  pieces. 

**  This  silence  of  our  guns  cheered  up  the  French, — ^and  those  who 
know  anything  about  them^  know  tliat  no  men  fight  a  winning 
battle  better  ;  but  if  they  meet  with  a  determined  check,  or  the  day 
appears  to  go  against  them,  off  they  go,  like  butter  on  the  coast  of 
Guinea  :  they  are  all  noise  and  nonsense,  or  else  they  despair  and  die. 

•*  Our  fire  having  slackened^  they  made  sure  we  were  beaten^  and 
steering  close  alongside,  hailed  us  to  surrender  ;  to  which  unusual 
summons  we  answered  with  a  hearty  cheer  and  a  broadside,  given 
as  well  as  our  crippled  state  would  permit;  and  exasperatefl  at  our 
obstinate  defence,  they  threatened  to  blow  us  out  of  the  water;  but" 
continued  the  old  seaman,  *'the  worst  and  coldest  fur-coat  is  that 
which  is  to  be  made  of  a  bear's  skin  which  has  yet  to  be  killed/* 

Nevertheless  the  Swallow's  position  was  very  critical;  surrounded 
by  her  numerous  foes,  she  was  sustaining  a  murderous  cannonade 
from  every  direction  ;  and  about  this  period  of  the  action  a  most  affect* 
ing  incident  occurred,  forcibly  iUustniting  the  horrors  of  a  naval  fight. 

On  board  the  Swallow  there  was  a  seaman  of  the  name  of 
Phelan  ;  he  was  captain  of  the  forecastle,  foremost  in  every  danger, 
whether  in  the  battle  or  the  breeze,  and  for  his  known  courage  and 
good  conduct  was  an  universal  favourite  with  his  superiors.  His 
wife  was  the  counterpart  of  himself,  and,  as  often  happens  in  ships 
of  watt  was  allowed  to  live  on  board  w  ith  him.  She  w  as  stationed 
with  some  other  women,  as  is  usual  in  time  of  battle^  to  assist  the 
aurgeonin  the  care  of  the  wounded. 

From  the  close  manner  in  which  the  Swallow  had  engaged  the 
enemy,  yard-arm  to  yard- arm,  the  wounded  men  were  brought  be* 
low  very  fast,  and  with  the  rest  a  messmate  of  her  husband's,  and 
consequently  her  own,  was  placed  under  her  care.  He  had  received 
a  musKet-ball  in  his  side,  and  she  used  her  exertions  to  console  the 
wounded  sailor,  who  was  in  great  agonies,  and  nearly  breathing  his 
Ust,  when  by  some  chance  she  heard  that  her  husband  lay  w  ounded 
and  bleeding  on  deck* 

As  before  stated,  it  was  at  this  period  of  the  combat  that  the 
8  wallow 'a  guns  became  partially  silenced,  owing  to  her  great  loss  of 
men ;  and  the  Frenchmen's  energies  being  doybled  thereby,  they 
poured  in  their  langrage,  grape,  and  canister,  and  in  the  midst  of 
this  iron  rain,  the  poor  woman,  already  overpowered  by  anxiety, 
could  not  be  restrained,  but  rushed  instantly  on  deck^  and  received 
the  wounded  tar  in  her  arms, 

'*  Courage,  Jack !"  ahe  cried,  "all  will  yet  be  well ;  where  are  you 
hurt }  " 

The  poor  fellow  faintly  raised  his  head  to  kiss  her,  when  she 
burat  into  a  flood  of  tears,  impelled  thereto  by  the  mangled  and 
helpleas  ttate  of  her  husband;   but  rallying  again,  her  consoling 


PRESS-OANO 


260 


voice  bade  him  be  of  gootl  heart  and  cheer  up,  and  she  would  ai 
him  down  below,  and  plnce  him  under  the  surgeon's  care. 
words  bad  barely  left  her  fjitthful  bps,  when  an  ill-directed  shot  tore 
her  head  from  her  body.  The  wounded  tar,  who  w.^s  closely  wrapped 
in  her  ariiis,  opened  1*1%  eyes  once  more,  gazed  wildly  for  an  instant 
upon  his  headless  wife,  and  in  that  short  glance  drank  in  sufliclent 
horror  to  make  him  close  them  again  for  ever. 

What  rendered  the  circumstance  doubly  affecting  w&§,  the  poor 
woman  bad  only  three  weeks  before  been  delivered  of  a  fine  boy, 
who  was  in  a  moment  deprived  of  a  father  and  a  mother. 

'^  By  this  time,"  resumed  the  old  mariner/*  the  alfair  was  getting 
very  serious,  and  our  success,  like  the  sea  on  which  we  fouffht, 
ebbed  and  flowed ;  and,  owing  to  the  short  distance  we  were  from 
the  land,  which  was  bristling  with  batteries,  our  Captain  thought  it 
advisable  to  haul  off  from  the  unequal  fight,  and  join  tbi?  Commodore 
in  the  offinjr^;  but  in  attempting  to  put  this  plan  into  operation,  the 
French  brig  made  a  bold  dash  to  fling  her  troops  on  board  of  us, 
but  after  a  hard  struggle  they  were  driven  back^  and  b^ing  baffled 
in  the  attempt,  they  gave  up  the  contest  as  hopeless,  and  standing 
away  under  all  her  canvas,  she,  as  well  as  the  schooner  and  the  gun- 
boats i  were  soon  at  anchor  in  the  Bay  of  Gruinard,  quite  contented 
with  the  mauling  they  had  given  us. 

As  soon  as  the  action  subsided,  and  the  passions  of  the  sailors 
cooled  down,  nature  resumed  her  course,  and  the  events  just  nar- 
rated left  no  impression  on  the  gently  heaving  sea.  A  thick  heavy 
smoke  was  packed  about  the  crippled  sloop,  hanging  round  her  in 
sombre  masses,  like  a  huge  pall  ;  in  other  respects,  all  was  quiet  and 
serene  as  a  lovely  summer's  day,  and  the  sunny  hours  pursued  their 
everlasting  course  in  the  quiet  order  prescribetl  by  the  powerful  will 
that  set  them  in  motion.  A  groan,  or  a  smothered  shriek,  at  inter- 
vals issued  from  the  deep  recesses  of  the  Swallow's  decks,  as  some 
wounded  or  dying  mariner  writhed  in  his  agony,  affording  fearful 
evidence  of  the  violence  with  which  man  had  madly  contested  with 
his  fellow* man. 

The  feelings  of  the  Swallow's  crew  needed  no  unnecessary  excite- 
ment to  stimulate  them  ;  they  soon  became  interested  for  poor 
Tommy,  for  so  was  the  child  of  Phelan  called.  Many  said  and  all 
feared  he  must  die:  they  all  agreed  he  should  have  a  hundred  fa- 
thers ;  but  at  sea  what  could  be  a  substitute  for  a  nurse  and  a  mo- 
ther ?  But  the  ready  ingenuity  of  the  tars  was  shown  on  this  occa^ 
sion  in  a  manner  as  remarkable  lor  its  humanity  as  its  novelty. 

One  of  them  recollected  there  was  a  Maltese  goat  on  board,  be- 
longing to  the  officers,  which  gave  an  abundance  of  milk ;  and,  for 
want  of  a  better  nurse,  she  w^as  resorted  to  for  the  purpose  of  suck- 
ling the  poor  child,  who,  singular  enough,  thrived  well  upon  his 
new  mother  ;  and  so  tractable  did  his  nurse  become,  that  when  one 
of  Tommy's  hundred  fathers  brought  him  to  be  suckled  by  her»  slie 
would  lie  down  and  yield  her  milk  to  him  immediately. 

The  following  day,  poor  Phelan  and  his  wife  were  sewed  up  in 
one  hammock,  and  it  is  needless  to  say,  as  the  sea  received  them, 
were  buried  in  one  grave. 

Strife  followed  strife  rapidly  at  this  period  of  the  war ;  and  soon 
after  the  affuir  of  the  Swallow  and  her  numerous  foes,  the  old  ma- 
riner was  tl rafted  into  the  Minstrel  of  twenty  guns^  and  while  sail- 


I 


A    PRESS-GANG    HERO. 


S61 


ing  in  company  with  the  Philomel  of  eighteen  guna  surprised  three 
French  privateers ;  but  as  they  had  the  small  port  oi*  Blendom  near 
Alicant  under  their  lea,  they  ran  in  there,  and  took  shelter  under 
the  guns  of  the  fort. 

The  British  ships,  althouij^h  baffled  and  disappointed  at  the  escape 
of  the  French  privateers,  did  not  abandon  the  hope  of  ultimately 
taking  possession  of  them  ;  and  standing  olf  and  on  upon  an  easy 
bowline  across  the  mouth  of  the  port,  they  kept  a  strict  look  out 
upon  the  motions  of  the  enemy.  A  strong  castle,  mounting  twenty- 
four  guns,  commanded  the  entrance  to  the  harbour,  and  presented 
an  obstacle  too  difficult  for  their  means  to  surmount ;  and  as  an  ad- 
ditional security  against  their  attacks,  the  Frenchmen  had  hauled 
upon  the  beach  two  of  the  privateers,  and  formed  a  battery  with 
six  of  the  guns,  which  battery  was  manned  with  their  united  crews, 
amounting  to  eighty  men,  chiefly  Genoese. 

**  You  see/'  resumed  the  old  mariner,  *'  this  was  our  position  : 
high  and  dry  upon  the  beach  lay  two  out  of  three  of  the  privateers, 
protected  by  the  castle  and  the  battery  formed  of  their  own  guns. 
In  the  offlng  the  Minstrel  and  the  Philomel  were  prowling  up  and 
down  like  a  couple  of  gloomy-looking  giants,  baffled  of  their  prey, 
and  ready  to  seiase  anything  that  should  leave  the  port ;  while  at 
night  a  boat  well  manned  and  armed  was  sent  close  in  shore  from 
one  or  the  other  of  the  ships,  to  keep  a  closer  watch  under  cover  of 
the  darkness. 

"  This  sort  of  duty  had  been  followed  some  daySj  the  ships  watch- 
ing by  day  and  the  boat  at  night,  and  the  Frenchmen  grinning  at  us 
in  their  fancied  security^  neither  party  knowing  which  would  tire 
out  first ;  but  of  course  the  Frenchmen  would  have  remained  on  the 
beach  till  they  bleached  their  bones  there,  before  they  would  have 
ventured  to  sea  in  the  teeth  of  the  English  men-of-war. 

"As  }'Ou  may  imagine,  the  duty  in  the  boat  at  night  was  not 
very  pleasant ;  the  men  wished  it  was  over ;  in  short,  all  liands 
were  getting  tired  of  the  harassing,  monotonous  work,  and  any 
scheme  likely  to  put  an  end  to  it  was  lijjtened  to  with  pleasure;  for 
we  all  felt  assured,  unless  some  attempt  was  made  on  our  parts  to 
carry  the  privateers,  the  business  was  likely  to  be  of  long  dura- 
tion. 

•*  At  length  it  came  to  the  turn  of  a  young  midshipman  to  take 
command  of  the  boat  which  was  to  row  night-guard  near  the  shore; 
he  was  one  of  those  hot  spirits  who  quickly  hatch  words  into  blows, 
and  shoving  off  from  the  Minstrel,  away  he  went  with  his  boat's 
crew,  consisting  of  seven  men,  one  of  whom  was  myself,"  quietly 
remarked  the  veteran. 

*'  It  was  a  lovely  night ;  the  sea  was  as  smooth  as  grease,  and 
glistened  like  a  widow's  eye  where  in  patches  it  was  partially  illu- 
minated by  a  glimmer  from  the  moon,  as  she  broke  through  the 
openings  in  the  clouds;  not  a  sound  broke  the  hushed  silence  which 
everywhere  reigned  around,  save  the  measured  strokes  of  the  oars 
of  our  boat  as  she  stole  along  the  water  to  her  appointed  post. 

*' After  rowing  guard  for  some  time,  we  thought  we  heard  in  the 
distance  the  sound  of  oars,  coming  in  a  direction  from  the  land;  and 
as  that  was  somewhat  an  unusual  circumstance,  we  lay  prepared 
and  armed  to  meet  the  intruder.  The  !*ouuds  soon  became  more 
distinct,  and  as  the  object  ajiproached,  it  turned  out  to  be  a  Spanish 


^^  A   PBE8B  GA9G  HEBO. 


ttheSpamaid  tliat  die  bitterj  on  the  1 

I  •nlr  tkirtf  bcb,  the  rert  of  the  priFciecri'  ctrvs  hav- 

■p  t^BT  qsarten  in  tiK  town,  deeming  tfe  battery  soffi* 

:  with  tjbat  imber  to  reast  an j  attack  we  oonld  make. 

tint  tke  caMle  was  mannrH  with  twcn^  men, 

aae  of  a  aorpriae,  woold  be  available ;  and  after 

na  the  Freodb  bad  retired  from  tbe  qoarter,  we 

I  to  depart  witfaont  faitber  molritaticnL* 

'  Amd  &d  jon  due  to  attack  theae  odds  witb  jonr  boalTa  oew  of 

en  iBcn  r*  I  vcBtnred  to  rcaaark. 

'  Wjik  a  orrir,*  said  the  end  manner,  his  qoiet  manner  sCrongI j 

'bc  wittk  tfe  6m7Dg  actaon  he  was  rdaung.  "  As  soon  as  the 

boat  lA  ns  asad  wm  £bHt  ont  of  sight,  we  held  a  coandl  of 

w«  Sd  agree  to  allrMH<  the  battcfj  on  the  beadi  by  sur- 

am,  imd  H  inriMi^i'.  csdwr  to  canr  off  the  privateerB  or  bum 

■Bm^  ana  ao  cnc  toe  aaac  oaCr. 

"^  Wc^  kaijBC  «mK  remired  npon  tlie  attad,  we  did  not  allow 
■r  naoHBCaimf  tsae  ta  oaok.  bat  fet  aboot  patting  oar  plan  in  exe- 
xciaK  ^■BBfim&y :  aad  irf^i^g  opon  the  tried  ooorage  and  steadi- 
Km  ic  ar  bai^s  <xrw.  o«r  dain^  T^"^"^  midshipman,  about  10 
i^ick  jc  JuiiL  rat  the  haot  adhorv.  and  landed  oor  little  band  at  a 
>  t»  the  wetfward  of  tbe  to  wn. 
yon  ^e  beadi,  we  poshed  on  eagerly,  but  we 
^  .^  *^  li  amliiif,  bj  a  challenge  from  a  French 
Vs  SMtCUETwe  were  ^irlj  trapped,  and  that  the  Spaniard 
^^itt  i».  Sue  :^prcsnne  of  mind  of  the  midshipman  saved 
IV  mQDdk  ^i^Qumi  Q»  ^e  chaikngr,  in  Spanish,  that  we  were 
(&-  ^vffUT'nn^  "it  ^ttt  town.  Now  tf*  the  Fi-ench  soldier  had  ad- 
a  04W7  w^  Juthei  tow  aids  as,  we  should  have  been  dis- 
mc  12^  wiiian  with  which  the  answer  was  given  was  so 
^siac  j:  ^v^:b^  a*  jospidon ;  moreover,  it  was  an  answer 
?-»»*'cvtc  ahikwc  ncrr  hoar  of  his  watch,  as  the  peasantry 
ABTCj  iwin^  tr  «ai  froL  fiot  perhaps  the  very  last  event 
tSlcey  11  enxf-r^hW  miiw:  a:  tlhtf  moment  was  the  very  one  actually 
Mir  it  ts  lw«v^r  possible  to  imagine  an  act  of  greater 
r.  mc-R  jmd  a  Tooiig  stripBng  of  a  midshipman 
a  KaaerT  aaoonting  six  guns,  and  manned  by  at 
C>or  rudmess,  therefore,  may  be  said,  up  to  this 
to  hare  been  the  cum  of  oar  safety ;  and  so,  favoured  by 
i  circttmstaDces  and  the  indistinct  light  of  the  night,  we  were 
mU  further  hindiaikce  allowed  to  advance. 
'Keeping  the  sea-shore  in  Tiew,  we  proceeded  cautiously  to  the 
fecfj,  and  arrived  there  in  about  an  hour ;  and  reconnoitring  for 
m§KW  minutes,  we  found  that  the  Spaniard  had  told  the  truth.  It 
i«aa  evident  the  crews  of  the  privateers  fancied  themselves  secure 
Aeai  barm,  and  hugging  this  belief,  became  careless,  as  many  points 
ef  the  betlery  wereleft  undefended ;  and,  after  adjusting  our  arms 
ftr  the  attack,  we  unexpectedly  rushed  upon  them  from  different 
^  ~"'oilf,  and  surprised  by  the  suddenness  of  our  assault,  and  ig- 
of  our  number^  they  soon  left  the  battery  in  our  posses- 


A    PHE88-GANO    HERO. 


263 


"  We  were  aUowed  to  retain  it  bat  a  ahort  time  ;  for  the  noiae  of 
our  firing  drew  down  upon  us  the  attention  of  a  party  of  two 
hundred  French  soldiers^  who  soon  surrounded  U9,  but  as  they  hiid 
no  information  of  our  numbers,  except  the  imperfect  report  ot*  the 
runaway  garrison,  they  acted  with  a  caution  in  their  approaches 
Uiat  raised  a  smile  upon  the  face  of  the  young  midsbipmanj  who 
was  giving  his  orders  to  repel  them. 

*'  However,  the  French  soldiers  soon  set  upon  us,  and  their  over- 
whelming numbers  gave  them  great  advantage;  we  were  but  few 
opposed  to  many — faint  to  fresh,  and  of  course  unable  to  make  any 
forcible  resistance;  but  our  wills  were  good,  and  so  our  arms  being 
too  weak  for  our  hearts,  we  may  be  said  to  have  been  subdued  ra- 
ther than  conquered.  After  holding  the  battery  again i»t  the  troops 
for  an  hour,  it  was  not  until  one  of  our  party  was  killed,  the  gallant 
midshipman  shot  through  the  eye,  and  all  our  ammunition  expended, 
that  the  French  were  able  to  put  a  foot  within  the  outworks ;  but 
the  moment  our  firing  ceased,  they  rushed  upon  us  with  their  bayo- 
net«,  and  being  too  weak  to  stanct  a  hand-to-hand  %ht  against  such 
numbers,  we  were  obliged,  af^er  the  midshipman  had  been  stabbed 
in  seventeen  places,  and  every  man  severely  woynded,  to  give  up 
possession  of  the  battery, 

"As  soon  as  the  commander  of  the  soldiers  found  he  had  been 
held  at  bay  for  upwards  of  an  hour  by  seven  men  and  a  boy^  it 
would  have  been  difficult  to  detect  whether  he  was  more  pleased 
thmn  vexed — for  vexed  he  certainly  was  —  at  the  trouble  we  had 
given  him  ;  but  he  w«s  a  man  of  a  generous,  noble  disposition,  and 
our  conduct  soon  called  from  him  the  most  unbounded  praise,  and 
by  his  orders  the  greatest  care  was  bhown  to  the  wounded,  assiisting 
with  his  own  hands  to  relieve  our  sufferings  ;  and  on  the  following 
morning  he  made  his  reports  to  General  Goudin,  the  Frencli  officer 
who  held  the  command  in  that  quarter,  and  from  him,  as  well  as  all 
the  officers  under  him,  we  received  the  same  benevolent  treatment; 
and,  not  content  with  mere  words,  but  wishing  to  show  the  high 
esteem  in  which  he  held  our  conduct,  he  sent  a  flag  of  truce  to  Cap- 
tain Peyton  of  the  Minstrel,  inviting  him  to  visit  him  on  shore,  and 
receive  in  person  the  congratulations  of  himself  and  the  other  French 
officers,  on  having  such  men  under  his  command." 

**  And  did  your  Captain  accept  the  courtesy  of  the  gallant  French- 
man ?''  I  asked. 

*'  He  did,"  replied  the  old  man  ;  '*  on  the  following  day  he  dined 
with  General  Goudin  and  all  his  officers,  and  was  received  on  land- 
ing with  full  military  honours;  and  after  the  dinner  the  General 
gave  him  back  his  midshipman,  and  six  out  of  his  seven  men, 
making  a  speech  fitting  for  the  occasion*  We  were  then  carried  by 
French  troops  in  our  wounded  state  through  lines  of  French  sol- 
diers down  to  the  boat  on  the  beach,  the  soldiers  presenting  arms  in 
honour  to  us  as  we  passed  ;  and  thus,  I  may  say/'  said  the  old  tar^ 
with  some  tinge  of  bitterness  in  his  voice,  "  1  received  more  sympa- 
thy and  honourable  treatment  from  the  hands  of  the  enemy  than  1 
did  from  my  country,  —  for,  as  soon  as  my  wounds  were  healed  I 
was  discharged  as  unfit  for  farther  duty/' 

The  remnant  of  the  old  mariner's  tale  is  soon  told  ;  it  consisted  of 
one  unvarying  struggle  with  poverty.  We  have  seen  his  country 
cUim  his  services  when  he  was  young  and  active^  and  that  he  nobly 


264 


A    PRESS-GANG    HERO, 


sustained  the  part  assign ed  to  him,  in  whose  (service  he  becomes  a 
broken  man,  deprived  of  the  inherittince  he  had  received  from  God 
—health  and  strength.  With  these  helpmates  he  might  have  toiled 
his  way  to  comfort  in  his  declining  days  ;  but  at  the  peace  he  was 
thrust  out  upon  the  world  with  a  stung  heart  and  disabled  body,  to 
live  or  die  as  he  best  could,  the  paltry  pittance  which  in  its  magna- 
nimity  the  country  gave  him  being  about  equivalent  to  a  pauper's 
dole ;  yet,  with  a  stout  heart  he  fought  against  the  ills  of  neglect 
and  poverty,  tliat  proved  him  no  common  hero. 

The  war  ended,  he  had  to  begin  the  world  anew,  to  form  new 
preferences,  and,  with  blighted  prospects*  he  became  a  fisherman  in  I 
the  neighbourhood  of  the  place  of  our  meeting.  In  this  way  he  sup- 
ported himself  and  the  child  of  poor  Fhelan,  who  in  its  helplessness 
found  a  father  in  the  old  tar.  How  true  it  is,  but  for  the  poor  the 
poor  would  perish  I  With  scarcely  a  crust  of  his  own,  he  taxed  him- 
self with  (inding  nourishment  for  the  child,  to  guard  it  from  want, 
and  to  shield  its  infancy  from  the  unnerving  scrutiny  of  observation  ; 
and  so  it  grew  up  in  strength  and  vigour,  until  in  its  turn  the  child 
became  the  support  of  the  man^  the  sole  prop  of  the  declining  days 
of  the  benevolent  mariner. 

With  varying  success  they  toiled  on  together  in  their  hazardous 
trade,  the  old  man  reaping  the  reward  of  his  humanity  in  the  pro- 
tection given  him  by  his  adopted  son,  whose  strength  betokened  an 
abilityj  and  whose  gratitude  evinced  a  disposition  to  sustain  him  in 
his  declining  days.  Their  gains  were  attained  by  honest  industry, 
and  thougli  small  in  bulk,  were  great  in  blessing,  a  divine  benedic- 
tion being  always  invisibly  breathed  on  pains-ta king  and  lawful  dili* 
gence.  All  went  well  for  a  time,  and  the  latter  days  of  the  oM  sea- 
man, like  unto  Job's,  promised  to  be  happier  than  the  first. 

Hut  fate  had  not  yet  done  with  him  ;  by  one  oi*  those  accidents 
common  to  seafaring  men,  his  adopted  son  was  drowned  while  fish- 
ing, Tliis  last  blow  deprived  him  of  his  last  stay  and  support ;  but 
he  bore  the  loss  meekly,  and  without  complaint.  **  It  is  not  the 
creaking  spoke  in  the  wheel  which  bears  the  greatest  burden,'*  ^aid 
he,  and  his  muffled  sorrow  was  more  affecting  than  the  choicest 
words.  I  felt  that  the  world  had  borne  hard  upon  the  old  man. 
However,  his  lot  is  the  common  lot  of  thoiisiinds ;  for  it  rarely  hap- 
pens that  men  in  command  fall  short  of  their  share  of  honour  and 
rewards.  Where  many  are  compounded  together  in  warlike  under- 
takings, the  leading  figure  makes  ciphers  of  all  the  rest.  Inde- 
pendent of  this  mode  of  classification  there  is  also  a  natural  dignity, 
whereby  one  man  is  ranked  before  another,  another  filed  before 
him.  A  nobility  that  owns  no  herald's  college;  and,  endued  with 
this  spirit,  the  old  mariner  maintained  erected  resolutions,  coundng 
upon  death  as  a  good  bargain,  where  he  could  not  lose,  but  gain,  by 
laying  out  his  life  to  advantage  ;  and  thus  he  put  on  the  bohlest  op- 
pearance  in  the  lowest  declination  of  his  tbrtuties.  Peace  be  with 
him  in  his  dark  hour  1  for  he  suffered  greatly  in  the  defence  of  the 
land. 


A  word  to  the"  Gentlemen  of  England  who  live  at  home  at  ease." 

Vou  catinot  be  ignorant  that   powerful  rivals  are  striving  to  over- 
match you  on  that  clement  you  fondly  call  your  own.     Think  you 


TO    JANET. 


265 


not  there  are  many  more  old  seamen  &\on^  your  coast  who  have 
similar  tales  of  neglect  and  wrong  to  recount  to  younger  mariners  ? 
Know  you  not  there  are  thousands  ;  and  their  warning  voices  per- 
chance has  influenced  them  to  adopt  a  service  in  every  respect  op- 
posed to  your*9,  and  may  affect  the  manning  of  your  ships  at  the 
present  hour.  Let  the  truth  be  told.  Seamen  will  not  enter  the 
navy  ;  they  shirk  it ;  it  takes  months  in  these  times  of  peace,  with  a 
luxury  of  sailors,  to  man  a  ship  of  war.  They  prefer  the  American 
to  the  British  marine ;  and  why  ?  because  the  pay  is  better,  and  the 
service  made  more  palatable.  This  ia  not  a  flattering  exponent  of 
the  spirit  which  your  mariners  bear  towards  the  navy.  Be  wise  in 
time;  and  remember  that  one  decisive  victory  over  a  British  fleet 
would  be  more  destructive  to  you  than  the  loss  of  a  score  of  Water- 
loot  ;  nay,  your  seamen  have  been  so  used  to  victory,  that  a  drawn 
battle,  ship  for  ship,  and  gun  for  gun,  would  be  a  triumph  to  your 
foe,  and  a  defeat  to  you.  You  am  not  afford  to  lower  the  prestige  of 
your  flag ;  if  your  senmen  are  not  invincible,  the  world  must  not 
know  it  There  is  policy  in  making  the  fox*s  skin  piece  out  the 
lion's  hide. 

You  have  lieutenants  sufficient  to  man  a  stout  fleet  of  line>of-batt1e 
ships  on  your  half-pay  list,  and  admirals  and  captains  enough  to 
officer  all  the  navies  in  the  world.  Ships — noble  ships  you  have  in 
profusion  ;  but  seamen — the  muscles  and  bones  to  put  all  these  vast 
resources  in  motion  —  are  not  to  be  found.  The  inference  ia  plain. 
Jack  feels  himself  neglected,  and  seeks  employment  where  he  is 
better  treated.  Be  assured  the  seaman  of  the  last  war  is  an  altered 
man  ;  he  is  changed  with  the  times  ;  the  thoughtless  beings  who 
fought  so  valiantly  for  you  in  the  last  war  will  not  readily  be  found 
again*  The  days  of  frying  watches  and  eating  bank-notes  between 
slices  of  bread  and  butter  are  gone,  and  are  only  remembered  now 
as  so  much^flrw. 

Endeavour  to  make  the  service  popular  by  increased  pay,  and 
comfort  to  the  seaman  ;  let  him  feel  he  is  protected,  and  he  will  pro- 
tect you  ;  he  will  be,  as  he  always  has  been,  the  van  of  your  van- 
guards Be  wise  in  time,  then,  gentlemen  of  England,  or  perad ven- 
ture the  hazards  of  some  future  war  may  make  it  a  difficult  matter 
for  you  to  live  at  home  at  ease. 


TO  JANET, 

ON    aUITTINO    THE    VALE   OT   LLAJTOOLLEN. 

nV    LOtJISA    STUAUT    COSTELLO. 


Wby  «bould  I  linger  here  with  thee. 

And,  day  Uy  dny,  m  idly  fond, 
PATine  by  eacfi  sireum,  benwith  tiich  trcf», 

Unmindful  of  the  world  heyt>iid  ? 
What  life  ih  thia  I  dare  ut  lend, 

A  life  of  sunfthjne  and  deilg^lit,— 
Foi>{«Uliig  woen  that  must  nucoeed. 

And  all  the  future's  glixjuiy  ntghcl 
Tlii»  heart  was  form'd  for  mre  ahme, 

Alihottgh  such   mameuU  woll  might 
f  de&w ; 
Bui  ■!!  the  pletwuri*  t  have  ktiowti 

Um  beea  iu  tuatcbes,  Kucb  m  theee. 


Vet  we,  who  ihns  bo  lately  met. 

Drown   hy  our  nt&rt,  at  onoe  ware 
dimr, 
Though  mine  is  hastening  to  it&  »et, 

And  chine  16  rising  bright  and  dear. 
Why  should  I  lull  diia  sinking  heart, 

And  hid  it  Cffts*  to  dream  of  {^Miin  ? 
*Tis  better  that  I  &houtd  depart, 

Before  it  yield  tu  hope — in  vain. 
Farewell  I — thy  gefiiia  and  thy  song 

SImJ!  dierish'd  in  my  nit^m'ry  be  ; 
Bu  t,  letit  rt^ret  should  laiit  too  lung^ 

I  tttay  not  linger  here  with  thee ! 


266 


GLIMPSES  AND  MYSTERIES. 

WftlTTEN    AND    ILLVSTBATKD    BY    ALFIIKI)    CHOWQUJLL. 
THE  GOOD-NATURED  WOMAN. 


There  is  not  perhaps  on  earth  a  more  simple  woman  tlmn  my 

aunt.  She  is  one  of  those  creatures  who  is  born  without  guile,  and 
^ho  believes  all  the  world  is  good,  and  made  opon  the  square,  like  a 
pack  of  cards,  and  that  the  game  of  life  Js  played  with  all  trumps, 
holding  it  unkind  to  call  any  Jack  a  knave,  and  innocently  reveren- 
cing kings  and  queens  as  so  many  honours.  She  is  single,  and  single- 
hearted,  with  a  snng  little  property,  in  which  anybody  with  an 
ounce  of  brains  might  go  partners,  if  it  w^ere  not  for  her  solicitor, — 
a  house-dog  who  barks  the  wolves  from  her  door.  He,  I  believe,  is 
the  only  one  in  whom  she  has  not  full  faith  ;  but  she  finds  continual 
excuses  for  him,  he  being  in  the  law,  and  forced  to  seize  for  rents, 
arrest  people,  and  do  other  reprehensible  acts. 

Her  good  nature  prompts  her  to  believe  that  every  w^oman  with 
whom  she  is  thrown  into  companionship  is  the  sweetest  of  creatures, 
and  every  man  under  the  same  circumstances,  as  she  expresses  it, 
"a  duck  of  diamonds."  With  the  greatest  stranger  on  the  high  road 
of  life  she  makes  acquaintance  in  a  momentj  by  some  innocent  ma- 
noeuvre, such  as  pointing  out  an  untied  shoe-string  or  boot-lace,  or 
asking  the  way  home  that  she  had  trodden  for  years.  Her  most 
legitimate  way  of  scraping  acquaint«mce  is  through  children  ;  she 
looks  upon  them  as  cherubs,  opening  hearts  locked  up  by  selfishncw 
and  mistrust.  With  what  perseverance  have  I  known  her  walk  be^ 
liiiid  an  iiupracticable  mother^  who  was  positively  repellant  tu  any 


4 


4 


GLIMPSES   AND   MYSTERIES.  267 

familiarity  !  Still  she  would  coo  and  chatter  with  the  infant  who 
hung  smiling  over  her  shoulder^  until,  like  a  Will-o -the-wisp,  it  had 
deluded  her  far  from  her  intended  route. 

Little,  indeed,  is  she  altered  since  the  days  of  my  childhood ;  for 
her  heart  is  so  youngs  that  Time  passes  by  her,  forgetting  either  to 
wrinkle  her  forehead  or  to  take  the  light  from  her  eyes :  they  only 
seek  objects  of  charity,  and  are  blind  to  the  faults  of  her  friends. 

Her  simple-mindedness,  though  charming,  leads  to  many  curious 
contretemps ;  for  she  believes  religiously  that  no  persons  ought  to 
have  anything  to  hide ;  and  that  if  false  appearances,  and  attempting 
things  above  the  means,  were  abandoned,  the  world  would  be  much 
happier  ;  or,  as  she  says,  "  If  people  were  less  fond  of  setting  out 
their  best  tea-things,  there  would  be  more  true  friendship ;"  and  she 
actually  severely  lectured  a  young  couple,  who  were  raan  enough  to 
dazzle  her  with  a  borrowed  silver  tea-pot,  which  she  recognised  as 
the  lawful  property  of  one  of  her  richer  friends. 

A  young  medical  man,  whom,  as  a  child,  she  had  stuffed  with 
cakes,  and  to  whom  she  had  been  a  mother  in  the  hooping-cough, 
and  other  infantine  troubles,  and  who  had  rashly  taken  a  little  wife, 
and  bought  a  less  practice,  was  horror-struck,  at  one  of  her  little 
visits,  to  hear  her  describe  her  conversation  which  she  had  had  in 
the  coach  with  an  entire  stranger,  whom  she  designated  as  *'  a  most 
gentlemanly  man."  "  I  said  to  him,"  said  she,  "  that  I  had  known 
you  before  you  were  born,  and  all  through  your  little  complaints,  in 
which  he  seemed  much  interested ;  and  what  troubles  you  'd  had, 
and  how  praiseworthy  it  was  of  you  to  be  so  economical  on  a  little  ; 
and  that  it  was  a  world's  wonder  how  you  held  your  ground  under 
the  disheartening  appearance  of  your  business  and  increasing  fa- 
mily." The  gentleman  replied.  It  was.  "  I  forget  his  name,  though 
— by  the  bye,  I  don't  think  he  told  it  me.  Why,  dear  I  dear  !  there 
he  goes  ! "  said  she,  pointing  down  the  rural  road  opposite.  What 
was  the  young  medico's  horror  to  discover  that  the  kind  gentlemanly 
depositary  of  bis  family  affairs  was  the  village-postman. 

She  is  a  perfect  paragon  at  the  needle,  of  which  her  young  mar- 
rying and  married  friends  don't  fail  to  remind  her.  At  no  time, 
visiting  or  otherwise,  is  she  without  what  she  calls  her  reticule  (not 
a  bad  size  for  a  travelling-bag),  stuffed  with  a  mass  of  work,  kindly 
supplied  to  her  by  her  numerous  friends. 

Busy  as  a  bee  does  she  rush  with  her  needle  and  experience,  and 
dash  in  with  a  master-hand  to  the  assistance  of  a  young  wife,  who  is 
puzzled  with  a  first  attempt  upon  the  mysteries  of  minute  shirts  and 
caps,  &c.  From  the  multiplicity  of  her  commissions,  she  sometimes 
stitches  the  body  of  one  dress  on  to  the  skirt  of  another. 

A  young  protegi  of  hers,  who  commenced  his  matrimonial  voyage 
with  a  very  small  freight,  and  to  whom  she  was  caudle,  mixture, 
and  monthly  nurse,  having  now  risen  into  the  excess  of  French  po* 
lish,  and  started  a  diminutive  tiger,  forgetting  that  he  had  once 
fetched  his  own  beer,  and  cleaned  his  own  boots,  invited  her  to  hia 
seventh  christening.  She  went,  all  smiles  and  congratulations,  to 
join  the  stylish  throng  of  friends,  who  declared  the  baby  to  be  '*  the 
finest  they  had  ever  seen,"  and  drank  its  health  and  prosperity  in 
champagne. 

"  Ah ! "  said  my  kind  aunt,  looking  round  with  tears  of  joy  in  her 
eyes,  with  a  complete  sunlight  of  benevolence  in  her  spectacles. 


2C8 


GLIMPSES    AND    MYSTERIES. 


"  how  much  you  have  to  be  thankful  for,  Bobby !  and  how  differ- 
ently can  you  now  welcome  this  little  stranger  to  what  you  could  i 
the  first,  when  you  had  but  one  room !  And  do  you  recollect  how  i 
we  laughed  over  our  clever  arrangements,  when  making  a  little  bed  j 
behind  the  screen  for  you,  and  called  it  your  cubby-liouse?  Well,  I 
well,  you  were  very  happy  then,  God  bless  you;  although  I  rejoice  1 
to  see  your  success,  which^  heaven  knows,  you  deserve." 

The  object  of  her  elo<|uence  would  at  this  moment,  though  it  is  j 
uncharitable  to  »i\y  so,  have  been  pleased  to  see  his  dear  sympa- 
thising  friend  at  the  bottom  of  the  nearest  well,  or  at  home  with  the  i 
rheumatiBm,  since  she  was  innocently  stripping  all  the  brilliancy  , 
frtmi  his  chandelier,  the  gold-lace  from  his  tiger,  and  the  flavour 
from  his  champagne  ;  yet  had  she  only  spoken  thus,  that  other*  i 
mi^ht  rejoice  with  her  in  the  success  of  her  friends. 

The  kind  old  creature  reveU  in  children,  w^here  her  purity  of" 
heart  places  her  more  on  a  pi^r.     She  is  a  perfect  fairy  to  them  ;  the 
wonders  of  her  pocket  are  jilone  a  mystery,  out  of  which  she  con- 
jures  treasures   innumerable,    cakes,  sweets,    fruit,    toys,    and   the 
**  marvellous  book/'    The  simplicity  with  which  she  descends  to  the 
level  of  a  child,  as  she  pours  into  its  listening  ear  the  secrets  of  the 
wonderful  book,  always  pointed  with  some  moral,  is  truly  astonisJi*  | 
ing*     She  is  a  perfect  holitlay  to  all  children ;  there  is  a  complete 
storm  of  rejoicing  when  her  old-fashioned  bonnet  and  smiling  face 
turn  towards*  any  house  of  her  acquaintance.     She  is  really  only 
happy  where  her  busy  mind  can  find  employment  in  advising  the 
inexperienced,  assisting  the  struggling,  or  smoothing  the  pillow  of 
sickness.     She  is  the  true  "  si&ter  of  charity,"  wearing  no  badge  of  ^ 
her  charitableness  but  her  heart,  which  is  unseen  by  the  world,  ex-, 
cept  in  its  acts  of  love  and  affection* 

Of  pride,  it  is  almost  needless  to  say,  she  has  none*  She  is  a  great 
torment  to  her  richer  relations,  by  her  perpetual  nonchalanee  m 
throwing  overboard  all  forms  of  etiquette.  When  the  anniversariea  i 
occur,  at  which  it  is  absolutely  necessary  to  invite  her,  they  abso-^ 
lutely  fear  and  tremble,  lest  she  should  rake  up  some  story  not  alto- 
gether congenial  to  the  feelings  of  her  guests,  or  expose  some  dam, 
hidden  by  them  with  much  ingenuity.  IVlany  a  time  have  I  heard 
a  mischievous  young  »park  start  a  subject,  to  torture  by  slow  de» 
grecs  some  upstart  in  the  company,  upon  which  he  well  knew  her 
brain  was  fertile.  She  immediately  responded,  giving  the  most  mi- 
nute particulars,  and  working  out  miraculously  by  her  narration  the 
roguery  of  her  prompter. 

Well  do  I  remember,  when  quite  a  child,  being  included  with  her 
in  an  invitation  to  visit  the  Lioness  Aunt  of  our  family,  who,  like 
Briareus,  had  her  arms  stuck  about  everywhere,  and  had  the  genea- 
logical tree  worked  on  her  fire-screens,  proving  William  the  Con* 
queror  was  a  distant  relation,  and  that  her  former  branches  were 
most  respectable  thieves,  who  robbed  in  iron  suit^  and  kept  a  do- 
mestic blacksmith  instead  of  a  tailor. 

She  lived  at  w  hat  in  the  country  is  chilled  the  "  great  house,"  and 
was  looked  upon  by  u«  children  with  great  awe ;  for  she  was  a  large 
and  massive  woman,  w  ith  a  masculine  voice,  and  an  eternal  turban, 
and  looked  very  like  a  Tartar  in  petticoats.  Her  husband  1  remem> 
ber  \ety  little  of,  except  that  he  Wiia  a  very  little  u»an,  with  his  hair 
pulled  all  off  the  front  part  of  his  head  to  make  a  pig-tail  behind^ 


GLIMPSES   AND   MYSTERIES.  269 

wearing  top-boots — ^being  a  squire — as  in  duty  bound.  My  aunt,  I 
believe^  married  him  merely  because  he  was  the  last  remaining 
branch,  or  rather  twig,  of  a  great  family,  but  never  allowed  him  a 
voice  in  the  house,  at  which  he  didn't  seem  much  to  regret,  as  he 
continually  followed  the  hounds,  and  used  it  up  out  of  doors. 


Before  we  started  for  this  dreaded  mansion,  which  I  looked  upon 
as  an  ogre's  castle,  my  aunt  was  by  a  more  worldly  sister  overbur- 
thened  with  cautionings  and  warnings  as  to  her  behaviour  upon  her 
arrival  at  the  "  great  house ;"  as  how  she  was  to  call  at  Tobins*  cot- 
tage in  the  lane,  and  get  him  to  carry  her  bandbox  up  to  the  house, 
where  the  coach  was  to  set  us  down ;  and,  being  relations,  we  were 
to  be  very  particular  about  knocking  loudly,  as  the  house  swarmed 
with  visitors.  All  this  she  promised  to  do  as  certain  as  the  day. 
We  started,  but  not  without  many  misgivings  on  my  part,  as  I  was 
old  enough  to  know  the  simplicity  of  one  aunt,  and  the  savageness 
and  pride  of  the  other.  As  soon  as  we  were  seated  on  the  coach, 
she  enveloped  me  in  a  large  red  comforter,  worked  by  her  own 
hands,  which,  after  two  turns  round  my  neck,  and  giving  a  clerical 
cock  to  the  back  of  my  hat,  reached  to  the  toes  of  my  lace-up  boots. 
When  this  was  done,  she  carefully  covered  her  black  silk  bonnet 
with  a  large  bandana,  to  preserve  it  from  the  dust,  and  began  her 
usually  entertaining  chat,  which  so  absorbed  my  mind,  that  we  had 
actually  passed  the  cottage  of  the  labourer  who  was  to  be  our  porter. 

We  alighted  as  I  reminded  my  aunt  of  the  strict  injunctions  she 
had  received  about  Tobins^  and  the  bandbox,  umbrella,  &c.  "  Never 
mind,  child,"  said  she  ;  "  we  've  only  got  two  fields  to  cross,  so  we  'U 
go  through  the  Linkin  Hatch,  and  pop  in  by  the  servants'  door,  to 


270 


GLIMPSES    AND   MYSTERIES. 


\ 


avoid  the  front  of  the  house.  The  great  people  will  then  be  none 
the  wiser/'  I  trembletl  in  my  little  boots  at  the  idea  of  sneaking  in 
through  the  kitchen. 

We  walked  on,  and  she  soon  became  full  of  her  legends,  and  re- 
counted to  me  how  tw^o  wicked  brothers  met  on  the  beach-close,  and 
fought  with  savage  fury  for  a  lady's  lovCt  and  were  both  found  stiff 
and  stark  in  the  early  morning  by  the  keeper  and  hh  dogs.  Wileing 
the  time  away  thus,  we  uncon&cioysly  trod  oyr  way  straight  to  the 
front-door,  over  a  broad  lawn  that  afforded  no  cover,  I  nearly 
tumbled  down  with  fright  as  I  beheld  a  number  of  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen, who,  much  amused  by  our  curious  figures,  were  looking 
through  the  windows  of  the  hall  at  us.  My  aunt  at  the  same  mo- 
ment discovered  her  mistake,  and  tried  to  swing  her  bandbox  behind 
her,  and  tear  off  the  bandana,  but  in  vain.  We  rushed  to  the 
front-door,  and  made  a  bungling  knock.  It  opened,  and  we  stood 
face  to  face  with  the  enraged  lioness.  She  seized  me  by  the  collar, 
and  tumbled  me  over  my  comforter,  and  then  turned  round  with 
inflamed  face  and  starting  eyes,  to  vent  her  rage  upon  her  timid 
sister  for  disgracing  her  before  the  great  folk;  to  all  which  my 
good-natured  aunt,  who  could  not  see  the  extent  of  her  fault,  merely 
replied,  **  Well,  Lucy,  dear,  if  w*e  are  not  welcome,  we  can  go  back*  i 
and  come  some  other  time  j  for  w^e  don't  care  about  your  fine  people, 
I  'd  much  rather  come  when  you  want  me  to  nurse  you  with  the  J 
toothache,  or  John  with  the  gout/' 

This  simple  reproach  calmed  the  great  woman's  rage,  and  hhe 
bade  us  go  up  atiirs  and  brush  the  dust  from  our  clothes  in  a  milder 
voice.  I  myself  thought  we  should  never  have  been  forgiven  fnrj 
being  the  innocent  CHuae  of  exposing  her  to  ridicule  before  the 
people  she  courted  on  account  of  their  escutcheons.  We  were  soon, 
however,  reconciled  to  our  fate;  for  we  were  left  to  do  pretty  much 


THE   DEATH    OF   THE    YOUNGEST.  271 

as  we  liked.  I  spent  more  of  my  time  in  the  fields  than  the  draw* 
ing-room ;  and  my  aunt  either  crept  away  from  the  ceremonies  to 
consult  with  her  sister's  housekeeper  upon  the  mysteries  of  pre- 
serves, &c.,  or  was  closeted  with  her  female  servants^  instructing 
them  in  the  art  of  knitting  or  netting. 

All  either  in  trouble  or  difficulty  rushed  by  instinct  to  her>  and 
found  a  never-failing  sympathy. 

Poor  old  Aunt  Betty  !  she  had  the  softest  voice,  and,  where  the 
weakness  or  misery  of  others  was  concerned,  the  finest  feelings,  not- 
withstanding her  Ignorance  of  the  conventionalities  of  the  world. 
She  is  dead,  alas  I  but  her  epitaph  is  written  upon  the  hearts  of  her 
friends,  the  only  place  wortny  of  it. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  YOUNGEST. 

BY   WILLIAM  JOHE8. 

Death  !  death  !  amidit  the  beautiful,  the  gentle,  and  the  meek — 
O  mother  !  hush  thine  agony  above  that  infantas  sleep. 
Nor  gaze  thus  wildly  on  the  brow  the  smile  hath  scarcely  left, — 
Calm  thee,  and  bless  the  Hand  that  gave,  the  Will  that  nath  bereft. 

Yes  !  in  the  eyes  submissive  raised  amidst  conflicting  tears, 
The  trustfulness  that  never  fail'd  through  long  and  painful  yean, 
The  hands  entwined,  the  pallid  lips,  that  move  in  silent  prayV, — 
Thine  heart,  sad  mother,  tried  by  Heaven,  still  rests  unfaltering  there. 

That  child ! — how  passively  he  lies,  so  lovely  and  serene, 
More  like  a  nuu-ble  sembUnce  than  a  form  where  breath  hath  been. 
It  seems  as  though  some  angel^s  voice  had  luU'd  it  to  repose, 
And  with  a  dream  of  Paradise  that  young  life  met  its  dose  ! 

The  last-bom,  too,  that  little  one  !  the  weakliest  of  the  fold ! 
No  marvel  that  his  birthright  was  a  wealth  of  love  untold. 
That  she,  now  mourning  heavily,  would  fain  have  died  to  save 
The  tendril  of  her  household  stem  from  darkness  and  the  grave. 

So  winsome  in  his  artlessness,  such  sunshine  in  his  joy, 
Earth  seem'd  to  welcome  with  a  smile  the  presence  of  the  boy. 
And  all  was  bright, — one  moment  more,  the  dream  had  passM  away. 
*Twas  well  that  he  should  seek  a  home  unsullied  by  decay  ! 

Why  marvel  that  the  flow'r  should  fade,  with  no  congenial  sky 
To  bring  its  budding  glory  forth,  or  warm  its  summer  dye  ? — 
That  sweet  birds  droop,  when  wintry  winds  despoil  them  of  their  nest  ? 
Oh !  where  but  in  a  shadeless  land  shall  innocence  find  rest  ? 

And  blessed  are  the  memories  they  leave  upon  the  heart, 
That  wither  not,  but  grow  with  age,  and  tenderness  impart ; 
That  soothe  us  when  affliction  steals  upon  our  gentler  mood. 
And  sanctifies  with  hopeful  thoughts  our  days  of  solitude  ! 

Let  the  young  sleeper  rest  in  peace  !     The  spirit  is  with  Him 
Who  call'd  him  hence,  before  one  tear  those  eyes  of  blue  could  dim. 
Let  him  depart — *twere  better  thus,  while  pure  and  unde filed, — 
And  in  the  better  land  above,  O  mother,  seek  thy  child  t 


272 

OUTPOURINGS. 

BY    D-   CANTBR* 


LIBATION   TUB   FIFTH* 

Piiwer— His  going  to  the  Cape,  Ac— Ilia  qitaJifi cation r  for  tbe  sUge — Contnut 
f>etiBreen  him  and  .JoliTiiton«  — His  literary  ta1eru«^  and  humorous  (ii>i!)criptic>u  of 
Engliah  Thcniricaiis  in  Paris— ^ Bis  claim ■  to  be  aj»nMdered  an  Insbmun — Anec* 
dote  illustrative  of  the«e. 

In  1 822  1  was  introduced  to  Tyrone  Power,  with  wbom  I  becume 
extremely  intimate. 

This  admirable  comedian  and  higldy  talented  man  was  then  work- 
ing his  way  into  notice.  He  had  been  some  years  on  the  stage.  In 
the  earlier  part  of  his  career  he  proceeded  to  the  Cape  with  the  in- 
tention of  settling  there,  and  sending  for  his  family-  His  journal 
contains  some  amuaing  accounts  of  the  state  of  society  in  the  colony, 
together  with  much  curious  information  concerning  the  CafTres, 
among  whom  Power  appears  to  have  parsed  some  time,  and  mixed 
familiarly.  Circumstances  not  warranting  his  remaining  in  the 
colony,  he  returned  to  England,  and  resumed  his  profession.  His 
auccess  induced  him  to  try  the  metropolitan  bimrds.  Accordingly 
he  made  his  dehut  at  Drury  Lane  in  the  part  of  Tristram  Fickle,  btil 
without  attracting  any  notice.  His  prospects  at  this  period  were  so 
unpromising  that  he  made  up  his  mind  to  abandon  the  stage,  and  ac^ 
cept  a  situation  which  had  been  offered  him  at  Cape  Coast.  He  was 
actually  on  his  way  to  secure  this  miserable  appointment,  when,  for- 
tunately for  himself,  his  family,  and  the  public,  he  met  Miss  S.  Booth. 
"My  dear  Power,"  exclaimed  this  lively  little  actress,  "yon  are  the 
very  person  I  wished  to  meet.  Go  to  the  Olympic.  They  want 
you.  And  mind  you  ask  good  terms;  you'll  be  sure  to  get  them." 
Power  took  the  hint,  and  made  his  first  metropolitan  engagement. 
"  From  this  moment,'*  to  u^^e  his  own  words  to  Mr*  Wat  kin  Bur- 
roughs, "he  never  looked  behind  him/* 

Power  possessed  every  attribute  of  his  art  in  perfection,  if  we  ex- 
cept hia  voice.  This,  though  of  excellent  quality,  was  weak — parti- 
cularly at  the  time  1  speak  of.  I  attribute  his  failure  at  Drury  Lane 
entirely  to  the  weakness  of  this  organ,  and  the  want  of  breadth  in 
his  acting.  Even  in  so  small  a  theatre  as  the  Olympic  he  was  im- 
perfectly heard.  Practice  remedied  this  defect  in  a  great  degree ; 
but  at  no  time  did  Power  possess  voice  sufficient  to  fill  the  vast  area 
of  our  winter  theatres,  in  which  no  actor  without  the  lungs  of  a 
steam  engine,  has  a  chance  of  being  heard.  Though  of  middle 
height,  Power  was  remarkably  well-knit,  and  so  strong  that  I  have 
seen  him  whip  Hartley  up  like  a  chikl,  and  CArry  him  off  the  stage — 
no  easy  feat,  when  we  con^^itler  this  gentleman  playa  FaUiaff  with- 
out stuffing.  I  never  saw  the  triumph  o^  expression  more  strongly 
exemplified  than  in  Power.  His  face  was  seamed  and  scarred  all 
over  by  the  small-pox,  yet  you  could n*t  help  being  pleased  with  it. 
"  Why,  I  thought  Mr,  Power  w\is  plain  T'  1  have  heard  more  than 
one  lady  exclaim,  after  being  in  his  company,  "but  I   think   him 


OUTPOUEINGS. 


273 


handsome — positively  handsome!"  and  handsome  he  certainly  was, 
if  beauty  consists  in  expressio/i.  To  be  sure,  a  remarkably  fine  bead 
of  hair;  teeth  small,  white,  and  regular;  high  animal  spirits,  and 
'*  a  deuced  handsome  leg/'  as  be  used  jocularly  to  term  that  limb, 
were  powerful  adjuncts,  and  these  nobody  could  deny  Tyrone 
Power. 

This  admirable  actor,  in  his  peculiar  line,  has  never  been  equalled, 
This  is  a  bold  word,  when  so  many  now  living  remember  the  Dennix 
Brulgruddery  and  Looney  MactwoUer  of  Johnstone,      But  with  more 
whim,  more  imagination,  and,  at  least,  equal  humour.  Power  enjoyed 
greater  facilities  than  Johnstone.     The  low  Irish  were  better  under- 
in   Power's  day,     Banim,  Morgan,  Edgeworth,  and  above  all, 
rleton^  had  laid  open  their  peculiarities,  which  Lover,  Buckatone, 
and  other  clever  dramatists,  including  Power  himself,  transferred  to 
the  stage ;  hence,  a  low  Irishman  w^as  no  longer  di.stinguished,  as  in 
|Johnstone's  time,  merely  by  his  blundering  and  his  phraseology,  but 
'exhibited  a  faithful  transcript  of  what  he  now  morally,  socially,  and 
politically  is, — at  least,  so  far  as  the  licenser's  dictum  will  permit. 
Besides,  natural  as  Johnstone's  impersonations  were,  in  Power  the 
rraisemblance  was  more  perfect.     Power  was  more  in  earnest ;  he 
threw  himself  with  more  abandon  on  the  character.     He  was  more 
|folticksome — more  frolicsome — wore  his  rags  with  greater  unction, 
and  flourished  his  alpine  with  greater  gusto.     In  a  word,  he  went 
deeper  into  the  character  than  Johnstone — gave  a  greater  rein  to  his 
,  humour,  and  threw   a  greater  variety  into  his  performances  alto- 
gether.    His  Cofo«^/ in  *' The  White  Horse  of  the  Peppers:"  Rorif 
0*Mor€,  Tim  Moore,  with  fifty  others,  attest  the  truth  of  this.     I  re- 
member nothing  of  Johnstone's  so  whimsical,  or  so  irresistibly  laugh- 
able, as  Power's  Tim  Moore — particularly  his  Erst  scene.     It  was  the 
Iclimax  of  comical itJ^  and  wholly  per  se.     Yet,  strange  to  say,  it  was 
lirith  the  greatest  difficulty  Power  could  be  persuaded  to  venture  on 
Itiie  part.     There  was  one  species  of  Irish  character,  however,  which 
l^as  fully  understood  in  Johnstone's  time,  and  in  which  it  must  be 
t confessed,  he  far  surpassed  Power.     Johnstone  certainly  locked   the 
Knight  of  Tarra  every  inch,  and  played  him  to  the  life.     There  was 
a  polish,  a  refinement,  an  air  of  dignity  about  him  in  parts  of  this 
description.  Power  could  never  attain.     I  once  saw  the  latter  play 
l^Vr  Lucius  0' Trigger  to  the  Captain  Alisottttc  o£  Charles  Kemble,  and 
[Jack  Reeves*  Acres,  and  the  effect  was  ludicrous.     Power  looked  like 
I A  great  schoolboy  thrust  on  fnr  the  part.     But  if  he  wanted  weight 
Ifor  the  O'Fiakertyx  and  fire -eating  baronets,  he  was  fully  at  home  in 
Imd venturers  of  a  more  juvenile  cast.     There  was  an  audacity — an 
iptsoMciafice  about  Power,  admirably  in  accordance  with  such  charac- 
Iftejrt.     He  was  the  smartest  of  cornets — the  nattiest  of  corporals. 
[His  very  appearance  in  a  village  or  country -town  would  have  set 
lllalf  the  girls  by  the  ears.     You  could  have  sworn  he  was  just  come 
[from  mess,  or  from  going  his  stable- rounds.     He  wore  his  spurs  as 
lif  he  was  used  to  them,  nor  could  the  strictest  of  martinets  have 
I  found  fault  with   the  set  of  his  sabretash,  or  the  angle  at  which  he 
wore  his  foraging-cap — points  in  which,  it  must  be  confessed,  most 
performers  are  lamentably  ignorant     But  Power,  like  Scott,  had  a 
strong  military  bias.     He  delighted  in  military  society,  and  never 
|£elt  happier  than  w*hen  he  was  in  a  barrack-room,  or  on  the  ground 
.  at  a  field-day  or  inspection.     Had  circumatances  thrown  Power  into 
VOL.  XVI II-  t; 


274 


OUTPOURTNGS. 


the  army,  which  he  often  regretted  was  not  the  case,  1  have  no  doybt 
he  woukl  have  made  a  very  smart  soldier*  Ccrtes,  he  had  the  make 
of  one  in  him.  Johnstone,  from  having  originally  led  in  opera,  ex- 
celled as  a  vocalist,  but,  considering  this  oualiBcation  merely  as  it 
Ispplied  to  Iri&h  parts,  I  doubt  if  it  gave  him  any  superiority.  If 
JohnstODe  sang  with  more  science,  Power  sang  with  more  spirit. 
Bot  as  a  atnger  of  Irish  songs  Webb  surpassed  them  both,  though  far 
I  inferior  as  an  actor  to  either* 

Power  possessed  considerable  literary  talent,  but  his  education  h&tl 
t  neglected.  His  *'  Impressions  of  America"  contains  some  good 
5,  but  the  work  is  too  e\ddently  written  to  propitiate  the 
Aa  m  book  of  reference  it  has  no  value  whatever.  The 
tbeniadTes  are  fully  sensible  of  this.  Strong  as  Jona. 
i*a  itoiaacll  t%  be  couldn't  swallow  the  dose.  "We  laugh  at 
>'a  *  laaprcaSMNis,"'  said  a  gentleman  of  New  York  to  me^ 
^  as  a  bit  of  the  blarney^  the  work  is  clever/'  His  novel 
w,  **  The  Lost  Heir'*  attained  considerable  popularity,  and 
'The  Kin^a  Secret^"  tlioiigli  verbose,  boasts  scenes  that  would  no 
"bed  Scott,  ^t  Power's  best  work  is  '^  Lo  Zingaro.' 
Thm  Bole  take  it  daibal  off  with  great  spirit,  and  displays  great  fer^ 
tiB^  flf  iaagJMaiQQt  with  wUrtmg  descriptive  powers.  "  ho  Zingaro" 
v«a  ci^RBaBf  ioacneil  ia  a  Denodical  of  the  same  name,  edited  b| 
Power,  who  aleo  cootzibotca  two  letters,  giving  a  most  amujjing  ac 
comii  of  the  fiagliih  pcrfbnaaiices  at  The  Odeon,  at  which  he  him--^ 
•elf  atfiftwi,  aa  dieee  are  Uttle  known^  I  subjoin  the  foUowing  ex-i 
mcta  Iroui  theoL 

Rue  de  la  Paix,  Dec,  1827. 
•  •••*« 

The  house  was  crammed  om  the  first  night     Every  heart  be 

high,  and  more  than  one  bet  was  made  that  we  did  not  get  througli 

the  first  act  ("The  Rivals").   At  length  the  prompter's  bell  sounde  " 

(thr  alarm,  and  off  we  dashed.     Nothing  could  surpass  the  kindne 

of  our  reception — nothinfj  could  equal  the  breathless  attention  with] 

which  we  were  heard.    We  were  encouraged^  and  evidently  regarde  1 

|.Wtth  good  will,  and  actors  and  audience  seemed  equally  pleased  with] 

'i  *>ther ;  and,  indeed,  except  that  the  stage  waited  now  and  thenj  [ 

here  being  no  regular  calUboy  to  summon  us  to  our  posts,  with  the) 

ccasiontil  nppcarMnce  of  a  chamber  for  a  street,  and  a  palace  fori 

ting's  Mead  Fields,  tliinga  went  off  tidily  enough  for  a  cat/p  d'essaL- 

Dvccfiiber  6di,  1«37. 

Our  second  comedy,  "  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,"  went  off  BaUy^^l 
liston'M  hiimiiur  in  nnt  understood  here,  and  the  stars,  to  our  fancy,? 
[m^n  to  WAHi**  Fcirttinalely,  we  miscalculated — curiosity,  in  fact,  j 
iicv  roiuiMi.  Krmble'fl  Hawki  was  announced,  and  in  threttj 
\  av^ry  places  wiu  taken.     Not  a  seat  could  be  procured  for  lovi 

M  rehvariali  on  thiJ*  importnnt  occasion  were  attended  with  the] 
«  inconvculi'tuc     We   kept  p*issession   of  the   stage  as  long  j 
^ble,  mid  then  adjourned  to  that  refuge  for  the  destitute «— If  | 
on* 

•  •  •  •  •  I 

tudent«  from  the  tlilferent  colleges  attended,  Shiik* 
L     A  literal  translation  of  '*  liamlet^'*  completed  in 


OUTFOUKTNGS. 


thirty  hours  by  M.  Valise  and  his  daughter,  was  sold  in  vast  num- 
bers ;  so  was  the  adaptation,  or  rather,  murderatton  of  Ducis ;  which 
latter  the  purchasers  must  have  found  an  excellent  guide ! 

A  peep  behind  the  scenes,  and  vmrc  miseries  !  As  I  approached 
31— 's  dressing-room,  a  scene  of  unspeakable  confusion  was  enact- 
ing in  the  passage.  A  crowd  of  actors  surrounded  Alonsieur  San- 
son, the  wardrobe-keeper.  One  furiously  demanded  hJs  go-lotz 
icntoKes)  for  the  tragedy,  and  not  the  buckskin  inexpressiblest  which 
nad  been  given  him  for  the  farce.  Another  called  aloud  for  hi  a 
roha  (mantcau),  while  a  third  had  no  boots ;  the  ignorance  of  the 
apph'cants  of  the  French  language  rendering  this  **  confusion  worse 
confounded.**  M.  Sanson  gravely  bowed  *'  Ah  f  oui !"  to  one  ; 
smiled  "  sans  dotitc  t"  to  another;  cried  "«  Vinsiani  !"  to  a  third, 
and  hurried  away,  not  comprehending  one  word  they  uttered,  I 
was  pressed  to  explain.  They  were,  indeed,  in  a  sad  plight-  One 
had  nis  bod^  brought  for  the  tragedy,  with  the  inexpressibles  he  was 
to  wear  in  the  farce.  Another  had  his  nether  man  cased  in  the 
costume  of  FontinbraSt  with  a  modern  coat  by  way  of  mantcau, — the 
curtain,  too,  expected  to  go  up  every  moment. 

Fresh  miser tes  on  entering  the  dressing-room  !  In  rushed  theper- 
rnquter^  followed  by  a  brace  of  enraged  tragedians,  one  with  a  bob 
wig,  highly  powdered,  the  other  extending  in  horror  a  cjirroty 
scratch  !  **  This  rascal !"  cried  one^  '^  took  our  wigs,  and  now  swears 
he  hasn*t  got  them,  but  brings  me  this,  which  I  wore  in  the  comedy 
last  night !" — **  oui—otn/'  nodded  the  perrutjuler,  with  an  assenting 
smile,  **  pour  la  comcdie — ponr  la  comt-dic" — *'  The  devil  fly  away  with 
the  comedy  1"  roared  the  other ;  "  I  tell  you  I  want  my  black  wig  for 
the  tragedy!" — '^Audmy  drop-curls! — my  drop-curls,"  vociferated 
the  first.  "Gracious  Heavens]  I  begin  the  play,  and  the  last  music 
has  been  called  twice!"  The  perruquier  could  stand  this  no  longer, 
but  turning  to  me  observed,  '*  1  shall  say  no  more  to  dese barbarians. 
You  are  a  prepare  man,  and  to  you  1  shall  explain/*  It  appeared 
there  were  two  coiffeurs — one  dressed  wigs  for  tragedy,  the  other 
for  comedy  and  farce,  and  these  heroes  of  the  sock  had  applied  to 
the  vfTangfrizeur, 

At  last,'  all  difficulties  were  adjusted,  and  the  play  commenced. 
Kemble  looked  admirably,  and  was  received  on  his  entree  with  ac- 
clamation. His  fine  person  and  gracious  bearing  at  once  struck  the 
aasemblage*  Besides  *'  the  king's  name  was  a  tower  of  strength  ;" 
for  John,  our  drama's  monarch's  fame  was  well-known  in  Paris. 
Of  this  Charles  seemed  to  be  aware,  and  fully  prepared  to  support 
the  honours  of  his  name.  The  first  point  that  hit  them  hard  was  the 
appeal  to  his  father's  spirit.  Long  and  loud  were  the  plaudits  that 
followed  this  admirably -delivered  passage.  The  earnestness  of  his 
look,  the  passionate,  yet  tremulous  and  tender  tones  in  which  he  in- 
voked the  shade,  were  all  true  to  holy  nature,  and  needed  not  a 
close  knowledge  of  the  text  to  find  a  corresponding  chord  in  every 
bosom.  But  the  climax  of  his  success  was  the  play-scene.  The  in- 
terest here  excited  was  intense. 

Miss  Smithson  on  this  night  kid  the  basis  of  that  fame  which  has 
since  filled  the  ears  of  France,  and  established  la  bdk  Irdandolxe 
as  one  of  the  first  favourites  of  the  most  critical  and  polished  capital 
of  Europe.  This  young  lady  was  with  diiBcuhy  prevailed  upon  to 
undertake  Ophelia,  on  account  of  her  not  singing.     But  this  objee- 

u  9, 


ocrrpouBiKos. 


r  twdulcd,  At,  most  flbrtozutely  for  berself  and  the  au- 

■le  the  adcBpl;  sod  m  her  scenes  of  inMness,  completed 

wah  ^  ^ht  ni^ltt,  uni   £urlj  divided  the  applause  with 

All  proceeded  on  roaei  ontil  the  slajing  commenced  ;  and 

i«MCMicr  tlie  atra^  prijitdices  we  bad  to  encounter,,/bifr 

md  m  gkoti  m  one  cvcBtBg  were  a  fearful  aocoant  to  reckoti 

I  had  beea  Ibreacciiy  and  the  proi  and  corns  taken  on  both 

SBfaspptlj,  it  waa  decided  that  the  King  and  Queen , 

^  thar  qojetas^  should  slip  off,  aod  do  their  agonies 

1  ^jm  aoenes..     '^  V^hat  dire  mishaps   from    small   beginnings 

I  Ming  V    Aka  1  the  Fagr,  who  bore  aboat  the  wine,  was  a  simple 

I Jeilow,  and  inileadfif  tlie  sinaD  modest  cup  intended  for  the  purpose, 

'  Ind  haa  wnlackj'  bands  npoo  a  hoi^e  vase  which  would  hare  held 

lanoial  gallon !     When  the  King,  after  taking  a  pall,  handed 

,  MMhlj  nag  to  her  Majesiif,  a  titter  arose  in  the  pariertt,  and 

»  M^  in  tnra.  panied  it  to  her  son,  *'  Afa  /oi,  c*eMt  une  t^iriinhk 

AmgUmr  whispered  a  wag^  and  the  titter  rose  into  a 

Uoifh. 

The  foiEii^  ftdlowed.   Kow  caise  the  fon  royal.    The  poor  Queen, 
i^fKng  the  effecta  of  the  poison^  claps  her  ri^ht  hand  on  the  part 
iifcelj  to  be  afected  by  the  "  damned  drug^'*  and  supporting 
nin  wi(th  the  \A,  staggers  off  attended  by  her  weeping  maidens. 
\  The  Klmg  it  italibed,  hot  unlnckily  too  closely  imiutes  the  impres- 
\  Ave  action  of  hia  agoniaed  better-half.     Doubling  himself  up  like  a 
I  hacd-hit  johd,  olf  he  rolls  on  one  side,  as  Laerles  is  borne  out  to 
I  expire  on  the  other.      This  was  too  much.      A  long  and  hearty 
'  laogh  eaaed  the  laboofing  parterre,  and   after  one  or  two  witty 
I  remarka^  order  was  restored  for  HawUei'i  dying  throes,  which»  sin- 
gular to  say,  were  observed  with  as  much  attention,  and  followed 
by  as  loud  approbation,  as  if  no  mishap  had  occurred  to  excite  the 
risibility   of  the  audience^     The   same  tragedy  was  announced  for 
Kemble*s  second  night  amid  the  most  enthusiastic  applause. 

Ever  your 9^  » 

Power's  birthplace  has  been  much  disputed  ;  but  whether  Wales 
or  Connaught  can  claim  that  honour^  it  is  certain  he  had  all  the 
characteristics  of  an  Irishman,  and  was  Irish  by  extraction ~at  least 
on  hiK  mother's  side.  Madame  ia  mere  I  have  seen,  and  a  remarkably 
fine  woman  she  was — very  proud  of  Tyrone,  and  very  unsparing  in 
her  criticisms  on  his  performances.  Power  liberally  contributed  to 
her  support.  I  have  often  heard  hira  talk,  too,  of  his  uncle,  Major 
Power  of  the  Seventh  Dragoon  Guards,  who  was  also  an  Irishman* 
But  the  following  incident,  which  occurred  at  the  Newport  Theatre, 
removes  all  doubt  in  my  mind  to  which  nation  this  celebrated 
actor's  nativity  ought  to  be  assigned.  Being  annoyed  by  the  cri* 
ttcisins  of  a  big»  burley  fellow  called  Billy  Barlow,  who  was  seated 
in  the  pit.  Power  actually  sprang  over  the  orchestra,  and  collaring 
the  bully,  who  was  twice  his  size,  indignantly  demanded  what  he 
meant  by  such  insolence !  Barlow  himself  declared  to  the  gentle- 
from  whom  I  had  this  anecdote,  that  he  never  felt  frightened 
re,  and  was  glad  to  get  out  of  the  theatre  with  a  whole  skin, 
*  apologizing  for  his  conduct     Now,  none  but 

"A  blcKKl  rclfttian  of  my  Lord  Doncnighmore " 
lid  have  done  this. 


OUTPOURINGS.  277 


LIBATION   THB   SIXTH. 

Power*!  penehani  for  nobility  and  Irish  aerraDta — Simplidtj  and  blundering  of  the 
latter. — Society  in  King  Street. — The  Handsome  Dragoon — ^Adventure  at  his 
lodgings^ — Captain  D— ^-  — His  liberalism — Hoax  played  off  upon  him — His 
behairiour  on  the  hustings. 

At  Newport,  Power  had  the  good  fortune  to  contract  an  union 
with  a  lady  whose  great  personal  attractions  constituted  her  least 
merit.  This  connection^  no  doubt>  exercised  a  wholesome  influence 
over  his  future  fortunes.  It  augmented  his  respectability,  and  pro- 
cured him  admittance  into  society,  from  which  his  position  would 
otherwise  have  excluded  him, — ^no  slight  advantage  to  an  aspiring 
young  man  like  Power,  who  eagerly  sought  admittance  into  the  best 
circles,  and  was  never  so  happy  as  when  he  was  in  company  with 
his  superiors.    Like  Sir  John  English,  he  had 

— ^  a  wonderful  veneration  for  a  squire  o*  the  body,  a  knight  gave  him  great 
joy,  but  he  was  rarish'd  with  a  loed  !  '* 

And,  indeed,  latterly  lords  did 

^<  All  his  time  engross." 

or  very  nearly  so.  With  a  few  exceptions,  and  those  chiefty  men 
distinguished  for  their  talents  and  savoir  faire,  Power  principally 
associated  with  the  aristocracy  ;  nor  did  noblemen  of  the  very  highest 
rank  disdain  to  eat  their  mutton  and  quaff  their  Falemian  in  the 
comparatively  humble  manage  of  their  friend  Tyrone.  To  be  sure, 
these  visitations  somewhat  discomposed  Mrs.  P.,  who,  in  deference 
to  her  husband,  generally  kept  Irish  servants, — of^n  raw  consign- 
ments from  Connemarra,  —  whose  ignorance  and  blundering  tried 
her  temper  not  a  little  on  these  occasions.  One  day  the  Duke  of 
Beaufort,  the  Marquis  of  Normanby,  Count  D'Orsay,  with  two  or 
three  other  noblemen,  dined  in  Albion  Street. 

''  Plaize,  what  will  I  do  for  the  soup,  ma'am  ?"  inquired  the  cook, 
thrusting  her  head  into  the  drawing-room  about  five  minutes  before 
the  guests  arrived. 

*'  The  soup  ! "  echoed  Mrs.  Power  in  astonishment. 

''  Yes,  ma'am,  the  soup.  I  suppose  you  '11  be  for  having  some. 
Is  it  mock-turtle  or  raal  turtle,  ma'am,  I  *11  be  sending  James  for  ?" 

"  Why,  you  must  be  mad,  Nora !  How  can  vou  ask  such  a  ques- 
tion ?  You  know  you  made  the  soup  yesterday.  You  put  it  into 
the  gr^at  white  basin,  and — " 

"Was  that  the  soup,  ma'am,  in  the  great  white  basin  ?" 

"  You  know  it  was,  child ! " 

''  Bad  luck  to  me,  if  I  haven't  thrown  it  down  the  sink,  thin !  I 
thought  it  was  dirty  water ! " 

One  night  the  housemaid,  who  had  never  been  to  a  theatre,  was 
sent  to  see  her  master  play  Teddy  the  Tiler, 

"  Well,  how  did  you  like  the  play,  Katty  ?"  inquired  her  mistress 
next  morning. 

"  Och  !  ma'am,  it  was  beautiful !— the  finest  sight  ever  I  see ! — 
Many  thanks  to  you,  ma'am,  for  trating  me  to  that  same." 


27a 


OUTPatTBIKGS. 


**  Did  you  see  your  master,  Kattj  ?* 

"  Indeed,  and  I  did,  ma*am.'' 

*'  And  how  did  be  look  ^'* 

"  Och  !  like  a  rsal  geDlleman  erery  tocb,  when  he  got  out  of  his 
working  cloathct/ 

"And  how  did  he  act,  Katty?** 

*'Why,  truth  be  told,  nia'ani>  I  can't  say  initch  for  his  acting* 
Pat  Rooney,  or  Tim  FLannigan^  or  any  other  tiler,  would  have  done 
just  ss  he  did.  No  offence,  ma'am  ;  but»  if  1  hadn't  known  it  was 
the  master,  I  shouldn't  have  taken  it  for  acting." 

"  But  didn't  he  make  you  laugh,  Katty  >" 

^'Indeedj  and  he  didn't,  ma'am.  My  heart  was  too  heavy  for 
that" 

«  Too  heavy  ! " 

•*  Troth  was  it,  roa'am  !  " 

**  What  do  you  mean^  child  ?** 

"  Och  !  och  !  don't  ax,  ma'am,  don't  ax-** 

"  Not  ask  1 " 

**You*d  better  not,  ma'am  —  you'd  better  not  —  yon  won't,  if 
^€»u  're  wise — och  !  och  !  such  a  handsome — such  a  good-natured — 
itich  a  virtuous  lady  as  you  are,  too — och  I  och  !  " 

**  I  insist  upon  knowing  what  you  mean  this  instant,  Katty." 

«Ochf  ochl" 

*'Nay,  I— " 

'*  Then^  if  I  must  speaks  ma'am^  the  master's  conduct  was  shame- 
ful!" 

"Shameful!" 

'*  Och  1  scandalous,  ma'am  f  scandalous  1  May  I  die  if  he  dtdiCl 
khs  everif  lad  if  he  came  near,  tv'Uhottt  mentwning  the  lap-dog  !" 

Of  course,  a  rising  actor  like  Power  was  continually  increasing 
hi  a  acquaintance.  This  necessarily  included  persons  of  all  ranks 
and  all  professions,  with  a  far  greater  proportion  of  literary  men  and 
men  of  talent  than  is  to  be  found  in  ordinary  circles.  Hence  the 
society  at  Power's  was  more  varied  and  more  spirituel  than  is  usual. 
It  was  un  olla  fwdrida,  more  or  less  piquant,  according  to  the  higre* 
dients  of  wliicli  it  happened  to  be  composed,  but  always  above  the 
average,  I  will  endeavour  to  give  t be  reader  presently  some  idea  of 
these  reuttiwis.     But  first  a  word  of  the  pcrson(F, 

Amtmg  these  I  well  remetnber  a  bold  dragoon,  distinguished  by 
his  great  good  nature,  and  the  superior  elegance  of  his  figure,  who 
often  used  to  call  in  his  cab  for  Power,  who  then  lived  in  King 
Street*  Jack  was  at  this  time  the  Landskoi  of  a  certain  fascinating 
warbler,  but  had  lodgings  of  his  own  in  Sl  Jaraea'a,  next  door  to 
the  beautiful  Mrs.  C — — ,  then   under  the  protection  of  the  Earl  ol 

.     Ojie  night  Jack  gave  a  party  at  his  lodgings,  which  were  on 

the  first  floor.  The  air  was  sultry,  the  windows  open,  the  party 
flushed  with  wine.  Suddenly  the  silvery  voice  of  Mrs.  C  ■  stole 
on  the  ears  of  the  revellers  from  the  adjoining  drawing-room*  the 
balcony  of  which  communicated  with  Jack's. 

*'  Dy  heaven  !  that  woman's  voice  would  draw  a  man  through  a 

stone   wall!*'  exckimcd  P ,  starting  up,     "Lads!    1   vote  for 

joing  into  her.     1  'II  engage  she  *d  give  us  coffee." 

*'  Hear  1  hear  !  hear  1 "  cried  M-^  and  D ,  following  P 's 


OOTPOUMNOS.  279 

**  AUons  done  I"  said  the  latter ;  and  they  all  three  rushed  into  the 
balcony. 

"Hollo! --call  a  halt  there!"  cried  Jack.  "That  cock  won't 
fight,  I  promise  you  I " 

**  How  do  you  know  ?"  inquired  P ,  coming  up  to  the  table. 

"  Have  you  ever  tried  her.  Jack  ?"  pursued  D , 

"Perhaps  I  have,  perhaps  I  haven't,"  returned  Jack  carelessly. 
"  I  never  kiss  and  tell.  But  this  you  may  rely  upon,  she  '11  not  ad- 
mit you,  lads,  and-—" 

"Five  to  four  she  does,**  interrupted  P ;  "five  to  four,  she 

not  only  admits  us.  Jack,  but  presses  us  to  pass  the  evening  with 
her." 

"  1 11  not  take  ^our  bet,"  rejoined  the  other  carelessly,  "  because 
it  would  be  robbing  you.  Depend  upon  it,  she  '11  give  you  all  in 
charge  if  you  attempt  it  But  grant  she  doesn't — grant  she  admits 
you,  it's  running  the  devil's  own  risk.  The  governor's  plaguy 
smokey,  I  can  tell  you.  He  generally  comes  as  soon  as  the  house  u 
up,  and  if  he  catches  you — " 

"  O^  !  choak  the  governor ! "  cried  P 

"  Oh  !  choak  the  governor ! "  echoed  the  others. 

"  Sure,  we  can  easily  get  back  without  his  seeing  us,"  pursued 

P ;  "  besides,  the  more  danger,  the  more  honour,  you  know — 

ha  !  ha !  ha !  So  come  along,  lads,  come  along ;  and  if  Jack  w<m't 
go  with  us,  why,  he  must  stay  away,  that 's  all.     Hurru ! " 

And  with  this  the  trio  again  rushed  into  the  balcony. 

"  They  're  booked  for  the  watchhouse ! "  quoth  Jack  ;  "  she  'U 
never  stand  it.  How  unfortunate  she  didn't  know  I  'd  a  party ! 
She  *11  be  deucedly  disappointed.  No  matter — It  can't  be  helped. 
Things  must  take  their  course."  And  seizing  his  hat,  Jack  hurried 
off  to  join  his  Duldnea. 

The  servant,  hearing  the  street-door  slam,  concluded  the  whole 
party  had  left  the  house ;  so  going  up  into  Jack's  room,  she  fastened 
the  windows,  drew  down  the  blinds,  put  out  the  lights,  and  went  to 
bed,  where  the  rest  of  the  family  had  gone  before  her. 

Meanwhile  the  triumvirate,  creeping  into  the  adjoining  balcony, 
arrived  at  the  window  near  which  the  beautiful  songstress  was  sit- 
ting.    P  stumbled  over  a  japonica. 

"  How  can  you  be  so  awkward.  Jack  ?"  whispered  the  lady.  '*  The 
Jones's  will  hear  you." 

" It 's not  Jack"  my  dear  ma'am,"  said  P  ,  entering,  followed 
by  the  rest  of  the  party;  "though  Jack's  a  sly  dog,  I  see.  But, 
though  Jack 's  not  come  himself,  my  dear  ma'am,  I  beg  you  '11  not 
make  yourself  at  all  uneasy.    We're  Jack's  friends,  and — " 

"  I  care  not  who  or  what  you  are,"  interrupted  Mrs.  C  ,  reco- 
vering her  self-possession,  "  you  have  no  right  to  intrude  your- 
selves on  me.  Begone ! — ^return  the  way  you  came !  If  you  don't 
go  this  instant — " 

"  Hush !  hush  !  mjr  dear  ma'am  I  "  said  P— ;  "  don't  speak  so 
loud,  or  the  Joneses  mil  hear  you.  Come,  come,  let  us  talk  this  little 
affair  over  coolly  now.  I  do  assure  you,  my  dear  ma'am,  neither 
Captain  D-—  here,  nor  his  nephew,  any  more  than  myself,  mean 
the  slightest  disrespect,  or  have  the  least  intention  of  intruding  our 
company  upon  you  one  single  instant  longer  than  it's  agreeable 


280  OUTPOURINGS. 

Indeed,  you  must  pardon  me  if  I  say  our  being  here  at  all  is  entirely 
your  own  fault,  my  dear  ma'am." 

"  My  own  fault,  sir  ?" 

"  Ay,  truth  is  it,  ma'am." 

"  Dare  you  insinuate—" 

"  I  insinuate  nothing.  But  if  ladies  will  sing  with  their  windows 
open,  especially  when  they  sing  so  divinely  as  you  do,  my  dear 
ma'am,  they  must  not  complain  if  gentlemen  within  ear-shot  are 
unable  to  resist  the  attraction.  You  may  as  well  set  cream  before  a 
cat,  and  punish  her  for  drinking  it.     If  I  'd  been  to  be  shot  for  it, 

my  dear  ma'am,"  continued  P warmly,  "  I  couldn't  help  coming 

here." 

"  No  more  could  I,"  said  M * 

''No  more  could  I,"  re-echoed  his  uncle.  '' Indeed,  we're  aU  so 
passionately  fond  of  music,  that — " 

**  That  we  're  dying  to  hear  another  song,  my  dear  ma'am,"  said 

P y  again  taking  up  the  ball,  "  and  hope  you  '11  favour  us ;  and 

that 's  what  we  came  for — so  now  the  murder 's  out«  If  you  insist 
upon  it,  we  '11  stand  in  the  balcony, — though  it  certainly  does  look 
like  rain,  and  the  Joneses  might  see  us.  Ah !  sure  now,  you  caB*t 
refuse  us  ?  On  our  knees^  my  dear  ma'am — "  And  down  they  all 
flopped. 

"This  is  excessively  ridiculous,"  said  the  lady,  biting  her  lip. 
"  However,  I  insist  on  your  going,  though,  the  moment  the  song  is 
concluded. 

Ce  n'est  que  le  premier  pas  qui  coute  !  —  an  hour  hence  the  whole 
party  sat  down  to  "  champagne  and  chicken." 

On  a  sudden,  rap-rap-rap — ring-ring-ring. 

*'  His  Lordship  ! "  said  Mrs.  C— — -,  starting  up. 

"  The  devil  it  is  ! "  exclaimed  P . 

''  Run !  run ! "  cried  the  lady,  bundling  the  plates  and  dishes 
under  the  sofa. 

In  an  instant  the  trio  were  in  Jack's  balcony.  It  rained  pitdi- 
forks.     There  was  no  verandah. 

"  D— n  it,  we  're  shut  out ! "  whispered  P ,  trying  the  win- 
dows. 

*'  The  deuce  we  are  ! "  said  D— — ,  spreading  his  handkerchief 
over  his  head. 

"  Jack !  Jack  ! "  cried  M— ,  tapping  gently  against  the  glass. 

*'  Man  alive !  can't  you  let  us  in  ?"  said  P ,  applying  hb  mouth 

to  the  window-frame. 

"  He 's  not  there ! — he 's  gone  to  the  theatre ! "  groaned  D 

despairingly. 

"  Oh  !  we  can  never  stand  this,  you  know,"  cried  M ,  getting 

from  under  the  water-spout ;  "  we  might  as  well  be  under  the  falls 
of  Niagara  !     I  'm  wet  through  already,  and " 

"  So  am  I,"  said  D ,  wringing  his  pocket-handkerchief;  "  it 's 

all  running  down  my  back-bone !  What  shall  we  do?  We  can't 
stay  here  all  night     I  vote  for  rousing  the  family." 

"No,  no  !  "  cried  P ,  who  enjoyed  their  agonies;  "we  shall 

compromise  the  lady.  Just  take  it  coolly  now — have  a  little  pa- 
tience, and — " 

"  Patience ! " 

"  Zounds ! '  — 


0UTP0UBIN6S.  281 

''Hollo!  Yot  are  you  all  arter  there?"  bawled  the  watchman, 
overhearing  them.  ''  My  eyes  !  here 's  a  pretty — Thieves !  thieves ! 
thieves!  "  and  he  sprang  his  rattle. 

**  Where  ?  where  ?  where  ?"  cried  his  Lordship,  shooting  into  Mrs. 
C 's  balcony. 

^'  Where  ?  where  ?  where  ?"  echoed  a  hundred  voices  from  the 
adjoining  houses. 

"  Where  ?  where  ?  where  ?"  screamed  Jack's  landlady,  in  a  por- 
tentous night-cap^  at  the  second-floor  window. 

"  In  your  balcony,  mum ! "  shouted  the  watchman,  labouring 
away  at  the  knocker.  **  If  you  looks  down,  mum,  you  il  see  um. 
But  you  only  jist  let  us  up,  and  we'll  soon  secure  the  warmin." 

"  Here ! — John ! — Thomas ! "  cried  the  Earl ;  and  in  a  trice  the 
trio  found  themselves  in  the  custody  of  his  Lordship's  servants  and 
a  whole  posse  of  watchmen. 

*'  You  'd  better  take  them  to  the  watchhouse  at  once,"  said  the 
Ear],  as  they  all  adjourned  into  Jack's  drawing-room. 

"  Ay  !  come  along ! — away  with  um  ! "  chorussed  all  the  Charleys. 

''  Stop  !  stop ! "  vociferated  D struggling.  *'  There 's  no  oc- 
casion to  be  in  such  a  d— d  hurry.  I  '11  trouble  you  to  take  your 
knuckles  out  of  my  stock,  sir.  It 's  a  mistake — it  is,  upon  my  soul ! 
We're  no  thieves,  but  gentlemen,  and — *' 

"  1  do  assure  you  we  're  gentlemen,  my  Lord,"  said  M ,  ap- 
pealing to  the  Earl. 

"  Where 's  the  servant  ?"  shouted  P .     "  Here !  Polly !  Sally  ! 


"  Come  !  none  of  this  'ere ! ",  said  the  Charley  en  chef,  "  We  can't 
stand  talking  here  all  night  You  can  say  vot  you  've  got  to  say 
vhen  ve  has  you  hup  in  the  morning  afore  Sir  Richard.  Howsom- 
ever,  if  you  're  gen'elmen,  I  should  jist  like  for  to  know  vot  brought 
you  hall  hout  into  this  'ere  'spectable  lady's  balcony  at  this  'ere  time 
o'  night,  in  the  rain,  vithout  no  hats  on  ?" 

"  Ay  !  how  came  you  into  my  balcony  ?"  demanded  the  landlady, 
who  had  never  seen  them  before. 

"  Ay !  explain  that  ! "  emphasized  the  Earl. 

This  being  one  of  those  numerous  questions  which  are  more  easily 
asked  than  answered,  the  detenus  were  silent. 

**  The  servant  knows  who  we  are,"  muttered  M at  length. 

"Why,  Sally,  and  be  hanged  to  you ! "  shouted  P 

"  Sal-/tt  /"  bawled  the  landlady,  going  out  on  the  landing-place. 

But  Sally,  who  had  double-locked  her  door,  was  afraid  to  make 
her  appearance. 

''  You  must  detain  them,'*  said  the  Earl.  *'  This  matter  can't  stop 
here." 

"  In  coorse  it  can't,"  said  the  watchman,  touching  his  hat.  "  We 
must  do  vot 's  riglar,  my  Lord.  You  can  call  vot  vitnesses  you  like 
in  the  morning ;  but  you  must  go  to  the  vatchhus  vith  bus  now, 
my  covies.     So  come  along — stir  your  stumps,  and — " 

"  Huzza !"  shouted  P ,  kicking  the  lanthom  out  of  the  nearest 

watchman's  hand. 

"  Huzza !"  echoed  M ,  following  P ^'s.  example.    A  scuffle 

ensued  in  which  the  remaining  light  was  extinguished.  In  the  con- 
fusion P and  M managed  to  escape.    D ,  less  fortunate, 

was  secured  and  lodged  in  the  watchhouse,  where  he  remained 


282 


OUTPOURINGS, 


grumbling  and  growling  till  P — —  sent  Jack  to  procure  his  release, 
which,  however,  he  didn't  obtain  until  be  had  paid  a  swingeing  suoa 
for  the  broken  heads  and  broken  lanthorns  of  the  Charleys,  Appre- 
hensive the  repose  of  his  fair  friend  might  be  again  disturbed, — or, 
for  some  other  reason, — his  lordship  removed  her  to  Bolton  Street, 

D ,  if  I  mistake  not,  had  formerly  held  a  troop  in  Jack's  regi- 
ment. He  piqued  himself  on  his  knowledge  of  the  classics,  and  ob- 
tained some  celebrity  as  an  amateur  at  B ,  where  he   performed 

several  of  Shakspeare's  characters.  Latterly  he  took  to  politics, 
and  played  a  conspicuous  part  at  the  elections  at  W^- — .  On  one 
occasion  it  was  feared  the  Tories  would  walk  over  the  course.  The 
day  previous  to  the  nomination  had  arrived,  and  no  liberal  candi- 
date !  The  Reform  Club  had  been  written  to.  What  did  they  mean 
by  not  sending  down  some  one  ?  It  was  shameful — scandalous  I — 
D — —  had  been  all  day  in  a  fever.  He  had  rode,  and  written,  and 
fumed,  and  fretted*  and  run  up  the  town,  and  down  the  town,  and 
been  in  and  out  of  the  committee-room,  until  he  was  quite  exhausted 
and  hadn't  a  leg  to  stand  on.  He  had  retired  to  rest  at  last,  quite 
overcome  with  the  anxiety,  fatigue,  and  disappointment  he  had  un- 
dergone-    About  midnight  be  was  aroused  by  a  loud  knocking, 

**  Who's  there?"  cried  D ,  throwing  up  the  window, 

<'  Please,  be  tbis  Captain  D*- — 's,"  inquired  a  country  man,  mount- 
ed on  a  nsLgr  which  was  all  in  a  foam, 

**  Yes,  /am  Captain  D ,"  replied  the  latter,  yawning, 

"Please,  then,  you  mun  coom  down.  I  ha*  gotten  a  letter  here 
vor  you,  which  I  wur  to  be  zure  to  put  into  your  own  hands,  and 
which  you  be  to  "tend  to  immediately.^* 

"  Who's  it  from  ?'*  demanded  D ,  slipping  on  his  nether  intc^ 

guments. 

'*  A  great  Lunnon  gentleman,  zur,  who  be  just  coom  down  to  *et 
oop  as  Parliament  man/' 

"  A  London  gentleman  \" 

"Ees,  zure,  zur!     He  be  now  waiting  at  *Mhe  White  Hart,"  at 

F ,  where  1  bees  under-ostler.     But  you  mun  make  haste,  zur, 

if*  you  please.     I  ha'  gotten  another  letter  here,  to — "' 

Down  hurried  D .     The  man  thrust  the  letter  into  his  hand, 

and  galloped  off.  D-^^-'b  eye  sparkled  as  it  glanced  over  the  con- 
tents. 

"Yes!     B  himself,    by    Jupiter  1"    exclaimed    be  joyfully; 

"Couldn*t  have  had  a  better  man!  AW,  Mr.  Mayor ! — AW%  my 
gentlemen  of  the  Corporation  !  we  have  you.     There's  an  end  to 

your  jobbing.     Yes — yes,  we  shall  get  B in  to  a  certainty-   But 

I  must  order  a  postchaifle,  I  must  rattle  over  to  him  instantly.  He 
has  acted  right — oh !  quite  right — in  waiting  at  F—  ,  and  sending 
for  fm^/* 

About  two  hours  after  a  postchaise  dashed  furiously  up  to  the 
principal  inn  at  F^ .     Out  sprang  D — — , 

•^^  How  odd  nobody  is  here  to  receive  me  T*  thought  he,  as  he 
worked  away  at  the  knocker. 

At  lengtb  a  *•  lip- shod  waiter,  half  asleep,  obeyed  the  summons. 

**Why   didn't   you  come  before?"  said    1>- ,  looking   at   his 

watch,  "  Didn't  you  hear  me  drive  up?  But,  shew  me  in^shew 
lue  in.     It's  past  two  already  ;  there's  not  an  instant  to  be  lost." 


OUTPOURINGS. 


283 


The  waiter  shewed  him  into  a  room,  set  a  chair^  and  inquired  if 

he  should  order  a  bed  to  be  got  ready* 

**  Oh  God  I  noi"  cried  D^ ,  throwing  his  hat  and  gloves  on  the 

table;  " no  bed  for  me  to-night — ^I've  too  niwch  to  do.  We  must 
be  wide  awake — have  our  eyes  open — or  those  cursed  Tories  wiU  be 
too  much  for  ua.  Let  nie  see/'  continued  he,  seating  himself^  and 
rubbing  his  eyes  ;  "  in  the  iirst  place,  I  must  have  some  strong  coffee 
—  d — d  strong,  sir,  d*ye  hear?  with  lots  of  cold  spring  water.  But, 
above  all,  have  horses  ready — ready  to  start  at  a  moment's  notice, 
now.     That's  importanL" 

"  Then  your  going  on,  sir  ?"  said  the  waiter,  yawning. 

"  Going  on  !"  repeated  D ,  staring.     **  What  should  I  go  on 

for  ?     D'ye  suppose  I'm  going  to  London  ?" 
'*  I — I  didn't  know,  sir — I  thought — " 

"  Thought  V*  echoed  D ,  erecting  himself  in  the  chair.   "  Why, 

don't  you   know  rae  ?     I'm  Captain  D— ^— !     Captain  D ,  from 

W ^  man." 

'*  Oh !  indeed,  sir— are  you,  sir  ?"  said  the  Ganymede  with  another 
yawn. 

"Why,  of  course  I  am!"  cried  D ,  starting  up.     '*  Who  else 

should  be  ?**  continued  he  angrily.     "  But,  where 's  Air.  B ?     Is 

this  his  room  ?     He 's  not  gone  to  bedj  of  course.     Go,  tell  him  I  *m 

here;    my  compliments — ^Captain   D ^'s   compliments,  and  I*m 

waiting — go !  run  now — there's  not  a  moment  to  be  lost.  Why  the 
devil  don't  you  go,  sir  ?'* 

"  Mr,  Hlio  !  did  you  say,  air  ?"  inquired  tlie  waiter,  looking  parti- 
cularly puzzled. 

"Oh  1  you're  a  pretty  fellow  to  be  head  waiter  in  such  an  estab* 

lishment  as  this  T  said  D ,  suppressing  his  passion,  "  I  said  Mr. 

B^ ,  ye  blockhead  f — of  course  I  did.     Don't  I  tell  you  I'm  Cap* 

tain  D from  W } — Of  course  I  Ve  particular  business  with 

him^^you  know  I  have ;  so  don't  stand  staring  there,  like  a  dead  cod- 
fish in  a  fishmonger's  stall,  but  tell  him  I'm  wailing — jump  now." 
"Is  the  gentleman  a  bagman,  sir?"  said  tlie  waiter,  still  hesitating, 

"  A  WHAT?"  bawled  D ,  as  soon  as  he  could  speak«     "  A  bag-  j 

man  J" 

**  Yes,  sir,  a — a  commercial  gentleman — a- — a — " 

**Oh  I  it's  no  use  to  be  in  a  passion  with  this  fellow  I"  thought 

D ^  •*  he  'b  drunk^ — he  'a  muddled.    He  doesn't  understand  a  word 

I  say.     I  must  call  his  master." 

This  latter,  who  had  been  roused  by  the  knocking,  now  entered  - 
"Oh  !  I  'ra  gbd  you  're  come !"  said  D — — .    **  I  was  just  going  to^ 
|cali  you.     This  drunken  rascal  here — " 

**  Drunk!'*  interrupted  the  waiter,  indignantly,   "I'm  no  more 
drunk  than  you  are.     For  my  jwrt— " 

'*  Silence  James  1"  said  his  master:  then,  turning  to  I>         ,  he  in* 
Lquired  his  pleasure. 

^     **  1  must  see  Mr.  B instantly^instantly,     I  'm  Captain  D- 

from  W ;  and  I  11  thank  you  either  to  let  him  know  I  'm  here,.] 

or  show  me  to  his  apartment  immediately/' 

'*  Is  there  any  such  gentleman  in  the  house,  Jaraet?"  said  the 
landlord. 

"Not  as  I  know  ofj  mf.     I  never  heard  his  name  before." 

d,"  exclaimed  D ,  *'  you  've  been  bribed 


'Why,  you  lying 


'you 


284  POWER8COURT. 

by  the  Tories  to  prevent  my  seeing  him.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do 
that  Mr.  B  arrived  here  about  four  hours  ago,  and  sent  me  this 

letter  by  your  under  ostler.  You  see,  it  appoints  me  to  meet  him 
here,  and — " 

"  Do  you  know  anything  of  this,  James  ?"  inquired  his  master. 

"  Not  a  syllable,  sir  I  I  '11  be  shot  if  ever  I  heard  of  the  letter,  or 
the  gentleman  before.     It 's  impossible  Mr.  B  could  be  in  the 

house  without  my  knowing  it." 

"Call  Jem!"  said  the  landlord.  ''Oh!  Jem,"  (addressing  the 
under-ostler,  who  now  joined  them)  ''  did  you  take  this  letter  over 
to  W to  this  gentleman  ?" 

*'  Ay !  Didn't  you  put  it  into  my  hands,  my  man,  about  two 
hours  ago  ?"  demanded  D eagerly. 

Jem  turned  the  letter  over — ^yawned— scratched  his  head,  and  re- 
turned it,  saving,  "  Noa — ^never  seed  un  afore— 'Twant  me !" 

It  was  plain  D— —  had  bben  hoaxbd  ! ! ! 

The  letter  was 

^*  Some  weak  invention  of  the  enemy  I  " 

and  he  had  had  his  ride  for  nothing ! 

*^  That  diabolical  Mayor !"  cried  D  ,  as  he  ordered  post-horses 
to  return.    ''  He 's  at  the  bottom  of  all  this." 

The  next  morning  a  liberal  candidate  arrived.     D  came  for- 

ward to  second  the  nomination.  The  Mayor,  the  supposed  author 
of  the  letter,  stood  on  his  right  hand,  ffvery  time  his  eye  glanced 
on  this  functionary  his  blood  boiled,  until  at  length  it  boiM  over, 
when,  unable  any  longer  to  control  his  indignation,  he  pulled  out  the 
letter,  and  thrusting  it  into  the  Mayor's  face,  vociferated,  **  Oh !  you 
d^^  rascal!  this  is  all  your  doing" 


POWERSCOUBT. 

A  BALLAD. 
BY  WILLIAM  JONES. 

Br  Dargle*8  woodlands  lone  I  stray *d.  So  beautiful,  it  woke  within 

When  summer  skies  were  beaming.  The  chords  that  had  been  sleeping. 

And  through  each  copse  andbriarM  gbde  And  eyes  that  tearless  long  had  been 

I  wanderM — sweetly  dreaming  !  Now  droop*d  in  pensive  weeping ! 
I  pictured  there  the  radiant  shore 

That  trustful  ones  are  waiting.  The  birds'  low  warble  echoed  round, 

Where  Sorrow  cannot  shadow  o*er  The  streamlet's  phish  replying  ; 

The  joys  of  Hope's  creating  '.  The  evening  winds,  with  gentle  sound. 


Throtigh  forest-trees  were  sighing  ! 
And  thus  it  seem'd  like  Heav'n's  intent. 


Fair  was  the  scene  !  a  saintly  charm  

Seem*d  there  to  have  iu  dwelling ;  Such  loveliness  displaying, 

Around— unbroken  was  the  calm—  To  show  how  earth  so  richly  blent 

My  heart  nlone  was  swelling !  Its  glory  was  pourtraying ! 


285 


JOHN  GALT. 


A  LITERARY  RETROSPECT  BY  A  MIDDLE-AGED  MAN. 

Who  reraembers  reading  a  strange,  flighty  prwluction,  published 
some  five-and -twenty  years  ago,  and  enjoyed  only  by  a  few  peca- 
liar  minds,  called  '*  The  Majolo?*'  It  was  the  unread  work  of  John 
Gait,  the  afterwards  popular  author  of  "  The  Ayrshire  Legatees," 
"  The  Entail,"  and  *'  The  Provost/' — (the  last  book  was  an  especial 
favourite  of  George  the  Fourth,) 

L.  E,  L.  said  truly  and  wittily  of  Gait,  "  that  he  was,  like  Antaeus, 
never  strong,  except  w^hen  he  touched  his  mother  earth:"  I  remem- 
ber the  saying  being  repeated  to  Gait,  and  I  think  I  see  his  coun- 
tenance, and  hear  his  dry,  incredulous  attempt  at  a  laugh*  But 
li.  E,  L*  was  right;  and,  indeed^  as  a  critic  she  was  generally  right* 
Gait  was  never  in  his  element  out  of  Scotland,  nth  nor  even  out  of 
the  Lowlands  of  Scotland  :  the  homely,  saving  ways  ;  the  intense 
humour,  the  simple  pathos,  of  which  there  are  abundant  specimens 
in  middle  Scottish  life,  to  him  were  natural  and  habitual.  The  es- 
sential character  of  his  literary  powers  was  fidelity  ;  he  dreamed 
he  had  imagination,  whilst  he  possessed  little  more  than  a  power 
of  close  observation. 

"  The  Majolo"  is  a  desultory,  ill- written  composition,  the  weed- 
ing of  a  powerful  mind.  Crude  philosophy  and  Scotch  superstition 
appear  in  many  of  its  passages ;  there  are,  however,  touches  in  it 
worthy  of  the  masterly  hand  which  afterwards  eifected  so  much, 
and  achieved  for  its  owner  so  just  a  fame.  On  looking  at  Gait 
one  could  never  connect  him  with  **  The  Majolo/'  the  travelled 
and  accomplished  man  of  mystery  and  romance  ;  nor  even,  when  in 
the  full  vigour  of  health,  could  an  observer  read  in  his  countenance 
any  of  the  varying  characteristics  which  afterwards  peeped  forth  in 
"  The  Annals  of  the  Parish/'  There  never  was  a  being  for  w  horn 
illness  did  so  much  in  the  way  of  personal  improvement  as  Gait. 
When  in  the  prime  of  manhood  and  the  vigour  of  health  he  was  an 
ungainly  man  :  of  height  above  the  common,  w  ith  a  common- place, 
though  somewhat  handsome  cast  of  features;  a  very  strong  Scottish 
accent,  a  great  lumbering  figure,  a  hardness  of  aspect  altogether; 
and  there  was  nothing  of  that  quiet  dignity  and  gentle  deference  to 
others  that  softened  the  sterner  attributes  of  Allan  Cunningham, 
and  which  afterwards  pleased  in  the  later  years  of  Gait. 

At  the  time  when  I  thought  him  least  agreeable.  Gait  was  living 
in  Lindesay  Row,  Chelsea  ; — now  for  a  puzzle  to  my  readera^ — 
how  many  in  a  hundred  may  chance  to  know  Lindesay  How,  Chel- 
sea? I  should  not  like  to  venture  a  wager  even  upon  one.  Look 
out,  gentle  reader,  to  the  right,  as  you  pass  over  Battersea  Bridge, 
and  you  will  see,  facing  the  river,  a  row^  of  good,  even  stately 
housetj  all  white,  terminating  abruptly,  as  if  it  had  been  at  one  time 
proposed  to  form  a  terrace  of  considerable  extent,  and  that  the 
scheme  had  been  prematurely  abandoned — that  is  Lindesay  Row; 
and  some  very  goodly  houses  are  in  that  unfashionable  row,— houses 
with  spacious  drawing-rooms,  adorned  with  rich  cornices ;  houses 
with  wide  entrances  and  fine  staircases,  and  a  view  of  tlie  river 


lort  of 

ID  affirming, 
themselves 
ridng 
of  LardCre- 
n  by 
t  to  which 
'  much  for 
when  we 
mdb  of  the 
onee  stood 
Bto  of  the 
of  the  Bridge. 
,  times,  when 
bolt,  hadpos- 
,  not  expecting 
I  see  (in  my  mind's 
Bridge,  and  turn 
Isea  Reach — 
psetnresqae  row  of 
J  and  other 
to  look  oat  upon  such 
F hf  ''in^yfcfitT  depart. 
~  "    Beanfort  Row,  and 

t  in  Beaafwl  Row  that  I  used 
:  a  ringular  theme 
i  present,  of  this  me- 
.  ima  ied  each  other's  minds  by 
•SbBB^  —  the  authors  and  the 
'  f  long  life  associa- 
,and  has  produced,^-the 
?or    in  most  instances,  the  hterary 
iduri  lede  more  than  tea>tables, — md 
:«e^.     Ksswre  v  me  the  tea-table,  and  I  will 
f  3»  -m:^  iiun^ers  abr  ±  the  costly  right  o'clock  din- 
■  'jx  Mfty   iMire   znimcffWt  than  the  Gnoes,  and 
r  ICiuek    I  will  afive  up  tiie  dejnmer^  and  the  d^euner 
3M  mmtimrt  muncaie,  and  the  join^  muMicak,  uid  all 
*«  ever  drw/e  ooe  crmxr — gire  me  but  the  tes-table, 
i«e  ffc  me  Mcfa  a»  1  knew  it  of  vonp. 

L^L'^SL^L**  **««g«  oompanioo^'ps  which  fate  forms  for 

^^_*» "*""**"  '••"^'•**-'  ^  ™t  time  was  a  literary  receptacle 

^rf~s  a  Buui  brimful  of  acquirement,  rich  in  quality  as  the 

out  buttled,  and  cellared  up  with  as  much  care. 

■^"  *r_,  '  ?  ^  "*  P**'*  literanr  man  of  the  olden  time.    His 

Ji^iMwd^  waa  that  ofa  derk  in  the  Record  Office;  added 

*^  ■■  ™  ^^P'^*'^*  ^«*  ^  «k»ng  o"^  ^he  powers  of  a 
DffsuM  to  do  thrir  work.     He  was,  in  short,  a 


Ljf^J^i*  d?^^  c«pwity  he  perhaps  acquired  the  great 
m  AMe  which  he  poaacsscd.  and  which  made  him  such  a 
i*>wr  to  the  Umg  stonea  of  Gait. 

■^■•dto  me  to  be  by  nature  a  male  Scheraaaide.     He 
■MTative,  ao  raie,  so  fine«  so  seemingly  shn|^,  bat 


JOHN   OALT, 


287 


40  inexplicably  diificuU;  repartee  is  nothinif  to  it:  the  power  of 
relating  a  story,  without  aflectation^  or  weariness  to  yonr  listener. 
is  one  above  all  price.  Women  excel  in  it  more  than  men:  but 
then  they  are  aided  by  the  varying  countenance,  the  soft  voice,  the 
quick  apprehension  of  an  auditor's  feelings.  They  are,  it  is  true, 
apt  to  hurry ;  and  hurry  is  fatal  to  a  narrative.  Coleridge  had  it : 
at  his  friend  Mr.  Oilman's,  at  Highgate,  what  heads  were  bowed 
down  to  listen  to  his  half- dissertations,  half- narratives  ;  his  eye 
mildly  glistening  all  the  while,  his  white  hair  falling  about  his 
neck,  his  accents  trilling  in  the  ear  of  young  and  old,  gay  and 
grave.  Moore  has  it,  but  in  a  very  different  mode:  his  stories  are 
short  and  pithy,  without  the  thoughtful  moral  of  Coleridge,  or  the 
strong  situations  which  Gait  delighted  to  depict.  For  Gait  was 
melodramatic  In  bis  tales ;  there  was  always  a  surprise,  a  mystery,  an 
anomaly,  at  all  events,  at  the  end  of  them.  He  spoke  in  a  low, 
monotonous  voice,  with  much  of  the  Greenock  accent  marring  its 
sweetness  but  adding  to  its  effect ;  and  he  bent  bis  high  forehead 
down,  and  his  eyes,  long,  narrow,  and  deep-sunk,  were  fixed 
steadily  upon  those  of  him  to  whom  he  addressed  himself;  and  he 
went  on,  on,  stopping  at  intervals  to  catch  an  exclamation  from  his 
listener,  and  to  return  it  with  his  own  dry  laugh.  His  narrative 
was  simple,  succinct,  unambitious  in  phrase^  and  had  the  charm 
of  seeming  to  be  thoroughly  enjoyed  by  him  who  spoke  it,  aa  it 
usually  was  by  those  to  whom  it  was  spoken. 

Our  friend  of  the  Record  Office  heard  all  Gait's  stories  with  a 
philosophic  incredulity,  never  expressed,  but  pictured  in  a  face  to 
which  nature  had  lent  no  charm.  Evening  after  evening  such  con- 
verse went  on.  After  sunset — ^I  think  I  see  him  as  I  write — in  came 
the  secretary,  retiring  to  his  drawing-room  after  an  evening  stroll. 
He  was  the  last  wearer  of  the  willow  hat ;  a  blessed »  but  not  a  be- 
coming invention:  on  the  same  principle  a  gambroon  coat  was 
assumed  in  summer.  He  neither  smoked,  nor  talked,  nor  played  at' 
cards,  so  that  the  copious  talk  of  Gait  seemed  to  be  designed  by  his 
good  angel  on  purpose  for  his  amusement.  Then  in  came  Gait ; 
his  proud  stature  looking  prouder  in  the  little  drawing*room,  be^ 
neath  the  door  of  which  he  was  almost  forced  to  stoop.  He  was  then 
in  the  vigour  of  intellect,  and  full  of  hope^ — that  hope  which  cir- 
cumstances so  cruelly  quenched.  He  was  full  of  schemes — the 
Canada  Company  was  then  his  theme ;  and  he  had  schemes  with* 
out  end.  All  these  he  unfolded  to  his  silent  friend,  who  rarely 
grunted  an  approval,  yet  was  too  canny  to  differ  openly.  Gait  was 
just  discovering  the  taleabitilt^  of  his  own  powers  ;  he  was  penning 
*'  The  Ayrshire  Legatees."  "  I  can  write  a  sheet  a  night,"  he  said, 
addressing  his  friend,  I  remember  the  cold  "  humph !"  which 
sounded  to  me  very  much  like  *'  the  more  'a  the  pity."  Our  secre- 
tary did  not  approve  of  rapid  composition. 

Mr*  Gait  was  at  that  time  a  married  man,  his  lady  being  a 
daughter  of  Mr.  Tilloch,  formerly  editor  of  the  Star  newspaper ; 
one  of  the  papers  of  my  grandmother's  class,  dull  and  proper,  and 
tutted  to  elderly  country  gentlemen,  who  looked  for  it  by  the  post 
OS  eagerly  as  for  their  pipe  and  spectacles. 

His  wife  and  three  sons  formed  the  domestic  circle  of  Mr.  GaJt. 
His  occupation  had  been  that  of  a  merchant ;  but  he  was,  at  this 
pmod  of  his  life,  full  of  the  Canada  Company.    His  mind  was  eager. 


288  JOHN    OALT 

energetic,  and  sanguine;  his  habits,  without  being  exactly  extra- 
vagant, were  those  of  a  man  who  abhors  small  calculations,  whibt  he 
is  planning  great  schemes:  his  whole  mind  seemed  absorbed  by 
those  plans  which  produced  to  their  framer  nothing  more  profit- 
able than  ''  Lawrie  Todd,"  and  brought  infinite  vexation,  and  a  per- 
plexity and  trouble  which  destroyed  him. 

I  dined  with  Gait  once  when  he  was  in  this  place  of  proiects.  He 
had  then  left  Lindesay  Row ;  and  the  slow  companionsnip  of  his 
tadtum  friend  of  the  Record  Office  was  exchanged  for  the  bust- 
ling intercourse  of  men  of  the  world, — men  conversant  with  the 
money  market,  directors  of  this  company,  secretaries  to  institutions, 
stockorokers,  and  the  like.  What  an  uncongenial  sphere  for  the 
writer  of  ''  The  Entail !"  yet  Oalt  managed  to  play  his  part  ably. 
He  had  a  vast  share  of  good-humour;  he  had  a  ready  reply,  a  busi- 
ness-like precision,  and  the  true  Scotch  hospitality  characterised 
hiin  as  a  landlord.  He  then  lived  in  a  house  in  Tavistock  Place, 
next  the  chapel :  it  consisted  of  two  floors  only ;  and  the  study, 
dining-room,  drawing-room,  were  all  en  suite.  1  was  struck  by  the 
versatility  with  which  the  novelist,  who  has  touched  the  finest 
chords  of  the  heart  in  his  ''Windy  Yule,*'  the  masterpiece  of 
''  The  Provost,"  could  adapt  himself  to  the  actual  business  of  life. 
After  his  company  were  gone,  he  sat  down,  I  am  told,  to  his  lite- 
rary labours.  There  never  was  a  greater  discrepancy  between  any 
man's  actual  inclinations  and  positive  pursuits  than  those  of  Oalt  at 
this  period.  Happy  had  it  been  for  him  had  he  followed  the  bid- 
dings of  Nature,  and  brandished  his  pen  only  as  the  novelist  or 
biographer !  It  served  him  in  little  stead  when  applied  to  the  job- 
bings of  a  company. 

There  is  a  period  in  every  man's  life  when  he  is  what  his  kind 
friends,  and  especially  his  old  friends,  who  have  been  stationary  in 
life,  call  "set  up."  Heaven  knows,  I  write  not  this  in  any  bit- 
terness, neither  do  I  mean  to  apply  it  to  Gait  He  was  sanguine ; 
he  enjoyed  the  eminence  to  which  he  had  raised  himself:  but  his 
was  not  the  insolence  of  success,  although  it  might  be  esteemed  the 
elation  of  prosperitv.  His  disposition  was  kind  and  cordial,  and 
he  appeared  to  feel  a  perfect  reliance  on  the  good- will  of  those 
around  him. 

But  the  aspirations  of  this  sanguine  spirit  were  not  realised.  He 
went  to  Canada  and  one  heard  of  him  and  thought  of  him  with 
about  the  same  interest  as  one  gazes  upon  yon  far-oflT  planet,  whose 
orb,  as  I  close  my  study  window-curtains,  shines  above  the  dark  tips 
of  those  fir-trees.  When  I  remembered  Gait  (to  carry  out  my 
simile),  it  was  to  think  of  him  as  one  whose  radiance  iUumined 
anotlier  sphere,  and  probably  never  more  would  shine  on  mine. 
I  mixed  him  up  in  my  mind  with  furs,  and  Washington  Irvine, 
and  the  '*  Rough  Notes"  of  Sir  George  Head — and  the  Canada 
Company  was  to  me  a  mystery  and  a  puzzle  that  I  could  never 
make  out 

Gait  came  home — that  atrocious  Canada  Company ! — but  I  won't 
be  personal:  he  came  back,  and  was  located  in  Brompton.  I  went 
to  see  him. 

Now,  Brompton  is  the  grave  of  London.  Its  two  syllables  speak 
of  illness  too  severe  to  admit  of  further  removal,  and  which  takes 
the  middle  course  of  going  oat  of  London,  but  not  getting  into  the 


JOHN    GALT. 


28^ 


couTitry.  Its  familiar  two  sjrllables  represent  the  asienrblage  of  the 
half  sick,  and  the  half  ruined,  and  the  half  resipectabie,  and  tiie  half 
broken-hearted ,  who  people  its  squares,  and  utter  their  pl«ints  in 
its  groves — for  Brompton  is  a  pastoral  pla^e.  It  has  its  St,  Slichaers 
Grove,  it»  Brompton  Grove,  ita  Hermitage  ;  an  exquisite  p«em  by 
L.  K.h,  has  bee o  written  upon  the  single  grave  of  its  churchyard. 
It  is  altogether  a  place  very  poetical  to  hear  of-— very,  very  prosaic 
when  seen. 

Barnes  Cottage,  where  poor  Mr*  Gait  lived  until  his  final  removal 
to  Scotland,  stands  close  upon  the  broiling,  dusty^  sunny  road, 
called  Old  Brompton  Lane :  it  i«  a  cottapje  in  a  confiumption  ;  for 
the  symptoms  of  decay  strike  you  forcibly,  even  whilst  you  admit 
the  existence  of  something  pleasant,  and  even  comely,  in  the  object 
presented  to  you. 

You  enter  a  porch,  and  come  at  once  into  a  low,  but  not  very 
small  parlonr-^^one  on  either  side  of  the  door.  A  passage  intersectt 
the  house,  and  a  glass-door  at  the  end  shows  you  a  gravel  walk, 
and  a  spacious,  sunny  garden,  all  garnished  with  gay  flowers, — roses 
more  especially, — and  furnished  with  fruit-trees.  It  is  a  refreshing 
little  spot ;  and  you  come  upon  it  instantaneously  ^otii  the  dusty 
foad ;  and  you  seem  to  be,  comparatively  speaking,  emerging  into 
the  country  from  the  hackneyed  road  out  of  town. 

I  visited  poor  Gait  here, — yes,  he  was  ftoor  Gait ;  for  the  world  had 
dealt  with  him  much  in  the  same  manner  as  it  usually  deals  with 
the  sensitive  and  the  uncalcuiating*  That  Canada  Company  1  —but  I 
abstain  from  invective,  and  forbear  the  language  of  party. 

The  room  was,  I  will  not  say  indiflerently  furniBhed —  it  was 
** reatlxf  furnished:"  the  phrase  speaks  for  itself  Everything  was 
complete,  but  dingy,  dark  green,  and  manifesting  the  transient 
character  uf  our  sublunary  state.  But  the  windows  looked  upon 
that  gay,  hot  garden ;  and  wall-fruit,  of  which  the  hospitable 
leDants  of  the  cottage  made  you  partakcj  hung  upon  the  walls  ;  and 
iweet-peas  bloomed,  and  mignionette  grew  in  broad  patches,  and 
scented  the  very  chamber  in  which  you  were  shown. 

Mr,  Gait  was  seated  in  a  chair  as  1  went  in.  He  did  not  rise. 
He  looked  older ;  he  was  stouter ;  there  was  no  indication  of  111 
health :  but  he  gave  me  his  left  hand,  and  pointing  to  his  right, 
iaid  with  a  little  quickness,  **  Perhaps  you  heard  of  my  attack  ? 
It  has  fallen  upon  ray  limbs;  my  head  is  clear." 

I  sat  down,  and  we  ran  over  the  events  of  the  few  years  which 
had  intervened  since  I  saw  him  last.  To  me  they  had  been  but  little 
varied  by  what  the  world  calls  adversity;  however — but  why  touch 
upon  themes  with  which  the  stranger  intermeddleth  not  ?  To  Gait 
they  had  been  a  season  of  severe  struggling,  hard  business,  irritation, 
o{»pression,  injustice;  so  he  said— and  I  never  inquired.  I  was  con- 
tent to  pity.  I  was  certain  there  was  nothing  to^  condemn,  I  was 
tyre  —  and  was  afterwards  assured  that  my  conviction  was  right—* 
that  Mr.  Gall  had  consulted  his  own  interests  far  too  little,  and  that 
o^  his  employers  too  much.  That  he  had  been  disinterested  and  in- 
defatigable i  and,  as  the  disinterested  generally  are,  had  been  treated 
with  a  severity  and  illiberality,  which,  being  the  work  of  a  company, 
coold  not  be  visited  upon  any  one  individual.  Such  are  my 
impressions:  they  may  be  erroneous,  for  the  evidence  on  which 
they  are  based  is  ex  parte,  and  is  extracted  from  a  pamphlet  circu- 

VOL.  XVIII.  X 


890 


JOHN    GALT. 


n 


Iflted  by  Gait  among  ihe  few  Bterling  friends  whose  constancy  and 
affection  remainetl  to  him  in  this  most  desolate  and  trying  period  of 
his  life* 

It  was  truly  to  he  so  described,  for  it  was  not  a  period  of  certain- 
ty, but  one  of  harassing  suspense.  Day  after  day  might  his  tall, 
bent  form  be  seen,  aided  by  servants,  entering  the  city  omnibus,  as 
it  stood  in  that  hot,  dusty  road  by  Barnes  Cottage.  On  be  went,  to 
argue,  and  wrangle,  and  press  his  claims  with  hard-headed  men,  and 
to  return  disappointed  and  irritated  to  his  easy  chair,  and  to  the 
unmeasured  sympfithy  of  the  best  of  women  and  of  wives.  His  elder 
sons,  meantime,  had  f^one  as  settlers  in  that  very  country  the  pros* 
perity  of  which  their  father  had  foreseen.  One  only  remained  at  home. 
Where  is  he  now — tbe  bashful ,  blooming  boy,  with  an  eye  just 
like  his  gifted  father's,  and  a  head  full  of  poetic  fancies?  I.<i  he  too  a 
settler  on  those  cold  plains  >  Has  not  the  name  of  Gait  one  repre- 
sentative in  Old  England  ?^ — Alas  ! 

I  spoke  of  the  few  friends  who  tried  to  cheer  the  breaking  heart  of  ^ 
the  poet  in  his  retirement  at  Barnes  Cottage,  Among  these  was  one 
whose  kindness  contributed  much  to  soothe  the  wounded  spirit,  and 
to  appease  the  cravings  of  that  which  merited  not  the  name  of  mor- 
tified vanity,  but  which  might  be  termed  a  consciousness  of  unjust 
desertion  from  the  world.  8Ac  came— I  dare  not  pen  her  name — 
still  beautiful,  always  gifted,  better  than  all,  ever  kintl,  in  alt  her 
loveliness  of  delicate  apparel,  in  all  her  gems  and  splendour.  SAe 
sat  by  the  sick  man's  easy  chair,  the  soft  air  blowing  about  her  costly 
veil  and  other  appurtenances,  as  she  stooped  ;  whilst  in  the  tane 
stood  her  gay  coach  at  the  door,  lU  proud  steeds  pawing  the  ground, 
its  five  bill  Is  and  coroneted  panel  attracting  the  surprise  of  many 
a  passer-by,  as  he  contrasted  the  lowly  entrance  with  the  sumptuous 
vehicle.  She  came  pitying  and  sorrowing,  and  ever  and  anon  leaving 
behinil  her  something  to  solace  the  dark  hours  which  succeeded  the 
return  in  the  omnibus  frum  the  foul  city.  She  knew,  gay  and  gor- 
geous as  was  her  attire,  she  too  knew  how  the  world's  censures  eat 
into  the  heart  Kind,  beautiful,  yet  erring  being!  The  world  caslt 
you  from  it — in  some  moments  of  reflection,  for  come  they  w?f//, 
when  the  heart  challenges  the  memory,  and  regret  and  sorrow  bedew 
your  eyes  with  tears,  know  that  you  comforted  the  infirm  man  in 
his  infirmity — that  you  left  him  soothed  and  thankful — thai  yoM,  of 
all  the  gay  dames  who  were  wont  to  smile  upon  his  happier  hours^ 
forsook  not  his  decline. 

In  the  decay  of  his  fortunes,  Mr.  Gait,  whilst  pressing  what  he  be- 
lieved to  be  just  claims  on  the  Canada  Company,  applied  for,  and,  I  J 
believe,  was  promised  a  pension,  which  was  never  paid — perhaps  it ! 
was  never  granted — day  after  day  his  health  declined,  and  repeated 
strokes  of  palsy  took  from  him  first  the  use  of  one  limb,  then  of  an- 
other^then  the  mind  shewed  slight  symptoms  of  weakness.  Fearful 
and  inexplicable  change  I  With  what  solicitude  did  the  faithful 
partner  of  his  fortunes  watch  over  his  shattered  frame.  How  she 
sought  to  persuade  herself,  even  while  his  speech  faltered,  his  me- 
mory betrayed  him,  that  the  limbs  only  partook  of  the  general 
failure*  How  seh'-tleceiving  is  affection  1  And  she,  humble,  reli- 
gious, self-distrustful,  how  inrrportant  had  she  become  to  the  sick  J 
man  in  his  hour  of  trial* 


JOtIK    GALT. 


S9I 


He  bore  it  raanfully.     The  disease,  which  produces  «uch  irritation 

of  nerves  and  temper,  was  combated  in  ihni,  its  worst  form,  by  hhn. 
He  never  complained ;  though  in  the  vigour  of  life,  when,  not  much 
more  than  fifty  years  of  age,  his  strength  was  prostrated.  There 
were  moments  of  intense  anxiety  when  he  sorrowed  for  her — when 
he  thought  of  his  sons,  and  hoped  they  would  fare  better  than  him* 
•elf.  There  were  moments  of  despair  ;  but  the  general  tenor  of  his 
journey,  as  it  neared  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  was  resig- 
nation and  fortitude. 

The  last  time  1  saw  him  he  called  upon  me  alone.  Yes,  he  came, 
even  in  his  low  and  feeble  state,  and  got  out  of  the  cab  which 
brought  him,  and  entered  the  house  leaning  upon  the  arm  of  my  ser^ 
vant.  He  could  scarcely  walk*  I  never  shall  forget  the  face  of 
horror  of  a  friend  of  mine,  who  whispered  to  me  as  he  entered, 
"Who  is  that  9 — I  have  seen  him  elsewhere."  I  answered  by  re^in- 
troducing  him  ;  it  was,  indeeil,  requisite.  Yet,  when  seated.  Gait 
retained  little  appearance  of  disease*  His  complexion  was  clear,  his 
articulation  was  then  restored,  his  eyes  sparkled  ;  it  was  when  he 
arose  and  walked  that  one  saw  that  the  axe  had  been  laid  to  the  root 
of  tlie  tree.  He  got  out  again  with  difficulty ,  my  servant  supporting 
him  even  until  he  was  seated  in  the  cab*  It  drove  away,  and  I 
never  beheld  him  again  !  I  called  at  Barnes  Cottage — a  large  board 
**to  let  furnished"  warned  me  that  I  had  called  too  late.  I  stopped, 
nevertheless,  some  time  in  the  house,  opened  to  me  by  one  of  that 
crew  who  "  take  care  of  houses,'*  and  take  care  that  t!»ey  shall  not  be 
let  either.  I  stood  for  a  few  moments  before  the  easy  chair  which 
JMr.  Gait  used,  and  heard  the  story  that  he  and  his  had  gone  to  live 
(that  is  to  die)  at  Greenock,  where  Mr,  Gait's  sister  resided,  I 
strolled  into  the  garden,  into  which  I  had  sometimes  supported  him 
with  my  arm.  I  could  remember  the  very  tale  he  had  told  me  when 
last  wc  had  sat  in  yon  arbour^^  now  overgrown  with  the  clematis 
which  had  been  heretofore  subjected  to  discipline*  I  sat  down  and 
sorrowed  for  hira  beneath  the  branches  of  a  large  mulberry  tree.  It 
was  unlikely  that  I  should  see  him  more.  In  prosperity  he  had  been 
nothing  to  me ;  but  the  adversity  of  the  last  year  bad  established  a 
claim  upon  my  feelings. 

As  I  returned  through  Old  Brompton,  and  gazed  up  at  the  house 
where  Canning  had  lived  and  died,  and  passed  the  subsUintial  house 
in  which  Faith,  visiting  the  earth,  had  appeared  in  the  form  of 
Samuel  Wilber force, — as  I  looked  upon  the  small  house  with  a  gar- 
den, in  St  MichaeFs  Grove,  in  which  Lelitia  Land  on  had  bowled  her 
hoop  in  one  hand,  and  created  verses  at  the  same  time ;  when  I 
thought  of  the  fate  of  all  these  bright  meteors,  I  came  to  the  conclu- 
«ion  that  the  history  of  the  gifted  is  a  mournful  history,  and  that  its 
moral  is  not  taught  to  the  heart,  but  wrung  from  it. 

Think  of  Canning,  the  high-toned  instrument  which  the  rude 
touch  might  in  one  instant  put  out  of  tune,  the  delicate  fabric  of  his 
nerves  so  susceptible  that  those  who  beheld  him  on  the  eve  of  some 
great  exertion  could  see  him  tremble  as  he  tried  to  join  in  ordinary 
converse  I  **  I  never  in  my  wliole  experience,"  observed  Sir  James 
Mackintosh  once,  "saw  a  man  endowed  with  such  overabundant  sen- 
sibility as  Canning.''  His  agitation,  on  a  first  introduction  to  any 
person  of  whom  he  had  a  high  notion,  was  that  of  a  timid  woman. 

X  2 


292 


JOHN    GALT. 


When  one  remembera  this  bright  and  sensitive  being  oppreased  with 
responsibility  J  badgered  by  a  party,  sinking  under  the  weight  of  in- 
cipient disease^  expiring,  whilst  a  nation  looketl  on  and  tnourned^ 
one  ia  fain  to  confess  that  the  annaU  of  genius  have  their  pages  ot 
sorrow — more  touching  than  one  likes  to  confess;  that  there  are 
martyrs  to  the  world  as  well  as  to  religion  or  patriotism. 

The  decline  of  Wilberforce  was  less  harrowing  than  the  brief  and 
awful  illness  of  Canning.  Yet  Wilberforce  had  his  sorrows ;  his 
were  the  sorrows  of  a  philanthropist  grieving  for  the  bad,  mourn- 
ing the  prevalence  of  eviL  His  own  private  aflairs^  irretrievably 
injured  as  they  were  by  his  sacrifice  to  Abolition  and  to  principle, 
seemed  like  an  episode  in  a  life  all  given  up  to  public  weaJ^  and  to 
the  advancement  of  immutable  principlesof  justice  and  mercy.  To 
descend  to  a  far  huuibler  theme:  who  knows  what  were  the  throb- 
bin  gs  of  the  overcharged  heart  that  ceased  to  beat  on  Afric's  shore 
when  L.  E,  L,  expired  ?  Who  can  tell  what  was  its  last  pang — 
what  the  final  impresfiion  of  anguish  or  of  terror? 

To  return  to  Mr.  Gait,  A  sister  offered  him  a  home,  and  he  re- 
tired to  Greenock.  He  lived  a  year  after  his  return  to  Scotland,  I 
almost  fear  to  say  how  many  shocks  of  palsy  I  heard  that  he  had  re- 
ceived ;  they  were  reported  to  be  so  numerous.  Meantime  he  felt 
acutely  the  dependence,  never  remembered  by  the  kind  and  generous 
being  who  sheltered  him  from  care,  as  she  had  hoped,  in  her  house — 
and  his  letters  breathed  the  anguish  of  hisniiud,  A  friend,  his  phy- 
sician, obtained  for  him  from  the  Literary  Fund  the  sum  of  50L  all 
the  public  assistance  ever  given  to  one  whose  works  had  delighted 
thousands:  thousands,  who  knew  not  that  the  hand  that  penned 
those  volumes  was  shrivelled  and  powerless,  and  that  the  intellect 
whence  they  emanated  was  gradually  becoming  benighted.  Much» 
however,  was  in  mercy  spared  of  that  once  powerful  mind,  to  re* 
spond  to  kindness,  and  to  console  her  who  now  mourns  the  lost  and 
the  gifted,  amid  the  forests  of  Canada.  A  long  interval  of  helplesa- 
ness,  increased  feebleness,  a  mournful  conviction  that  medicine 
could  do  no  more,  prepared  the  sorrow-stricken  man  for  the  peace 
of  eternily.  A  kinder^  a  less  complaining  spirit  never  sank  to  rest. 
His  sons  are  thriving  in  Canada^ — his  wife  has  fallowed  them  there. 
His  works  alone  remain  behind  him.  Few,  perhaps,  now  read  "  The 
Provost/"  and  **  The  Entail,*'  and  'The  Ayrshire  Legatees."  As  novels 
they  are  defective,  but  they  contain  scenes  and  passages,  as  unparal- 
leled in  their  truth  and  pathos,  as  the  works  o^  Morland  and 
of  Hogarth  in  painting,  I  should  like  to  see  a  book  entitled  '*The 
Beauties  of  Gait'* — selections  from  his  works — choice  morsels  in 
which  the  hand  of  a  great  master  may  be  seen,  his  weaknesses 
being  kept  out  of  sight,  Alas!  how  few  modern  writers  there  are 
whose  works  may  be  preserved  as  a  whole.  How  many  who  have 
leiV  passages  of  extreme  beauty — isolated  mgrcvaujF^ 


4 


293 


A  DANGEROUS  CHARACTER 


BY    PAUI4    PRENDEH6A8T. 


«*  It  is  certain,'*  philosoplHseB  Falstaff,  ''that  either  wise  bearing  or 
ignorant  carriage  is  caught,  as  m^n  take  tli^eases,  one  of  aoother/' 
Hence  the  French  polish,  if  we  may  be  allowed  the  expression*  which 
an  EngHshmim  sometimes  acquires  by  a  residence  in  Paris  ;  and  lience, 
too,  the  knack  of  gesticulating  and  making  grimaces  which  he  very 
frequently  contracts  at  the  same  lime.  A  protracted  rustication  is 
apt  to  beget  rusticity  ;  and  we  cannot  partake  of  the  ^'  pleasures  of  the 
plains,"  and  fraternise  with  their  inhabitants  for  any  length  of  time, 
withotit  picking  up  some  of  the  peculiarities  of  the  "  nymphs  and 
Awains^in  question*  The  air  of  Edinburgh  may  be  bracing  to  the 
chest ;  but  it  has  a  very  undesirable  influence  on  the  windpipe,  which 
it  converts  into  a  reed  truly  Doric,  to  judge  from  the  modulations  with 
which  it  affects  the  voice.  We  cannot,  however,  say  that  the  English 
atmosphere  has  a  converse  operation  on  the  Scottish  organ,  which,  like 
BftBs'a  pale  ale,  may  be  warranted  to  keep  in  any  climate. 

It  would  seem  likewise  that,  in  some  cases,  the  contagion  of  lan- 
guage and  deportment  is  capitble  of  being  communicated  from  one  per^ 
son  to  another  through  books^- — as  tlie  plague  bas  been  known  to  be 
carried  in  a  pair  of  slippers.  The  ambition  of  authors  is,  generally,  to 
influence  the  mind  of  other  peojde ;  but  they  sometimes  involuntarily 
produce  a  personal  effect  upon  them,  and  6nd  that  they  have  not  only 
«et  a  fashion,  but  propagated  an  oddity. 

Now  there  is  Thwaites,  the  dear  friend  of  a  dear  friend  of  ours, 
Thwaites  is  a  man  of  reading ;  he  delights  especially  in  biography^ 
history,  plays,  poems,  and  novels  ;  he  is  intimate  with  a  great  variety 
of  authors  on  paper,  and  the  consequence  is,  that  he  has  acquired  aa 
many  of  their  singularities  as  he  could  have  done  by  personal  inter- 
course with  them  J  besides  which,  he  has  amalgamated  with  his  own  a 
great  many  characters  of  fiction.  He  is  a  very  good-tempered  fellow, 
without  a  care  or  trouble  to  annoy  him  ;  he  also  enjoys  excellent 
health,  including  a  perfect  freedom  from  corns,  bunions,  callosities,  and 
all  other  minor  ills  that  the  feet  are  heirs  to, — to  say  nothing  of  gout 
or  rheumatism*  But,  after  reading  Lord  Byron,  he  was  observed  for 
a  considerable  time  to  walk  lame,  aud  also  to  go  about  with  turned- 
down  collars,  and  looks  meant  for  melancholy,  but  which  generally 
obtained  the  epithet  of  hang- dog.  A  course  of  Walter  Scott  gave  him 
a  fit  of  chivalry,  and  wonderfully  altered  his  conversation  and  bearing. 
At  one  time  he  would  express  himself  in  the  language,  and  assume  the 
atvle  of  Ft>b  Roy  ;  at  anotlier,  he  seemed  to  mistake  himself  for  Baillie 
K^icol  Jarvie,  whose  attributes  again  he  would  excliange  for  those  of 
Dirk  Htttteraick ;  and  the  next  day,  perhaps,  he  would  "  come  out  " 
ae  Dominie  Sampson.  Scott  also  taught  him  to  swear  by  his  right 
hand  and  his  halidome.  Just  in  the  same  manner  is  he  affected  by 
the  plays  of  Shakspeare,  after  the  perusal  of  one  of  which  he  is  observed 
for  some  days  literally  to  act  as  if  he  believed  himself  to  be  the  hero 
in  it.  He  has  a  snarl,  a  scowl,  and  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  indubi* 
lably  the  original  property  of  Richard  the  Third ;  he  cries  '*  Ha !  *'  in 
a  style  clearly  borrowed  from  the  Eighth  Henry ;  and  is  accustomed 


294 


A    DANGEROUS    CHARACTER 


at  times  to  talk  Elizubetlmn  in  general,  in  wbicli  dialect  be  will  aak 
to  be  belped  at  dinner,  or  desire  his  neighbour  at  table  to  band  him 
vegetables  or  condiments.  He  will  say,  &r  instance,  "  In  faith,  good 
sir,  I  will  be  thy  beadsman  for  another  slice," — *'  JVIarry^  sweet  mis- 
treas,  may  I  crave  thy  aidance  to  a  potato?" — or,  **  Master  mine,  I 
would  fiiin  trouble  thee  for  the  salt/'  So,  if  he  has  lately  been  reading 
history,  he  is  sure  to  enact  the  part  of  some  renowned  personage  whose 
peculiarities  have  been  transmitted  to  posterity  in  its  pages ;  and  bejice 
it  is  generally  possible  to  know  tiie  epoch  to  which  bis  recent  studies 
have  related.  For  instance,  by  his  u^e  of  scriptural  phraseology,  it  is 
easy  to  tell  that  he  has  been  re4iding  about  Cromwell ;  and  if  be  often 
cries  "  Odds  fish  !  "  one  may  be  sure  that  he  is  fre^h  from  Charles  the 
Stcond.  By  similar  tokens,  those  conversant  with  biography  may  con- 
jecture whose  life  he  has  last  perused.  He  has  all  at  once,  for  some 
days,  exhibited  a  propensity  to  rhyme  and  make  puns,  and  it  bat 
turned  out  that  be  has  been  engaged  upon  that  of  Dean  Swift.  He 
has  suddenly  adopted  a  habit  of  taking  snutf  with  peculiar  yehemencey 
and  of  walking  about  with  bis  hands  behind  him,  eccentricities  which 
have  been  suggested  to  bim  by  a  memoir  of  Napoleon.  Having  read 
some  stories  about  Abernethy,  be  has  taken  to  the  custom  of  putting 
bis  hands  in  his  packets;  and  he  baa  been  known,  instead  of  changing 
bis  linen,  to  put  one  shirt  over  another,  until  be  bad  three  on  at  a 
time,  apparently  because  this  piece  of  slovenliness  is  ascribed  to  Sir 
Humphrey  Davy. 

There  are,  however,  certain  pet  characters  which  it  seems  the  pecu« 
liar  fancy  of  Thwaites  to  play,  and  of  which  he  will  sometimes  sustain 
one  for  a  considerable  period.  It  is  to  be  observed  that  he  behaves  ia 
this  way  only  among  his  intimate  acquaintances,  his  manners  and  cod- 
versation  in  the  society  of  strangers  being  remarkable  only  for  great 
propriety  ;  hence,  when  he  has  arrived  at  a  certain  pitcli  of  familiarity 
witu  people, — perhaps  that  which,  according  to  the  text-band  apho- 
rism, doth  breed  contempt, — his  sudden  transformations  e^icite  great 
ostonisliment,  not  unaccompanied  by  doubts  respecting  his  sanity. 

Thwaites  had  been  for  some  little  time  acquainted  with  a  family  of 
the  name  of  Lawson,  by  which  he  had  come  to  be  considered  simply  as 
a  nice  young  man,  not  merely  for  a  small  tea-party,  but  for  ttny  party, 
small  or  large ;  so  that  now  and  then  he  was  invited  to  their  iouse  to 
dinner,  until  by  degrees  he  became  on  terms  with  tbem  of  a  nature 
bordf  ring  on  the  free  and  easy-  The  Lawsons  lately,  on  the  occasion 
of  the  birth-day  of  one  of  them,  had  a  rather  considerable  number  of 
friends,  one  of  whom  was  Thwaites,  to  dine  with  them.  Thwaites,  on 
all  previous  occasions  of  the  kind,  had  invariably  disphiyed  great  neat- 
ness in  his  attire,  and  the  extreme  of  politeness  in  bis  deportment; 
but  now,  to  the  amaasement  of  his  entertainers,  be  made  his  appearance 
in  u  sliahhy  snutf- colon  red  old  coat,  and,  instead  of  feeding  himself,  as 
he  usually  did,  with  all  the  litudied  graces  of  the  diner-out,  he  bent  his 
head  close  down  over  his  plate,  so  as  absolutely  to  become  red  in  the 
fkoej  and  gobbled  up  his  dinner  with  a  loud  noise,  and  the  appearance 
of  excessive  voracity.  This  was  most  unaccountable  conduct  on  the 
part  of  Thwaites,  who  used  to  be  always  quoting,  and,  to  all  appear- 
ance, endeavouring  to  carry  out,  the  precepts  of  Lord  Chesteiiieid. 
What  had  happened  to  him  ?     Nobody  could  make  him  out. 

Having  finished,  in  the  manner  above  described,  and  in  surlj  si- 
leucc,  a  large  basin  of  soup,  Thwaites  threw  himself  back  in  bis  cnair^ 


A   DANGEROUS   CHARACTER. 


205 


put  one  arm  over  the  back  of  it,  Imlf-closed  one  eye,  blinked  with  the 
other,  and  exbuled  a  huge  puff  of  air,  like  a  person  who  has  just  made 
some  strong  exertion. 

*'  Thwaites,*'  said  Mr.  Lawson,  staring  at  him  a  little,  "  shall  I  send 
you  a  little  more  soup  }** 

"  Nof  sir  !  "  answered  Mr.  Thwaites  with  great  pomposity. 

**One  more  spoonful?"  urged  the  host. 

"  Sir/*  replied  Thwaites,  *'^  the  man  who  would  suffer  himself  lo  be 
helped  twice  to  soup  would  also  desire  to  bo  helped  four  times  to 
mutton/' 

This  dogma,  delivered  ex  caiktdrd,  with  profound  solemnity^  drew 
all  eyes  on  Thwaites,  and  caused  Mr.  La^vsun  to  open  his  t^yes  rather 
wider.  He  merely,  however,  asked  his  guest  if  he  would  take  some 
iish.  ^ 

"  Yes,  sir,*'  simply  answered  Thwaites^ 

"  Would  you  prefer  brill,  Mr.  Thwaites,"  said  Blrs,  Lawson,  "  or 
mackerel  t" 

**  JVladam,"  he  responded,  "  I  prefer  mackerel.  Brill,  madam,  is 
a  poor  fish.     I^Iadam,  brill  would  be  ttirbot  if  it  could/' 

The  reader,  doubtless,  has  met  with  a  similar  remark  to  this  be- 
fore, but  it  so  happened  that  the  Lawsons  and  company  had  not; 
wherefore  they  laughed  at  it  as  rather  a  smart  saying,  and  began  to 
regard  Mr.  Thwaites  as  an  origiJial  who  was  nt>w  beginning  to  mani- 
fest himself  in  his  real  character.  Accordingly,  some  of  them  felt 
desirous  of  trotting  him  out ;  with  which  view,  perhaps,  a  young  lady 
present,  somewhat  <i  propvs  of  nothing,  asked  hmi  if  he  had  seen  the 
great  pas  de  quafrc  at  the  Opera  ?  Thwaites,  without  replying  to 
this  question,  continuing  to  eat,  she  repeated  it,  when,  swallowing 
with  an  effort,  and  sternly  knitting  bis  brows  at  her,  he  roared  out, 

**  Miss,  do  you  not  know  that  it  is  rude  to  address  any  one  who  is  eat- 
ing? You  saw,  miss,  that  I  had  my  mouth  fulL  Miss,  nobody  but 
a  ploughman  would  speak  with  his  mouth  full/' 

*' Might  not  a  cabman  ?"  demanded  the  hostess,  amused,  with  the 
rest,  at  what  they  supponed  his  eccentricity, 

"  Yes,  madam,  perhaps  a  cabman  might.  But  stay,  madam.  To 
speak  with  his  mouth  full,  a  cabman  must  have  somelhiiig  to  eat-  Not 
every  cabman  has  something  to  eat.  But,  madam,  a  ploughman  would 
be  less  likely  to  have  something  to  eat  than  a  cabman/' 

The  frequent  use  and  peculiar  pronunciation  of  the  word  matfttjn, 
which  he  rendered  a  distinct  dissyllable,  was  something  quite  new  on 
the  part  of  Thwaites.  BIrs.  Lawson  could  not  understand  what  he 
meant  by  it,  unless  to  create  a  laugh,  which  at  least  was  the  effect  it 
producea. 

Mr.  Thwaites  on  this  occasion  ate  enormously ;  and  it  was  supposed 
that  a  tremendous  appetite  was  one  of  those  peculiarities  that  he  had 
fiuppres«ed.  At  length  he  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  wiped  big 
mouth  with  the  table-cloth.  On  Lawson's  asking  him  if  he  should 
help  him  again,  he  said,  *'  Sir,  no  more  I  tljank  you."  Hia  host  re- 
peated the  invitation,  saying  **  Just  one  slice  more/* 

"  Sir,"  answered  Thwaites,  "  I  have  said  1  would  take  no  more. 
Sir,  he  who  presses  a  man  to  eat  more  than  he  cares  for,  incommodes 
him.  It  is  troublesome,  air,  to  invent  speeches  in  which  to  decline 
with  civility  that  which  we  should  accept  with  repugnance/' 

Having  delivered  himself  of  this  long  sentence,  Mr.  Thwaites  began 


296 


A    DANGEROUS    CHARACTEK. 


to  puff  and  blow  as  if  out  of  breath  ;  to  the  great  diversion  of  hh  audi- 
ence,  including  Mr*  Laweon  himself,  who  jovially  asked  him  to  take 
wine  with  him,  to  which  proposal  his  guest  acceded,  by  saying  very 
gravelyj  "  Sir,  I  will  take  a  glass  of  wine  with  you  witli  great  plea- 
sure.    Sir,  I  wish  you  a  very  good  health*" 

After  dinner,  Mr.  Thwaites,  relinquishing  the  taciturnity  wliich  he 
bad  displayed  hefore  it,  began  to  talk  copiuusly  on  various  subjectSt 
expressing  himself  to  the  amusement,  if  not  to  the  edification,  of  his 
bearers,  in  aphorisms  strongly  didactic.  His  opinion,  in  the  coun»e  of 
conversation,  was  inquired  respecting  an  eminent  noblemaB  of  liberal 
principles  ;  when  he  astonished  everybody  by  crying  out,  *'  Sir,  he  's  a 
rascal  V 

"A  rascal,  Mr.  Tliwaites  T'  «aid  the  querist.  "  Why,  bis  chaiucter 
IB  well  known  to  he  most  unblemished/' 

"  Sir,  he  is  a  whig,"  was  the  reply  of  Mr.  Thwaites,  "  Sir,  no 
whig  can  be  an  honest  man-  Sir,  whiggery  and  roguery  are  convert- 
ible terms/' 

Now,  as  Thwaites  had  always  professed  opinions  bordering  on  radi- 
calism, these  very  strong  assertions  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  ques- 
tion seemed,  at  least}  extremely  unaccountable.  So,  likewise,  was  a 
defence  of  duelling,  which  he  made  on  a  late  affair  of  honour  being 
canvassed*  "  Sir/'  he  contended,  **  if  nations  decide  their  ditferencee 
with  cannons,  individuals  may  settle  theirs  with  pistols/' 

It  happened  that  there  was  at  table  a  half-pay  otticer,  who  was  f^ 
marked  exception  to  the  generality  of  the  company  in  not  seeming  at 
all  to  relish  the  singularities  of  Tliwaites.  This  gentleman's  ideas  of 
social  intercourse  were  formed  entirely  on  the  model  of  a  regimental 
mess,  his  literary  acquirements  were  very  limited,  and  he  had  do 
relish  whatever  for  humour.  On  the  other  band,  he  was  remarkably 
tenacious  of  his  con^^equence,  sensitive  to  anything  that  savoured  of 
rudeness,  aud  withal  very  irascible:  possessing  a  somewhat  dull  in- 
tellectual, and  a  highly  inflammatory  moral,  dialhe»<is.  He  at  last 
contrived  to  become  engaged  in  an  altercation  with  Mr.  Tbwuites, 
whom  he  had,  all  along,  been  regarding  with  evident  dislike  and  in- 
dignation. Their  difference  related  to  claret,  of  which  wine  the  Cap 
tain  was  the  panegyrist,  whilst  Thwaites  denounced  it  as  vapid  trash, 
finally  declaring  that  no  man  would  ever  drink  claret  when  be  could 
get  port,  but  a  blockhead/' 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  sir  ?'*  said  the  son  of  Mars.  "Do  you 
mean  to  insinuate  that  I  am  a  blockhead  ?" 

**  Sir/'  returned  Thwaites,  amid  general  manifestations  of  uoeftri^ 
ness,  "  I  scorn  insinuation.  Sir^  I  did  not  insinuate  that  you  were  a 
blockhead/* 

*'  What,  then,  was  your  meaning,  sir  ?"  demanded  the  other. 

'*  Sir,  I  am  not  bound  to  tell  you  my  meaning.  Sir,  I  do  not 
choose  to  tell  you  my  meaning.  Sir,  if  I  am  to  supply  you  with 
langunge,  I  am  not  obliged  to  supply  you  with  comprehension.  Sir, 
he  who  a&serts  that  I  am  bound  to  tell  you  my  meaning,  lies." 

The  infuriated  oHicer,  amid  the  general  confusii»n  of  the  tabli^ 
started  up,  and  with  a  visage  scarlet  with  rage,  briefly  excusing  him- 
self to  the  Lau'sons,  quitted  the  room.     A  dead  silence  ensued. 

"  Good  Heaven,  Thwaitea  T*  said  Mr.  Lawson,  "  do  you  know  what 
you  have  done  ?" 

"  What's  the  matter?"   stammered  Thwaites,  turnbg  wery  pale. 


THE   OLD    FARM-HOUSE. 


297 


and  entirely  chanjfing  his  tone  and  manner.  "  What — what  have  I 
said  ? — I  am  sure  I  meant  no  oflTence." 

**  No  otFence!'*  repeated  Lawsnn.  "Why,  you  have  as  much  as 
given  Captain  Popham  the  lie.     He  will  cull  you  out  as  sure  as  fate/' 

"My  goi^dness!"  said  pcwr  Thwaites, '*!  dsd  not  intend  that.  I 
only  meant  to  say  that  the  asjiertion  I  alluded  to  would  be  incorrect. 
Otherwise  I  should  have  aaid  that  he  lied,  and  knew  that  he  lied." 

«  Why,  what  is  the  difference?*' 

**  Every  difference,"  said  Thwaites.  "  Don't  you  know  what  John- 
son used  to  say?  If  he  meant  that  a  man  was  simply  incorrect  in  a 
statement,  he  said  that  he  lied  ;  if  that  he  told  a  wilful  falsehix^d^  he 
added  that  he  knew  he  lied.  1  had  no  idea  of  telling  the  Captain 
that." 

*'  Where  did  you  learn  this  V  inquired  Lawson. 

**  In  Boswelfs  '  Life  of  Johnson/  which  I  have  just  been  reading. 
Dear  me  I  I  would  not  have  offended  the  Captain  for  the  world/' 

"  Tom/*  said  JVIr.  Lawson  to  a  friend  who  was  present,  **runj  like 
a  good  fellow,  after  Captain  Pophani,  and  explain,  if  you  can,  that 
Thwaites  had  no  intention  to  insult  him.  This  really  is  a  very  awk- 
ward business.     But  come,  let  us  hope  it  will  be  arranged/' 

All  the  mirth  of  the  party  had,  by  this  untoward  event,  been  al- 
together spoiled  ;  and  they  sat,  maintaining  a  painful  silence,  Thwaites 
abashed,  discomforted,  and  looking  the  very  picture  of  confusion. 
At  length  the  mediator  returned  without  having  found  the  Captain, 
and  Thwaites,  hardly  knowing  what  he  was  about,  was  fain  to  with- 
draw«  in  a  state  of  mind  which  we  must  leave  to  be  imagined. 

The  next  day,  as  Mr.  Lawson  had  predicted,  a  message  demanding 
satisfaction  was  despatched  by  Captain  Popham  to  IVJr.  Thwaites,  and 
the  latter  was  under  the  necessity  of  putting  the  nifair  into  the  bands 
of  a  friend.  We  are  happy,  however,  to  be  able  to  state,  that  this 
very  ugly  business  was,  after  all,  settled  without  bloodshed,  through 
the  good  sense  of  the  seconds,  who  with  some  ditficulty  persuaded  the 
Captain  to  accept  an  explanation,  accompanied  by  the  expression  of 
regret,  on  the  part  of  Thwaites,  for  his  incautious  language. 

Let  us  hope  that  from  the  range  of  characters  which  Mr.  Thwaitea 
may  in  future  enact,  that  of  Dr  Johnson  will  at  any  rate  be  eTtcluded,— 
or,  at  least,  that  he  will  be  a  little  more  cautious  in  his  performance/' 


THE  OLD  FARM-HOUSE, 

'Tis  a  pleasant  «pot.  that  old  farm-houM 

That  fttandii  by  tbe  lone  waysidis 
Where  the  sweet  woodbine  and  the  eglonfciDe 

Ttie  rent4  in  its  oM  wall  bide  ! 
And  the  pordi,  it  fteems  as  though  'twould  greet 

Each  watidercr  for  ita  gue«t, 
And  le*id  him  where  there  is  hearty  cheer, 

And  a  home  of  tranquil  rest ! 

How  joyous  once  was  the  old  farm-house, 

In  times  that  have  paiwM  away« 
When  the  yeomen  to«»k,  in  the  ingle  nook. 

Their  place  at  the  close  fif  day  ! 
And  Htill  doth  the  merry  husbandman 

The  mirthful  hours  lueguile  ; 
And  many  a  tale,  an  there  they  regalei 

Belongs  to  that  olden  pile  I 


THE  OPAL  SET. 


wrra  mm  iLLrmuTto^r  by  jaasi  lsscr. 


Bvumoinr  w^  wm  wMjhtdj  in  the  t«j^  1814,  wiU  easily  rcmem^ 

er  i^iit  ft  iMd-tade  of  dianpation  and  delight  ru^ed  in  upon  as  with 

»of  tbeCspttnlitioB  of  Paris^  and  the  expected  visit  af  the 

'pa.    Ea^^imd,  that  bad  battled  to  the  last  with  the 

Pa  baE-do^  was  now  disposed  to  freak  and  gambol  with 

eiiacaB  of  a  pet  puppj.     The  whole  sation,  oblivious  of 

i  taxea  and  war-prices,  was' agog  im  a  kind  of  natioDal  merry 

1  granped  round  an  ideal  tranapaiviicy  represeDting  Brttan* 

V  iiHUK  aw«T  her  trident  and  daitongy  hand^-foor-round,  with 

toHi^  ftiwiij  and  Austria. 

As  night  lie  expected,  the  militarj  were  made  a  special  object  of 
Real  bronzed  heroes  who  had  "  been  through  the 
*  difficult  to  catch,  and  receired  more  invitations  to 
dances  and  asirecs  than  bj  anj  possibility  ther  had  time  to  answer. 
Em  ^iemdtmi,  maaj  a  betfdless  endgn  who  bad  been  at  Waterloo,  and 
taken  his  sbbsI]  share  of  that  "  day  of  enormous  mistakes,"  became  ele* 
vmled  into  m  sott  of  anthoritr  upon  military  matters,  and  was  lis^tened 
la  deferentiaUj  while  he  explained  the  peculiarities  of  the  Duke*s  po^ 
sitiaB,  and  tiaoed  upon  the  tabJe^  with  his  finger  dipped  in  claret,  the 
asact  npot  where  Gn>uchy  debouched,  or  where  the  Imperial  Guard 
nade  tndr  last  stand,  and  were  supposed  to  have  uttered  that  immor- 
tal apothegm*  now  happily  classed  among  the  myths  of  apocryphal 
history. 

It  was*  boweTcr,  for  foreigners  that  the  highest  distinctions  were  re- 
aerved  ;  upon  iureigneri  were  larifkhed  the  envy  of  t be  male  sexj  and 
the  admiring  glances  of  the  fair.  Then,  as  now,  and  probably  ever 
since  the  days  of  the  Norman  inrasiiin,  the  stranger  received  the  lion  s 
share  of  popular  attention  and  regard.  We  have  here  no  space  to  lie- 
stow  beyond  that  of  a  pacing  remark  upon  the  phenomenon  that  a  with 
ail  our  vaunted  nationality,  and  John  Bullishness,  and  such  h'ke  un- 
doubted characteriiitics,  we  always  run  madly  after  every  semblance, 
shsde^  and  shadow  of  "  a  foreigner,"  who  may  condescend  to  drink  our 
wine,  ride  our  horsesi  flirt  with  our  daughters,  and  ^howus  up  in  three 
Tolumes  at  the  end  of  the  season.  Such  is  the  fact.  Let  others  phi- 
losophize upon  it ;  we  are  content  to  blush  over  it,  and  to  continue  our 
narrative. 

Among  all  the  countless  swarm  that  at  this  precise  period  alighted 
upon  our  coasts,  none, — no,  not  a  Baron,  nor  a  Prince, — could  com|)are 
with  Count  Alexis  Obrenow,  Cuirassier  of  the  Imperial  Guard,  Knight 
Grand  Cordon  of  the  order  of  the  Black  E&gle,  and  last,  but  by  no 
means  least,  C,  d-  s.  m.  I.  L'E.  d.  t.  1.  R.  These  cabalistic  signs,  which 
might  be  discovered  by  the  curious  among  the  elaborate  tracery  of  the 
Count's  visiting-cards,  imported  that  he  held  the  rank  of  Chamberlain 
to  His  Imperitd  Majesty  the  Emperor  of  all  the  Russias*  If,  in  addi* 
tion  to  these  extrinsic  qualifications,  we  add  that  the  person  of  this  dis* 
tinguished  Russian  was  unexceptionably  ferocious,  and  that  whether, 
judging  from  his  hair,  his  head  was  placed  ubove  or  below  his  chin^  was 

*  **  La  garde  meurt^  et  ue  se  rend«  pas.*' 


THE   OPAL    SET. 


td9 


a  matter  (among  tlie  ladies)  of  delicions  doubt  and  uncertainty,  we 
have  said  enuugli  to  account  for  his  elevation  to  the  topmost  round  of  j 
that  giddy  ladder  which  is  supported  by  the  fickle  hand  of  Fashion- 
Yet  let  us  he  just  to  Count  Alexis  Obreuow.  If  not  exactly  talented 
in  its  better  sensej  assuredly  he  po&sessed  to  an  astonishing  defrree  the 
talent  of  society — the  sniull  currency  of  saloona  and  cluhs.  He  could 
dance  a  minuet  gracefully,  could  sing  a  chanson  admirahly,  had  the  art 
of  anecdote  in  perfeetion,  and,  above  all  these  minor  gifts,  the  Count 
could  assume  a  certain  vein  of  dangerous  sentimentality  dashed  by  a 
sombre  tone  which  rather  inferred  than  alluded  to  a  mystery  whose 
depths  had  never  yet  been  fathomed,  though  they  possibly  might  he  by 
those  tender  blue  eyes  which  at  the  moment  dis^lved  between  pity  and 
curiosity,  as  they  gazed  upon  the  sallow  cheek  of  the  handsome  Cui- 
rassier. 

Thus  gifted,  thus  doubly  armed  by  the  aspect  of  what  he  was,  and 
the  thought  of  what  he  might  be,  was  it  wonderful  that  the  success  of 
the  Imperial  Ciiamherlaiii  was  the  theme  of  every  tongue  in  Londnn? 
Just  at  this  time,  indeed,  if  London  gossip  was  to  he  credited,  the 
coping-stone  of  the  Count's  good  fortune  was  about  to  he  laid,  by  his 
intended  marriage  with  the  Lady  Anne  Calliiigtoii,  sole  child  and  heir- 
ess of  the  wealthy  Earl  Durston,  or  Ue  Urston,  as  it  pleased  the  Earl 
to  pronounce  his  very  ancient  family  name.  By  what  arts  the  Count 
had  won  the  haughty  peer's  consent  to  this  match,  is  to  this  day,  among 
certain  circles,  a  matter  of  marvel ;  for  the  head  of  t lie  Be  Urstons,  so 
far  from  shiLring  his  countrymen's  predilection  for  foreigners,  held  them 
all  in  undisguised  and  indiscriminate  contempt,  remarking  that  the  last 
real  Counts  were  the  Foresters,  or  Counts  of  the  Low  Countries,  and 
they  beokine  extinct  when  Philip  of  Burgundy  placed  himself  at  the 
head  of  the  Seventeen  Provinces,  By  what  arts  Count  Alexis  obtain- 
ed the  consent  of  the  Lady  Anne  has  never,  we  believe,  been  made  the 
subject  of  marvel  in  any  society  whatsoever. 

It  was  towards  midnight  when  a  ball  given  at  De  Urston  House  at- 
tained its  height  of  superb  festivity.     Country -dance,  and  cotillon,  and 
tlie  newly -imported  French  country-dance,  or  quadrille,  liud  been  exe- 
cuted to  repletion,  when  a  few  select  couples  stood  up  to  exhibit,  in  a 
stately  minuet,  the  perfection  of  dignity  and  ease  so  essential  to  this 
courtly  measure.     Most  conspicuous  in  the  group  were  Lady  Anne  ] 
and  Count  Alexis,  and  a  murmur  of  applause  forced  itself  on  the  ear  as 
the  distinguished  foreigner  und  his  stately  partner  alternately  advanced 
and  retired  according  to  the  exigencies  of  the  figure.     So  absorbed,  in- 
deed^ was  the  general  attention,  that  the  entrance  of  a  considerable  ac- 
cesaian  of  guests,  which  would  otherwise  hardly  have  escaped  remark, 
paitsed  unnoticed.     They  consisted  of  a  tall  and  very  handsome  man  in 
the  prime  of  life,  apparently  attended  by  five  or  six  officers  of  high 
rank,  and  one  or  two  civilians.     Some  announcement  was  about  to  take 
place  when  the  chief  personage  of  the  party  imposed  silence  by  a  sud- 
den and  somewhat  haughty  gesture,  and,  taking  his  station  as  a  spec-  , 
tator  of  the  dance,  quielly  surveyed  the  circle  which  surrounded  the  per-  ' 
formers,  while  his  attendants,  at  a  slight  distance,  conversed  among  I 
themselves* 

The  moment  was  decisive  of  that  crisis  in  the  dance  where  the  slow 
and  ataetly  minuet  blends,  after  a  short  introduction,  with  the  livelier 
gavotte*  The  music  hiid  preluded  a  few  quick  bars,  and  the  dancers 
aiood  motionless,  but  ready  at  the  proper  time  to  spring  forward  into 


OPAL 


UlMttel 


immm^m^ 


«f  ^ 


CmmmL  Afaat  Agw  la— df  up  aaJ  unfM  i d  co  ecli  pte 

iiiBi|ilttBl}r  roanii  the 
-caoNT*  We  will  not 
■hvafs  inUfwtii^,  but 

*  tmhrnhr  dbitaiit*    Certamlj^ 

en  TttAf  H  could  not 

mdbicA,mmd  nnmerr^  hit  frame.  The 

Witliput  aa  cA«t  to  ndlf ,  at  the  wry 

^tmm  witli^^w  from  the 

leftviafT  Lady  Anne  al- 

f  ti  het  paotion  Uwn  alarmed  at  the 

^  vliiili  ayed  liar  a  moment  to  let 

tt  iaO^iBtlj  doaed  up^  and  almost  as 

ite  cskHaratug  exdtement  of  the 

i  af  USt  1    TW  greatest  prirate  calamitv 

a  haltlie  «ft  tba  mr€Me  its  memorial, 

lady  Abbcw  «■  qvittiag  tlie  dance,  did  not 

~-*m  tadiapaMtkB.     Witboot  paosmg  to  in* 

way  tlirough  the  crowd  to  a 

eJerenth  rubber  with  two 

Silently  seating  her^ 

V  tfce  wayward  beant  j  found  a 

lawhkk  tike  was  fielf-condemn- 

riif  abeat  between  the  light 

Mid  llv  wuommumt  hum  which 

hf  tfe  waot-ligya  on  the  whist- 


ly  umk  into  tike  #rst  Tacant  aeat, 

,  be  cowered  rather  than  sat, 

sa.     Like  all  men  simiJariy 

I  palae  af  aelf-omatraint,  he  was 

I  m  dahnmi.     Scarcely  had  he 

I  a  \vm  bat  aingularly  deep  roice — 

at  Ikta  aide— tiM)iii red  it   "the  Count 

"  n  attack  of  the  nerres  ?" 

tboogb  sitting  on  a  ieTcl  with 
abliged  W  ataap  cowidcTmbly  in  order  to  place  his 
i  to  the  caroftlie  latter*    Hit  aiagolar  height  was  not,  how- 
ever, by  aay  mi  am  bit  only  pertonai  dittinction.     His  form  was  well 
prapartMHied,  bk  featnrea  were  renlar  tboi^h  severe,  his  cumpleician, 
dear  rather  than  pale,  indicatea  an  Asiattc  origin ;  but  that  which 
riveted   attentioD,   and   stamped  the  whole   man  with   the    imprest 
of  power,  was  the  foil,  stem,  penetrating  eye  which  nerer  glanced  at 
an  object,  but  looked  it  through  and  through.     There  were  none  who 
had  not  quailed  under  that  iixed  rt-gard,  even  when  there  were  no  »e- 
^^^Mli  to  excite  apprehensioQ*     The  moat  innocent  under  its  withering 
^^BSimcB  wotiJd  as  little  have  resisted  it  at  they  would  have  bandied 
^^^HCB  with  a  tiger  preparing  for  a  spring. 

■  ^         iT)parent]y  the  Count  Obrenow  entertained  no  such  intention,  for, 
^^H  ^iI1g  his  efea,  and  iibandoning  the  attempt  to  recover  hit 

^^1  «D,  he  faltered  out» 

^^"  jpi  ywur  Impe^" 


jC' 


THE  OPAL   SET. 


801 


"Hush!"  iaterrupted  bis  companion*     *' HecoOect  yourself ;  lam 
the  Count  Semowski — " 
"  The  Count  Se— " 

"  Exactly  so :  but  I  little  thought  of  meeting  you  here,  still  less  of 
hearing  of  the  alliancej  I  und€r»taiid>  you  coulem plate*  Thiit  can 
hardly  take  place/' 

"Not  if  your  Imp —  that  is,  if  the  Count  Semow«ki  forbids  it/' 
"  Count;  I  have  other  views  for  you — at  least  for  the  present ;  there 
is  much  to  be  settled  between  us :  frankly,  I  will  tell  you  at  once  there 
18  but  one  condition  on  which  you  can  remain  here ;  aud^  by  the  way^ 
have  you  heard  from  your  father  lately  ?'* 

"  Count  Semowski  is  aware  the  Governor  of  Tobolsk  has  strict  orders 
to  intercept  my  father's  correspondence/* 

*'0£  course — of  course ;  yet  there  are  means,  I  have  heard.  Money 
will  do  much  even  in  Siberia,  and  your  father  was  certainly  rich. 
A  prupojSi  Count,  I  congratulate  you  on  the  figure  you  are  making  here; 
your  title,  too,  is  well  chose n,  but  now  I  fear  you  must  drop  the  Cham- 
berlainship.  And  this  match — pray  what  sort  of  a  person  is  Earl 
De  Urston,  and  how  came  he  to  accept  your  pretensions?" 

*'If  it  please  your — that  is,  the  Count  Semowski  must  understand 
the  £arl,  who  hates  all  foreigners,  is  persuaded  I  am  a  lineal  descen- 
dant of  some  Irish  chieftain,  called  O'Bryan  or  O'Brienne,  or  some- 
thing of  the  sort,  and — and  his  daughter,  tlie  Lady  Anne^** 

"  Is  persuaded  you  are  all  you  choose  to  affirm  yourself*  of  course. 
Ah  !  this  is  an  excellent  romance,  and  I  am  «orry  to  be  obliged  to  in- 
terfere. Yet,  perhaps/'  here  the  Count  Semowski  mused  an  instant; 
then  suddenly  turning  his  eyes  full  on  his  companion^  he  added,  ''^by 
the  way,  you  know  the  Jew  Lazarus  ;  Count,  you  must  introduce  me.** 

The  gallant  Alexis  who  had  lately  recovered  a  jjortion  of  his  usual 
aud^ty^  at  the  mention  of  this  name,  and  the  signilieant  manner  in 
which  it  was  made,  relapsed  into  his  former  servility,  and  mechanically 
answered,  '*  Yes  your — ^tlie  Count  Semowski  is  right.  I  have  seen 
the  Jew  Lazarus.     I  know  him — a  little — '' 

"  Then  I  was  right;  and,  probably,  am  not  wrong  in  supposing  you 
know  him  more  than  a  little.  Count,  I  repeat  you  must  introduce  me, 
and  then  I  will  relieve  you  of  a  discreditable  acquaintance.  Hark  ye* 
sir,"  added  the  Count  Semowski  rising,  hut  speaking  in  a  low,  stern 
voicei  "  to-morrow  at  noon  expect  me,  and  we  will  visit  M.  Lazarus 
together.  Dn  not  stir  out  till  I  come,  and  cherish  no  foolish  hope  of 
escaping  me.  A  person  of  your  consequence  must  expect,  at  least  for 
the  present,  some  surveUlance.     An  revoir  Count  Alexis  Obrenow." 

At  this  moment  the  gavotte  ceased ;  the  circle  broke  up  into  a 
crowd  that  filled  the  rooms  with  conflicting  tides^  but  high  and  con* 
ipicuous  above  Dukes,  and  Generals,  and  Ministers,  the  noble  form  of 
the  Count  Semowski  might  be  seen  advancing  townrda  the  boudoir 
where  still  sat  the  Lady  Anne,  her  eyes  closed,  apparently  in  sleep, 
but  ever  and  anon  betraying  by  a  pettish  movement  of  the  beautiful 
foot,  that  the  mind  was  active,  and  the  thoughts  were  uneasy. 

The  next  morning  the  following  paragraph  appeared  among  the 
*'  Fashionable  Intelligence"  of  the  Momintr  Post, 

**  Considerable  sensation  was  excited  last  night  among  the  brilliant 
circle  assembled  at  De  Urston  House,  by  the  intelligence  transpir- 
ing of  the  sudden  arrival  in  Lundun  of  a  very  exalted  Foreign 
Personage.     It  was  even  rumoured  that  the  individual  in  question 


302 


THE   OPAL   SET. 


honoured  the  noble  Earl  with  his  presence  incogniio,  and  was  obserred 
to  pay  marked  atteotion  to  his  fascinating  daughter.  When  we  further 
state  that  the  individual  alluded  to  held  a  long  and  animated  conversa- 
tion with  the  newly^ Arrived  Russian  Minister^  and  was  seen  playfully 
to  address  the  Count  Alexis  Obrenow  (the  intended  soD-in-law  of  the 
noble  Earl)  our  readers  will  appreciate  the  delicacy  which  imposes 
upon  us  a  certain  reserre  upon  this  subject/ 

We  trust  that  we  shall  be  acquitted  of  any  considerable  failure  in 
the  matter  of  "  delicacy"  if  we  precede  the  "  individual  alluded  to*'  on 
the  morning  succeeding  the  ball  at  De  Urston  House>  to  No.  15,  Ches- 
terBeld  Street,  May  Fun,  the  first  floor  of  which  very  pleasant  abode 
was  tenanted  by  our  friend  the  Count  Alexis. 

It  was  nearly  midday  of  a  sultry  July  moming,  and  the  blinds, 
carefully  closed  while  they  excluded  the  sickening  glare  of  the  sun, 
shut  out  also  any  breath  of  air  that  might  have  been  tempted  to 
der  among  the  ex(|uisiCe  exotics  which  bloomed  in  a  small  cmtm 

attached  to  the  back  drawing-room*     Every  object  betokened        

most  luxury*  and  not  a  little  taste  ;  while  the  profusion  of  mirrors  and 
porcelain  clocks  betokened  the  semi-Asiatic  fancy  for  display  so  cum* 
mon  among  wealthy  Russians*  The  Count,  negligently  recUning  on 
an  ottoman,  was  no  bad  representative  of  the  class. 

Under  a  desperate  attempt  at  a  careless  and  easy  demeanour,  how- 
everj  it  was  not  dithcult  to  note  some  hidden  dread  entirely  subduing 
the  usually  gay  Alexis-  His  eye  wandered  rapidly  round  the  pic- 
tures and  busts,  the  mirrors  and  hiJotUeriCf  that  adorned  his  room  ; 
especially  from  time  to  lime  he  listened,  almost  gasping,  to  the  rolling 
of  carnages,  rare  at  tlmt  early  hour,  and  more  than  once  started  from 
his  seat  as  a  knock  at  some  neighbouring  door  resounded  through  the 
house.  Like  all  persons  under  strong  mental  excitement, his  clenched 
hands  and  up- turned  glance  seemed  the  accompanying  action  to  some 
muttered  fragments  of  a  speech,  so  disjointed  and  incomplete  as  to 
convey  no  iuformation  to  a  bystander*  Solilocjuies  are  very  rare  off 
the  stage,  and  require  a  master's  touch  to  he  tolerable  even  there. 

Scarcely  had  the  hands  of  the  numerous  timepieces  in  the  room 
passed  the  hour  of  midday,  when  a  gentle,  unassuming  knock  at  the 
street-door  annijunced  a  visitor,  A  few  words  were  heard  to  be  ex- 
changed between  the  valet  of  the  Count  and  the  stranger,  and  then 
the  latter  with  measured  step  ascended  the  stairs  and  entered  the 
apartment  where  Count  Alexis  in  nerviius  anxiety  awaited  him.  It 
was  the  Count  Semowski,  who  b<)wed  slightly  and  somewhat  disdain- 
fully to  the  young  Russian,  then  delihenaely  seating  himself  with  his 
back  to  the  light,  so  as  to  face  Alexis,  he  paid  him  the  compliments 
of  the  morning  in  a  tone  which  plainly  showed  he  felt  secure  or  care- 
less of  his  reception. 

"  I — 1  expected  you,  sire—**  gasped  out  Obrenow. 

*'  And  I  am  punctual,*'  replied  the  mysterious  visitor.  '*  Xiast 
night  1  told  you  we  would  visit  the  Jitw  Lazarus  together.  I  also 
hinted  that  on  certain  conditions  I  might  be  tempted  to  let  you  play 
out  the  comedy  you  have  sketched  out  here ;  tiiough,  as  a  man  of 
honour.  Count,"  (this  was  spoken  with  marked  irony,)  "yon  will 
hardly  pursue  it  further.  You  know,  of  course,  why  I  wish  to  make 
the  acquaintance  of  IV!.  Lazarus,  and  your  penetration  will  doui 
furnish  you  with  the  conditions  I  allude  to." 

The  Count  Obrenow  bowed  hJs  head,  but  he  did  not  speak. 


H 


^ 


THE    OPAL    SET. 


sol 


'*  B?  the  way,"  continned  Semowski,  "  your  intendedj  tbe  Lady 
Anne,  is  a  fine  girl, — n  very  jitit?  girl  for  an  Englishwoman,  and  well- 
dressed.  She  has  good  taste  in  jewels,  I  remarked.  What  very  fine 
diamonds  she  wore  last  night  ruund  that  magnificent  opal  !  You  did 
not  observe  them  ?     Opak,  I  think,  are  not  common  in  England  ?*' 

'*  I  do  not  know,  Sire :  that  is,  I  believe  not." 

**  That  opal  strangely  reminds  me  of  a  set  I  once  saw  at  St.  Peters- 
burg, I  think  :  there  were  just  twenty-one,  all  of  equal  size  and  value, 
and  (odd  enough)  about  the  size  and  value  of  the  one  I  saw  last  night. 
Am  I  right.  Count?" 

This  question  was  abruptly  put,  and  the  dreaded  eyes  were  fixed 
with  steady  glare  upon  the  pale  and  cowering  Alexis. 

For  a  minute  there  was  no  answer,  thouj*h  the  lips  of  Olrenow  ap- 
peared to  move.  At  length  a  very  faint  *'  Yes  *'  was  heard,  as  if  that 
monosyllable  was  tlie  resull:  of  some  painful  eiforts  at  articulation. 

"  Yes^ — I  thought  so:   I  was  sure  it  wns  so  :  and  the  remainder?** 

At  this  moment  the  door  was  flung  open  and  M.  Lazarus  was  an- 
nounced by  the  servant.  So  slight  had  been  the  knock  of  the  new- 
comer, and  so  absorbed  were  the  fitculties  of  Alexis,  that  the  sound 
had  passed  unheeded*  The  Count  Semow^ki  smiled  with  the  air  of 
a  man  who  expected  the  announcement;  then,  drawing  himself  up  to 
his  full  height  he  confmnted  M.  Lazarus,  who  started  at  finding 
Alexis  was  not  ahme,  and  rnude  a  movement  to  the  door* 

"Not  so,  sir/'  said  Count  Semowski ;  "I  have  first  a  few  words 
with  you.  Let  me  begin  with  thanking  you  for  attending  my  sum- 
mons/' 

"  Your  summons.  Sire  !*'  said  jVL  Lazarus.  "  I  thonrjht  it  was  the 
Count  here  who  sent  for  me.  1  was  not  aware  your  Majesty  was  in 
London." 

"  My  3Iajesty  is  not  yet  in  London — ^there  you  are  right.  My 
l^lajesty  will  not  appear  in  London,  thanks  to  the  Prince  Kegent  s  in- 
Idisposition,  for  the  next  twenty-four  hours.  Meanwhile  I  have  time 
to  attend  to  my  private  affairs.  You  are  speaking  to  the  Count  Se- 
mowski, yon  will  observe^  sir;  it  will  save  some  form,  and  therefore 
.lime,  which  presses.  Suppose,  now,  M.  Lazarus,  it  had  been  the 
*  Count  here  who  sent  for  you  instead  of  myself;  be  so  good  as  to  trans- 
net  your  business  in  my  presence,— in  fact,  as  if  1  was  not  here*  I 
know  why  you  supposed  the  Count  sent  for  you, — Do  I  not.  Count? 
I  know  all,  do  I  nut  ?*' 

Alexis  had  no  need  to  speak.  His  friend  read  in  his  whole  appear- 
ance how  far  the  Count  Sfmowski  was  in  his  cunfidenee. 

"If  that  be  the  case.  Sire,"  said  the  Jew^  (who,  after  his  first  aur- 
pri^,  manifested  far  less  emotion  than  his  companion,)  "my  bargain 
18  naught,  I  suppose  ;  but  let  me  say  fur  myself,  tliat  my  whole  ob- 
ject in  interfering  in  the  business  was  to  restore  these  jewels,  and  so> 
perhaps,  obtain  some  little  favour  in  the  sight  of  your  Majesty — ^I 
should  eay  from  yonr  Countship — for  my  unhappy  relatives  who  got 
into  trouble  last  year." 

"  I  remember, — they  cheated  a  rich  young  Englishman  out  of  the 
price  of  an  estate  in  the  Chersonese,  and  gave  him  title-deeds  to  an 
imaginary  property.  They  are  in  the  mines  of  Podolia,  M.  La- 
sarua." 

'*  It  was  a  mistake — all  a  mistake,  your  High — your  Countship. 


304 


THE   OPAL   SET. 


My  relatives  were  willing  to  return  the  money  pnid,  when  there  arose 

a  question  about  the  property.'* 

*^  You  mean,  strmh,  when  the  officers  of  justice  had  hold  of  tbent. 
Just  gjs  much  would  you  have  re«itored  a  single  stone  on  their  account* 
A  propoSf  speaking  of  restitution,  to  which  of  you  two  aui  I  to  look 
in  this  matter*  Settle  it  between  yuu  ;  I  will  not  unnece«sanly 
hurry  you  ;  but  General  Palikof?  with  a  friend  or  two  is  below,  and 
possibly  their  time  may  be  valuable/* 

These  few  last  wordis,  uttered  with  the  greatest  nonchalanet,  had  a 
singuliir  effect  upon  Obrenow  and  Laxarus,  It  may  be  suflicient  here 
to  menttoUf  that  General  Pallkoff  was  the  usual  agent  employed  hy 
the  ''  iiluatrious  individual"  to  carry  iuto  execution  sentences  of  more 
than  usual  rigour.  He  always  attended  his  master^  and  was  possess- 
ed (it  was  supposed)  of  the  most  extensive  information  relating  to 
every  noble  family  in  Russia. 

*' General  PalikoflF!"  exclaimt»d  Laaarus ;—"  General  Palikotfr 
muttered  Alexis ;  and  leaving  the  mom  hastily*  retumetl  almost  im- 
mediately with  a  plain  morocco  case  in  his  hands,  which  he  placed 
before  the  Count  Semowski,  adding  merely  the  words, 

'^  They  are  all  there  but  one.  Sire/* 

The  personage  whom  he  addressed  nodded  slightly,  placed  the  case 
in  an  inner  pocket,  then,  after  a  moment's  oonsideration,  said  with 
emphasis, 

^'  The  set  must  be  completed.  Not,  you  will  un<lerstand  me,  sir,  that 
the  value  of  the  gewgaws  weighs  with  me,  or  that  I  grudge  the  lady 
her  ornament.  But  there  might  l>e  some  scandal  hereafter.  The 
missing  one  must  be  replaced  l)y  to-morrow  at  this  hour,  and  I  will  spare 
Generiil  PalikotF  a  journey  in  your  society  to  Siberia.  As  to  your 
match,  I  shall  not  meddle  in  that,  though  I  coun^l  you  to  break 
it  off/' 

*^  And  tny  father,  Sire?**  imploringly  uttered  the  young  man. 

*•  Your  father,  sir,  as  court  jeweller,  ought  to  have  kept  a  better 
watch  over  the  imperial  jewels  entrusted  to  bin  care.  Neverthelesa, 
when  1  return  I  will  reconsider  liis  sentence. — ^AL  Lazarus — " 

The  Jew  started,  and  at  first  endeavoured  lo  assume  the  effrontery 
natural  to  his  character.  When,  however,  his  eye  being  gmdually 
raised  met  the  searching  gaze  of  Count  Semowski,  his  show  of  cour- 
age deserted  him,  and  he  stood  like  a  criuiinal  who  after  trial  awaita 
his  sentence. 

*^  M.  Lazarus,"  said  the  calm  voice  of  the  Count,  ''  I  have  prevent- 
ed here  a  great  misfortune  to  you.  It  would  have  been  hard  to  have 
lost  your  money  as  well  as  your  character,  * — I  mean,  of  course,  with 
the  world.  Pabkoff  has  had  his  eye  on  you  for  some  time ;  in  fact, 
he  knew  you  intimately  in  my  father's  lifetime,  when  you  did  busi-* 
ness  in  St.  Petersburg.  From  him  1  have  long  learnt  to  appreciate  you  a« 
you  deserve.  You  will  be  pleased  not  to  return  to  my  capital ;  your 
property  there  is  confiscated,  and  Pali koff  will  not  lose  sight  of  such 
of  your  relatives  as  I  have  still  the  honour  to  number  among  my  sub- 
jects, Yuu  think  your  sentence  hard  compared  with  the  apparent 
leniency  1  show  to  your  assftciate.  You  are  mistaken,  sir.  Look  at 
that  young  man,  and  recognize  your  error.  Tempted,  he  yielded, 
and  fled  to  avoid  the  consequences  of  his  crime.  It  was  supposed  he 
was  in  America.  Even  Pali  koff  thought  so.  His  father  in  Siberia, 
meanwhile,  paid  part  of  his  penalty.     In  Russia  his  family  is  ruined, 


THE    OPAL    SET. 


SOo 


ftced,  annihilated.  Here  he  was  about  to  achieve  a  new  position  ; 
more  than  that,  he  Wea  his  intended  bride*  My  unexpectecJ  arrival, 
und  some  revelations  made  by  PulikoiF  at  Puris,  altered  all  tlujs. 
There  he  stands- — ^a  detected  felon,  bound  even,  not  more  fur  his  life's 
sake  than  for  the  sake  of  appearances,  which  may  yet  be  saved  here, 
to  rob  his  intended  wife.  Judge  if  he  can  think  of  pursuing  his 
scheme.  Judge  if  the  life  and  liljerty  I  leave  him  are  boons.  You, 
M.  Lazarus,  will  easily  console  yourself  for  our  cold  climate  and  the 
rigorous  laws  of  the  country.  Your  money,  if  you  have  adviuiced  any, 
you  will  shortly  replace  ;  your  relations  must  look  to  themselves.  I 
repeat,  your  sentence  is  incomparably  the  most  lenient,  and  on  re- 
flection you  will  confess  as  much.  Farewell  to  you  both  1 — we  shall 
not  meet  again.  You,  sir,  wiU  be  so  good  as  to  send  the  missing  opal 
to  my  hotel  by  twelve  tomorrow  morning,  I  would  spare  you  the  tor- 
lure  of  another  meeting/' 

The  Count  Semowski  leisurely  replaced  his  hat  on  his  head,  as  he 
finished  speaking,  and  with  a  slight  inclination,  slowly  left  the  roomj 
and  the  house.  The  General  and  some  other  officers  followed  him, 
but  at  such  a  distance  as  not  to  render  their  attendance  remarkable, 

*•  And  now.  Count, — for  I  would  not  advise  you  to  drop  the  title," 
said  the  philosophic  AL  Lazarus,  when  alone  with  Alexis,  "  we  are 
checkmated^  and,  so  far  as  this  game  is  concerned,  have  nothing  to 
do  but  to  close  the  board.  JVIight  I  ask  what  are  your  plans  for 
the  future  ?  Yon  will  appreciate  my  delicacy  in  not  touching  on 
the  past,  though — " 

•*  Though  I  owe  you  fifty  thousand  roubles,  sir*    Is  it  not  so  ?" 

**  Let  me  see — yes,  that  is  somewhere  about  the  sum.  Count,  between 
us,  lent  you  on  these  baubles,  which  to-day  were  to  have  passed  en- 
tirely into  my  hands,  but  for  this  unforeseen  little  accident/* 

"  They  were,  sir.  You  wish,  of  course,  to  know  how  I  am  now  to  re- 
pay you  the  large  sum  you  mention.  Will  you  do  nie  the  favonr  to  pass 
ihjH  way  at  this  hour  precisely  to-morrow,  and  we  will  clear  scores  ?*' 

*'  Count,  you  are  a  young  man  of  extraordinary  good  sense.  At  one 
o'clock  to-morrow — exactly  so.  Till  then.  Count,  I  have  the  honour 
to  wish  you  a  good  morning,  I  see  it  rains  :  I  will  take  the  liberty  of 
borrowing  an  umbrella  from  your  servant*     Ah  reimr" 

Count  Alexis  was  alone,  if  he  can  be  said  to  be  tUone  in  wJjose  busy 
brain  a  thousand  cun dieting  ideas  confound  all  steady  thought,  ani 
overthrow  every  definite  feeling,  save  only  that  of  rigid  despair.  In 
twenty- four  hours,  it  seemed,  an  age  of  misery  and  disgrace  was  to  be 
lived  through  ;  and  then — but  that  was  beyond  even  a  pasdng  thouglit 
—the  future  must  provide  for  itself — at  present,  action,  horrible  as  it 
was.  The  opal  musi  be  recovered.  Count  Alexis  dressed  himself  with 
UDOsafd  care,  and  was  about  to  order  his  carriage,  when  a  note  was 
put  into  his  hands.  It  was  from  Earl  De  Urston,  in  the  following 
words : — 

"  My  dear  Count, 

*'  The  new  Russian  Ambassador  dines  with  me  to-day,  and  is 
anxious  to  make  your  acf|uaintiince,  as  he  says  he  remembers  your 
brave  father,  the  late  general.  I  shall  expect  you  at  half-past  seven^ 
punctual.  ^ours  faithfully, 

*'  Dk  Urston." 

*'Tell  the  servant  I  will  bring  an  answer  to  his  master,'*  said  Count 

TQL,  XV'III.  ^ 


306 


THE   OPAL   SET. 


Obrenow  to  Lis  Talet.     "  I  sLall  be  at  De  Urston  House  as  soou  as 
hiinself/' 

The  Count  was  as  good  as  his  word  ;  withio  twenty  mlnntes  his 
cabriolet  dashed  into  the  court-yard  of  the  Lord  De  Urston*s  hotel. 

**  First/*  muttered  he,  "  for  my  bride.^ — Is  the  L^dy  Anne  within?** 

**  She  is  sir,  and  will  see  you,  * 

"So!  one  more  interview,  and  the  lost.     It  shall  be  brief." 

Lady  Aune  was  readinjr  when  her  lover  entered  the  room  ;  but  at 
the  sound  of  his  approaching  step  she  looked  up>  and  offered  her  baud 
with  a  smile. 

"  Alexis,  forgive  me ;  last  night  I  was  pettish^  absurd.  I  hate  to 
be  made  the  heroine  of  a  scene;  but  1  have  been  punished  enough  by 
my  fears  thut  you  were  really  ill*  You  do  not  look  well^  but  you 
smile  ;  so  I  suppose  I  am  forgiven/* 

*'  Ah,  Lady  Anne  !  it  is  fur  me  to  ask  pardon^ — not  for  my  sudden 
faiutness,  but  for  not  having  wanjed  you  I  was  subject  to  a  feeling  of 
giddiness,  a  kind  of  confusion  in  my  head,  owing,  I  have  heard,  to 
some  hereditary  predisposition  to  attacks  of  thiti  nature.  If  the  papers 
say  true,  though,  you  did  not  pass  so  very  lonely  an  evening." 

**  That  reminds  me  of  a  pleasant  frte-a-it-fe  with  some  agreeable 
foreigner,  a  countryman  of  yours,  introduced  by  papa  as  the  Count 
Semowski.  But  what  have  the  papers  to  say  to  it?  I  never  see  them. 
Papa  says  they  are  not  fit  for  me  to  read/' 

"  Never  mind — nolliing.  A  propox  of  my  countrymen — do  you  know 
the  Esirl  has  asked  me  to  dine  here  to-day*  to  meet  our  minister;  and 
conceive  my  vexation,  I  am  engaged  to  tfour  minister, — I  mean  Lord 
Liverpool, — and  they  say  that  is  like  a  royal  command.  But  you  will 
be  at  the  opera  afterwiirds,  and  directly  I  can  get  away — ** 

**  Thank  you,**  said  the  haughty  beauty ;  **  pray  don*t  hurry  your- 
self. I  dare  say  I  slmll  do  very  well.  Count  Seniou^ski  said  he  was 
very  fond  of  our  opt^m;  and  there  ia  Lord  Eagles  tone,  just  returned 
from  Paris,  quite  mad  on  mtiHic — ** 

"  Lady  Anne,  you  are  busty, — now,  as  you  were  last  night." 

**I  am,  Alexis,  and  unjust  too.  There  is  my  bund.  How  very* 
very  ill  you  look  I  I  really  ought  not  U*  teaze  you.  C'ome,  what  ahaU 
1  grimt  you  in  return  for  my  bad  conduct  ?" 

''One  flight  favour,  dearest  Lady  Anne.  Deign  to  wear  to-night 
the  same  ornaments  you  wore  last  ni^ht, — I  mean  particularly  one 
sliglit  triile  I  was  permitted  to  present  you/* 

''  The  opal  set  in  diamonds.  IIovv  fond  you  Russifins  are  of  opals  I 
Well,  tlmt  is  not  much  of  a  favour,  aitd  I  will  grant  it-  And  now  go 
to  papa  with  your  excuses ;  for  I  know  he  is-  ^mng  down  to  the  Hotiae 
early  to  oppose  a  turnpike  bill,  or  something,— or  vote  for  the  Cwtho* 
lies,  or  against  them,  1  forget  which,^ — but  whatever  it  is  peoide  do  in 
their  Lordships*  House.  Adieu,  Alexis  1  Recover  your  looks — don't  be 
kte,^ and — tliere,  that  will  do.     I  promise  Ut  be  a  good  girl  to-night,'* 

Five  minutes  suilieed  to  acquaint  the  Earl  of  Ue  Urston  that  it  was 
impossible  his  intended  son-in-law  could  have  the  honour  of  meeting 
his  distinguished  countryman. 

**  Well/'  said  his  lortlship,  "  of  course  you  can't,  if  you  dine  witli 
the  Premier,  Charming  man  Baron  Podziwil— great  friend  of  your 
father's — thinks  he  remembers  you.  Vou  think  not,  eh?  Can  I  set 
vou  down  ?  Good  morning,  tlien.  Lady  Anne  will  expect  you  at  our 
box  to-night/* 


THE  OPAL    SET. 


307 


And  to  these  amiable  notliings^  and  others  like  them,  from  his  friends 
of  the  beau  monde^  was  the  miserable  young  man  compelled  to  listen, 
till  the  dinner-hour  of  his  '*  world  *'  arrived,  when  he  retired  to  his 
lodgings,  noi  to  dress  for  the  Earl  of  Liverpoors  (where  be  was  not  in- 
vited), but  to  arrange  hi»  plansj^ — to  regulate  the  concluding  scenes  of 
that  fearful  drama,  the  life  of  an  ad  venturer « 

Strange  as  it  may  $eem^  the  Count  Alexis  did  not  make  hia  appear* 
ance  that  night  at  the  opera.  The  Lady  Anne,  in  apite  of  the  aamira- 
tion  she  excited,  and  the  high  spirits  it  was  her  pleasure  to  assume, 
retired  early.  The  night  was  stormy,  and  the  carriage  could  nowhere 
be  found ;  J/ord  Eagleatone  ran  one  wny,  and  a  host  of  Russians  an- 
other- Only  one  cavalier  remained  in  attendance  on  the  beauty  :  it 
was  the  Count  Semowski,  whose  iticogniio^  about  to  expire,  scarcely 
preserved  him  from  the  deference  due  to  his  real  rank.  It  was  a  whim 
of  the  Lady  Anne  to  be  profoundly  ignorant  of  what  she  had  heard 
whispered  at  least  a  dozen  times  that  evering. 

**  What  a  beautiful  opal  is  that  you  are  wearing,  Lady  Anne  !  I  do 
not  think  I  ever  saw  so  large  a  stone, — or,  at  least,  only  once," 

"  Do  you  admire  it.  Count  ?     It  came  from  yonr  country/' 

•'Ah  1  I  conceive.  But  I  hear  the  carriage.  Palikoff,  hold  the  um- 
brella, while  I  assist  the  Lady  Anne,  Stupid  \  you  have  allowed  the 
wind  to  blow  it  inside  out — ^just  what  I  might  have  expected.  Thank 
yoo,  sir,  for  extricating  us.*" 

This  was  addressed  to  some  bystander,  who  volunteered  into  the  rain 
from  under  the  arcade,  and  w^as  particulurly  assiduous  in  disengaging 
the  unruly  umbrella  from  the  hood  of  the  Lady  Anne.  Having  per- 
formed this  service,  he  was  again  lost  in  the  crowd  before  the  carriage 
containing  the  De  Uri^tons  was  whirled  ont  of  the  Hay  market. 

When  a  sealed  packet  was  put  into  the  hands  uf  the  Emperor  of 
Russia  the  following  morning,  as  he  was  preparing  for  an  audience 
with  the  Prince  Regent,  tlmt  august  personage  was  oh  served  to  smile, 
and  General  Palikulf  distinctly  heart!  him  mutter,  "  \^y  St.  Paul !  I 
thought  as  much.     It  %vas  a  lucky  canp  dc  vent" 

Eleven  o'clock — twelve — one^— for  those  three  hours  Count  Alexis 
vliad  sat  at  a  table  in  his  apartments,  resting  his  head  on  his  hands^ 
without  changing  his  position.  And  he  was  not  wearied :  the  mind  in 
him  quelled  and  controMed  the  body.  He  could  have  sat  so  the  live- 
long day,  and  not  heen  seui^ible  of  the  irksomeuess  of  the  posture. 
Precisely  at  five  minutes  past  one,  a  knock  was  heard  at  the  door,  and 
M*  Lazarus  was  announced, 

**  Ha  r*  said  Alexis  at  last,  "  why  are  you  so  late  ?" 

"Punctual,  my  d^ar  Count,  as  an  executioner, — excuse  the  simile. 
Your  West  End 'clocks  are  too  fast*  Everything  is  too  fast  at  the 
Went  End.** 

"Too  fasti"  said  Alexis  with  a  dull  stare:  "I  find  time  too  slow. 
But  let  us  not  waste  it.  Yuu  are  come  to  clear  scores  with  me.  Sit 
down,  if  you  please :  there,  opposite  me,'* 

The  Jew  did  as  he  was  requested,  and  t*>ok  a  seat  with  a  show  of 
alacrity*  There  was  something  in  the  manner  of  the  pule  young  man 
opposite  to  him  not  exactly  business-like,  though  his  words  were  unex- 
ceptionable. After  all,  what  was  manner?  It  was  nothing  to  M,  La- 
zaruji.  The  (stKcalled)  Count  might  be  annoyed  at  the  total  ruin  of 
bis  prospects,  or  he  might  have  a  headache  ;  he  might  contemplate 
8tticide>  or  soda-water.     What  did  it  signify  to  M»  Laatarus  ?     So  he 


308 


THE   OPAL   SET. 


plunged  liis  hand  into  a  very  deep  pocket  and  produced  an  account- 
book.  As  he  did  so,  Alexis  rose  very  slowly  and  locked  tlie  door- 
**  You  are  right,"  said  the  Jew,  '*  to  be  on  the  safe  side/*  M.  Lazarus 
thouorht  it  best  to  say  this ;  but,  on  the  whole,  lie  would  have  been  just 
as  pleased  to  have  finished  his  business  without  this  preliminary. 

**  Tliere,  I  believe  that  h  the  proper  balance-sheet.  I  drew  it  out 
carefully  last  nighty**  continued  the  Jew  in  an  easy,  cheerful  tone,  se- 
lecting a  paper  from  the  rest  *'  Now,  how  do  you  propose  to  arrange 
it?  Do  you  knowj  I  am  not  given  to  curiosity  J  in  fact  I  have  no  time 
for  it :  but,  for  the  life  of  me,  I  cannot  think  how  you  propose  to  pay 
me  49,000  some  odd  roubles:  not  50,000,  as  you  said  yesterday." 

" Nothing  easier,"  said  Alexis;  **  it  is  so  easy  that  I  have  pre- 
pared here  a  stamped  receipt/*  He  threw  it  over  to  M,  Lazaruji,  "  Be 
80  good  as  to  sij^n  that," 

"  Certainly/  said  the  Jew,  "  when  I  touch  the  money/' 

**  Hark  you,  M.  Lazarus  I  You  were  here  yesterday  when  he,  too 
truly,  depicted  my  condition  and  prospects.  They  are,  brieHy,  infamy- 
death.  Bitt  the  one  well  managed  may  conceal  the  other*  IVleanwhile, 
1  hold  much  to  dying  out  of  debt.  If  yon  sign  that  paper  I  shall  do  so» 
and  you  will  continue  to  enjoy  life.  If  you  refuse,  I  slmll  still  do  so, 
but  in  that  case  it  can  only  be  by  our  dying  together.  Here  are  two 
pistols  /'  the  Count  opened  a  drawer  in  the  table  as  he  spoke,  and  pro- 
duced them.  *'  Vowed  to  death  as  I  am,  desperate  as  you  see  me,  you 
canntjt  doubt  that  I  shall  keep  my  word*  Decide.  Am  I  to  pnU  two 
trigjiers,  or  only  one  ?  " 

**  For  God  s  sake.  Count !"  exclaimed  the  Jew ;  '*  at  least,  don't  point 
them  this  way.  They  are  hair  triggers,  and  your  hand  is  far  from  steady* 
Give  ma  the  inkstand.  There — but,  now  as  a  last  favour ;  I  have  a 
riglit  to  ask  one,  for  you  have  half  ruined  me  i  dou*t,  there's  u  good, 
kind  Count,  don't  shoot  yourself-^till  I'm  rtmnd  the  corner/* 

**  IVI.  Lazarus,  you  are  right:  it  might  produce  a  scandal,  and  my 
object  might  be  defeated  if  your  name  were  at  all  mixed  up  in  this.  In 
return  for  your  receipt  I  grant  your  favour.  I  regret  to  have  been 
forced  to  act  so  liarshly  towards  you  ;  but  my  father  must  not  be 
weighed  down  when  he  comes  back — I  had  almost  said  home,  but  he 
has  no  home  now — from  Siberia,  by  my  extravagance  here.  Farewell. 
Try  the  path  of  honesty.  You  say  I  have  half  ruined  you,  and  you 
see  wliat  I  am.     Farewell,  Sir." 

M*  Lazarus  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  be  gone  before  the  twitching  fin- 
gers of  Alexis  should  close  mechanically  on  a  hair  trigger,  that  hit 
adieux  were  considerably  abridged.  His  respiration  was  easier,  and 
his  step  more  assured,  when  he  had  cleared  the  corner  of  Chesterfield 
Street,  without  hearing  any  report  whatever. 

Late  that  afternoon  the  following  note  was  put  into  the  bands  €f  the 
Lady  Anne  :— 

"Dbarkst  Lady  Anne, 

"  Sudden  intelligence  of  a  most  distressing  family  calamity  hurries 

me  away  without  even  taking  leave  of  you.  I  fear  a  fortnight  must 
elapse  before  I  can  return  from  Hamburg,  where  I  am  to  meet  my 
brother.     iUJ  angels  guard  you  1     Respects  to  tlie  Earl, 

**  Thine  ever, 

"  Albxis, 

**  Whop  I  got  to  the  UjHfra  lust  night,  you  were  gone." 


*^j 


THE    WIDOW   TO    HER    SON. 


S09 


The  fLirtnigbt  paiised,  and  many  a  succeeding  week>  witbout  the  re- 
turn of  Alexis  to  De  Urston  House — without  any  news  from  him,  Mean- 
while^  the  cheek  of  the  Lady  Anne  grew  pale,  and  her  eye  was  vacant 
but  restless.  Nothing  was  ever  heard  at  the  West  End  of  Ohrenow, 
and  the  family  wag  too  proud  to  make  public  inquiries  on  the  subject. 
But  those  who,  unlike  the  Lady  Anne,  read  the  morning  papers,  care- 
lessly glanced  over  the  following  paragraph,  which  appeared  just  three 
days  after  the  lost  visit  of  M,  Lazarus  to  Chesterfield  Street : 

**  The  inhabitants  of  Welljohn  Street,  Poplar,  were  alarmed  last 
night  by  the  sudden  explosion  of  a  pistol^  which  proved  to  have  been 
caused  by  the  suicide  of  a  foreigner,  apparently  a  Pole»  The  person  in 
question  had  only  occupied  the  lodgings  for  the  two  previous  days. 
Nothing  was  found  or  elicited  to  identify  the  body,  which  will  be 
buried  to-morrow  night  without  a  funeral  service,  the  worthy  Coroner 
remarking  that  a  clearer  case  of  *  felo-de-se'  never  came  before  him/' 

Excellent  Coroner  I  was  it  because  * 'the  body  was  not  identified/' 
and  **  apparently"  belonged  to  some  obscure  '*^  Pole,"  that  **  the  clear- 
ness of  the  case"  so  forcibly  struck  you  ? 

And  you,  thoughtless  readers,  do  you  think  this  a  m el o- dramatic 
sketch?  On  our  honour  it  is  a  page  out  of  that  sealed  book  of  all 
imaginary  catastrophes, — Real  Life. 


THE  WIDOW  TO  HER  SON. 

Oh  I  fairest  of  earthV  jewels,  as  I  g^ze  upon  tliee  now. 
With  the  ftnile  upon  thy  dimpied  cheek,  and  thy  clear  and  open  brow. 
All  the  wenrinesa  ihjit  I  have  felt  for  thee  hath  left  my  breast, 
And  ihy  mother  claspei  ibee  to  her  heart,  nnd  aingsi  thee  to  thy  reet  I 

Bright  image  of  thy  sainteil  siire  \  thou  hast  hia  nnhle  air. 
The  kindling  glance  of  his  lilue  eyes^  the  features  small  and  fair, 
The  same  light  laugh  and  playful  smile  that  never  left  his  face — 
Oh  !  it  glods  the  widow's  heart  in  thee  her  early  love  to  traoi ! 

But  yet  a  tthade  doth  come  acro»a  the  fulness  of  my  joy, 
When  I  think  of  what  thou  soon  must  he,  a  fncndles;^  oqjhan  boy ; 
When  the  hand  now  chisterM  midst  thy  ii>cks  hath  fallen  to  decay, 
Atid  the  voice  that  sings  to  thee,  my  own  !  in  death  hath  pa»s»*d  nway  I 

And  thou  wilt  weep  to  see  me  home  to  my  cold  and  shruudeil  hed. 
And  thou  T\TiIt  mourn — ay,  deeply  mourn,  the  parent  that  hath  fled. 
Thou  *lt  call  OQ  me  :  the  moaning  winds  will  answer,  *'  She  ia  fu^ne  !  " 
And  thou  wilt  feel  amidst  the  world  all  desolate  and  lone  ! 
'Tifl  then  that  I  will  cume  to  thee^  and  whisper  in  thy  ear. 
And  sweetly  calm  wiU  be  thy  ^rief,  and  dry  each  starting  tear  t 
I  "U  guard  thee  In  the  midnight  bour«  and  watch  thy  hrokert  sleep, 
And  when  sod  thoughts  come  over  thee,  together  we  ivilJ  weep  ! 

Oh  !  cfjuld  I  see  thee  flourishing  like  yonder  stately  pine^ 
That  spreads  its  branches  out  afar,  what  joy  would  then  be  mine  ! 
To  see  thee  rising  proudly  *midst  the  sons  of  ivealtb  and  fame^ 
And  shedding  lustre  on  thy  birth,  and  on  thy  father*i  name  I 

My  little  one  J  they  '11  hid  thee  then  forget  what  thou  hast  been. 
And  show  thee  fairer  spots  than  those  thine  infancy  hath  seeu^ 
But  ever,  'midst  the  changes  that  await  thy  pathway  here, 
Aemember  still  the  light  of  home,  and  those  wJvo  bless'd  thee  there  i 

And  when  thy  spirit  lingers  on  the  threshold  of  this  life. 
And  phjmes  its  wings  for  freedom  from  a  world  of  care  and  strife, 
I  11  hi^v  thee  with  an  angel's  power  unto  that  holy  spot. 
Where  father^  mother,  ion  shidl  rest,  where  sorrow  oimelh  not ! 


310 

THE  GAOL  CHAPLAIN; 
OK,  A  DARK  PAGE  FROM  LIFE'S  VOLUME. 

CBAPTEE    LXVX, 
THE    LADY    THIKP. 

'*  W'lience  oomcs  it  to  pass  that  we  have  so  much  pdtience  with  tbo«if«  who  aiv 
maimed  jd  body,  and  so  !ittltf  with  those  who  are  defective  in  mind  ?" — Fiscal. 

Among  the  ocrackg  there  is  one  to  which  dingular  and  undeviat^ 

mg  homage  is  paid  in  Britain^the  Plutocracy*     It  attracts  al! ;  en- 
snares in  any  ;    bimds  not  a  tew ;  and  is  even  potent  upon   occa- 
sion to  defeat  the  ends  of  justice.     An  instance  occurs  to  my  recolnS 
lection.  ^m 

The  BayldonSj  a  wealthy  family,  lived  within  a  stone-throw  of 
the  Gaol.  The  old  people  were  a  cheerful,  open-handed^  hospitable 
couple;  the  juniors  in  the  household — there  were  no  sons — clever, 
intelligent,  sbarpwittcd  girla.  They  sang;  they  danced;  they 
sketched  from  nature ;  rode  well ;  were  fair  billiard-players :  tho- 
roughly free  from  afTeetation,  and  always  cheerful  and  amusing* 
The  voice  of  the  multitude  was  heard  and  prevailed.  The  Bayl- 
dons  were  pronounced  "  an  acquisition  to  the  neighbourhood," 

Now,  where  there  is  music,  and  money,  and  a  dog  cook,  and  a 
fair  celkr,  there  the  idle,  and  the  listless,  and  the  light-hearted,  and 
the  adventurous  will  congregate;  and  of  good  Mr.  Bay  1  don,  who 
delighted  to  see  a  table  thickly  covered  with  viands,  and  duly  fur- 
nished with  guestSj  care  was  taken  that  he  should  rarely  complain  of 
solitude. 

His  hospitality,  though  it  defied  imitation,  demanded  and  received 
from  various  quarters  a  return  ;  and  the  daughters  of  his  hous 
the  old  gentleman  himself  rarely  stirred  abroad — were  cordiallj 
welcomed  among  the  county  families.  After  a  while  that  fertil#l| 
topic  of  female  lamentation,  the  degeneracy  of  household  servants, 
became  alarmingly  rife  in  the  district ;  and  a  general  outcry  WA§ 
raised  touching  the  increasing  dishonesty  of  domestics  **  even  in  the 
best-regulated  families.'*  Knickknacsand  bijouterie  vanisfaefl  almost 
beff>re  the  eyes  of  the  owners.  Old  coins  again  became  current, 
and  disappeared  most  vexatiously  from  their  resting-place  on  the 
high  and  antique  chimney-piece.  A  gold  snuff-box,  elaborately 
chased,  strayed  most  unaccountably  from  the  cabinet  of  its  distract- 
ed owner:  and  last  of  all,  a  small  silver  gnufler-tray,  which  had 
belonged  to  Queen  Anne,  and  which  was  regarded  as  an  heir- 
loom by  the  courtly  family  winch  treasured  it,  was  pronounced  to 
be  missing. 

The  extent  to  which  these  untoward  incidents  unsettled  the  vari- 
ous families  in  which  they  occurred  was  amusing.  Butler  after 
butler  was  removed,  and  housemaid  after  housemaid,  and  still 
doubts  existed  whether  grievous  wrong  in  these  sudden  dismissals 
had  not  been  inflicted ;    since  no  trace   of  the   missing   property 


eivea 

oise*-«^H 
liallyH 
ertil#H 
ants,  ^ 


-raE    OAOli    CHAPLAIN. 


«11 


could  be  found,  and  suspicion  was  all  the  aggrieved  parties  had  to 
rest  upon. 

In  the  meanwhile,  one  or  more  of  the  ejected  menials,  smarting 
under  the  imputation  of  dishonesty,  consulted  '*  a  cnnniiig  woman" 
in  the  neighbourhood ;  and  this  cunnini^  woman,  more  perplexing 
than  any  raystic  oracle  of  ohl,  gave  out  this  amhig'uous  response ; — 

**  Neither  coin,  gem,  nor  trinket  is  lost  or  mislaid.  All  have 
been  taken  knowingly  and  wilfully  ;  but  not  for  want.  Others 
rob  besides  servants ;  and  the  real  thief  has  never  yet  been  sus* 
pected/' 

I  heard  all  this  gossip  and  was  amused  by  it.  Time  was  when  I 
myself  some  forty  years  ago  Iiad  consulted  **  a  cunning  woman," 
treasured  up  her  replies,  and  relied  tirmly  on  their  fulfilment. 

Homeward  as  I  trudged  from  Gaol  one  wintry  morning,  one  of 
the  wealthiest  of  the  neighbouring  tradesmen  rode  up  and  begged 
I  would  allow  him  to  have  ten  minutes*  conversation  with  me, — he 
wished  to  take  my  opinion  on  a  matter  in  which  I  could  greatly 
assist  him. 

•*  Was  1  likely  to  be  disengaged  in  half  an  hour  ?" 

**  Yes  :  and  would  see  him." 

He  came,  and  told  me,  after  much  circumlocution  and  many  en- 
treaties for  unbroken  secrecy  while  the  lady  lived,  that  he  hail  long 
suspected  a  p«trty  connected  with  one  of  the  principal  families  in 
the  neighbourhootl  of  carrying  away  from  his  counter  more  than 
the  paid  for  ;  that  lace,  gloves,  ribbon,  had  been  misaed  after  her 
visits ;  that  he  had  in  consequence  made  a  point  of  sei*ving  her 
himfelf ;  and  had  that  very  morning  detected  her  marvellous  sleight- 
of-hand.  He  added,  that  on  this  occasion  he  was  no  loser  ;  for  he 
had  followed  her  to  her  father's  house,  insisted  on  a  private  inter«- 
view,  and,  after  many  tears  and  protestations,  had  regained  posses* 
sion  of  the  stolen  property-  Thinking  that  I  must,  iVom  my  posi- 
tion, hear  and  know  much  of  such  transactions,  he  came  to  me  for 
"  a  word  of  friendly  counsel.*'  W'hat  was  my  opinion  ?  would  I 
give  it  him  ?  Was  it  right,  because  a  /flrfy- thief,  that  7fliss  Bay  Id  on 
should  escape?  Was  there  nnt,  in  his  circumstances,  a  positive  duty 
to  be  performed  to  the  community  ?  ShouUl  he  allow  his  respect 
for  the  family  generally,  and  his  pity  f  »r  the  aged  parents  specially* 
to  deter  him  from  exposing  the  daughter?  Would  I  advise  him? 
My  reply  was  tantamount  to  this — that  I  thought  his  solicitor  the 
proper  party  to  advise  him  ;  but  that  as  he  had  asked  my  opinion, 
and  seemed  to  attach  importance  to  it,  it  should  not  be  withheld. 
It  was  this, — that  he  was  bound  in  justice  to  others  to  take  care 
that  the  career  of  such  a  dishonest  person  was  checked.  He  assent- 
ed by  gesture  to  this  conclusion ;  and  added,  such  was  his  own 
Conviction,  and  he  should  act  upon  it  forthwith. 

He  thanked  me  and  left  me. 

A  week,  a  fortnight,  a  month  elapsed,  and  no  syllable  reached  my 
ear  injurious  to  the  fume  of  Miss  Bayklon,  or  perilous  to  her  per- 
sonal liberty.  She  rode,  drove,  danced,  and  sang  as  uyuaL  Busi- 
ness then  took  me  into  the  neighbouring  market^town,  and  there  1 
encountered  the  draper.  He  coloured  and  looked  foolish  when 
he  saw  me.  I  passed  on.  He  was  the  best  judge,  methought,  of 
Us  own  position*  My  opinion  bad  been  sought ;  was  frankly 
given ;  and  the  tale  on  which  it  was  founded  bad  never  by  me 


312 


THE   OAOt   CHAPLAIK. 


been  reputed.  What  concern  of  mine  were  his  ulterior  proceed^ 
ings  ?  I  might  have,  and  had,  my  own  private  opinion  on  his  deci* 
rion  of  character:  an  resfe,  I  coldly  returned  hia  salutation^  men- 
tally taking  a  final  leave  of  him  and  his  "  determinations.'*  Alas  I 
it  was  not  his  will  that  I  should  thus  escape  him ;  he  accosted  me 
with  sickening  servility,  and  entered  forthwith  upon  a  series  of 
explanations  and  apologies.  It  was  in  vain  I  reminded  him  that 
he  was  not  accountable  to  rae  for  any  change  of  purpose  ;  that  I 
had  no  right  or  intention  to  catechise  hira  ;  that  he  was  a  free 
agent;  that  he  had,  doubtless,  rules  for  his  own  governance  with 
which  it  became  not  a  stranger  to  intermeddle ;  and  that  I  had 
nearly  forgotten  the  whole  transaction* 

"  Yes ;  but/'  continued  he  perseveringly,  "  you  must  have  con- 
demned my  conduct  as  strangely  wanting  in  resolution  and  Erm- 
nesB  ?" 

I  made  no  reply. 

**  I  had  nothing  to  gain  from  exposure/'  was  the  strange  assertion 
with  which  he  renewed  the  conversation,  **  but  much  to  lose.  All 
the  members  of  her  family  were  customers, — indifferent  as  to  price 
— prompt  in  their  mode  of  payment,  A  connexion  is  not  lightly  to 
be  sacrificed,  IMr*  Cleaver ;  it  is  too  valuable  to  a  man  in  business, 
— far  too  valuable.  Moreover,  I  had  an  interview  with  her  father — 
her  grey-headed,  exemplary,  venerable  father.  His  grief  moved  me 
— It  was  truly  touching  !  \¥hy  should  I  agonize  and  degrade  an 
entire  family  ?  Malignant  and  revengeful ! — quite  unchristian,  and 
not  to  be  thought  of  I  Certain  explanations  were  given^  and  certain 
inducements  held  out ;  and  my  lips  are  sealed,  Mr.  Cleaver,  wholly 
and  irrevocably  sealed.  /  was  no  loser ;  but  others  were.  What  a 
turn  out  her  drawers  afforded  1  A  repository — nothing  less  !  Might 
have  started  in  business  on  her  own  account  i  Something  of  all 
sorts,  and  rare  articles  many  of  them*  But  my  motto  is  silence.  I 
hold  the  Christian's  creed — forget  and  forgive.** 

"  True  ;  but  you  transported,  eight  months  ago,  that  poor  un- 
happy girl  who  stole  fifty  shillings'  worth  of  eatables  from  your 
premises,  and  from  want — from  positive  and  undeniable  want."' 

''  To  be  sure  I  did  !  A  low,  wretched  creature  I  What  business 
had  she  to  steal  ?  A  parish  apprentice,  brought  up  in  the  work- 
house,— how  dared  she  appropriate  what  wasn't  her  own  I  Who  can 
compassionate  beings  of  that  stamp  ?'* 

**  I  understand  you  clearly.    I  see  for  whom  you  have  sympathy/* 

"  I  look  at  my  connexion,  sir.  Endure  anything,  submit  to  any- 
thing, be  blind  to  anything,  before  you  sacrifice  your  connexion/* 

"  Ajid  ifotir  comcience/*  I  added,  turned  on  my  heel,  and  left  him. 


I 

i 


I 

4 


OBAPTBR  liXVlI. 
THB  JBW   WITH   REFEHENCB   TO  SOCIETV. 

•'  I  wouliiii't  swap  idetia  with  any  man.  I  make  my  own  opinionn,  a«  T  uwd  to 
do  my  own  docks ;  aJid  I  lind  they  are  truer  than  other  menV  The  Turka  OK 
so  cussed  heary,  thpy  have  people  to  diuice  for  Vm ;  tlie  English  are  WUi,  lor 
they  hire  people  to  think  for  ^emJ'*—Sam  Slick;  or.  The  Aitachi. 

In  looking  back  upon  the  past,  it  has  occurred  to  rae  how  rarely 
tt  Jew  haa  come  under  my  proilessional  surveillance,— a  result  which. 


THE   OAOI-   CHAPLAIN. 


313 


to  my  mindf  is  the  more  remarkable,  from  tlie  de^aded  position 
which  he  oceiipies  in  society.     In  this  country  there  seems  to  be 

amonjjst  them  no  middle  class.  The  very  rich  and  the  very  poor, 
the  latter  largely  preponderating^,  make  up  the  community.  To  the 
privations  endured  by  the  lower  orders  amonj^  the  Jews,  to  the  ab- 
ject pennry  to  which  many  of  them  are  reduced,  those  only  who 
have  studied  the  habita  and  aufFeriof^s  of  "the  fullen  people"  can  do 
full  jy  stjce.  But  still,  we  never  find  the  Jew  in  the  ranks  of  the  factious 
and  disaffected,  a  '^  mover  of  sedition,*'  or  desirous  to  overthrow  the 
constitution  oT  the  country  under  the  protection  oi  whose  laws  he 
lives.  The  race  to  which  he  belong^s  is  essentially  peaceful ;  and 
the  Jew,  alien  and  outcast  though  he  be,  is  in  the  lami  where  be 
sojourns  a  cpiiet  and  submi^sii'e  citizen.  Furthermore,  in  scrutiniz<- 
injj  the  annals  of  crime,  we  shall  at  rare  inter vaU  find  a  Jew  charged 
with  any  atrocious  offence.  Deeds  of  violence  and  blood  seem  ab- 
horrent to  his  nature.  Their  mistlemeanours  chiefly  refer  to  that 
predilection  cheriihed,  more  or  less  cordially,  by  every  member  of 
the  community, — a  predilection  for  **iipoilin|3;^  the  Egyptians."  The 
only  Jewish  transgressor  I  recollect  to  have  come  under  my  official 
cognizance  was  a  little  fatherless  boy,  charged  with  uttering  base 
money,  knowinr;  it  to  be  counterfeit.  The  accusation  excited  no 
common  interest  in  the  synagogue ;  for  the  youth  was  well  de- 
scended, and  the  blood  of  those  who  had  been  famed  in  Jewish  story 
flowed  in  his  veins.  His  mother  felt  his  peril  keenly  ;  and  the  un- 
tiring eir neatness  with  which,  week  after  week,  she  struggled  to 
collect  the  means  necessary  for  hivS  defence,  and  arranged  the  evi- 
dence which  tidd  in  his  favour,  did  honour  to  her  sense  of  duty. 
In  her  first  object  she  was  aided  by  the  wealthy  ,Jews,  and,  unless 
memory  is  strangely  treacherous,  by  the  Baroness  Lionel  de  Rrrths- 
chiJd.  How  faulty  and  defective  soever  the  Hebrew's  creed  may  be, 
— and,  alas  1  in  one  point  it  i'*  woefully  so,— the  duty  of  almsgiving 
is  not  forgotten.  In  no  community  do  the  wealthier  members  more 
readily  recognise  the  wantjs  of  the  poorer*  or  afford  them  more  ge- 
nerous and  instant  relief,  than  in  the  Jewish.  This  is  a  noble  fea- 
ture in  the  Hebrew  brotherhood.  In  this  particular  instance,  how- 
ever, the  sympathy  of  the  opulent  Israelite  had  well-nigh  proved 
abortive,  through  the  villany  of  the  attorney  intrusted  with  the  rle- 
fence.  Misled  by  injudicious  advice,  or  induced  by  the  expectation 
of  procuring  cheap  counsel,  the  Jewi^nh  mother  sought  the  guidance 
of  some  fourth-rate  practitioner  in  that  profession,  which  holds  out 
so  many  temptations  to  an  unprincipled  man.  Lawyer  Oxborrow— 
the  latter  name  I  give  him — had  in  some  one  transaction  of  his  life 
been  overreached  by  an  Lsraelite ;  and,  with  a  spirit  incapable  «if  f<ir* 
givcnesii,  cherished  a  secret  and  enduring  spite  against  the  whule 
race.  The  danger  of  young  Lou  sad  a  was  delightful.  He  *'  hopfd 
most  devoutly  '*- — so  he  was  overheard  to  express  himself — **  that  the 
Jewish  imp  would  be  transported.  Had  his  offence  been  capital,  he 
should  have  been  better  pleased.  However,  the  hulks^  if  not  ba- 
nishment, were  before  him." 

So  befricHfkd,  it  was  no  matter  of  marvel  that,  on  the  day  fix^d  for 
trial,  the  mother  had  the  agony  of  finding  that  the  brief  for  the  de* 
fence  had  been  but  that  morning  delivered  to  rounsel  ;  that  two  wit- 
ne«fle«  only^  and  those  the  most  unimportant,  had  been  subpcenaed  ; 
that  it  was  not  intended  to  call  any  as  tt*  character ;  in  a  word,  that 


VOL.  XVI  n. 


3U 


THE  GAOL  CHAPLAIN- 


her  child  was  viewed  and  treated  as  guilty  by  him  whose  office  and 
duty  it  was  to  prove  him  innocent ; — in  a  word,  that  Eli  Loueada 
was  marked  out  for  punishment  and  infamy. 

But  Esther  Lousada  was  not  a  woman  whose  spirit  quailed  before 
approaching  difBculties,  or  whose  love  for  her  offspring  official  dig- 
nity could  awe  into  inaction.  When  her  son's  c^se  came  under  the 
cognizance  of  the  judge,  Esther  rc)«e  in  court,  and  beseeching,  in 
tones  too  earnest  to  be  silenced,  his  Lordship's  attention  for  a  brief 
moment,  exposed  clearly  and  cleverly  enough  the  gross  negligence 
of  the  attorney  she  had  employ ed^  and  [M>inted  out  the  calamitous 
consequences  which  might  thence  accrue  to  her  ^on.  The  judge 
listened,  at  first  coldly  and  distrustfully,  fie  had,  apparently,  a 
strong  suspicion  that,  in  the  statement  then  aubmitted  to  him,  there 
was  a  considerable  mixture  of  bam.  This  impression  gradually  gave 
way  beneath  the  frank  and  pertinent  answers  which  the  mother  re- 
turned to  his  searching  questions.  From  that  moment  his  Lordship 
became,  in  the  most  availing  sense,  counsel  for  the  prisoner.  The 
truth  was  elicited,  after  considerable  difficulty,  and  various  elaborate 
attempts  at  mystification.  But  he  undertook  a  somewhat  difficult 
task  who  essayed  to  bamboozle  Judge  Li ttledale,  Eli  Lousada  was 
acquitted,  to  the  satisfaction  of  a  crowded  court.  His  escape  from 
transportation  was  hairbreadth  ;  and  for  much  of  his  peril  he  was 
indebted  to  his  own  folly.  His  history  seemed  to  run  thus.  He 
w«a  necessitous,  and  he  was  ignorant,  and  became,  unwittingly,  the 
tool  of  some  infamous  and  most  unscrupulous  parties,  who  bad  all 
but  effected  his  ruin.  His  acquittal  pronounced,  the  judge  cautioned 
him  strongly  as  to  his  future  associates  and  course  of  life  ;  and  then^ 
dextrously  alluding  to  the  recreant  attorney,  commented  on  that 
worthy's  conduct  in  terms  which,  had  one  lingenng  spark  of  proper 
feeling  remained »  must  have  shamed  him  into  seclusion  for  the  re- 
mainder of  his  days.  One  result  was  remarkable :  from  that  hour 
his  practice  rapidly  declined;  and,  despite  of  acknowledged  talents, 
considerable  legal  acuteness,  and  an  unrivalled  professiomd  memory, 
he  died  in  indigence  and  obscurity.  The  multitude  declared  that 
the  truth  and  severity  of  Judge  Litlledale's  rebuke  had  settled  him. 
There  were  those  who  thought  otherwise.  An  opinion  was  che- 
rished by  a  few,  myself  among  the  number,  that  the  lawyer's  scheme 
to  ruin  an  innocent  party,  and  that  party  a  Jew,  had  been  overruled 
by  a  resist  I tss  Influknck  to  his  own  destruction.  The  conviction 
may  be  absurd,  or  it  may  be  mat ;  it  may  be  that  of  a  bigot,  a 
fanatic,  or  a  visionary  ;  it  is,  however,  sincerely  entertained,  and 
based  on  attentive  observation.  Cower  as  the  Jew  may  tinder  the 
just  displeasure  of  Heaven— bear  about  with  him  as  he  may  the 
marks  of  that  displeasure, — without  country,  altar,  wrniy,  king, — 
still  he  boasts  ati  Invisible  Protector, — still  does  he  belong  to  the 
onct'-favoii red  and  fondly-cherished  race;  and  to  him,  amid  all  his 
degradation,  an  exile  and  a  wanderer,  does  that  unqualified  assur^ 
ance  of  protection  still  apply, — *' Cursed  is  he  that  curseth  thee,  and 
blessed  is  he  that  ble&fc^eth  tliee." 

Isolated,  however,  as  he  is,  there  are  times  and  seasons  when  he 

fancies  he  has  a  duly  to  jierfonu  to  society  ;  and  the  readiness  with 

which  he  dovetails  the  di!»ch;irge  of  this  duly  into  some  prtjject  for 

^n  immediate   pmfit,  adbrds   matter   for  curious  observation. 


THE   GAOL   CHAPLAIN. 


315 


Apropos  of  this,  there  are  some  yet  living  who  will  iiut^nce   Mr. 
Lamech  Lazarus,  and  the  "  celebrated"  Dr,  Baillie, 

Lamech  waii  a  sojourner,  towards  the  close  of  the  late  war,  in  tine 
of  the  alleys  leading  to  the  B-irbican,  at  Plymouth.  11  is  calling  it 
would  be  rather  difficult  to  define  with  precision.  He  had  various 
avocations — 1\\\  more  or  leas  profitable  ;  but  be  styled  himself  a  Navy 
Prize  Agent. 

Many  a  Jack  Tar  fiad  ample  cause  for  remembering  his  adroitness 
in  figuring.  He  fattened  upon  extortion ;  and  wrung  his  wealth 
from  the  sinews  of  those  brave  byt  thotightlesb  feltows — prodigal  of 
life  and  limb  in  their  country's  cause — whose  shore  follies  are  their 
ruin.  The  enemies  "  Jack'*  has  to  dread  he  meets  on  terra  Jirmn — 
not  on  the  ocean.  AVhy  does  not  England,  who  owes  so  deep  a  debt 
to  her  marine,  save  the  careless  sailor  IVoni  the  fangs  of  the  Jewiah 
slop-seller — ^the  Jewish  crimp — and  tlie  Jewish  usurer?  lilr.  Laza- 
rus was  all  three  ;  and,  unless  report  belied  him,  a  smuggler  to  boot. 
But  his  business  was  curried  on  upon  a  grand  scalcj,  and  with  an  ap- 
pearance of  candour  and  good  faith  which  were  worth  cent,  per  cent. 
to  him*  To  hi^  varied  monetary  successes  there  was  one  drawback 
— declining  health  :  and,  availing  liimself  of  an  interview  on  other 
matltrs,  he  contrived  to  seek  and  obtain  the  opinion  of  Mr.  De- 
lunty,  the  well-known  surgeon  to  the  Naval  Hospital,  Stonehouse. 

This  off-hand  functionary  was  a  clever  man,  who  had  studied  his 
profession  thorougldy  ;  was  famed  for  the  precision  with  which  he 
discriminated  between  conflicting  symptoms,  and  the  soundness  of 
his  conclusions  as  to  the  seat  o\'  a  disorder.  He  told  the  Jew  at 
once  that  his  case  was  critical  i  that  he  must  abjure  spirits  ;  submit 
to  an  active  course  of  medical  treatment ;  and  abide  by  a  strict  regi- 
men in  point  of  diet.  All  this  to  Air.  Lazarus  was  truly  ui*palalable. 
He  was  somewhat  of  a  hon  vivant.  He  "couldn't  exist  without 
grog."  He  '*  never  relished  vimple  food."  As  for  "  slops — that  is  to 
gay,  cook's  slops"  he  '* abliorred  them/' 

'*  Order  your  coffin  !"  was  Mr.  Delunty's  blunt  rejoinder. 

The  Jew  made  a  wry  face.  He  did  not  supply  coffins.  They 
were  not  among  his  stores.  On  shipboard  they  were  not  required. 
He  did  not  *' house"  them.  Moreover,  the  word  itself  called  up  any- 
thing but  agreeable  associations.  It  implied  a  separation  from  his 
discounts,  and  his  prize  lists,  and  his  time  bargains,  and  his  in- 
terest table,  his  savoury  meats,  and  Ins  brandy-bottle. 

"  You*ve  settled  your  affairs,  of  course?"  continued  his  adviser, 
coolly.  "  I  ask  the  question  simply  because  from  present  appear- 
ances I  don't  think  you  've  many  weeks  to  live," 

The  Jew  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair.  His  den  in  the  Barbican 
wa5  dear  to  liim,  Loth  w^ould  he  be  to  part  with  it.  Moreover, 
there  were  halfa-doxen  dead  seamen  whose  pay  and  prize-money 
he  was  on  the  puint  of  nabbing.  His  account  was  heavy  with  more 
than  one  ship's  company.  War  was  at  its  height,  and  the  end,  aji- 
parently  distant.  These  considerations  moved  him.  He  blurted 
out  in  a  truly  dolorous  tone — 

"  1  yield,  Doctor,  I  yield;  I  will  abide  by  a  strict  regimen,  and 
renounce  grog." 

**  And  submit  forthwith  to  a  course  of  medical  treatment?" 

"No!  no r*  cried  the  Jew  piteously  ;  "I  said  not  that*     Medical 


818 


SONG. 


treatment!     That  will  cost  money ^much   money — ready  nioiiey  ; 
medical  treatment  is  expensive  is  it  not  ?*' 

**  Ami  rightly/*  returned  Delniity  ;  "dcMrtors  mu»t  live.  Would 
you  h?ive  them  starve.  Extortioner,  while  saving  character*  like  your« 
self  from  Gehenna  ?'* 

*'  Don't  use  such  fearful  words*/'  said  Lazarus,  in  accents  of  un- 
feigned alarm;  '*^ speak  mildly  to  me,  for  I  require  comfort  and 
consolation*  And  oh  !  be  generous.  Worthy  Mr,  Delunty — "  here 
hia  voice  assumed  the  tone  of  the  most  whining  intreaty — "are 
there  not  a  few  drugs  you  could  give  mc—gwe  me — aa  proper  for 
my  caae  ?'* 

"  And  are  you  such  an  adept  in  villany*  Lamech  Lazarus/*  said 
the  other,  sternly  regarding  him,  "as  to  imngine  any  entreaties  of 
yours  could  induce  me  to  connive  at  theft?  Every  drug  in  this 
place  belongs  to  the  Crown.  Nothing  is  mine.  Nor  have  1  the 
right  of  using  the  minutest  portion  of  any  medical  preparation 
under  my  charge,  for  any  parties  other  than  those  within  the  hospi- 
tal. Am  I  now  to  turn  dishonest,  and  i*ori/ouf  Lazarus,  I  never 
thojight  you  over  virtuous ;  but  you  've  more  of  the  devirs  cunning 
and  craft  about  you  than  I  imagined  any  living  man  in  a  coUi  region 
was  allowe<l  to  possess — and  all  hia  impudence.     Begone,  air  J" 

"  Worthy  doctor,  hear  me — one  word — but  one  word^** 

"  No  I     I  've  heard  far  too  many  from  you  this  morning  for  youp' 
own  honour  and  credit.     Go  i  you  have  my  verbal  directions,  and 
can  abide  by  them.     Go  f* 

"  One  word,  sir,  if  you  please." 

"  No  1  go  and  repent ;— and,  I  say.  be  quick  about  it  *  for  yoti*re 
likely  to  join  your  forefathers  in  ajiff}^" 

"  A  ripe  and  well-matured  rascjil  that!"  soliloquised  the  doctor, 
as  the  Jew  shuffled  down  the  step»,  and  turned  the  corner  towfirds 
Union  Street  "  If  Commissioner  Creyke  had  heard  Lumech's  pro- 
posal, a  precious  wig!j[ing  I  should  have  got  from  him  1  And  yet 
his  lady  thinks  well  of  the  Jews,  and  subscribes  to  a  s*j>ciety  for 
converting  them  !  I  wii>h  they  *d  convert  old  Lazarus !  They 
should  have  my  annual  guinea  to  a  certainty.  Egad  f  they  would 
I  have  dearly  earned  it.  Convert  old  Lazarus!  Ila  !  ha!  ha  I  111 
I  mention  him  to  Mrs.  Creyke  to-morrow  as  a  very  proper  subject 
for  immediate  religious  eflTort/' 


SONG. 


Co  MS  down  tn  the  deep  %^ith  me. 

Where  VKiu  the<»  a  coral  bower  ; 
My  hofoe  is  tlie  wide,  wide  ft«a, 

And  rich  r»  the  fairy*s  dower  1 
I  Ml  weHirc  thet*  a  dindem^ 

Til  lit  the  ■turn  can  scarce  ouuhinef 
QfpearU,  and  ihe  r»reit  gem 

That  gitiws  in  the  crysud  m!ne  ! 


Ccmie  down  to  the  deep  wtUi  me. 

Where  the  «ea-nympha  %Ut\l\  iil»ey 
The  wi&hest  that  C5ome  to  ihw, 

And  how  to  thy  *io\ 'reign  nway  ! 
Swcf  t  strains  from  the  wavi^ii  uUore 

Shall  charm  with  their  song  th  y  hrc4ist ; 
And  the  fairy 'n  wings  of  hive 

ShhW  wHft  ihee  unto  thy  rasl  f 


317 


THE  MARCHIONESS  OF  BRINVILLIERS, 

THE    POISONER    OF    THE    SEVBNTBENTH    CENTURY. 

A    ROMANCE     OF    OLD     PAHIB. 

BY   ALBERT    SMITH. 

[with   Air   ILLUSTBATION   BY  J,   LEECH.] 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

The  Flight  of  Marie  to  Li^ge.^Pari8. — The  Gibbet  of  Montfancon* 

Midnight  was  sounded  upon  ihe  heavy  bell  t>f  the  Bastille  by  the 
sentinel  on  guard  but  a  few  minutes  befure  the  IVIarchioness  of  Brrnvil- 
liers — terrified,  lircuthles«»  and,  in  spite  of  her  hurry,  shivering  in  her 
li^ht  dress  beneath  the  intense  cold, — ^arrived  at  the  Hotel  D'Aubray. 
There  Avere  no  signs  of  life  in  that  quarter  of  Paris,  for  the  inhabitants 
had  long  retired  to  rest :  a  fnint  light,  gleuming  from  the  front  windows 
of  ^larie's  residi-nce  upon  the  snow  that  covered  the  ihoronghfare,  alone 
served  to  guide  her  to  the  door.  The  drowsy  concierge  admitted  her, 
and  she  hurried  across  the  inner  court,  and  up  stairs  to  her  own  apart- 
ment. 

Fnm^oise  Roussel,  her  servant,  was  waiting  up  for  her.  Her  mistress 
had  left  in  such  an  extreme  of  anxiety,  and  half-undressetl,  tliat  Fran- 
^oise  saw  at  once  an  affair  of  great  moment  had  disturbed  her  ;  and 
now,  m  Marie  returned,  tlie  girl  was  frightened  by  her  almost  ghastly 
look*  As  she  entered  the  room  she  feU  panting  on  one  of  the  cnuseusex, 
and  then  her  servant  perceived  that  she  had  lont  one  of  her  shoes,  and 
bad  been  walking,  perhaps  nearly  the  whole  distance  from  the  Place 
Maubert,  with  her  small  nuked  foot  upon  the  snow,  without  discover- 
ing it.  In  her  hurried  toilet,  she  had  merely  arisen  from  her  bed,  and 
drawn  ber  shoes  on,  without  an)  thing  else;  and  throwing  a  heavy  loose 
robe  about  her,  had  thus  hurried  with  Lachims.sec  to  Gluzer's  liouse ; 
for  from  Oau din's  accomplice  she  had  learned  the  first  tiding**  of  his 
deatb,  and  the  dangerous  position  in  which  hhe  stood.  And  now, 
scarcely  knowing  in  the  terror  and  agony  of  the  moment  what  course 
to  adopt,  she  remained  for  some  minutes  jiressing  her  handes  to  her  fore- 
head, as  if  to  soize  and  render  available  some  of  the  confused  and  dis- 
tracting thoughts  which  were  hurrying  through  her  olmoHt  bewildered 
brain.  A  few  offers  of  assistance  on  the  part  of  her  domestic  were  met 
with  short  and  angry  refusals ;  and  Fran9oise,  almost  as  frighteneil  as 
the  Marchioness  herself,  remained  gazing  at  ber,  not  knowing  what 
measures  she  ought  next  to  adopt. 

Meanwhile  De^grais,  with  the  important  casket,  and  accompanied  by 
the  clerk  Frater,  and  Maitre  Picard,  hnd  reached  the  htjuse  of  M* 
Artus,  the  commissary  of  police  in  the  Rue  des  Noyers,  arriving  there 
not  two  minutes  after  Marie  bad  quitted  it  to  regain  her  own  abode, 
Philippe  Gbizer  had  accompanied  them,  partly  from  being  in  a  mea- 
sure an  implicated  party  in  the  affair,  but  chiefly  out  of  anxiety  for  the 
position  of  the  Mitrchioness,  in  whose  guilt  he  had  not  the  slighte»it  Lie- 
lief.  He  was  aware  of  her  connexion  with  Sainte-Croix  ;  hut  this  was 
n  matter  of  simple  gallautry^  and  in  the  time  of  Louis  Qu atfirsie  much 

VOL.  XVI II.  A  A 


THE   MARCITTO^rSSS    OP   BIIINVILLTERS, 


319 


*'  Bring  thh  light  with  you,  and  shew  me  the  way,"  said  Philippe, 
as  he  pkced  the  MarchioneBs  in  ^fauletttl,  and  hurried  down  stairs, 
followed  by  Xh^  femme  de  chambre* 

As  soon  as  the  girl  had  indicated  the  spot,  Gkzer  told  her  to  return 
to  her  mistress,  and  hid  her  prepare  as  quickly  as  she  could  to  leave 
Paris,  taking  v*ith  her  only  such  few  things  as  were  immediately  ne- 
eessary.  Next,  pulling  the  drowsy  horse  from  his  stall,  he  proceeded 
to  harness  him,  as  well  as  his  acquaintance  with  such  matters  allowed 
him  to  doj  to  the  rude  country  vehicle  which  Frangoise  had  spoken 
about.  All  this  was  not  the  work  of  five  minutes ;  and  he  then  re- 
turned to  Marie's  apartment. 

But,  brief  as  the  interval  had  been,  Marie  had,  in  the  time,  recovered 
her  wonted  firmness,  and,  aided  by  her  servant,  had  rapidly  made  her 
tcnletf  wrapping  herself  in  her  warmest  garments  for  protection  against 
the  inclemency  of  the  weather.  When  Philippe  entered,  he  found 
Fran9oise  occupied  in  making  up  a  small  parcel,  half  unconscious,  how- 
ever, of  what  she  was  doing,  from  flurry  at  the  evident  emergency  of 
the  circumstances  ;  and  Marie  was  standing  before  the  fire,  watching 
tlte  destruction  of  a  large  packet  of  letters  and  other  papers,  whicli 
were  blazing  on  thu  hearth. 

"  I  am  ready,  madam,**  said  Philippe :  "  do  not  delay  your  departure 
an  instant  longer,  or  you  cannot  tell  into  what  perplexities  you  may 
fall.     Kvery  moment  is  of  untold  value/' 

"  Where  do  you  propose  to  take  me  ?  "  asked  the  Marchionest 
earnestly. 

"  I  lee  no  better  refuge  for  the  instant  than  your  chateau  at  Offe- 
mont." 

"  Offemont  !**  exclaimed  Marie  ;  ^'  it  is  twenty  leagues  from  Paris; 
and  in  this  dreadful  weather  we  should  perish  on  the  route/' 

*' It  must  be  attempted,'*  said  Philippe:  you  suy  your  horses  are 
there  j  and  if  we  can  once  reach  them,  your  means  of  getting  to  the 
frontier  will  be  comparatively  easy.  We  must  brave  everything. 
Your  enemies  I  know  to  be  numerous  in  Paris,  and  you  cannot  tell 
what  charges  they  might  bring  against  you  when  in  their  powerj  which 
it  would  be  next  to  impossible  to  refute.     Come,  come  1" 

He  took  her  by  the  hand,  and  led  her  to  the  door,  the  servant  fol* 
io^ng  them  closely,  and  receiving  from  the  Marchioness  a  number  of 
burried  directions  and  commisHionSj  which  it  was  next  to  impossible 
she  could  remember.  As  he  quitted  the  room,  with  some  forethought 
Philippe  blew  out  the  candles,  and  collected  the  pieces ;  for  the  night 
would  be  long  and  dark :  there  were  seven  or  eight  liours  of  obscurity 
yet  before  them.  When  they  got  to  tlie  court  where  the  horse  and 
tumbrel  were,  the  former  evidently  in  no  hurry  to  depart,  young 
Glazer  fastened  the  lantern  he  had  borrowed  from  the  guard  to  the 
aid«  of  the  vehicle,  and  then  assisted  the  I^Iarchioness  to  mount,  and 
take  her  seat  upon  some  straw. 

"  It  is  a  rude  carriage,  madam,*'  he  said  ;  *'  but  the  journey  would  b€ 
leas  pleasant,  if  it  was  going  to  the  Place  de  Greve." 

Marie  shuddered  as  he  spike  ;  but  it  was  unobserved  in  the  ob- 
acurtty.  As  &oon  as  she  was  seated,  Philippe  drew  a  coarse  awning  over 
eome  bent  sticks  which  spanned  the  interior;  and,  making  this  tight  all 
round,  prepared  to  start. 

''Stop  T'  he  exclaimed,  m  if  struck  by  a  sudden  thougbtj  ^'  it  will  he 
H  well  to  iee  all  clear  before  us/' 


32Q 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OF   BRINVILLIERS. 


And  he  advanced  to  the  porte  cochere  that  opened  into  the  street, 

when  to  his  disirmy  he  perceived  the  li^jhted  cressets  of  the  Guet 
Roy  111  coining  down  the  Rue  Neuve  St.  Paul.  In  an  instant  he  closed 
the  door,  and  harred  it;  and,  turning  to  Fran^oise,  exclaimed, 

"  Go  up  to  tlie  window  of  yotir  mistress's  room,  which  Imjks  into  the 
road;  and  when  the  guard  cooties,  say  she  is  from  home/* 

"  There  is  a  court  which  leads  from  the  stahles  to  the  Rue  St.  An- 
toine/*  said  the  Marchioness  from  the  vehicle.  '^  You  can  get  out  that 
way." 

**It  is  lucky/'  said  Philippe,  **or  we  should  otherwise  have  been 
trapped.  Fran^obe  !  up — up,  and  detain  them  every  instant  that  you 
can.     I  will  prevent  the  concierge  from  replying/' 

He  took  hiH  handkerchief  and  hurriedly  tied  it  round  the  clapper  of 
the  bell,  w^hich  hung  within  his  reach  over  the  porter's  lodge.  Then, 
turning  round  the  cart,  he  led  the  ln^rse  through  the  inner  court  and 
stahling  to  the  passage  indicated  by  the  iMiirchioness.  Fortunatidy 
the  snow  was  on  the  ground,  and  there  was  little  noise  made  l>eyond 
the  creaking  of  the  vehicle,  which  in  half  a  minute  emerged  into  the 
Rue  St.  Antoinej  and  Philippe  closed  the  gate  behind  him. 

The  thoroughfare  was  dsirk  and  silent ;  but  the  snow  was  falling 
heavily,  as  its  twinkling  by  the  side  of  the  lantern  proved.  This  was 
so  far  lucky,  because  it  would  cover  up  the  traces  of  their  route  almost 
as  soon  as  they  were  made.  The  fugitives  could  plainly  hear  the 
Bound  of  voices  and  the  clatter  of  arms  in  the  Rue  Neuve  St.  Paul  ; 
and,  aware  that  the  delay  could  only  last  for  a  few  minutes,  Philippe 
urged  on  the  animal  as  well  as  he  could,  and  turned  up  a  small  street 
which  ran  in  a  northerly  direction  from  the  Rue  St»  Antoine. 

**  You  are  passing  the  gate,"  said  Marie,  who  all  along  bad  been 
looking  anxiously  from  the  vehicle,  as  she  pointed  towards  the  Bastille, 
where  one  or  two  lights  could  be  seen,  apparently  suspended  in  the 
air,  from  the  windows  of  the  oJiicinIa  and  the  guard-room. 

*'  I  know  it,  madame,"  replied  Philippe.  "  It  would  not  be  safe  for 
UB  to  leu\'e  the  city  by  that  barrier.  It  is  the  nearest  to  your  house; 
and  if  they  suspect  or  discover  that  you  have  left  Paris,  they  will 
directly  conclude  it  is  by  the  Porte  St.  Antoine  there,  and  follow  you. 
Besides,  we  might  be  challenged  by  the  sentinels/' 

"  You  are  right/'  said  the  Marchioness ;  *^  the  Porte  du  Temple 
will  be  better." 

And,  Rhrouding  herself  in  her  cloak,  she  witlidrew  under  the  rough 
fihelter  of  the  tilt ;  whilst  Philippe  kept  on,  still  leading  the  horse, 
through  ;i  hibyrinth  of  small  narrow  streets,  wliich  would  have  been 
cut  by  a  line  drawn  from  the  Bastille  to  the  Temple.  At  last  be 
emerged  upon  the  new  road  formed  by  the  destruction  of  the  fortifica- 
tions, which  we  now  know  as  the  Boulevards,  and  reached  the  gate  in 
question,  which  he  passed  through  iinmiestioned  by  the  ^arJiVii,  who 
merely  regarded  the  little  party  as  belonging  to  one  of  the  murketf. 
Had  he  been  entering  the  city  instead,  he  would  have  been  challenged  ; 
but,  fl8  the  authorities  did  not  care  what  any  on^  twjk  out  of  it,  he  waa 
allowed  to  go  on  his  way,  amidst  a  few  liouses  immediately  beyond  the 
barrier,  forming  the  conimencement  of  the  Faubourg,  until  he  came 
into  the  more  open  country.  Here  the  reflected  light  from  the  white 
ground  in  >ome  measure  diminished  the  obscurity.  The  snow,  too,  had 
drifted  into  the  hollows,  leaving  the  road  pretty  clear;  and  Philip{>e 
clambered  on  to  the  front  of  the  tumbrel,  taking  the  rein»  in  his  hand, 
antl  drove  on  as  he  best  might  towards  the  grandc  rouit.     Not  a  word 


THE  KARCHIONESS   OF   BlUNVILLIERS, 


SSI 


was  excbanged  between  these  two  solitary  travellers.     Marie  kept  in 

a  corner  of  the  vehiclej  closely  enveloped  in  bi-r  inantle  ;  and  her  com- 
panion liiid  enough  to  do  to  wiitch  the  line  they  were  lakitig,  and  keep 
ids  hearing  on  the  stretch  to  discover  the  first  rounds  of  pursuit. 

**Pest€  !"  exclaimed  Philippe  at  length,  aa  one  of  the  wheels  jolted 
into  a  deep  rut,  and  the  lantern  was  jerked  olf,  and  its  light  extin- 
guished ;  ''  this  is  unlucky.  We  did  not  see  too  well  with  it,  and  I 
don't  know  how  we  shall  fare  utiw/' 

He  jumped  down  as  he  spoke,  and  tried  to  rekindle  the  light  with 
liis  breath;  but  it  was  of  no  nse:  he  entirely  extingui)*hed  the  only 
spark  remaining.  In  thi»  dilemma  he  looked  around  him^  to  see  if 
there  was  a  chance  of  assistance.  IVIarie  also  was  aroused  from  her 
ailence  by  the  accident,  and  ga^ed  earnestly  from  the  cart  with  the 
I  aaine  purpose.  At  last,  almost  at  the  same  instant,  they  perceived  a 
thin  line  of  light,  as  though  it  shone  throu*;h  an  ill-closed  shutter »  but 
a  little  way  ahead  of  them  ;  and  the  stars,  which  had  been  slowly 
comine  out,  now  faintly  showed  tlie  outline  of  a  high  and  brukpo 
groujid  uptm  their  right.  At  the  top  of  this  some  masonry  and  hrukt^n 
pillars  were  just  observable,  supporting  cross-beams,  from  which,  at 
certain  distances,  depended  dark,  irregularly-shaped  objects.  It  was  a 
eloomy  Icjcality,  and  Philippe  knew  it  well,  as  he  made  out  the  crum- 
t  biing  remains  of  the  gibbet  at  Montfaucon. 

"  1  should  have  taken  this  as  a  bad  omen,"  said  he,  half  joking,  "  if 
the Jhitrche  had  l»een  still  in  use.     It  would  have  looked  as  though  the 
,  beam  was  meant  for  our  destination/' 

Aa  they  appn>ached   the  small  cabin   from  which  the  light  came, 

Philippe   shouted  to  awaken   the  attention   of  those  within  ;  but  no 

answer  being  returned,  he  jumped  down,  and  knocked  furiously  at  the 

f  door.     He  heard  some  whispers  for  a  minute  or  two^  and  then  a  wo* 

man's  voice  denuinded,  "  Who  is  there?" 

*'  A  traveller,  who  wants  a  light,"  cried  Philippe,  *'  to  guide  him 
iafely  to  Bourget.  Fi>r  pity,  madam,  don't  keep  me  here  much  longer, 
or  I  must  be  un  gal  hint,  and  kick  in  the  dtwr/* 

There  was  evidently  another  conference  within,  and  then  the  door 
was  cautiously  opened.  Philippe  entered,  and  his  eyes  directly  fell 
li[>on  Exili,  whilst  the  female  ])roved  to  be  a  woman  who  was  pruc- 
j^lJj^ing  fortuue*telling  in  Paris, — it  was  supposed  as  a  chult  fur  darker 
matters — ^and  was  known  to  some  of  the  jjeuple,  and  to  the  whole  of 
the  police,  as  La  Voisin-  The  physician  and  the  student  recognisfd 
r^h  other  immediately,  for  they  had  often  met  on  the  Carrefours,  and 
each  uttered  a  hurriud  exelamatiim  of  surprise  at  the  rencontre. 

**  Monsieur  Glazer/*  said  Exili,  as  Philippe  took  a  light  from  the 
lire,  "you  have  seen  mt*  here,  and  possibly  are  acquainted  with  what 
bat  taken  place  in  the  Quartier  Latin  this  evening/" 

"  1  know  everything,"  replied  Glazer. 

*'  Then  I  nuisl  ask  you,  on  your  faith,  to  keep  my  secret,"  said 
Exili.  **  You  have  discovered  me  in  coming  here  to  serve  yourself; 
but  this  reiuge  la  to  me  an  affair  of  life  and  death.  You  will  not  be- 
tray nie?" 

**  You  may  trust  me,"  said  Philippe  carelessly ;  "  and  in  return, 
madam,"  he  continued,  turning  to  L;i  Voisiu,  **  if  any  others  should 
come  up,  let  your  story  be  that  yon  liuve  seen  no  f*ue  this  nif»ht.  Mine 
attMi  is  a  case  of  etncrgency,  and  a  lady — high-born,  rich*  and  heautifnl 
— ia  concerned  in  it." 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OF    BRINVILLIERS. 


328 


oelired,  he  went  directly  to  the  Porte  8t,  Antoine.  The  sentinel,  how- 
ever,  tolJ  Iiim  that  no  one  had  passed  the  barrier  ;  and  he  then  rode 
briskly  along  the  Boulevards  to  the  next  gate,  near  the  Temple.  Here 
be  learned  a  tuaibreJ  had  gone  out  of  the  city  but  a  few  minutes  liefore 
bin  arrival ;  upon  which  be  divided  his  troop  into  two  parties,  sending 
one  along  the  road  to  La  Courtille,  whilst  with  the  other  be  took  the 
Mme  line  that  Philippe  had  chosen,  these  being  the  only  two  practi- 
cable routes  for  vehicles  without  the  barrier,  and,  accompanied  by  the 
latter  escort j  he  soon  arrived  at  the  foot  of  Montfnucon* 

Exili  had  been  stunned  fur  a  few  seconds  by  the  heavy  blow  which 
Philippe  Glazer  had  dealt  to  him  ;  hut,  recovering  himself  before  the 
gtiard  catne  up,  he  darted  hack  into  the  hovel,  antl,  seizing  a  piece  of 
lighted  wood  from  the  hearth,  told  La  Voisin  to  save  herself  as  she 
brst  might,  and  then  scrambled  with  singular  agility  up  the  steep 
mound  at  the  back  of"  the  house,  until  he  reached  the  stone- work  of 
the  gibbet.  This  was  crumbling,  and  afforded  many  foot^plucea  by 
which  he  could  ascend,  until  he  stood  between  two  of  the  pillars  that 
it]  1 1  supported  the  cross-pieces,  above  the  hollow  way  along  wliicli 

^^^grais  and  his  troop  were  progressing* 

^pThe  Exempt  knew  the  physician  directly,  as  hia  gaunt  form  appeared 
m  the  lurid  light  of  the  cressets,  and  the  rude  torch  that  he  himself 
curried  ;  and  he  would  have  ordered  the  guard  immediately  to  capture 
bim,  had  not  Exili  arrested  the  command  by  speaking. 

**  You  seek  the  Marchioness  of  Brinvilliers,'*  he  cried.  "She  was 
here  not  an  instant  back ;  and  you  wiU  find  her,  if  you  care  to  hurry, 
on  the  graude  route  J* 

"I  call  upon  you  to  surrender  yourself  my  prisoner,"  said  Desgraisj 
it^peaking  from  below  ;  **  you  may  then  guide  ua  on  the  trach." 

''If  I  had  meant  to  give  myself  up/*  said  Exili,   "I  should  have 

jamained  below.     I  have  put  you  on  the  Ecent,  and  that  was  all  I 

Kmted*     Farewell  r' 

^■He  waved  his  band  to  the  officers,  and  disappeared  behind  the 
foundation  of  the  masonry.  Ou  seeing  this,  Desgrais  sprang  from  tiis 
horse,  and,  seizing  a  cresset  from  the  guard,  told  one  or  two  of  the 
others  to  follow  him,  as  he  rapidly  ascended  the  mound.  He  was  ac- 
tive, his  limbs  were  well-knit,  ana  a  few  seconds  sutliced  to  bring  him 
to  the  spot  from  whence  Exili  bad  spoken  ;  but,  as  he  looked  over  tEie 
urea  of  masonry,  not  a  trace  of  the  physician  was  visible,  excei>t  the 
{(mouldering  brand  which  he  had  flung  down  upon  the  ground. 

The  others  had  arrived  at  the  platform,  and,  by  the  additional  bgfit 
ffona  their  cressets,  Desgrais  perceived  an  opening  in  the  stone- work, 
conducting  below  by  ragged  jutting  angles  of  masonry,  and  down  this 
he  boldly  proceeded  to  venture.  It  conducted  to  a  terrible  spot, — the 
cemetery  of  those  unfortunates  who  had  perislied  on  the  gibbet,  into 
which  the  bodies  were  thrown  in  former  times,  to  make  room  for  fresh 
victims  on  the /ottrc/ptf.  But  now  the  dry  bones  were  all  that  remained, 
crushing  and  rattling  beneath  the  feet  of  the  Exempt  as  he  proceeded  ; 
§ov  nearly  a  century  had  elapsed  since  the  last  execution, — that  of  the 
iriae  and  just  Coligni,  during  the  fiendish  massacre  of  St»  Bartholomew. 
But  the  place  bad  been  undisturbed,  time  alone  having  altered  its  fea- 
tures ;  the  only  intruders  upon  its  dreary  loneliness  being  the  dogs, 
and  the  sorcerers,  who  came  thither  for  materials  to  give  a  horrid 
interest  to  their  calling,  and  frighten  the  vulgar  who  came  to  consult 
them. 


324 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OF   BRIN^ILLIERS. 


By  the  fliiriiig  light  of  the  cressets  Desgraia  beheld  Exili  cowenng 

at  the  end  of  the  vault.  His  object  had  evideixtly  been  to  betray  the 
Mfirchionen***  wliiJst  he  eluded  capture  himself;  bul  he  had  underrated 
the  keen  vigilance  of  the  Exempt.  lie  had  been  taken  in  a  trap  ;  and 
as  one  or  two  of  the  Ouet  Royal  followed  Desgraia,  he  saw  that  further 
resistance  wm  useless*  He  held  up  his  hand  to  prevent  the  threatened 
attack  which  the  others  seemed  inclined  to  make ;  and  then,  advan- 
cing: to  the  Exempt,  muttered, 

**  I  am  your  prisoner :  take  me  where  you  please.  The  game  is  up 
at  last." 

The  party  retraced  their  steps,  and  descended  once  more  to  the  by- 
way of  the  Kaubourga.  Bidding  two  of  the  patrol  watch  Exib',  De»* 
grais  next  went  into  the  hovel,  and  ordered  the  woman  to  come  forth. 
She  immediately  obeyed,  and  made  a  haughty  reverence  to  the  autho- 
rities. 

''  IVIadame  Catherine  Deshaves/*  said  De»grais,  **  by  your  name  of 
La  Foisitt  yon  are  already  under  the  surimllance  of  the  jiolice.  Yon 
will  please  to  accompany  them  at  preiient,  until  your  connexion  with 
the  Signor  Exili  can  be  explained/' 

Some  of  the  patrol  directly  took  their  places  on  either  aide  of  the 
womiin,  and  then  Desgraia  turned  to  Exili* 

'*  Ynu  will  stay  for  to-night,"  he  said,  '*  in  the  Chatelet:  to-morrwr 
other  arrangements  will  be  made  for  your  siijourn  until  the  opening  of 
the  next  cliiiml>er  at  the  Arsenal.  Two  of  you***  he  continued,  ad- 
dressing the  guard,  ''^  will  take  cbarge  of  the  prisoner  to  Paris.*' 

'*  Then  you  will  not  want  me  to  follow  Madame  de  Brinvillier*  ?" 
said  Exili. 

"  We  do  not  now  require  your  aid/*  was  the  reply.  "  Messieurs,^ — 
en  route!" 

The  guard  prepared  to  mountj  when  one  of  them  rode,  apparently  in 
a  great  feeling  of  insecurity,  through  the  little  knot  of  patrol,  and  up- 
proiiched  Desgrais*  The  lights  revealed  the  form  and  features  of 
hluitre  Ficard. 

*'  Monsieur/'  said  the  little  bourgeois,  '*  I  fear  my  horse  is  tired.  I 
will  therefore  form  one  of  the  escort  to  take  the  prisoner  to  the  Cha- 
telet/* 

**  1  fear  we  cannot  spare  you  just  yet,  mon  brave"  said  Defigni]«, 
*' You  are  the  only  member  of  the  Garde  Bourgeois  with  us,  and  we 
mav  need  your  authority  after  mine.     You  must  come  on  at  jiri'scnt." 

Almtre  Picard  groaned  as  he  turned  his  lj«»rse*s  bridle  hack  agftin. 
He  was  evidently  ill  at  ease  in  the  saddle.  He  could  just  touch  the 
stirrups — the  leathers  nf  which  were  much  too  long  for  him — with  the 
ti]i8  of  his  toes  ;  and  as  he  had  not  crossed  a  horse  ^ince  his  gn&nd  pro" 
gress  to  Versailles,  he  complained  that  tlie  action  of  the  present  ste«d 
was  someivlaat  too  vigorous  for  him.  But  he  was  obliged  to  obey  tlte 
orders  of  the  Exemjit,  and  fell  into  the  rear  accordingly. 

**  A  country  cart,  drawn  by  one  horse,  and  covered  with  a  tilt,  is  the 
object  of  our  cLase,"  said  Desgraia,  "  It  ciinnot  be  ten  minutes  before 
us.     Forward  1  '* 

The  majority  of  the  guard  set  off  at  a  smart  trot  along  tlie  holhiw 
way»  whilst  tbose  who  remained  placed  their  prisoners  between  them, 
ftno  prepared  to  return  by  the  Porte  du  Temple  to  Paris 


■-■v 


!,£-«: 


MARCHIONESS   OF   BRINVILLIERB. 


325 


CHAPTKH   XXTX. 
Philippe  ftTsili  himself  of  Mattre  PicardV  borse  for  the  3Iarciliioiien. 

Philippe  Glazeh  made  the  best  use  of  the  time  taken  up  in  the 
enactment  of  this  hurried  scene.  Urging  the  horse  on,  he  had  already 
left  the  scattered  houses  of  La  Villette  behind  them,  and  was  now  in 
the  open  country,  hastening  as  fast  as  the  snow  would  permit  towards 
Le  Bourget,  at  which  village  he  had  an  acquaintance  who  would  give 
him  and  his  companion  temporary  shelter,  and  lend  him  a  fresh  horse, 
if  requisite.  The  road  was  long  and  strai^ht^  and  any  Hght  could  be 
seen  at  a  great  distance*  As  they  proceeded^  still  in  silence,  Marie 
kept  watching  from  the  back  of  the  tumbrel,  to  give  the  student  the 
first  alarm  of  any  indications  of  pursuit- 

"  Philippe/*  at  length  she  exclaimed  in  a  low  voice,  as  though  she 
thought  it  would  be  heard  in  the  extreme  distance^  **  they  are  coming ! 
I  can  »ee  the  lights  at  La  Villette  moving*  Exili  has  betrayed  uaz — 
what  must  be  done  ?" 

Her  conductor  jumped  down  to  the  ground  as  she  spoke,  and  looked 
towards  I  he  hamlet,  where  the  cressets  were  indeetl  visible.  Every 
moDient  of  advance  was  now  most  nrecious.  He  applied  the  lash  with 
renewed  activity  to  the  flanks  ana  legs  of  the  horse,  but  with  little 
effect.  The  animal  was  tired  when  he  started ;  and  the  nnow  was  now 
cIug^iniT  round  the  wheels,  rendering  any  material  progress  beyond  his 
strength.  At  last,  on  coming  to  a  deep  drift,  after  a  few  attempts  to 
dr»g  the  tumbrel  through,  he  stopped  altogether, 

"  l^lalediction  !  "  muttered  Philippe  through  his  teeth  ;  "everything 
is  against  us/' 

'*  Thev  appear  to  be  coming  on  at  a  fast  trot/'  exclaimed  Marie,  as 
ilie  hastily  tiescended  from  the  vehicle,  and  stood  at  the  side  of  the 
student.     "  We  cannot  possibly  escape  them/' 

"  I  am  not  foiled  yet,"  replied  Philippe.  *•  We  cannot  outrun  them, 
so  we  must  try  stratagem," 

Fortunately  there  was  a  smail  bye-road  running  into  a  species  of 
Copse  at  the  way-side,  upon  which  w^as  stored  large  stacks  of  firewood. 
Giving  the  Marchioness  Lis  whip,  he  directed  her  to  fl<»g  the  horse, 
whilst  he  himself  with  all  bis  power  turned  one  of  the  wheels.  Marie 
complied — it  was  no  time  to  hesitate  ;  and  by  their  united  efforts  they 
urged  the  animal  forward,  turning  him  off  the  road  towardK  the  copse, 
behind  one  of  whose  wood  piles  the  vehicle  was  soon  concealed* 

'*  Now,'*  he  said,  '*  if  they  do  not  see  us,  we  are  safe/* 

A  few  minutes  of  terrible  anxiety  supervened  as  the  patrol  came  on 
at  a  rapid  pace^  their  arms  clanking  and  shining  in  the  light  of  the 
cressets  which  one  or  two  of  tliem  still  carried,  blazing  brightly  us  the 
quick  passiige  through  the  air  fanned  up  their  flames.  «Sure  of  the 
object  of  their  pursuit,  as  they  imagined,  they  did  not  pause  to  examine 
any  of  the  tracks  upon  the  ground,  but  were  pushing  hastily  forward 
towards  Le  Bourget,  where  they  either  expected  to  come  up  with  the 
fugitive,  or  receive  information  that  would  speedily  place  her  in  their 
hands*  They  came  on,  and  were  close  to  the  sjiot  where  the'nthers 
had  turned  off  the  road,  Murie  held  her  breatli,  and  clasped  Philij»pe* 
arm  convulsivL4y  ;  but  neither  uttered  a  syllable  «is  tbuy  beard  them 
pa89»  and  could  distinctly  recognise  Dcsgraia's  voice. 


*  T^iBj  i^en  SOBS  m..^  eaawanei  ^m:  Mini  if— ■  m  tfe  amnds 
nmnTTMniff. 

^  ^iq    '  <id£  nmnK  fisEvinr  lier  Inck.  inr  ibe  kad  ] 

^Ef-  Slips-  u  smufc. 

Aft  lie  iiiiiiii<^  X  iiKKsaK  one  M«-l*r  n.  «^  if^ened  to  be  kg- 

iMBi  «■  Lk  waHlf     He  *tji|iued  enctlf 

&  iBiHms  Philippe  Hi^piHa  tncy  were 

TW  patnl,  after  vaial  j 

t»  iSciecx  ku  nflcie-^atki  at  be  «t  «■  cbe  bone 

J  ib«t  sad  rwad  m  ignre*  be  cankl 

3UC  -9^1  reaira.  ^bs^  pv=:iii  fmiL  tbe  maimp,  aad  tbe  rw— pgnenct  wis, 

be  rmutsL  ahvx.  asic  xvyr  ma  ncr  m  tbe  flHnr.  like  a  balL 

*-  Hmn  i^n  J*  L»  rrriiiif  ff,  as  under  tbe  weigbt  of  bis  aeeaotre- 

mtAJU  ht  vaa  c^cLJsj  aen»taf<i  oa  ta  bis  legs.   ''  Psar'/  cfvnr  boaa 

■K  1E7  tH«iT  ifr  iir;k£x.     5Ar"^i^ .' — misenUe  beast !  Iww  ^all  I  gel 

*         •    -  j» 

aa  v<sK  acBxr 

As£  lie  wer  aagrily,  bat  zm  great  fear  witbal,  proceeded  to  lift  «p 

tbe  War's  baA,  nd  *ick  ibe  smv  oat  af  tben  witb  bis  balberd,  oae 

after  &»jc£cr ;  bariag  aocanspa&bed  a  bicb,  be  tried  to  tighten  tbe 

gbti:!. 

'- 1  ksaa-  tbe  ^asee.'  said  Pbiiippe;  '^  it  is  llattia  Picard.  I  abaU 
take  bisbarwL' 

P^iIIiatg  Lis  ftsdott  s  cap  over  bis  eres,  and  disguising  his  Toioe, 
PbiHppe  left  tbe  kiding-plaee,  and  adTanced  towards  the  hapless  little 
boGTrec-is — f^  it  was  the  ckapeE^r  cf  the  Roe  de  la  Harpe.  l^f  aitre 
Picard  bad  kid  his  halberd  00  tbe  snow ;  and  Philippe,  seizing  it  be- 
fiore  the  ccher  was  aware  of  his  approach,  demanded  his  money,  in  tbe 
usual  tone  of  a  road-marander." 

The  bourgeois's  first  exclimatioa  was  one  of  surprise  at  the  unex- 
pected apparition  ;  but  immediately  after  he  began  to  shout, — 

"  Aux  voUuTi! — help  ! — murder  ! — guard  ! " 

''Speak  another  word,  and  you  ahall  swallow  this  halberd/'  said 
I  bilippe.     "  Gire  me  your  arms." 

With  wonderful  celerity  Maitre  Picard  proceeded  to  dispossess  him- 
self of  all  his  accoutrements,  begging  earnestly  that  his  life  might  be 
spared,  for  the  sake  of  bis  wife  and  fsmiiv. 

*'  You  are  a  miserable  liar,"  said  Philippe  gruiHy,  *'  and  I  bare  a 
mind  to  pin  you  to  a  tree."  And  collecting  the  arms,  he  added,  "  Now 
stav  here  an  instant.     More  at  your  peril  until  I  return." 

He  ran  back  to  the  cart,  and  bringing  out  tbe  lantern,  put  it  in 
Maitre  Picard's  hand. 

**  There  f  take  this,  and  return  to  Paris.  I  shall  watdi  you  along 
tbe  road,  to  see  that  you  are  not  loitering  to  watch  me.     Be  off*!  " 

*'  But  tbe  honour  of  a  garde  bourgeoU^^"  commenced  Maitre  Picard, 
•omewbat  raguely. 

'^  Ha  1"  shouted  Philippe,  raising  the  halberd  as  though  to  strike. 

Maitre  Picard  made  no  other  attempt  to  remonstrate.     He  turned 

twaTs  and  waa  directly  progreHsing  towards  Paris  as  fast  as  his  little 

tund  body  would  allow  him. 

%  Philippe  saw  he  was  beyond  eye-shot,  he  gathered  up 

then  returned  to  Marie. 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OF   BRINVILLIERS, 


327 


"  We  have  a  fresh  and  powerful  bane,  Madame,"  he  said  ;  "  some 
good  arms,  and  a  clear  wn^r,  tit  present*  We  will  abiuidoa  thia  turn- 
breJj  and  use  our  new  prize." 

Tbe  Marciiioiiess  acceded  to  everything;  —  In  fact,  since  they  had 
started  she  had  appeared  completely  passive,  trusting  entirely  to  the 
student*  Philippe  took  the  SDmll  hit^idle  from  the  cartj  and  Klunj^ittu 
tlie  holster.  He  then  placed  Marie  upon  the  croup  of  thu  horse,  hav- 
ing turned  back  part  of  the  sheepskin  trappings  to  form  a  seat,  and 
got  up  before  her.  The  whole  utfair  from  Malt  re  Pi  card's  first  coming 
up  did  not  occupy  four  minutes- 

"  Now,  grasp  me  tightly,**  he  said.  *^Are  you  ready?  then  ^ en 
rmder'* 

He  struck  the  horse  as  he  spoke,  and  the  animal  sprang  forwardt 
apparently  insensible  of  the  double  Wd  he  was  carrying.  Philippe's 
object  was  at  all  hazard  to  press  on  as  far  as  was  possible  towards 
Compiegne,  knowing  that  at  OtFemont  carriages  and  horses,  with  every-* 
thing  the  Marchioness  needed  for  her  tligbt,  were  at  her  disposal ;  hut 
the  high  road  between  Paris  and  Senlis  was  one  lon^  straight  line, 
with  few  bye-ways  branching  olT  from  it,  but  those  which  went  com- 
pletely out  of  the  way ;  and  even  along  tlitse  the  journey  would 
Lave  been  hazardous,  as  the  snow  lay  over  the  open  country  in  one  un- 
broken sheets  alike  covering  up  the  ground  and  the  dykes  to  the  same 
level. 

Desgrais  and  his  party  had  evidently  pushed  on  with  speed ;  for 
although  Philippe  was  now  riding  at  the  rate  of  ten  miles  an  hour, 
they  saw  no  signs  of  thein  ahead.  The  church-clock  of  Le  liourget  * 
atruck  two  as  they  entered  the  village ;  the  snow  had  ceased  to  fall, 
and  the  stars  shone  sowewhat  more  brightly  ;  but  beyond  this  every- 
thing was  wrapped  in  obscurity,  except  at  the  end  of  the  village, 
where  a  fiu nt  light  was  gleaming  from  one  ^f  the  houses.  The  place 
consisted  of  one  long  street,  and  it  was  necessary  to  pass  along  this, 
Philip|>e  reined  up  the  horse,  and  proceeded,  at  a  slow  noiseless  walk, 
in  the  direction  of  the  light. 

*' The  snow  comes  aptly  enough/' he  said;  "or  the  ring  of  this 
beast's  shoes  upon  the  clear  frozen  ground  would  soon  have  betrayed 
tts.  We  must  use  a  little  caution  now.  I  expect  they  have  halted  at 
the  post-bouse." 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do  ?"  said  Marie ;  '^  there  will  be  danger  in 
passing  them.' 

*'  It  must  be  tried,  however.  If  they  arrive  before  us  at  Senlis  the 
game  is  up.     You  have  courage  to  make  the  attempt,  fllndame  ?" 

"  I  will  dare  anything,*'  replied  the  Marchioness;  *' so  that  my 
bodily  energy  will  but  keep  up  to  my  determinations." 

**  Then  we  will  try  it,"  said  Philippe.  "  Now,  keep  a  tight  hold,  a 
sure  seat,  and  a  good  heart  ;  and  leave  the  rest  to  me.*' 

He  continued  walking  the  horse  along  the  street  until  he  was  close 
upon  the  post-house  — a  wretched  cabarit  enough,  ^ — ^  about  which  the 
troop  had  collected,  having  dismounted,  and  knocked  up  the  master 
for  reireshment,  and  what  tidtngs  they  could  collect.  Knowing  that, 
in  all  probability,  the  horse  they  rode  would  be  called  upon  to  exert 

"  Ai  Uiis  little  ullage  of  Le  Bourgft,  on  the  20th  of  Jane,  181^,  Napoleon,  re- 
taming  from  Waterloo^  stopped  for  two  hoyrs,  tliut  he  miglit  nut  enter  Fan  a  mail 
ntflitfall,  and  thus  dimiaish  iu  some  lueiiaure  the  senBaticai  whldi  his  flight  frufu 
BagMim  would  prodaee. 


rw   JOBSfT 


PbHippe 
r  anr  rerr 

hrmioA  to 
«BiK-]r3uc  fzraier  «o.  Ae  road 
irfN.  o&f  liiHing  iiL-miri  3£  ar:c5iKtiEae»  and  the 
i^\L  i2:»  flerih**t  iuiL  xsus  tubs  t»  «do|ic  Still 
f  X1&  -slI  svei.  iriici  lau  imrfi  «r  ])e»eTais  had 
sv  ^^  >t-a  aUMs  If  mctf  U7  ^v-xn.  le  ji  ■  wiiic.  Azrvrrc.  aad  za  Twrthfr 
UBCfcr  «-  SI  A^ur  caii  arr-^x  ic  iIl:^  mlic  :irifn  n:  X3»e  rvote  in  qiiet- 
iiK.  TjiSiasc  "Stf  Tirz^— ::<3U-  7rb£  ▼xouns  MLirwmt  i3»  baiae  to  idaz 
ii»  -T^^M.    Drm^  jncr  :3i£^   sxnsTSL  ^aie  3igi..i.i'iiic  «c  tbe  tticct  of 

?hilirrnfc  tiuIim.  in  i2i»  nnx  iir  &  "itnr  ^lerjaiSK  ' 
wu."     ii*j"i  Tu€  -«  uTwn  rzifm      iizi£  ^ks. 

ji»  nnAmMmb.  >  rTsjnraBt  'zxac  at  luc  -nrif^vHir  4-f  loedxsBe  at  the 
ShzfL  Tfipx.  —  lUtt  ItfcoFxr  JThim^Vg.  vou  imc  iz  zw  ^a*^!^  degree  an- 
jur  -t  ?\ilinmf  ir  2»  iTaraK  ir  Fimurnrr  ««>«•  lie  sSMests  generallT 
inxTzur  ilk  i\tmlmffi  mti  stnx  if  iiecjie  fi»  ijiicijfckry  it  JJcvtefixitaiiie. 
Tifcx^  trujisr  knpv  -sis  iuqsm.  v^oro.  ^v^»  kri^uKc  vhhia  a  emit  and 
avr-tf  j-R-ie-T  s  ttis  s.iDilif  ic  t3ip  'T'T  ;nge :  £r<i  i^waid*  t>»i^  be  now 
TWif.  dxiNOBnir  tJiMs  Tiers  ic  im  xrier'ca  rwii  vl<e?e  the  snov  was 
AsiE^efC  ri  j-iT**  tiif  zikc  tvt-i£  mizi*  :^?^tf  iizr.  C^ausg  doae  to  the 
mrrf  rx'itf^.'  itt  -msitftikui-T  sincauc  li*  ^^frse  icto  a  small  water- 
ePLTHt  rriT-rTTT  is  "Ui^  «niif  ic  zik  mttL  uic  il«£  fcCowed  its  dirvctioo 
Tscf.  i^t  coil*  ti  £  Tier:  tc  Hnt  r-nfc£  ««*  xi«  w^ad  Lad  blown  the  snow, 
**  h  5r--  a^i  ti*  itiu-.i'vf^  5t  ii»  s:<>xx»  i>;<  &  ITaC^  of  his  pn^recs 
va»  T:s9L:i»e.  ifser  ti*»  rLr^'Wij  ;  izni  cr««i£z;£  xht  rend  at  tfai&  point,  he 
40ce  jLfivt  Tdi  :!•(  !».««  r=:^J  a  r^:c  icr.-K«  lie  bar«  opm  countrv,  until 
be  reciisec  izit  r^rtcc^  ^-.-vcf  wiie^  Wc  cirect  to  Senlis. 


The  "ill  M,ii    tt  M  JTiciJ^asSKBe — S«BlaL~The  Aoadcnu 

Thb  akm  which  had  been  m>  hnniedly  given  by  the  sentind  as  the 
MM  poMfd  the  po&t-lMNise  at  Le  Btnirget,  called  the  guard 
numcdiatelT  ;  «nd  after  the  short  delay  alluded  to»  they  re- 

J  tbcsr  lights  a»^  pricked  on  at  a  smart  pace  along  the  high 

mL  ItPiint  tlveetioiis  with  the  ambergUte  to  inform  Malue  Piai^ 
rtbor  route,  should  he  come  up.     Arriving  at  the  fork,  they  halted 
l«  ntil  they  saw  the  traces  of  their  «4>jects,  which  they  at  once 
:  for  the  surface  of  the  snow  on  the  left-hand  road  uns  per- 
btorbcd ;  and  these  nuiiksy  keenly  picked  out  by  the  quick 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OP   BRTNVILLIERS. 


329 


eye  of  Desj^rais,  browgbt  tlie  whole  party  up  to  the  porle  cochere  of  tlie 
Docteur  Chapel et,  but  n  very  short  time  ufter  Marie  and  Philippe 
had  miitted  it.  Here  the  impressions  of  the  horae*8  shoes  suddenly 
ceaseu,  and  here  of  course  they  decided  that  the  fugitives  had  taken 
shelter. 

The  Exempt  rode  up  to  tlie  bell-handle,  and  gave  a  mighty  pull,  suf- 
ficient to  have  alarmed  the  whole  village,  had  it  not  been  so  profound ly 
wrapped  lu  sleep.  As  it  wa»j  it  awoke  the  Doctor  immediately,  f*>r 
his  ears  were  ever  sensitive  to  the  slightest  tingle  of  a  summons ;  and 
he  forthwith  struck  a  U^hu  and  projected  his  head,  enveloped  in  a 
marvellous  mass  of  w^rappings,  mi  account  of  the  cold,  from  the  window 
of  the  room  which  overlooked  the  road  at  the  end  of  one  of  the 
wings* 

'*  Dieu  de  Die.ux  !  "  exclaimed  the  Doctor,  as  he  saw  the  cavalcade 
l>e]ow  his  window*     *^  What  is  the  matter  ?     Who  is  hurt  ?     Who  are 

►u?" 
Admit  me  directly,"  said  Desgrais,  without  deigning  to  answer  the 
Doctor's  questions;  and  in  such  a  tone  of  authority  that  the  Professor, 
imagining  nothing  le»s  than  that  he  had  been  sent  for  by  Louis 
Quatorze  himself,  or  at  the  least  iMadame  de  IMontespan,  hurried  on 
his  clothes,  and  tumbled  down  stairs  into  the  court-yardj  to  which  the 
Exempt  and  his  force  were  soon  admitted. 

*'  Eh  bien,  monsieur!"  said  Desgrais;  "you  will  now  have  the  kind- 
ness to  give  up  the  Marchioness  of  Brinvilliers  and  an  accomplice, 
whom  yon  have  sheltered  in  your  house." 

The  Professor  regarded  the  Exempt  with  an  air  of  man  who  is  asked 
a  question  before  he  is  thoroughly  awake. 

*'  Every  instant  of  delay  compromises  your  own  security,"  continued 
Daagrais.     **  Where  are  they  ?*' 

*'  On  my  word  of  honour  as  a  member  of  my  learned  profession,  I 
know  not  what  you  mean,  monsieur,"  at  length  gasped  out  the  Doctor. 
**  There  is  no  one  within  but  Madame  Chapelet  and  the  servant." 

"Sir,"  cried  Desgrais  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  '* if  you  do  not  imme- 
diately produce  the  fugitives,  we  will  give  yoti  the  question  of  the  cord 
from  the  top  of  vonr  own  gateway," 

'*  Will  anybody  tell  me  what  I  am  expected  to  do,*'  cried  the  Profes- 
sor in  an  agony  of  bewilderment.     *'  Sir,  captain,—^" 

'*  I  am  no  captain,  monsieur,"  interrupted  Desgrais;  "but  an  Exempt 
of  the  ISIarechaussee.  We  have  traced  the  fugitives  to  your  door  ;  and 
now  demand  them  of  you  .^-Gentle  men,"  he  continued,  to  the  gourd, 
**  dismount,  and  proceed  to  tie  up  the  Doctor,  and  senrch  his  house." 

'*  I  tell  you  there  is  no  fnie  here,"  screamed  the  unfortunate  Profes- 
sor, as  some  of  the  guard  proceeded  to  lay  hands  on  him  ;  or  if  there  is, 
it  is  without  my  knowledge.  You  c^m  search  my  house  from  top  to 
bottom.     I  will  conduct  you  everywhere." 

This  was  said  with  such  frantic  anxiety  that  Desgrais  placed  the  con- 
fusion of  the  Doctor  rather  to  the  score  of  undisguised  fright  than  im- 
L^believed  truth.     He  directly  stationed  sentinels  round  the  house,  and, 
Hpiocompanied   by  Chapelet,  and  the  rest  of  his  men,   commenced   a 
^^earching  investigation,  scaring  tlie  servant — a  rosy,  drowsy  IVormande 
—  from  her  tranquillity  ;  and  even  breaking  the  slumbers  of  Miidume 
Chapelet,  whose  appearance,   in  her  provincial  night-gear»  attracted 
lesa  the  attention  of  the  Guet  Royal.     Not  a  corner  of  the  abode  wns 
unvisited*     Desgrais  sounded  the   panels,  and  even  broke  in  the 


sn  M.  wnntfl  raons* 
diie  crikn^  Int,  (»f  eoorse, 
i  "^r  ft^tfr.  and  £piiiid  bat  ooe 
brtrsTvd  Mt  the  lent 
.  V:iTT:y''  fiinr  at  m  lam  to  know 


"-  ht  aid. -ad  has  hMj 
a3de>d,  addiiaMJug  the  Pro- 

i  TiET  sign's  mt  win  be 


aiabov. 

Oae  AinfT  it  certain, 

itboot  divbt,  are  still 

htrniuj  ^13  -wf — -ir  ioka  it  if— »  iaexpJicaUe.    We 

r!ikf  rurx  mi  sic  my  ^as  vne-  -ni  tio  cssal  alacritT.  Tbej 
^««si5  Tuc  m:  if  'nffir:  iv-  ^ac  jsljuc  «c  i^eor  fatcs^ed  primers  when 
ta^v  ziuu;^  mssK  n  ^sisr  casr.  T^esr  Mrses^.  to«»  vrre  ^tigued ; 
MMML  xt  9'1'vsi  Xirsfdmo;:!!!  imi  >es.!2»  tMre  wee  still  eight  cr  nine 
^^m:  :ziiljfs  iT  ^nimi  ^  K  i!9C  iwr.  Bos  IXeieTsii's  orders  were  per- 
'tanmirr  .    ton.  akCan&  sn^thtbs^  V^^^^J  ^  «Be  aaather,  they  re- 

3«ii:  :::ti  ir  ^"  'rnu^  ivmic^z  amixs  imi  xsravped  Ptilippe't  purpose, 
'wbu  «cll  iifTC  XBxv^T  m  "T^  icf^  ^407:13510.  cxtzi  at  last  they  came 
iM  iiAf  icLLJiiiiTT^  It  >it!i2:i^  ifzii  t3tf  juck's  biMCs  clattered  over  the 
'amr^aaenz  it  ru  3ST*nr  fcr»«ts»  wick  tae  tofHcnphy  of  whidi  the 
xziiiffn  -ns  -r^T^  -r-r-l  acT;ia::2.Ti«i.  TW  pwcebad.  bowerer,  materiallj 
i:3i.iii>ai»i :  uzii  F^ii^^xx  -v^s  3iic  wrrr  v^ea  tLer  at  last  stopped  at 
lae  wjc .• — cat*  Hurl  x«  «wVxrff^-<.''c:T7'l  IjsckilT  the  inn  was  open,  and 
titf  r««cuf  -v^re  t^  ;  r ir  1  to^I:!:  onvifraBce  rsnikiB<r  from  Valen- 
casLii»  ij  Fazs  wis  i^:pectsd  w:iaia  m^  hmr.  either  sooner  or  later, — 
ics  arrfnl  z^ti^z  a  iriTSVr  -Jt  jreai  7acert.i2rT.  depending  alike  on  the 
TomCA.  lie  -wi'izzttr,  izd  zie  :.i  >*«ras> 

Phflirpe  wis  cc  tLe  zTJcai  t^  ixstast  ther  reached  the  door  ;  and, 
asBSftiz^  Mirie  to  iisKzuas.  sczwrtec  her  into  the  inn,  whilst  one  of 
the  fctn^s  lack  lae  Lorse.  As  the  sC2»fieat  readied  the  salie^-wnnger, 
w^ere  a  bright  ire  vas  borais^.  Marie  cocld  bear  «p  no  longer.  She 
Urore  to  ntter  a  £ew  wvrds.  aiad  then,  her  Toice  failing,  went  into  a 
Tiolent  fit  of  hjsterics  tLit  appeared  tearic^  her  to  pieces. 

Philippe  was  a  cLerer  fellow  in  his  prv^essioOy  and  conld  hare  pre- 
acribed  fitly  fior  a  patient ;  but  he  scarcely  knew  how  to  act  npon  the 
present  orra^isn.  His  natural  readiness  howerer,  never  deserted  him ; 
ao  he  sent  for  the  mistress  of  the  hotel,  and,  commencing  by  ordering 
a  chaise  and  four  to  be  immediately  in  waiting,  that  he  might  corn- 
Band  Bore  attention,  said  to  the  hostess, 

"  We  most  make  a  am^dmmU  of  tou,  madame.  As  a  woman,  yon 
riD  nmist  na.  In  a  word,  I  am  in  lore  n-ith  this  lady,  and  we  hare 
bped  together  to  aroid  a  forced  marriage  on  her  part.  Will  you  at- 
■id  to  her  kiodlj,  whilst  1  hurry  the  sUble-people  ?** 
jLad  without  waiting  for  a  reply  Philippe  left  the  conruLied  form  of 
St  Mafdhkneia  to  the  care  of  the  landlady,  whilst  he  went  into  the 
9  nige  on  the  putting-to  of  the  horses.     The  hoateaa  did  not 


xnE  MARCHIONESS   OF   BUmVILLlERS. 


331 


disbelieve  his  story.  We  Bare  before  spoken  of  the  singukrly  youth* 
ful  flppeartince  of  Mane's  features;  anil,  as  Piiilippe  Glnzer  was  a 
handsome  young  man,  about  the  same  age,  she  tfiok  it  nil  for  granted, 
and  directly  entered  into  the  trouble  of  *'  the  poor  young  counle,"  as 
she  imagined  them  to  be.  The  prospect  of  good  payment  might,  at 
the  same  time,  have  increased  Ler  sympsathy. 

When  tlie  carriage  was  ready  Philippe  returned,  and  then  Marie 
was  slightly  recovered,  and  was  Ripping  some  warm  wine,  poured  from 
one  of  a  number  of  bright  little  pewter  veasela  which  were  rnnged 
amoTigst  the  glowing  embers  tif  the  fire-place.  She  was,  htiwever,  pale 
and  anxious,  and  earnestly  inquired  of  Philippe  if  he  was  ready  to 
start. 

^'The  horses  are  waiting/*  he  replied,  as  Marie,  turning  to  the  land- 
iady,  inquired,  "  Ho^v  many  otliers  have  you  in  the  stnhle  at  present/' 
'*  There  nre  six,"  replied  the  hostess;  "four  of  which  are  going  on 
with  the  Valenciennes  express.** 

*'  Are  the  roads  safe?"  asked  the  Marchioness. 

**  But  tolerably  so,  ma'amselle.  They  usually  travel  armed  who  go 
by  night,  or  with  an  escort.'* 

"  I  will  have  two  of  your  people,"  she  added,  "  to  ride  by  our  side. 
Let  them  mount  immediately." 

**  There  is  little  to  apprehend  from  the  robbers,"  said  Philippej  as 
the  landlady  hurried  oiit  of  the  room* 

"  But  a  great  deal  from  Desgrais,  if  be  gets  fresh  horses,"  replied 
Marie.     '*  1  would  take  them  all  on  if  I  could.'* 

Philippe  immediately  saw  her  oltject.  The  mistress  returned  in  two 
minutes,  and  informed  them  that  all  was  ready ;  when,  hurriedly  pay- 
ing the  account,  they  entered  the  lumbering  but  comfortable  veliicle 
that  stood  at  the  door,  guarded  by  two  rough-looking  t'cff^ers^  who,  in 
gome  old  postdion's  trappings,  had  been  snddeidy  raised  to  the  dignity 
of  an  escort, 

*•  And  now  to  Oifeniont,  by  Com piegne,"  cried  Philippe  to  the  riders* 
"  A  treble  powr  boire  if  you  get  there  under  three  hours,  and  without 
a  change!     A  lions  I" 

"  A/lumc  !  hi  done  !  hue  !  hue !  ir-r-r-r  f  '*  The  traces,  long  enough 
for  eight  horses,  tightened  ;  the  pjstilions  shouted  and  cracked  their 
rhips;  the  animals  left  off  whinnying  and  fightifig,  and  then  started 
inly  off;  their  feet  cktlering  and  the  bridle-helli*  jingling  tlirnugh 
t!ie  empty  streets  of  Seulis.  They  did  not,  however,  put  out  their  full 
speed  until  they  left  the  town  ;  but  then,  urged  on  by  Philippe  every 
minute,  they  dashed  on  like  iiglitning*  But  a  short  way  from  the 
gates  the  met  the  Valenciennes  express,  with  the  lamp  over  the 
driver's  head  gleaming  upon  the  white  road  along  which  they  were 
toiling ;  and  after  this  the  way  was  clear.  On,  on  they  went,  as  the 
^  are  and  spectral  trees  that  bordered  the  route  appeared  to  be  flying 
"past  them  ;  their  very  speed  counteracting,  by  its  excitement,  the  de- 
pression and  fear  caused  by  the  journey.  Villenenve-sur-Verbene  I 
they  had  passed  over  three  leagues.  There  was  a  short  halt  at  the 
pftsie  to  change  the  riders  of  the  horses,  and  thus  divide  the  work,  and 
they  were  again  on  the  road,  which  now  passed  through  forests,  and 
along  straight  avenues  of  trees  with  snow-laden  branches  overhang- 
ing the  way.  Then  came  more  villages,  in  which  no  signs  of  life  were 
visible;  again  they  were  hurrying  over  the  open  country,  or  traversing 
the  wood.     But  still  the  same 


ling  pace  was  kept  up, 


i  they 


c  "^^2=.  "^zljte-  SB?"  jsr  sbc  mijUt   -mlrr  »j»**n*T  liua 
^.  aui:.  »  c  A  "TTT^pr-  flerrifr  tf  cr  cki  ar-  iiuc  mffk  a: 

■  X  JLLrrESfcxzEZBi  -d  ve  u  iLt  im 
2B-  Xtg^imifa  iuu:   t^h.      1:  did 

llktm:  tc 

TC  zit-  ^  fcrii^tgna**-  fCHirerik.  raid 

i»  ^CL  a  .  ^Aurs::  xiraE-  jfC^mes  zb-  nawrga;^  bzil  ik  xnuriK ; 
:e-  imiif-  aoi^  iic  ^I  wr  Zftsaatrvts^  ^#:>fcnair  mii  iiif  iti» 
L   n^Turrrr-  ir  «    iiizai  ^cuznc  vn^is.   Sk^t^  rz-jt  m  sinieBL. :  sb^ 

a 


.-lifr  ^asF  111  -  ^T^^  xte  -1^  -c  ^  Tsliiwv  cir  i«szuxiL  iw  ?iuizjf«; 
jdl:  ttwc  'Tfeas  ^«snc?s&i>  tss^.vfx  ii^x  r  vr^'  iits  nastizua,  icuif  ^c>- 
X7i>9^   xp   j%   -&    .*SH9Ts:i       £jbii«r:s4r  ^2£  lie  acuiiifaanuesn  ic  xaie 

iKTr*!*  le  iit^^'iiiir'?  le-.tmiixk:-!  ii  x>i  in.  ljozk.  uiii  niiaosaieA 
irs^i  lior^r  -^r.r.z  *■  i-arf  -r  :nxitr'  fv^f  ii^  aZiULjiito..  tji£  iCUT^  \f€ 
nmiir-r'  itr  I  •ict:r^:ik.    H.t  ^r^  i  zbdi  if  induirj.ni£  z^imosit  uiC  awa 


idliuns   uriiuiiiu£  J-iiz::iirr:it    oii  icl^  iur^  .  211::  iitr  Ex«r;<  ncnd 

^  TitT  -viii^  IC  ft.  TMsc-csrriikrt  2a.T«  iu«z.  ire.  a^^c^iecr."  r«p£i«d 

^'  Uxre  ^<fbe  «k  Uf  C«acpe§ae  ia  a  martec-cftrt,  coc  ten  niinutei 
ipcn  to  Lift  bone,  and  gaUoped  off  witiioat  saying 


Dtaigna^  pot 


333 


GAMING,  GAMING-HOUSES,  AND  GAMESTERS: 

A   REFLRCTIVB,   DE8CBIPTIVB,    AND   ANECDOTAL   ACCOUNT    OF 
PLAY,   HOUSES   OF   PLAY,   AND   PLAY-MEN. 

^^  You  are  a  gentleman  and  a  gamester,  ar," 

**  Sir,  I  confess  both ;  they  are  both  the  varnish  of  a  complete  man/* 

Shakspeabe. 

Assuming  that  Sbakspeare  spoke  the  opinions,  and  faithfully  de- 
scribed the  manners  of  the  times  in  which  he  lived,  we  must  take 
it,  on  such  high  and  indisputable  authority,  that  in  the  merry,  fro- 
licsome, and  semi-chivalric  days  of  Queen  Bess,  gaming  was  considered 
a  quality  essential  to  the  perfectability  of  a  gentleman — an  ingredient 
in  the  lustrous  compound  that  gave  the  finishing  touch  to  the  man  of 
fiEishion.  To  claim  distinction  as  a  gentleman  without  exhibiting 
something  of  the  adventurous,  reckless  quality  of  the  gamester  was  to 
be  a  dullard  content  with  the  monotony  of  life,  and  unfitted  for  thegay^ 
roystering,  and  extravagant  spirit  of  the  age, — to  lack  the  one  thing 
indispensable — the  brilliancy  and  polish  of  the  world — the  true  Day- 
and-&Iartin  distinction  of  fashionable  life,  or  in  the  comprehensive 
terms  of  Shakspeare,  ''  the  varnish  of  the  complete  man."  Succeeding 
times  have  done  honour  to  the  received  opinions  of  the  Elizabethan 
period,  and,  ns  far  as  the  particular  ingredient  of  gaming  may  be  ne- 
cessary to  the  orthodox  qualification  of  gentility,  have  processed 
towards  its  more  perfect  attainment.  The  reign  of  the  Merry 
Monarch  did  much  to  heighten  and  improve  the  varnish,  by  the  addi- 
tional lustre  uf  royal  patronage.  The  palace  had  then  its  regular  and 
exclusive  apartment  for  gaming,  and  appurtenant  thereto  the  office  or 
appointment  of  groom-porter  to  direct  and  superintend  the  proceedings 
of  the  hazard-table ;  and  this  appointment  is  said  to  have  been  one 
of  most  lucrative  character,  owing  to  large  gratuities  emanating  from 
successful  players.  The  ofiice  of  groom-porter  is  still,  or  was  until 
within  very  few  years,  to  be  found  in  the  Court  Kalendar,  amongst 
the  appointments  of  the  royal  household  ;  it  must  be  assumed  however 
that  the  original  duties  of  the  situation  have  long  since  passed  from  it, 
for  those  of  more  wholesome  character,  but  in  the  times  alluded  to, 
hazard  was  a  favourite  and  frequent  pastime  of  the  Monarch  and  his 
courtiers,  on  which  account  it  received  the  dignified  appellation  of  "  The 
Royal  Game,"  and  was  entered  into  with  right  royal  and  determined 
spirit.  The  room  appropriated  to  this  amusement  is  said  to  have  been  of 
so  high  a  temperature  and  occasionally  so  intolerable  under  the  additional 
heat  and  excitement  of  play,  that  Rochester,  in  his  elaborate  conception, 
distinguished  it  as,  and  invariably  called  it,  *'  Hell,"  and  it  is  doubtless 
to  such  an  origin  that  similar  title  and  distinction  attach  to  every  modern 
gaming-house.  When  the  King  felt  disposed  and  it  was  his  pleasure 
to  play,  it  was  the  etiquette  and  custom  to  announce  to  the  company 
that  "  His  Majesty  was  out,**  on  which  intimation  all  court  cereraon) 
and  restraint  were  put  aside,  and  the  sport  commenced ;  and  when  the 
Royal  Gamester  had  been  beaten  to  his  heart's  content,  or  as  modem 
phraseology  terms  it,  '*  cleaned  out"  or  when,  on  the  contrary,  he  had 
sufficiently  increased  his  means,  or  otherwise  satisfied  or  surfeited  his 
kingly  appetite,  notice  of  the  royal  pleasure  to  discontinue  the  game 

VOL.   XVIII.  B   B 


^34  6AXIS<Gb   GAXKG-HOrSESy 

vas  ^vTtfL  I^s  ftmniTtT  ■imuiinifil  br  igthnation  that  "  His  Majesty 
««0  xt    iumf^^  ^v^tscapaoL  pio-  fiirt&wnh  cemsed,  llie  edqaette  and 

HimtFTt  TQoeacaaB,.  uiwtg^  htMtfiiig  noC  roral  patrooage,  bare  lost 
:  <v  :^  spioczc  w^kk  ^fiatliigiiiabed  the  unuemeDts  of  by-goDe 
Vnr?i>  m  oe  eaBSnrr.  appears  to  kaTe  gained  strengtli  with 
Gamfs^  otfwcw.  s  m  Iweerr  *»  formerlT,  a  mere  recreatiTe  pas- 
-vfca.  se  3iiou»  nxii  vealthy,  it  a  nav  beconie  a  part  of  their  daH  j 
sad  pnmnt.  viinie  the  iafeetice  of  exam|^  (which  is  endlen 
KSifflzacamizniexsent'  bai  xxifected  all  dasKs  of  men  firom  the  ooor- 
tar  ^  lae  iiaifj.i  iiiaiii.ii.  and  diaa  withaaf  the  sli^itest  distinctiTe 
dfaaAff  -ir  irfoBOie ;  ^  thre  deare  af  gaim  whidi  is  the  motiTe  prompt- 
Bar  ^^  »r  tt»  thrw  a  aam  at  CiaLk&td's  for  £100,  is  t^  same 
jmjgnclMr  taac  iznoneea  die  po^ar  ta  tarn  head  or  tail  for  a  pbt  of  beer. 
1:  Mi  Vecs  sni  taac  ths  sae  dozre  af  gain  is  an  inherent  principle 
a  aan— one  x  5s  ^e  frnpular  fia  lentme  af  ererj  kind,  and  oonse- 
rrr  t3]e  3Bint  scrxc  'si  aH  haiMnnble  and  snccessfnl  enterprise; 
xaw  ma  geaeni  ^itaiaaltJMi  it  has  been  absurdly  argaed  that  all 
.  s  JK  Vtiaeea  tke  ^^wfieamd  gamester  and  the  more  qoali- 
ioi  lail  JepCBu&e  specmjattr ;  the  reawmg,  however,  is  £dae  and  in- 
7  tk^ckaracten  are  as  distinct  »  daj  from  nigfat,  as  pure  firom 
CKK  :  ^bt  deacre  af  gain  in  the  one  is  a  praiaewWth j  and 
^Ksaexpie  paamprtng  ta  nsefdl  and  beneficial  enterprise 
W  kiaBi«:nkue  ■««■»  aa*  iar  porposes  adTantageons  to  the  seneru  in- 
«t  aKseCT :  oa  tkt  scher  it  b  an  exdosiTdT  selfish  and  unworthy 
b.  aeekfa^  its  avn  aile  and  immediate  benefit  at  the  total  sacn- 
«c  aaacker^  wKfcev  wwking  no  practical  good  to  any,  and  fre- 
^sectly  jeskif:^  :»  tk  most  dire  and  distressing  results,  llie  man  of 
ett&se  kas  »>  r%kt  to  gaaae,  for  by  so  doing  he  misappropriates  the 
gifts  «c  fvmae^  and  ]>grrerts  the  stream  of  his  wealth  from  its  whole- 
sacse  asi  ie^himate  cocrse  into  channels  where  its  just  influence  cannot 
he  feit.  The  man  of  nxKierate  means  has  no  justification  for  gamiog, 
fv  by  it  he  wantonly  endangers  his  enried  position  of  independence 
and  the  respect  it  ensures,  and  shamefully  risks  the  happiness  of 
domestic  ties,  and  abindons  the  duties  of  sodal  life  to  the  oase  and 
minoQs  pursuit.  While  the  gamester-merchant  or  trader  is  a  double 
dealer  of  the  worst  kind ;  he  obtains  credit  upon  a  false  pledge  and 
estimate  of  his  character,  and  dishonestl?  risks  a  capital  not  his  own, 
hot  entrusted  to  him  for  the  sole  and  special  purpose  of  fair  and  honour- 
able traffic  It  has  been  wisely  said  that  gamesters  are  either  fools  or 
knares ;  fools,  if  baring  sufficient  means,  they  endanger  the  posses- 
sioo  thereof  by  play  ;  and  knayes,  if  haying  none,  they  seek  by  false 
pretences,  to  defrand  others  of  that  which  ^longs  to  them.  Who  can 
deny  the  truth  of  the  predicate  ?  Yet  such  is  the  extent  to  which  the 
two  great  systems  of  folly  and  knayery  are  carried,  and  so  great  the 
preyailing  propensity  for  play»  particularly  amongst  the  higher  dasses, 
that  it  may  not  be  inappropriatdy  asked,  in  the  terms  of  the  Roman 
satirist,  as  translated  by  Dryden, 

'<  When  were  the  dice  with  mure  profusion  thrown  ? 
The  weU.fill*d  fob  *g  not  emptied  now  alone, 
But  gamesters  for  whole  patrimonies  play ; 
The  steward  brings  the  deed  that  must  convey 
The  lost  estate  ;  what  more  than  madness  reigns, 
"  When  one  short  sitting  many  hundreds  drains, 


AKD   GAMESTERS. 


33S 


Aod  not  cnotigb  h  left  him  to  tttpply 

Boiird-wagea  or  his  footiQiiU*a  Uvery  ?*' 

The  conceptions  of  tbe  Poet  embody  some  pimgent  and  lamentable 
truths.  Whole  patrimonies  have  indeed  disappeared  under  the  in- 
6a6nce  of  dice,  the  powers  and  uses  of  which  never  came  within  the 
learned  Sugden'a  knowledge  and  experience,  or  he  would  have  ad- 
mitted their  efficacy  to  bar  an  expectancy,  and  sever  possession  of  an 
estate  beyond  every  other  mode  of  conveyance.  Not  less  true  is  it 
that  men  of  fortune  have  been  so  reckless  in  their  play  as  to  have 
reached  the  extreme  point  of  inability  described,  namely,  the  lack  of 
means  to  pay  their  tradesmens*  bills  or  servants*  wages* 

It  may  be  said  of  gaming,  as  of  every  other  vicious  propensity,  that 
it  Is  of  most  ancient  origin,  and,  m  its  practice,  of  high  example  and 
aatbority*  Dice  in  particular  are  said  to  have  been  the  invention  of 
Palamedes  at  the  seige  of  Troy,  There  were  two  sorts  of  games 
amongst  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  the  ludtix  tahntm  and  the  ludtis 
iesserarum ;  the  tali  had  but  four  sides  marked  with  four  opposite 
numbers,  4  and  3,  and  6  and  1 ;  the  lesser (s  resembled  modern  dice, 
juid  presented  six  faces,  numbered  respectively  1  to  6.  The  upper  and 
lower  numbers  both  in  the  tali  and  tessenp  invariably  made  7*  The 
game  w^as  different  in  its  principle  from  hazard,  it  was  played  with 
three  tesserae  or  dice*  the  best  throw  being  the  three  sixes,  which  waa 
termed  basilicus^  signifying  a  princely  or  royal  throw;  the  worst  cast 
was  ames  ace,  which  was  termed  cants  and  carried  with  it  total  loss, 
Persius,  in  his  satires,  particularly  alludes  to  these  matters,  and  speaks 
moreover  of  the  practice  of  cheating  or  cogging  the  dice,  which  was  re* 
sorted  to  in  those  days,  and  indeed  appears  to  have  been  co-existent  with 
ihe  game  itself.     The  passage,  in  Dry  den's  traaslationj  runs  thus : 


<*  But  thcu  my  study  was  to  coff  th€  diee^ 
And  desteroiuty  to  throw  the  lucky  dce^ 
To  shun  ames  aee^  that  swept  my  stakes  away. 
And  watch  the  box,  for  fetar  they  should  convey 
F&lse  bones,  and  put  upon  me  in  my  play.^* 


I  The  |iecttliar  study  alluded  to  is  notoriously  characteristic  of  tlie 
M)ol  of  modem  practitioners,  and  it  were  wise  fur  all  who  indulge  in 
iue  royal  and  extravagant  amusements  of  dice  to  take  the  hint  of 
PersiiiN,  and  be  observant  of  boxes  and  bones,  as  they  paMs  from  one 
hand  to  another  in  the  revolutionary  course  of  the  hazard  table. 

The  Emperor  Claudius  is  said  to  have  been  so  passionately  fond  of 

gaming,  that  he  practised  it  as  he  rode  about  in  his  chariot.     It  is 

handed  down  also,  that   so  great   was  his   experience   in   respect   to 

dice,  that  he  composed  a  work  on  the  subject.     Seneca,  in  his  sarcastic 

(Unt  of  the  Emperor's  apotheosis,  when,  after  many  adventures,  he 

at  last  brought  him  to  hell,  makes  the  infernal  judges  condemn 

lim  (in  proper  punishment  for  his  offences)  to  play  continually  at  dice 

with  a  box  that  had  the  bottom  out,  by  which  he  was  always  kept  in 

hopei  but  baulked  in  expectation. 

**  For  wbenwe'er  he  shook  the  box  to  cast, 
The  rattling  dice  ddiide  his  eager  haste  \ 
And  if  he  tried  again,  the  waggish  bone 
Insensibly  was  throng^h  his  fingers  gone  ; 
Still  he  was  throwing,  yet  he  ueVr  had  thrown  1 " 

It  will  admit  of  a  doubt  whether  modern  professors  of  the  art 

B  u  "i 


asc 


GAMING,   GAMIKG-nOUSES, 


would  oonsider  Uiis  iiic»de  of  torture,  as  concrtved  by  Seneca,  to  am  aunt 
to  a  ptmisJiaient,  or  even  to  a  task  of  incooi'enjence,  for  if  their  E^kiU 
be  correctly  reported^  and  the  e:icpo&itioa  of  the  Northern  Wizard,  a» 
to  tbeir  dexten  us  methods  of  iecyring  the  dlce^  be  not  all  moondiine, 
these  saoie  modern  artists  can  play  as  effect u Lilly  with  a  bottomless  box 
fts  with  one  of  more  perfect  description;  so  that  if  in  their  state  of 
ptirgatorf  hereafter,  they  should  chance  to  encounter  the  shade  of 
Claudius,  or  others  of  the  ancient  but  less  qualified  school  of  Dicers^ 
they  may  practicaUy  turn  their  superior  ability  to  account.  Cato  the 
censor  (who  is  said  to  have  applied  himself  to  the  acquirement  of  the 
Greek  langnage  at  the  age  of  eighty),  was  an  inveterate  gamester^  and 
Si  appears  on  the  authority  of  Cicero,  would  willingly  have  assented  to 
^  abolition  of  all  ^.imes  and  fe^itivities  so  that  there  were  left  to  him 
the  diversions  and  amusements  of  dice*  This  has  led  to  doubt  amongst 
professed  gamestersi  who  are  ever  pleased  to  justify  their  practices  u|>on 
high  and  classical  example,  whether  it  was  not  to  proficiency  in  Greek' 
ing  (sharping)  rather  than  to  the  attainment  of  the  Greek  tongue,  that 
the  old  Blonian  devoted  his  great  energieis.  Certain  it  is  that  from  the 
earliest  periods  of  historical  record  to  the  present  day,  all  natiofu, 
kingdoms,  and  people  have  been  addicted  to  play  ;  the  passion  or  pro- 
pensity has  influenced  alike  the  savage  and  the  civilized ;  monarchs, 
statesmen,  generals,  philosophers  and  divines,  have  been  alike  subject  to 
its  control,  and  this,  in  spite  of  all  the  swinging  laws  and  biting  statutes 
that  have  from  age  to  age  and  from  period  to  period  been  framed  for 
its  suppression.  Law-makers  have  been  ever  peculiarly  distinguished 
as  law-breakers,  and  individual  practice  has  ever  been  op{x>sed  to  col- 
lective and  legislative  theory  and  enactment. 

Referring  to  the  laws  and  usages  of  the  ancients  in  regard  to  gaming^ 
many  of  which  appear  to  be  worthy  of  modern  adoption,  and  calculated 
to  check  in  particular  the  destructive  evil  of  fraudulent  play,  it  will 
be  found,  that  amongst  the  Jews^  a  gamester  was  excluded  magisterial 
appointment,  and  rendered  incapable  of  high  and  honourable  office, 
nor  could  he  be  admitted  a  witness  in  any  court  of  justice  until  (the 
consummation  of  a  somewhat  hopeless  task  in  a  confirmed  gamester) 
perfect  reformation.  Were  such  disqualification  to  attach  generally 
at  the  present  day  to  the  vice,  it  is  suspected  that  the  mugis^terial  roll 
would  be  considerably  thinned,  and  that  extraordinary  havoc  would  be 
made  amongst  the  Government  officials,  from  the  cabinet  downwards 
••"^a  result  perhaps  beneficial  to  the  community  rather  than  productive 
of  any  serious  public  inconvenience- 

fiy  the  laws  of  the  ancient  Egyptians,  a  convicted  gambler  (whom 
any  pemon  might  accuse)  was  condemned  to  servitude  in  the  qusrriev* 
Substituting  the  treadmill  for  the  quarries,  this  law  had  resemblance 
to  our  own,  excepting  that  in  the  construction  of  law,  a  convicted 
gambler  is  held  to  signify  only  a  convicted  gaming- house- keeper. 
Had  a  more  extensive  signification  in  law  attached  to  the  term,  and 
convicted  gambler  been  taken  in  its  general  sense  as  applicable  to  all 
persons,  whatever  their  degree  or  position  in  life,  who  should  be  con- 
victed of  the  act  and  offence  of  gaming,  there  would,  it  is  thought,  have 
long  Mnce  been  some  right  noble  and  distinguished  company  engaged  in 
tlj«7  impulsive  operations  of  the  mill,  or  in  the  useful  national  oGCU]ia- 
tion  of  picking  ottkum. 

The  Roman  Ediles  were  authorised  to  punish  gaming,  excepting 
during  the  Saturnalia,  when  a  licence  was  given  to  general  mirth 


AND    GAMESTERS. 


sa7 


and  liceiiliousnessj  without  the  penultles  ordinarily  attaching  thereto. 
The  Roman  law,  in  its  statntes  against  gaming,  exceptetf  from  its 
penalties  wresllin^f  and  pugilism.  We  have  now  something  of  simi- 
lar reservation  under  ntir  ]iarJiiimentar}^  enactments,  occasioned  by  qui 
tam  actions  having  been  brought  by  common  inforiners  against  certain 
noblemen  and  gentlemen,  members  of  the  Jockey  Club,  and  others, 
before  whom  the  legislature  most  compassionately  threw  its  protecting 
shield  to  save  them  from  the  heavy  penalties  which,  under  the  then 
existing  law,  they  had  incurred  by  winning  large  sums  of  money  on 
events  of  horse-racing.  By  the  new  act,  horse-racing,  and  a  long  list 
of  what  are  therein  described  as  manly  sports,  are  now  excepted  from 
penal  consequence,  and  the  law  now  somewhat  partially  stands  that 
betting  or  gaining  on  turf  events,  which  doubtless  exceed  alJ  others  in 
their  crafty  principle  and  fraudulent  character,  may  be  carried  on  to 
any  extent  w^ith  impunity,  while  bettijjg  and  gaming  at  dice,  which 
under  due  and  vigilunt  observance  on  the  part  of  the  player  aiFord 
chance  of  fair  calculated  result^  subject  every  person  so  indulging  to 
be  most  unceremoniously  taken,  like  a  felon^  from  the  scene  of  pJay, 
to  be  incarcerated  all  night  in  a  filthy  and  unwholesome  cell,  and  if  he 
be  recognised  only  as  a  player,  and  not  in  any  way  concerned  in,  or 
connected  with,  the  house  of  play  as  a  proprietor,  to  be  fined  only  in  a 
small  amount,  or  imprisoned  with  hard  labour,  for  a  certain  numJ>er  of 
days,  as  the  magistrate  shall  direct.  The  inequality  of  this  law  is  some- 
what inconsistent  with  the  principle,  and  indeed  precludes  all  notion,  of 
justice,  which  awards  its  pains  and  penalties  with  more  equitable  de- 
cree, regarding  the  offence,  without  consideration  of  the  rank,  wealth, 
or  connection  of  tJie  offender. 

The  highest  sum  permitted  to  be  played  for  by  the  Roman  law  was 
^      a  solidus,  or  about  twelve  shillings  value  of  English   money.     Rigid 
punishment  was  enforced   not  only  against  keepers  of  gaming-tables, 
but  against  all  who  countenanced  them  by  their  patronage  and  pre- 
sence either  as  players  or  observers  of  pluj ;  all  were  punishable,  with- 
out distinction.   The  laws  of  Justinian  drew  a  most  just  and  wholesome 
degree  of  offence  between  the  clergy  and  laity  in  respect  to  gaming, 
f      and  attached  to  the  misconduct  of  the  clergy  a  deeper  stigma,  on  ac- 
connt  of  their  sacred  profession  imposing  a  more  strict  and  exemplary 
observance  of  moral  rule.     The  laws  also  of  the  Franks  and  Germans 
^^n  respect  to  gaming  were,  in  more  recent  times,  particularly  directed 
^^Bltt&inst  the  clergy,  who  were  punished  by  excommunication  and  priva- 
P^on,     In  other  respects  the  Roman  law,  with  little  variation  in  aub- 
I      itaiice,  approximated  to  our  own.     Money  lost  at  pi  ay  could  not  be 
''      legally  recovered  by  the  winner,  and  money  paid  by  the  loser  might  be 
by  him  recovered  from  the  person  w^ho  had  won  and  received  the  same; 
but  the  remedy  of  recovery  had  greater  latitude  of  tinie  for  its  practi- 
cal enforcement  than  with  na.     The  maxim  of  English  law,  *' Actio 
perf^onali;^  moritur  cum  persona,*'  does  not  appear  to  have  fallen  within 
the  recognition  of  the  Roman  principle ;  for  if  the  loser  neglected  his 
claim  for  money  lost,  or  died  while  prosecuting  the  same,  his  heir  might 
sue  for  it,  or  on  his  default,  it  might  be  rtcovered  for  t!ie  use  of  the 
public  treasury,  or  service  of  the  state,  fviifiin  /(fit/  invars!  a  moat 
healthful  and  conservative  enuctment,  and  not  undeserving  the  attention 
of  Sir  Robert  Peel,  as  affording  no  mean  source  of  increase  to  the  trea- 
Rury   coffers.     A  tithe  of  the  excessive  sums  lost  at  Crockford's  and 
other  clubi  and  gaming-houses^  and  by  means  of  fraudulent  conspiracy 


S3S 


GAMIHO,   GAMtNG-HO0SE8^ 


i  ImI  qiMrter  of  m  centarj,  would  hmre  mater  ullr 
seeipt*  sad  lisvealiDrded  opporliuuty  for  propor- 

i, «  wiartgr  or  teiier  ^ad  remedy  under  tbe  Jua- J 
CMHB  eids  igifit  9Mf  fcnoB  ndnenig  a  mm  or  serrant  to  play  ;  audi 
If  tb«  ^"^  Cttdc^  a  nlkcr  alrlmrd  efiactment  preraUed,  to  the  gr 
pcmaal  lidk  and  iacoBWoieiiee  of  gaaung-uble  keepers,  who  had  i 
■nmtif  whmtaiwex,  W  adioft  or  ochenrue,  against  any  one  who  should 
boot  or  iiialljaaL  tkcm  at  lunie  or  abroad ;  so  that  a  man  losing  lull 
vaHCy  lo  a  yuBitiig4>0Bae  keeper  might  not  only  have  immediate  sum*  I 
varj  vcDRttaer  oa  tiba  offender,  but  be  might  repeat  the  punishmentfl 
to  t&a  fimiMiraaare  of  hn  wtath,  whenerer  and  wbereTer  he  might  en-j 
cwillter  tlie  dcHnque&t,  whose  home,  it  appears,  was  not  even  sacred] 
from  iatnkdon*     If  the  keepers  of  gaming-tables  were  detected  with  I 
fidae  diee  in  their  hotiaeafy  the  house  wherein  such  discoTery  was  made] 
vai  telestisd  to  tht  state,  if  it  belonged  to  the  offender^  and  equally  so] 
if  it  bdooged  to  mnj  other  person  cognizant  of  the  offence^  or  if  the  I 
liene  waa  used  f<^  gaming.     Stringent  as  we^e  such  consequences^  I 
t^ey  exceeded  not  the  penalty  due  to  the  nature  of  the  ^udulent  of-] 
leoee,  ^  no  enactment  can  be  too  severe  against  so  infamous  a  system  [ 
of  plonder.     Excuse  may  perhaps  be  found  for  the  mere  offence  of  oc- 
caaieoal  indulgence  in  play  upon  a  hit  and  straightforward  principle  of 
equality,  for  the  majority  of  mankind  haye  all  more  or  less  of  the  in- 
clination;  but,  to  seek  to  effect  the  object  of  gain  by  the  base,  dis*l 
honest,  and  disgraceful  means  of  false  dice,  or  other  implements  of 
plavj  brands  tbe  practitioner  a  scoundrel,  and  merits  the  severest  pun- 
ishment the  law  can  inflict.     Frauds  and  robberies  on  the  turf  come 
fairly  within  the  same  class  of  criminal  offence,  and  ought  not  to  escape 
the  like  severe  consequence*     Had  the  Roman  law  of  confiscation  been  . 
some  years  since  engrafted  on  tbe  English  code,  it  may  be  a  matter  of  I 
curious  and  speculative  opinion  Low  many  of  our  metropolitan  club*  I 
houses  would  have  passed   into  possession  of  tbe  stale  ;  and  had  tba 
system  of  forfeiture  been  further  acted  on  in  respect  to  race-hortei 
constituting  the  immediate  cause  and  subject  of  such  frauds,  it  mar  bo  ^ 
doubted  whether  the  state-stud  would  not  have  surpassed  all  othen 
both  in  number  and  qualitj*. 

It  wili  be  seen,  theni  that  gaming  in  its  disqualified  sense  and  im-i 
moral  Bignification,  has  in  all  ages  been  denounced,  and  with  good! 
cause,  as  a  great  social  evil ;  and,  as  we  gather  from  the  history  aadfl 
codes  of  nations,  has  formed  a  leading  and  important  subject  for  legia* 
lation:  but  it  will  equally  appear  that  all  law^,  prohibitions,  and  pe- 
nalties have  been  ineffectual  to  suppress  it,  and  equally  insuflicient  to  , 
check  its  growth  or  counteract  its  demoralising  influence.  Thatgamja^l 
is  an  evil  of  the  most  pernicious  character  in  society  no  man  can  havO^ 
the  hardihood  or  ellrontery  to  deny ;  but  a  doubt  may  be  entertained 
whether  the  passion  or  propensity  be  not  too  strong  to  be  controlled  by 
statute,  and  too  human  for  any  legislative  enactment  free  from  the 
which 

^  Compounds  for  tiiis  we  are  inclined  for. 
By  dmnming  thoM  we  haye  do  mind  lor/*' 

requires  more  than  human  wisdom  and  tffort  to  subdue  the  ruling 
d  inherent  pas&ton  of  nuiversal  man*     If  public  gaming  is  ever  to 
*afully  suppressed  by  law«  it  must  be  by  enactments  IkUing, 


AND    GAMESTERS. 


339 


with  equal  weight,  and  operating  with  Just  severity  on  all  promoters 

and  practitioners  of  the  principle  which  it  is  the  ohject  of  the  law,  in 
its  Igreat  object  and  consideration  for  social  good,  to  diitcouiitenajice ; 
not  by  partial  measures,  protective  of  one  class  of  offenders,  and  pu- 
nitive of  another  ;  not  by  giving  privilege  to  the  high  and  mighty, 
knaves  of  Bociety  to  practice  with  impunity  that  which  in  thy  humbler 
classes  and  lower  grades  of  men  is  to  be  deemed  crime,  and  visited 
by  legal  penalty  ;  but,  putting  down  the  whole  system  of  gaming  as 
far  as  law  and  legijslatioo  can  effect  so  moral  an  object,  upon  one  great 
principle,  letting  law  go  hand  in  hand  with  justice  in  the  work,  so 
that  it  err  not  in  the  principle  of  its  enactment,  or  in  the  equity  of 
its  administration.  The  wisdom  of  the  legislature  has  been  hitherto 
but  imperfectly  directed  to  such  a  desirable  end  ;  it  overlooks  offence  in 
tboae  who  from  their  elevated  position  in  life  should  give  example,  and 
whose  wealth  can  ill  excuse  their  folly  and  avarice  ;  and,  doubting  its 
own  power  to  dea!  with  the  higher  class  of  offenders,  the  members  of 
clubs,  has  chieHy  directed  its  practical  vengeance  against  minor  houses 
of  play,  and  the  evanewrent  tribe  of  gaming-table  keepers  connected 
with  them  ;  men  who,  if  they  possess  no  very  great  powers  of  reason- 
ing, have  yet  an  instinctive  mode  of  jumping  to  a  pretty  correct  com- 
mon sense  conclusion  of  the  injustice  of  such  a  law.  To  their  plain 
notion  of  things  the  shake  of  a  dice-box,  or  the  turn  of  a  roulette- 
wlieel,  must  amount  to  an  equal  offence  whether  practised  at  a  club  or 
in  a  booth  at  a  fair,  nor  can  they  arrive  at  any  satisfactory  conclusion 
why  the  doors  of  Crock  ford's  gaming-house  in  St.  James's  Street  are 
to  be  opened  to  an  exclusively  privileged  class  of  persona,  who,  under 
the  management  of  a  committee  partly  composed  of  law-mnkers,  are 
permitted  to  violate  the  law  with  impunity,  while  minor  houses  are 
subject  to  open  attack  by  the  police,  and  to  be  put  down  in  the  most 
summary  manner  by  the  strong  arm  of  power.  Equally  at  a  loss  are 
they  to  understand  why  the  frequenters  of  Crock  ford's,  and  other  clubs, 
are  altogether  to  escape  the  penalties  of  offence,  while  persons  of  no  less 
intrinsic  respectability,  ana  less  frequent  offenders,  perhaps,  but  not 
specially  protected  as  members  of  a  club,  are  to  meet  the  law  s  most 
rigorous  visitation.  Such  palpable  distinctions  iu  the  construction  and 
application  of  the  law,  where  the  law  itself  contemplates  no  shade  of 
difference  in  the  offence,  is  at  variance  with  all  its  boasted  impartial- 
ity, and  require  to  be  swept  away  ere  the  full  mead  of  respect  can  be 
paid  to  the  law  or  to  those  who  adminjater  it.  In  reference  to  this 
subject,  a  second  report  from  the  Parliamentary  Committee  on  gaming, 
after  assigning  mo«t  special,  but  not  altogether  convincing  reasons  for 
protecting  turf  sports,  and  for  the  law's  non-interference  with  betting 
(however  enormous),  as  connected  with  ?*iicb  sportii,  proceeds  to  the 
immediate  matter  of  gaming-houses,  and  observes,  **  that  they  (the 
Committee]  do  not  think  it  necessary  to  call  the  particular  attention  of 
the  House  to  the  subject,  as  they  have  learnt  that  since  the  com- 
mencement of  their  inquiries  the  law  in  its  present  state  has  been 
found  effectual  for  puiiing  down  most  of  the  houses ^  and  the  if  irusi  that 
the  zeal  and  vigilance  of  the  police  will  not  be  confined  to  places  re- 
sorted to  by  the  middle  and  lower  classes,  but  that  the  law  will  be 
equally  enforced  against  all  houses,  whatever  their  denomination,  or 
whatever  the  class  of  persons  resorting  to  them,  where  illegal  gaming 
is  known  to  be  carried  on."  lliia  is  at  once  an  avow  al  both  of  the  par- 
tiality and  of  the  insufficiency  of  the  law  in  respect  to  guming-houses. 


S40  GAKD^G.   GAMni<;-HOU8ES»    AND   GAMESTERS. 

TW  Rpvt  ^'■^ »*^*^  ■•  ciijiiBiiiMi  of  apinioB  tkmt  the  law  ahsoluteljf  is 
m£  taMoial  pvver  tMettauij  to  put  dinni  the  wkoU  mmisauce,  and  that 
thgggwg  JBo  nih  fiMfiiil  is  reqnired  to  gire  it  additional  strength. 
It  iCises  «bIt  that  the  lav  in  its  present  state  has  been  fomnd  effectual 
te  mff  iumx  wast  cf  tke  komsts  (the  real  signification  of  which  would 

Li  te^-*  lie  srpririleged  hooses,"^  and  then,  instead  of  recowt^ 
^mn  iLi:  lite  leal  xnd  rigilance  of  the  police  shoci«d  ^ir  forthwith 

K  liaulxtifir  t«  enforce  the  Uw  against  higher  places  and  mure 
an£e*f.  it  mEclr  and  considerately  trusts  only  that  the 
at  the  :«xice  m:'A  nd  6e  co»Jimed  to  places  frequented  by  the 
r^  xias  liver  c^jj^y.  bat  that  the  law  will  be  enforced  against  all 
kHLses  xsd  rerwci  witLc-ct  di^tinctioa.  There  is  a  tone  of  justice,  at 
Ibks.  in  t^  wbid-cp  of  the  paragraph  ;  bat,  can  the  Committee  really 
RiT  «ir  iie  ami  a:id  TJjLirce  of  the  police  to  act  thus  impartially  ? 
Is  it  »t  le  cnecftcC  for  i  conieBt  that  the  police  force  wiU,  under  the 
aKi^tfrrrr  ^fC  lie  liv,  niike  forcible  entry,  and  break  open  the  doors, 
JB£  qr.isc.  iie  sttte  tinwisg-riMMn  windows  of  the  Pandemonium  in  St. 
JflBfeft^'s  Sczvec.  azc  there  Lock  the  great  fish  who  fioander  about  in  the 
aea  «c  £Ie^  A3:s«k:E:ez:t«  in  the  same  unceremonious  manner  that  ther 
kiTV  .5«&ii:2iiie^  ocher  places,  and  there  netted  the  smaller  fry  of  oi- 
fieikaer^  *  If  tie  Cocsittce  are  really  so  credulous,  public  opinion  is 
■«c  S«i  Lac^  »  ducbc  ^hall  exi>t  whether  clubs  where  illegal  gaming 
is  ksxyw:!  a»  Sf  cirr>ed  oa  come  within  the  disqualifying  term  of  com- 
BMt  ri^ziirx-htfcses.  »  keg  will  illegal  gaming  continue  to  be  prae- 
tXKC  xt  <;Lci  pririleged  places,  —  so  long  will  right-honourables  and 
hiic«u:in^J«:^  Ctfctizoe  to  TioUte  the  law  with  impunity,  and  so  long  will 
the  fvcv^  vvc  their  example  infuence  others  to  the  like  offence.  Who  can 
docb<  f^.r  A  sx>c:ezt  that  illegal  play  is  carried  on,  and  known  to  be 
carriec  cz:  ni^itly  ax  Crockford's  ?  and,  such  being  the  fact,  what  iust 
rea:<<^  ci=  be  S5si^ed  fv>r  its  exception  from  legal  penalty  ?  If  gammg- 
hoc5e$  dre  to  t<  &Kvi:^hed.  let  them  be  swept  away  without  distinction, 
unJcrr  tie  c:«^t  stHcgect  and  prohibitory  enactments  against  their  re- 
est^&blishmtrnt.  Tten  arises  a  question,  how  f^  will  the  moral  condi- 
tioa  of  AvietT  be  really  benefited  by  the  measure?  Will  it  tend  to 
check  the  evil  of  jramicg,  or  afford  any  greater  degree  of  security  to 
the  public  ?  Opinion  is  conllicting ;  but  there  is  an  extensively  pre- 
Tailing  notion  that  the  results  of  private  play  are  much  more  to  be 
dreaded  in  their  ruinous  and  fatal  consequences  than  the  evils  arising 
from  speculations  at  a  public  gaming-table,  where  (supposing  that  the 
players  are  not  all  hirebng  scoundrels  assembled  for  the  purposes  of 
confederacy  with  the  proprietors  of  the  table,  to  plunder  one  or  two 
bomd^fiJe  players,)  all  may  reasonably  be  concluded  to  be  fair  in  opera- 
tion, in  order  to  secure  to  the  bankers  the  recognised  and  conventional 
per  rentage  of  the  game. 


341 


SKETCHES  OF  LEGENDARY  CITIES  AND  TOWNS. 

BY   1,0UI^   ST  CAB  T  COBTBLLO. 


DERBY. 

The  capita!  of  that  mteresting  portion  of  the  cotinty  callt^d  Derhy- 
sBlre,  nbouiiding  in  picturesque  sitts  and  fulJ  of  historical  recollections, 
has  lost  much  of  its  antique  aspect  by  gaining  in  improvement  and  com- 
modiousnesa*  Since  the  period  when  the  first  silk-mill  disturbed  the 
full  waters  of  the  Derwent,  great  has  been  the  change  in  the  town  :  old 
churches  have  disappeared  to  give  place  to  modern  institutions^  and 
monasteries  have  sunk  into  the  earth,  to  he  replaced  by  garden?*,  and 
the  beautiful  arbrndum  which  now  adorns  one  of  the  suburbs. 

The  **J\Ian  of  Ross"  ijf  Derby  appears  to  be  Mr.  Strutt>  the  great 
cotton-manufacturer,  w^hose  loss  the  iuhabitants  have  recently  had  to 
deplore  ;  he  seemed  never  weary  of  contributing  to  the  advantage  of 
his  native  town,  and  numerous  are  the  benevolent  institutions  which 
are  owing  to  his  bounty.  Not  the  least  is  the  delightful  promenade 
out!>ide  the  town,  which,  formerly  a  piece  of  neglected  ground,  is  now 

"As  from  the  strtike  of  an  encbanter'a  wand,** 

converted  into  a  retreat  filled  with  flowering  shrubs  of  singular  beauty 
and  rarity,  and  adorned  with  bowers  and  alcoves,  groves  and  parterres, 
all  arranged  with  consummate  skill,  and  forming  a  healthy  and  deli- 

,  Clous  walk  for  the  townspeople  of  Derby,  who,  as  they  stroll  on  spring 

'  «nd  summer  evenings  along  its  pleasing  paths,  cannot  but  think  with 
gratitude  of  the  amiable  man  who  dedicated  ten  thousand  of  the  pounds 
he  gained  by  his  industry  and  ingenuity  to  the  good  of  his  fellow- 
townsmen. 

The  stranger  looks  on  the  ^ne  mansion  of  Mr.  Strutt  in  the  heart  of 
Derby  with  feelings  of  entljusiasm  when  he  hears  of  alJ  his  eiforts  for 
the  good  and  pleasure  of  others,  and  listens  anxiously  for  accounts  of 
similar  acts  performed  by  other  great  merchants  who  owe  as  much  to 
the  streams  and  riils  of  gold-producing   Derbyshire.     Works  of  all 

I  (kinds  abound  in  Derby,  and  the  great  manufactories  do  not  add  to  the 
graceful  appearance  of  the  town,  but  the  streets  are  in  general  wide, 
and  not  ill-built.  At  every  tenth  window  ghtter  the  many  coloured 
fpars  of  the  teeming  hills  of  Castleton,  and  the  eye  becomes  bewildered 
with  the  riches  of  the  mines,  here  compelled  to  take  forms  such  as  the 
genii  of  the  secret  caverns  could  not  have  attempted  to  model,  skilful 
aa  they  are  known  to  be  in  moulding  silver,  iron,  and  gold  with  their 
tiny  hammers.  Whether  any  of  these  subterranean  workmen  have 
heen  secured  to  assist  the  luce-makers  here,  is  not  ascertitined,  but 
certain  it  is,  that  **  a  wotider-working  engine,"  guided  by  unseen  hands, 
contrives  lo  produce  every  week  uncounted  yards  of  the  most  delicute 
net,  which  female  fingers  snatch  fnun  iron  meshes  and  send  forth  to  the 
world  transparent  and  pure  as  the  ethereal  veil»  woven  by  the  gos- 

,  samer. 

A  humbler,  but  as  useful  contrtbution  of  commerce,  and  one  which 

\*hm  showered  gold   into  the  cofftrs  nf  the  weidthy  of  Derby,  i»  the 


342      SKETCHES   OF   LEGENDARY    CITIES   AND   TOWNS* 


msnafacture  of  hose^ribbed  hose — as  famous  in  tbdr  way  as  the  hm^ 
which  I^talvolio  enhanced  by  adorning  them  with  croas-garters. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  street  called  Bridge-gate  nms  the  river  Der- 
went,  not  pure  and  sparkling  as  in  the  wilder  scenes  through  whicli 
its  current  runs,  but  dark  and  dim,  its  waters  deeply  coloured  with 
the  tints  left  by  heaps  of  silk  which  ^^orkmen  in  boats  are  seen  busily 
engaged  in  plunging  into  the  stream.  From  the  centre  of  this  bridge 
the  Tiew  is  singularly  picturesque^  but  not  in  the  ordinary  acceptation 
of  the  word.  Huge  'silk-mills  filled  with  windows,  rise  towt-ring  from 
the  darkened  rirer,  throwing  a  broad  shade  from  its  banks :  one  bridge 
after  the  other  starts  into  view^  and  the  spectator  seems  to  stand  to  a 
little  Venice  of  canals,  amongst  the  spanning  arches  which  fly  acros^i 
the  intersecting  streiims  and  brooks  that  diirersify  the  face  of  tbe  town  ; 
once  there  were  no  less  than  ten^  but  now  fiire  have>  by  judicious  distri- 
bution, been  found  sufficient.  The  chief  of  these,  though  modern,  haa 
yet  an  ancient  feature  attached  to  it  in  the  remnant  of  the  structure  it 
displaces,  which  was  once  a  chapel  dedicated  to  8t  Mary,  and  is  all 
that  is  left  of  a  crowd  of  buildings,  formerly  grouped  tc^etber,  peering 
into  the  river  from  side  to  side.  This  must  have  been  at  a  periou 
when  ''  Nun's  Green  "  knew  nothing  of  the  streets  and  lanes  and 
thonNighfiBLrea  which  now  conceal  all  but  the  name  of  a  spot  where  the 
Mj  sisterhood  once  paced  solemnly  beneath  the  *^  shade  of  melancholy 
boughs,**  unmarked  but  by  the  eye  of  their  ever-watchful  patron  saint 
and  the  demure  lady  abb^ 

The  silk-trade  is  not  so  flourishing  now  as  in  the  days  when  a  Ibr- 
ttinate  discovery  made  Derby  another  Lyons.  When  l^ing  John  held 
the  sceptre  of  Britain,  doubtless  "  for  a  consideration/'  he  granted  to 
the  burghers  of  Derby  the  exclusive  privil^e  of  dyeing  cloth  ;  and 
fulling-mills  were  rife  here  in  Queen  Mary's  time,  but  at  a  much  later 
period  the  introduction  of  mills  for  silk  superseded  all  others. 

From  one  of  the  bridgen  the  eye  is  attracted  to  a  huge  pile  of  build- 
ing standing  on  a  low  island  in  the  centre  of  the  river ;  it  is  now  some- 
what dilapidated  and  telJ^  of  decay  and  the  falling  ulf  of  its  prosperityj 
but  this  was,  less  than  a  century  and  a  half  ago,  the  famous  ailk-mill 
of  Sir  Thomns  Lombe,  Alderman  of  London,  the  fortunes  of  wh«ce 
brother.  Sir  John,  the  proprietor  of  the  first  mill,  were  romantic  and 
various  in  the  extreme. 

Until  the  year  1717,  Italy  possessed  exclusively  the  ''art  of  silk- 
throwing,"  and  kept  its  supremacy  over  all  other  nations,  much  to  tbe 
regret  of  envying  merchants  who  were  obliged  to  depend  on  the  pruud 
Italians  for  any  share  in  this  branch  of  cummerce.  Several  aspiring 
and  ingenious  persons  in  England  strove  to  establish  manufactariei 
which  might  vie  with  those  abroad,  but  none  succeeded.  An  individual 
at  Derby  ventured  to  erect  a  mill  on  the  Derwent,  and  allowed  his  hopes 
to  blossom  there  in  vain ;  all  went  on  well  in  theory,  but  the  machinery 
was  defective,  and  the  practice  failed.  Amongst  those  who  looked  on 
and  regretted,  vvhf>  thought  and  planned,  was  a  young  mechanic  named 
^ohn  Lombe ;  he  saw  the  cause  of  the  failure  of  what  had  promised 

veil,  and  felt  convinced  that  success  might  yet  be  attained.    Having 

all  the  eut'rgies  of  his  mind  towards  this  one  object,  he  set  out  on 

irney  to  Italy,  where,  after  many  hardshipti,  having  arrived,  he  Wt 

^me  in  carrying  his  schemes  into  execution.     He  found  that  to 

"mission  to  enter  the  workshops  where  the  silk  was  perfected 

he  therefore  had  recourse  to  stratagem,  and  becoming 


DERBY- 


343 


acquainted  with  some  of  the  workmen,  by  persuasions  and  bribery  he 
at  leiiglli  induced  them  to  admit  him  witliin  the  secret  precincts. 
There  concealed,  he  was  enabled  to  make  drawings  of  the  machinery, 
andj  for  one  of  his  intelligence,  the  slight  sketches  he  had  time  to  exe- 
cute were  sufficient  for  his  purpose*  He  had  fortunately  rendered 
himself  master  of  his  subject.,  when  by  some  accident  his  furtive  visits 
were  discovered  by  the  proprietors. 

The  knowledge  he  had  become  possessed  of  was  thought  of  such 
vital  importance  to  the  interests  of  Italy,  that  the  most  severe  punish- 
ment was  resolved  on  for  the  offender*  His  life  was  not  worth  an 
hour's  purchase  from  the  moment  his  temerity  was  found  out,  and  but 
for  the  timely  warning  of  some  of  his  friends  he  must  have  fallen  a 
victim  to  the  roused  vengeance  of  the  enraged  merchants. 

He  concealed  himself  as  long  as  he  could,  and  at  last  contrived  to 

reach  an  English  vessel,  where  he  was  received  and  hidden  from  the 

active  search  of  the  officers  sent  in  pnraiiit  of  him.     The  two  workmen 

who  had  introduced  him  into  the  mills  were  equally  the  objects  of  fury, 

and  they  found  that  to  remain  longer  in  their  own  country  was  to 

yeacpo^  themselves  to  certain  death  ;  they  too  followed  the  example  of 

obe,  and  were  eomdly  successful  in  escaping  to  the  English  ship, 

rldch  lailed  away  from  the  coast  of  Italy   freighted  with  a  treasure 

liose  value  was  then  little  suspected. 

The  three  friends  arrived  safely  in  England,  and,  together,  they  took 
their  way  to  Derby,  where  the  enterprising  young  man,  who  had  dared 
•o  much  to  attain  knowledge,  communicated  to  the  Corpctration  the  fact 
of  his  having  every  prospect  of  success,  and,  sharing  in  his  enthusiasm, 
as  far  as  it  coincided  with  their  own  interest,  they  agreed  to  abandon 
lo  him  an  island  or  swamp  in  the  river,  five  hundred  feet  long  and 
fifty- two  feet  wide,  in  consideration  of  a  rent  of  about  eight  pounds  per 
annum.  While  the  mill,  which  he  afterwards  established,  was  in  the 
course  of  construction  on  this  island,  he  caused  machinery  to  be  per- 
fected according  to  his  Italian  models,  and  had  it  erected  in  the  Town- 
ball  and  other  places  in  Derby.  He  thus,  in  a  short  time  reduced  the 
price  of  silk  far  below  that  of  the  Italians,  and  was  enabled  to  proceed 
with  his  greater  undertakings  though  the  expenses  were  no  less  than 
thirty  thousand  pounds. 

The  year  after  his  return  he  procured  a  patent  to  enable  him  to 
secure  the  profits  arising  from  his  ingenuity  and  industry  for  fourteen 
jesas.  So  far  all  had  been  sunshine  and  good  fortune,  and  he  sa^v 
before  him  a  brilliant  future,  with  wealth,  renown,  and  triumph  all  his 

But  the  fame  of  his  success  had  renched  the  shores  of  the  sunny 
South  ;  nor  was  it  merely  the  credit  which  he  had  obtained  which 
rankled  in  their  hearts ;  they  found  u  strange  decrease  in  their  com- 
merce, and  the  demand  for  the  produce  of  their  once  unrivalled  looms 
b  dwindled  to  a  startling  amount.  Though  the  clever  Englishman  had 
escaped  their  vengeance  before,  it  was  resolved  that  their  power  should 
yet  reach  him  even  in  the 


and 


<«  Inriolata  ifthind  of  the  sage  and  frc« ;" 
■  Jay  of  Italy,  wtune  mother  was  her  p&inting,*' 


was  dispatched  to  execute  the  deed  which  they  felt  called  upon  to 
commit  as  a  peace^ffering  to  their  offended  commerce* 


^H      SKETCHES    OF    LEGENDARY    CITIES    AND   TOWNS. 


The  two  Italiansj  who  had  accompanieii  Liambe  to  Derhv,  were  aud- 
denly  surprised  by  the  arrival  of  a  female  relative  of  one  of  them^  who 
declared  that  she  had  experienced  great  persecution  since  his  depar- 
ture, and  found  it  impossible  any  longer  to  remain  in  Italy-  She  hud, 
she  said,  resolved  to  follow  them,  and  was  ready  to  contribute  her 
aanst&nce  in  carrying  nn  the  work^  in  which  they  were  employed. 
Her  services  were  joyfully  accepted,  and  her  presence  was  hailed'  by 
the  unsuspecting  Lombe.  She  had  now  gained  her  object,  and  pro- 
ceeded with  the  secret  work  for  which  she  had  been  selected. 

From  the  time  of  her  joining  the  friends  a  change  came  over  their 
minds ;  she  persuaded  them  that  their  valuable  knowledge  wns  not 
■afficiently  appreciated  or  their  labour  repaid  hj  their  employer;  and, 
having  sown  the  seeds  of  jealousy  in  a  ready  soil,  she  by  degrees  com- 
municated her  plans,  offering  them  a  large  remuneration*  according  to 
her  instructions,  if  they  would  assist  her  to  get  rid  of  the  man  who 
stood  between  them  and  fortune. 

Not  more  than  two  or  three  years  had  passed  since  Lombe  had 
established  his  great  undertaking,  when  his  health,  hitherto  robust* 
b^an  sensibly  to  decline,  and  in  the  midst  of  a  full  tide  of  prosperity 
he  languished,  grew  weaker  and  weaker,  and,  a  victim  to  slow  hut 
certain  poison,  the  unfortunate  young  man  expired.  He  was  at  the 
period  when  treachery  thus  put  an  end  to  his  useful  career,  the  pride 
and  boast  of  his  native  town,  and  had  had  the  title  of  knight  conferred 
on  him.  The  funeral  of  Sir  John  Lombe  was  celebrated  with  great 
xnagnificeQce,  and  the  regrets  of  all  bis  fellow-townsmen  attended  him 
to  the  grave. 

His  murderess  escaped,  as  no  positive  proof  exit^ted  of  her  having 
poisoned  him,  and  her  chief  confederate  Hi^d  with  her  from  the  coun- 
try ;  the  other  Italian,  named  Gartrevalli,  removed  to  Cheshire,  where 
he  worked  at  another  silk  mill^  but  died  in  destitution  a  few  years 
afterwards* 

It  appears  that  his  brother  succeeded  Sir  John  Lombe  in  the  silk 
trade,  and  was  equally  eminent  for  alnlity.  He  became  an  alderman 
of  LfTodon,  and  is  known  as  Sir  Thomas  Lombe,  wLose  extensive 
establish  men  I  long  tlfiurinhed  in  a  manner  which  would  have  gladdened 
the  heart  of  his  ill-starred  brothen 

Cotton  bus  now,  however,  gained  the  supremacy  over  silk  in  Derby- 
lihire.  The  talent  and  good  I  nek  of  the  man  who  afterwards  became 
Sir  Thomas  Arkwrij*ht,  establisht  tl  those  marvellous  cotton  mills  all 
over  the  county,  which  overwhelmed  him  and  his  descendants  with 
wealth,  and  Lave  defonntd  every  beautiful  stream  and  rushing  torrent 
which  nature  once  possessed  in  solitary  and  awful  exclusiveness  amidst 
her  rocks  and  once  untrodden  valleys. 

Derby,  like  itji  rival  Lyons,  is  exposed  to  floods,  owing  to  numerous 
streams  which  iuterjiect  it  and  its  vicinity  to  the  Peak,  which  some- 
times sends  down  upon  the  town  its  melted  snows,  and  raises  its 
brooks  and  rivers  to  a  dangerous  heighti  on  one  occasion  to  six  feet 
abi»ve  the  usnd  average* 

There  are  many  churches  in  Derby,  but  most  of  them   have  been 

repaired  and  restored  till  their  original  character  is  lost.     The  most 

remarkable  is  All  Saints,  or,  as  it  is  htill  sometimes  called,  All  Hul- 

lows*     Tlie  tower  of  this  fine  building  Is  extremely  heuutiful  and  coni- 

its  height  is  one  hundred  and  eighty  feet,  i  xclusive  of  ihe 

cles  and  vanes  whicli    adorn   it,   which  add  thirtv-stx    feet 


DERBY.  345 

more  to  its  elevation.  All  over  the  surface  the  tower  is  richly  adorn* 
ed  with  delicate  tracery^  and  an  inscription  exists  about  half  way  up, 
which  had  occasioned  much  curious  speculation.  The  mystical  woros 
which  appear  amidst  the  stone-work  are  these : — 

<*  Young  men  and  maidens." — 

No  more  remains,  if  more  has  ever  been,  but  this  is  enough  for  inge- 
nuity to  dwell  upon  and  form  conjectures  as  to  the  meaning  intended. 
Some  say  the  beautiful  tower  was  erected  by  the  contribution  of  cer- 
tain youths  and  maids  of  Derby,  who  were  piously  disposed,  and 
certain  it  is,  that  formerly,  when  a  "  pretty  girl  of  Derby,  oh  I"  was 
married,  the  bachelors  alone  had  the  privilege  of  ringing  the  bells  for 
her  wedding.  Grave  persons,  who  take  little  delight  in  romance  or 
mystery,  have  asserted  that  the  words  had  no  particular  reference  to 
the  swains  or  nymphs  of  Derby,  but  were  simply  applied  from  the 
Psalms.  *'  Young  men  and  maidens^  old  men  and  children,  praise  ye 
the  Lord." 

The  body  of  the  church  does  not  agree  with  its  fine  tower,  and  is 
only  distinguished  by  its  vastness.  Within  are  several  elaborate  and 
remarkable  monuments  of  the  Cavendish  family,  the  most  interesting 
of  which  is  that  of  the  famous  Bess  of  Hardwick,  Countess  of  Shrews- 
bury by  her  fourth  marriage,  who  lies  here  under  a  tomb  of  coloured 
marbles,  with  a  pompous  inscription.     Her  effigy,  gilded  and  painted^ 

^^  In  her  habit  as  she  lived,'* 

lies  beneath  a  magnificent  canopy,  and  numerous  pillars  rise  around 
her  in  solemn  grandeur.  She  superintended  the  making  of  her  own 
tomb,  and  thus  secured  a  superb  resting-place,  which  perhaps  her 
quarrelsome  kindred  would  have  denied  her  had  she  left  it  to  them  to 
execute.  As  the  visitor  to  All  Hallows  stands  beside  this  tomb  the 
thought  of  the  many  years  of  misery  and  mortification  which  that 
proud  woman,  who  thus  glorified  herself^  caused  the  unfortunate 
Queen  of  Scots  to  suffer,  rises  bitterly  in  the  heart,  and  makes  even 
her  fondness  for  her  grandchild,  the  equally  unhappy  Arabella  Stuart, 
forgotten,  in  the  ambition  which  induced  her  to  sacrifice  the  interest 
of  the  one  to  the  other. 

The  effigy  of  this  remarkable  woman  is  strikingly  like  her  pictures 
in  the  great  gallery  of  Hardwick  Hall,  that  most  interesting  relic  of 
her  times,  whose  lace-work  turrets  invite  the  wanderer  to  stop  the 
train  at  Chesterfield,  and  visit  its  venerable  walls,  sacred  to  the  me- 
mories of  Mary,  Arabella,  and  the  stern  jailor  Countess,  Elizabeth. 
When  Mary  Stuart,  dragged  from  prison  to  prison,  entered  her  roof 
at  Chatsworthj  ambition  tempted  her  to  play  a  double  game  with  her 
namesake  and  second  self,  the  Queen  of  England,  but  afterwards, 
when  her  daughter  married  Lenox,  the  brother  of  Damley,  a  surer 
interest,  as  she  thought,  guided  her,  and  in  the  infant  Arabella  she 
saw  the  future  sovereign  of  England,  whose  right  was  more  secure 
than  that  of  Catholic  Marv.     Could  she  have 


And  seen 


« looked  into  the  seeds  of  time, 
which  grain  would  grow,  and  which  would  not," 


she  would  have  acted  another  part,  but,  as  it  was,  the  ambitious 
Countess  grasped  all  her  life  long  at  an  imaginary  sceptre,  not  destined 
for  any  of  her  lineage. 


nW      SKETCHES    OF    LEGENDARY    CTTTES   AND   TOWNS, 

The  |){)rtrait  of  Arabella  Stuart,  the  victim  of  King  Jatne^,  hangs 
still  in  Hard  wick  ;  it  represents  her  at  about  the  age  of  two  yemsj 
with  a  sweet  infiintine  expression,  holding  in  her  arms  a  doll,  dressed, 
as  she  is  herself,  in  the  elaborate  fashion  of  the  day.  The  picture 
might  well  suggest  such  thoughts  as  these : — 

'*  Youngs,  and  innocent,  and  fair. 

With  no  cloud  upon  thy  brow, 
Cherish'd  with  the  watchful  care 

Which  amhition^i  hopft  hestonr  ; 
Trifling,  toying.  siJorting  still, 

Smiling  in  thy  childish  play. 
Not  a  &bade  of  coming  ill 

Dims  the  sunttiine  of  thy  May  1 

She  who  gRKes  on  thy  face 

SeM  her  daughter's  form  in  thine. 
And,  though  harsh^ — thy  infant  grthce 

Makes  her  glance  awhile  bemga  : 
V^i«ion«  mighty,  daring,  high. 

Crowns  &zul  sceptres,  thrones  and  power. 
Flit  before  her  eager  eye, 

Phantomi  of  her  muiitng  hour  i-^ 

*  Great  Eliisahetti  is  now 

Aged,  worn, — extinct  her  line  ; 
On  my  Amliella*!!!  Iirow 

England's  diadem  may  shine. 
Kings  will  pres«  ber  hand  to  gain. 

Nations  tremhle  at  her  sign, — 
And  the  race  that  hencf?  shall  reign, 

Great  and  mighty,  shall  lie  mine  ! 

I  hare  seen  my  rirul  fall : 

Sharp  the  axe — it  sprved  roe  well  I 
Foes  and  friennts  have  vnnish'd  all« 

Sav^e  this  treasure — my  Arl*cJle  !  ** 
— If  a  I  vain  dreorner  !  set'st  thou  not, 

Hov'ring  near,  an  bwfyl  wreath, 
Shadows  of  that  infant's  lot, — 

Dungeons,  madness,  chains,  and  death  !  " 

The  Countess  of  Shrewsbury  did  not  neglect  the  capital  of  Uer 
county,  but  established  there  alms-housies  in  Derby,  which  her  de- 
scendants keep  up.  The  ancient  building  has  been  lately  removed, 
and  is  replaced  by  one  in  the  same  style  ;  the  pensioners  still  wear  the 
silver  badge  of  **  E.  S,,"  those  letters  which  the  Countess  took  care 
should  appear  wherever  her  jurisdiction  extended*  Never  were  twa 
letters  so  frequently  repeated  in  stone,  in  wood,  in  painting,  gildijigy 
and  embroidery  !  The  *'  E*  S/*  is  conspicuous  at  Hardwick  Hall  and 
elsewhere,  althouch  Shrewsbury  was  not  her  favourite  name,  for  her 
affections  directed  her  alone  to  Cavendish^  the  father  of  her  children, 
and  the  husband  of  her  choice* 

There  are  other  alms-houses  in  Derby ;  one  founded  by  the  family 
of  Wilmot  of  Chaddesden,  called  **  The  Black,**  probably  from  having 
replaced  a  convent  of  Bluck  friars,  and  another  for  the  widows  of 
clergj^meu,  at  the  top  of  the  street,  still  called  Friar  Gate.  A  free 
school  is  also  the  remains  of  an  institution  once  connected  with  the 
**y  of  Darley,  in  the  neigh bosirhood. 
Alkmimd's  is  the  most  ancient  church  in  Derby ;  it  dates  from 

The  Coiiotess  thut  writei  her  grandcliild's  name  in  moti  of  her  ktietm. 


DERBY. 


347 


the  ninth  century,  and,  though  much  altereil,  still  retains  great  marks 
of  antiquity.  It  formerly  belonged,  as  did  the  old  church  of  St- 
Peter*s,  to  Darley  Abbey.  St.  Michael's  has  a  venerable  appearance, 
and  that  St,  Werburgh,  on  Mark  eat  on  brook,  has  a  tower  of  much 
beauty  similar  to  that  of  All  Saints  in  architecture  tbmigh  of  much 
more  modern  date.  The  original  foundation  of  St,  Werburgh  was 
before  the  Conquest,  but,  being  so  near  the  brook,  it  suffered  much 
from  floods,  and  on  one  occasion  its  foundations  were  sapped,  and  the 
original  tower  fell  to  the  ground.  This  church  also  belonged  to  the 
powerful  abbey  of  Darley,  of  which  nothing  now  remains.  A  host  of 
convents  and  abbeys  once  raised  their  towers  and  spires  in  and  round 
Derby,  but  scarcely  a  trace  is  left  of  aoy,  and  even  the  streets,  except 
in  a  few  instances,  have  now  lost  the  memory  they  kept  awhile  in  the 
names  they  formerly  retained. 

Where  stcwd  the  house  of  the  Cluniac  Monks  ?  once  a  cell  to  that  of 
Bermondsey  in  Southwark,  whose  fame  slept  for  centuries  till  Pugin 
lately  made  a  toy  to  replace  that  of  old  days^  and  the  pope  tilled  it 
with  Sisters  of  Mercy.  Where  are  the  Benedictines,  the  Augofitins, 
the  Dominicans*^ 

«  White,  bkck,  and  ^ey  ?" 

Where  is  the  hospitals  for  lepers?  and  the  retreat  of  the  friars 
Kremites  ?  On  their  sites  now  tower  the  mills  of  Derby,  and  the 
riches  of  the  monks  have  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  Strutts  and  Ark* 
Wrights  of  cotton-celebrity,  Derby,  however,  is  not  alone  celebrated 
for  its  commerce:  it  has  some  poetical  fame,  and  its  poet  is  the  author 
of  *'  The  Loves  of  the  Plants,"  which,  trilling  and  pompous  as  it  is  in 
general,  yet  possesses  more  real  beauty  than  it  usually  gains  credit  for. 
Darwin  wrote  many  of  his  works  in  Derby,  and  other  learned  men 
have  not  disdained  the  town,  Wright,  the  painter,  lived  here,  and 
performed  some  of  his  curious  and  clever  pictures  on  the  spot ;  and  the 
great  Chantrey  was  l>orn  at  a  village  not  far  oC  The  steps  of  our 
sweetest  of  all  poets,  Moore^  must  have  been  fretjuently  directed  to  the 
town  of  Derby  from  bis  romantic  retreat  at  Ashbourne,  where  his  cot- 
tage is  still  shown  with  pride,  and  where  he  thought  and  sang  so  melo^ 
dioualy — 

*'  If  there  *8  peace  to  be  found  in  the  world, 

The  heart  that  it  bumUle  might  ha[i«  for  it  here/* 

A  large  house  is  pointed  out  in  Derby  where  the  ill-fated  Charles 
Edward,  in  the  fatal  45,  resided  for  tw^o  days,  at  the  moment  whim  bis 
star  seemed  rising  with  greater  lustre  than  usual,  and  the  hopes  of  his 
followers  were  springing  anew,  only  to  he  crushed  for  ever.  After 
this  brief  ray  of  gunshine  all  his  sky  became  one  cloud,  and  (light  and 
l^TOT  prevailed ;  some  of  his  followers  escaped  to  mourn  and  regret 
their  losses  ;  others  were  taken  to  renew  the  sad  tragedy  in  which  the 
heroic  Earl  of  Derby  played  so  sad  a  part  at  Bolton  le  JVloors. 

"  For  serving  loyaily  his  king. 
His  king  moil  rigbtfuUy/' 

At  Derby  the  scaffold  waa  not  idle  in  the  time  of 

**  Party'i  hateful  ttrife," 

Ullicli  led  do  many  noble  spirits  astray,  and  the  beautiliil  ballad  of 


348       SKETCHES    OF    LEGENDARY    CTTIES    AND    TOWNS. 

Sbenatotiei  on  tlie  fate  of  Jemmy  Dawson,  may  serve  as  a  monody  fur 

many 

«  Their  colours  and  their  »ash  he  wore. 
And  in  ihat  fatal  dress  was  found. 
And  now  he  munt  chat  death  endtire 
That  gives  the  brave  the  kecuest  wound/* 

Sir  Walter  Scott  has  placed  tLe  afffctmg  scene  of  Hector  M*I?or 
and  Evan  Dhu's  Ueuth  at  Derby,  with  all  the  sad  pageant  of  bis  im- 
mortal novel,  an  o'er  true  pictnre  of  what  really  occurred  at  the  pericid 
which  he  bo  strikingly  describes. 

Richardiion,  the  ^eat  rival  of  the  later  novelist,  was  born  at  Derby, 
and  wrote  some  of  his  wt>rks  here  ;  and  numerous  are  the  eminent  men 
which  til  is*  favoured  town  and  county  have  produced* 

Amini';st  the  few  ancient  houses  which  the  stranger  observes,  is  one 
situated  in  the  principal  street*  in  th*:-  broad  space  tin  the  way  towards 
the  arhorcJumf  which,  on  a  late  visit  I  made  to  the  town,  particularly 
struck  me.  It  is  a  very  large  well-built  mansion,  belonging,  i  believe, 
to  the  family  of  Wilmot,  iind,  as  it  was  to  let,  curiosity  induced  me  to 
enter  the  iron  gates  and  mount  the  steps  from  the  court-yard  to  the 
open  carved  street  door.  After  endeavouring  to  make  myself  beard, 
and  ask  permission  to  see  the  house  in  vain,  1  entered  the  hall.  All 
was  silent  and  gloomy  ;  the  panelling  of  the  walls  was  of  dark  oak,  very 
delicately  carved,  and  the  stair csise  was  adorned  in  the  same  manner 
I  entered  several  rooms,  and,  finding  all  untenanted  and  unfurni&liedi 
began  to  think  I  had  arrived  at  some  enchanted  castle,  when  the  sud- 
den fiill  of  a  large  picture,  which  I  had  displaced  by  pushing  a  door, 
roused  some  being  into  life.  A  pretty  little  girl  appeared  suddenly 
from  the  end  of  a  passage  and  timidly  approached,  apparently  not  cer- 
tain ^vhether  or  not  she  beheld  a  fairy,  I  inquired  if  there  were  no 
inmates,  when  she  vuntsbed^  and  presently  a  door  opened,  and  an  artist 
disclosed  himself  |)allet  and  brushes  in  hand,  and  itivited  me  in.  He 
told  me,  that  J  as  the  house  was  untenanted,  the  rooms  large,  and  the 
light  goiidj  he  hud  obtained  permission  to  [laiut  in  one  of  the  unoccu- 
pied rooms,  and  was  so  engaged  in  bis  pursuit  that  he  had  not  lieen 
roused  by  my  calls,  and  had  only  become  aware  of  the  invasion  of  the 
premises  by  the  sound  of  tlie  fallen  picture,  which  educed  through  the 
deserted  chambers  loudly  and  gloomily,  and  had  no  doubt  scared  his 
little  attendant. 

This  artist  appeared  well  suited  to  the  solitary  retreat  he  had  chosen, 
for  he  was  a  visionary,  with  a  very  wild  expression  of  countenance,  and 
a  tone  of  voice  of  peculiar  mournfuliiess.  He  showed  me  several  of 
his  i>ortraits,  and  on  one  be  dwelt  with  peculiar  delight  ;  it  was  beau- 
tifnlJy  painted,  and  really  deserved  the  comparison  i  ventured  to  make 
with  the  inimitable  Gevartius  of  Vundyck.  It  represented  an  old  lady 
in  black,  so  benevolent,  so  ami  able- looking,  and  so  life-like  in  bis  de- 
lineatiim  that  it  was  positively  startling.  He  told  me  she  was  bit 
guardian  genius,  and  the  friend  of  the  poor  and  industrious  of  all 
classes,  a  lady  well  known  at  Birmingham,  and  a  modid  of  goodness 
and  charity*  Mts  portrait  and  her  good  deeds  are  enough  to  make  ber 
immortal. 

I  asked  next  wlio  was  the  original  of  a  beautiful  portrait  represent- 
ing a  voung  girl  of  fourteen  with  long  thick  dark  ringlets  and  a  face  of 
remarkable  intelligence.  He  shaded  his  face  with  his  hand  as  he 
auHwered  in  a  low  voice,  that  the  picture  was  his  sole  comfort  in  tbis 


DERBY. 


349 


world,  except  the  thoughts  which  the  comtemplation  of  it  inspired.  I 
hardly  dared  to  inqtjire  further^  but  after  a  time,  he  said,  "  She  was 
my  daughter,  and  if  an  aagel  could  descend  to  earth,  she  was  one  then, 
as  she  U  now.  All  my  joy  on  earth  is  that  portrait,  and  all  the  good  I 
have  ever  .had  awakened  in  my  heart  she  is  the  origin  of/* 

He  conducted  us  over  the  curious  old  house,  into  numerous  rooms, 
nooks,  and  corners,  all  in  excellent  order,  with  carved  %valls  and  ceil- 
ings ;  a  complete  specimen  of  the  buildings  two  centuries  buck,  and  a 
most  excellent  dwelling- house  for  a  modern  family.  Probably,  when 
£rst  erected,  tt  Ktood  alone  in  gardena  in  a  park,  bat  now  it  h  siir« 
rounded  by  houses,  chietly  small  and  new,  and  possessing  no  character 
iji  common  with  it. 

The  neigh iMmrhood  of  Derby  is  singularly  rich  in  picturesque  objects, 
c&stlea,  ruined  abbeySj  fine  seats,  and  charming  scenery. 

The  train  from  Derby  in  the  »hort  space  of  ten  minutes  transports 
the  curious  traveller  to  the  Willington  station »  from  whence  a  short 
walk  takes  him  to  the  seat  of  one  of  the  last  of  those  *'  fine  old  English 

Ctlemen"  who  are  rapidly  disappearing  from  the  country  which  they 
oiired.  The  friends  and  neighbours  of  the  late  beloi'ed  proprietor 
of  Foremark,  the  celebrated  Sir  Francis  Burdett,  may  now  look  Radly 
on  the  more  than  ever  deserted  hall  of  bis  ancestors,  which  stands  on 
ihe  pleasant  bank  A  of  Trent.  The  house  was  built  about  a  century  since 
by  his  grandfather,  and  at  one  time  he  frequently  resided  there  with 
his  family.  A  magnificent  avenue  of  venerable  tre««  was  his  fa- 
vourite retreat,  where  he  often  sat  reading,  or  walked  with  one  of 
those  daughters  to  whom  he  was  so  tenderly  attached,  and  he  delight- 
ed in  the  beautiful  rides  in  the  vicinity  of  his  park.  His  presence  was 
always  a  happiness  and  a  holiday  to  all  his  tenants :  bis  kind  heart,  and 
noble  generous  feeling,  being  shown  in  every  action  of  his  life  ;  but 
the  delicate  health  of  Lady  Burdett  prevented  bis  visiting  has  Derby- 
ihire  property  as  often  as  his  inclination  would  have  led  him  to  do. 
The  pretty  flower-garden,  and  the  magnificent  pinery,  alone  are  left, 
is  relics  of  the  taste  of  one  of  the  most  amiable,  gentle^  refined,  ami  be* 
aevolent  of  women,  who  bore  a  life  of  snffering  with  unexampled  meek- 
ness, and  whose  loss,  after  an  union  of  fifty  years,  broke  tfie  lieart  of 
her  devoted  husband.  The  deaths  little  more  than  a  twelvemonth 
since,  of  Sir  Francis  and  his  lady  within  eleven  days  of  each  other, 
cannot  but  be  remembered  by  most  readers  —  too  freshly,  alas  !  by  all 
those  friends  who  had  the  happiness  of  knowing  them  intimately, 

Foremark  is  in  a  most  delightful  position,  with  fine  oak  woods  and 
spreading  plantations  round  it :  the  country  cheerful,  and  the  air 
healthy*  The  architecture  of  the  house  is  bold  and  grand,  and  it  is  a 
model  of  propriety  as  the  residence  of  a  country  gentleman  of  fortune. 
The  hail  is  very  liandsome,  and  all  the  apartments  large  and  lofty.  I 
never  saw  any  abode  which  seemed  to  speak  so  plainly  of  the  master, 
and  told  that  his  fine  dwelling, 

**  Though  vaat,  was  little  to  bis  ampler  beart.'^ 

There  are  many  very  curious  and  interesting  family  pictures;  one  in 
particular,  of  a  large  group  of  parents  and  children  in  the  elaborate 
dress  of  the  early  part  of  James  the  First's  reign,  is  kept  within  its 
frame  by  a  golden  chain,  which  the  whole  parly  of  sons  and  daughters 
bold  in  their  hands*  There  are  remarkable  traditions  attached  to 
nme  of  the  pictures,  and  all  are  in  excellent  preservation,  having  been 
vol.,  xviir.  c  c 


350      SKETCHES   OF   LEGENDAHY   CmES    AND   TOWNS. 

carefuUf  restored  and  repaired  under  tlie  direclioQ  of  the  late  ladj, 

who  rescued  many  of  them  from  oblivion. 

Some  romantic  rocks,  which  take  the  form  of  a  ruined  castlet  rise  in 
the  grounds  near  the  river,  and  are  called  Anchor  Church,  from  a  tra-' 
dition  that  an  anchorite  made  himself  a  home  and  a  chapel  among^ 
them  in  crusading  days.  This  spot  is  a  favourite  resort  of  gipsy-par- 
ties from  Derby  and  the  neighbourhood  ;  and  not  far  off  is  another  re- 
treat, as  much  frequented,  called  "The  Knowle' Hill,"  where  once  J 
stood  an  ancient  mansion,  said  and  believed  in  its  time  to  be  haunted,^ 
perhaps  by  some  of  the  ancestors  of  the  old  family  of  Burdett,  who  first 
Decame  possessors  of  Foremark  in  the  time  of  the  Norman  Conqueror. 

Kept  on  is  a  short  drive  from  Foremark,  and  an  interesting  old  vil- 
lage, full  of  monastic  reminiscences.  The  spire  of  the  ancient  church 
is  a  landmark  for  a  great  distance,  and  is  one  of  peculiar  beauty*  J 
There  is  a  tine  old  stone  cross  in  the  churchyard,  and  a  pointed-arched  ] 
gateway  leads  to  the  venerable- looking  schoolhonse ;  but  the  most  re- 
markable feature  in  Repton  church  is  its  crypt  beneath  the  chancei* 
one  of  the  mcwst  entire  in  the  kingdom,  and  of  very  elegant  construction. 
It  has  not  been  many  years  discovered,  and  deserves  to  attract  more 
attention  from  antiquarians  than  it  appears  to  have  done.  The  roof  is 
supported  by  two  rows  of  round  Saxon  wreathed  pillars  very  gracefully 
worked,  and  quite  perfect :  there  are  passages  from  this  subterranean 
church  leading  into  that  above,  which  is  apparently  of  much  more  re- 
cent date,  for  this  is  supposed  to  be  of  the  same  period  as  that  beneath 
St.  Peter's  in  the  East,  at  Oxford,  thought  to  have  been  built  in  Al- 
fred's reign.  I 

The  schoolhouse  is  the  refectory  of  the  ancient  priory  established'! 
originaily  as  early  as  the  fourth  or  fifth  century,  and  several  timea  re*  ] 
editied,  and  remains  of  the  extensive  religious  building  are  scattered 
about  over  a  hirge  tract  of  ground  in  the  neighbourhood.  The  effigy  of 
a  Mercian  king  was  found  in  good  preservation  not  very  long  sincej 
and  has  excited  the  learned  speculations  of  not  a  few  vilJage  antiqua- 
ries ;  one  of  whom  assured  me  it  was  of  an  almost  incredible  age,  '*  at 
least  as  ancient  as  the  time  of  Henry  the  Eighth,"  which  monastery*- 
destroying  monarch  appears  to  be 


^<  Tho  Lote-iree,  beyond  which  there  is  no  paaiijif  ,** 

in  the  minds  of  the  savatix  of  Repton. 

At  Melbourne,  an  ancient  village  near  Derby,  are  now  but  few  crum- 
bling stones  covered  with  weeds  and  grass,  where  once  stood  a  royal  j 
castle  of  great  strength  and  pride,  famous,  as  tradition  has  it,  for  having] 
held  within  its  walls  the  two  illustrious  prisoners  of  Henry  the  FiftllJ 
after  the  battle  of  Agincourt.    It  is  said  thut  this  castle  was  the  prisojtl 
for  nine  years  of  Charles,  Duke  of  Orleans,  the  poet-prince  and  princtj 
of  poets  of  his  day,  and  John  Duke  of  Bourbon,  both  of  the  blood-royal'l 
of  France,     Here,  then,  perhaps,  might  Charles  have  composed  sr    ~ 
of  those  beautiful  poems  which  for  twenty-five  years  beguiled  the  sor- 
rows of  his  captivity,  hurried  as  he  was,  like  the  unfortunate  Mary 
Stuart,  to  whom  Derbyshire  afforded  many  a  prison  also,  from  castle  to 
castle,  by  the  jealous  fears  of  lus  captor,  who  on  his  deathbed  si  ill  en- 
treated that  he  should  never  be  liberated  if  the  interests  of  Kagland 
were  dear  to  his  subjects. 

Amongst  the  Cotton  BISS*  is  one  in  Flenry  the  Fifth's  own  hand. 


DERBY.  351 

concerning  the  detention  of  the  unfortunate  prince  at  Pontefract  which 
has  this  passage  :-— 

"  Furthermore^  I  wold  that  ye  comend  with  my  brother  with  the 
chancellor^  &c.,  and  that  ye  set  a  gode  ordinance  for  my  north  marches^ 
and  specially  for  the  Due  of  Orlians,  &c.  I  wolle  that  the  Due  of 
Orlians  be  kept  still  within  the  castle  of  Pontfret^  with  oute  going  to 
Robertis  place>  or  to  any  other  disport,  for  it  is  better  he  tak  his  dis- 
port than  we  were  discey  ved.  Of  all  the  remanant  of  my  prisoners  of 
France  do  as  ye  thinketh." 

Henry  said,  on  his  marriage  with  Katherine  of  France,  to  his  chan- 
cellor. "  If  the  prisoners  of  Agincourt,  and,  above  all,  if  Charles  of 
Orleans  were  to  escape,  it  would  be  the  most  unfortunate  event  that 
could  posubly  happen." 

Great  care  was  therefore  taken  of  this  illustrious  prisoner,  and  we 
trace  him  from  Groombridge  Hc»use,  near  Tonbndge  Wells,  to  Mel- 
bourne, Pontefract,  and  to  the  Tower  of  London,  where  the  magnifi- 
cent, illuminated  manuscript  of  his  poems  in  the  British  Museum  re- 
presents him  receiving  the  news  of  his  release  from  his  long  thraldom, 
and  riding  joyfully  out  of  the  fatal  gates,  to  take  his  happy  voyage  to 
his  native  France,  which  he  thus  feelingly  apostrophizes : — 

^'  En  regardant  vers  le  pays  de  France.*' 

''  I  stood  upon  the  wild  sea- shore, 

And  mark*d  the  wide  expanse, 
Mv  straining  eyes  were  tnm'd  once  more 

'Po  long-loved,  distant  France  ! 
I  saw  the  sea-bird  hurry  by 

Along  the  waters  blue  ; 
I  saw  her  wheel  amidst  the  sky. 
And  mock  my  tearful,  eager  eye, 

That  would  her  flight  pursue. 
Onward  she  darts,  secure  and  free. 
And  wings  her  rapid  course  to  thee  I 
O  that  her  wing  were  mine  to  soar. 
And  reach  thy  lovely  land  once  more ! 
O  heaven  !  it  were  enough  to  die 

In  my  own,  my  native  home, — 
One  hour  of  blessed  liberty 

Were  worth  whole  years  to  come  !  '* 

Though  the  prison- fortress  of  Charles  of  Orleans  is  no  longer  to  be 
seen,  except  by  the  eye  of  fancy,  that  of  Mary  Stuart  at  South  Wing- 
field  still  rears  its  embattled  walls,  and  may  be  clearly  seen  from  the 
railroad  at  a  short  distance  from  Derby.  It  is  one  of  the  most  pic- 
turesQue  and  beautiful  ruins  I  ever  beheld,  and  its  remains  tell  of  great 
magnificence.  It  dates  from  the  time  Henry  the  Sixth,  and  must  have 
been  a  stately  dwelling-place.  One  or  two  delicate  window- frames, 
full  of  stone  tracery,  appear  amidst  their  drapery  of  ivy  and  flowering- 
shrubs,  and  graceful  pillars  and  sculptured  walls  attest  its  original  ele- 
gance and  strength.  The  great  hall  is  seventy-two  feet  long  by  thirty- 
six,  and  beneath  this  chamber  is  another  of  the  same  size,  with  a  double 
row  of  pillars  running  along  the  centre  :  this  was  probably  the  kitchen. 
But  the  part  which  creates  most  interest  is  that  turret  where  the  ill- 
fated  Mary  was  confined :  the  form  of  the  rooms  is  very  remarkable, 
being  almost  triangular,  and  they  could  not  choose  but  be  peculiarly 
inconvenient :  not  one  of  the  suite  could  have  been  of  moderate  size ; 

c  c  ^ 


852       SKETCHES    OF    LEGENDAJIY    CITIES    AND   TOWNS. 


and  tliis  is  only  one  of  oiany  proofs  of  the  tender  mercies  shown  hjr 
Elizabeth  to  her  fair  foe.  It  was  in  1569  that  the  Queen  of  Scots 
was  brought  to  Wingfield,  and  here  she  shed  many  of  those  tears  which 
dimmed  the  brightest  eyes  in  Europe,  From  her  turret-window, 
which  commanded  an  extensive  view  of  the  country,  and  the  sleep  road 
which  led  to  the  hill  on  which  the  castle  or  manor-house  stands^  she  j 
could  see  her  friend,  Leonard  Dacre  ;  and,  it  is  said,  was  able  to  make 
signals  to  him,  fatally  discovered  by  her  enemies,  who  warned  her  1 
jailers  that  a  plot  was  on  foot  for  her  liberation,  and  orders  were 
promptly  despatched  that  the  persecuted  Queen  should  be  once  more 
removed,  and  placed  under  the  care  of  a  more  vigilant  or  more  severe  j 
guardian  than  the  sick  and  wearied  Earl  of  Shrewsbury. 

In  C^hatsworth   Park  is  still  seen  a  tower  in  the  midst  of  a  lake,  the' 
only  remnant  of  ancient  building  existing  at  the  time  when  Mary 
pined  within  the  walls  of  that  now  stately,  but  then  gloomy  and  deso» 
late  mansion,  where  the  high  hills  of  the  Peak  kept  all  hope  from  her» 
and  the  icy  winds  from  their  summits  chilled  her  limbs,  and  benumbed 
her  heart.     The  tardy  pity  of  England  permitted  the  unhappy  victim  I 
to  visit  the  baths  of  Buxton,  where  a  cavern  is  still  shou'n  which  heart  1 
her  name>  as  she  is  supposed  to  have  penetrated  to  some  distance  intAl 
the  sparry  depths  of  Poole's  Cave,  and  to  have  reached  a  pillar  caUed] 
after  her,  beyond  which  it  is  dangerous  to  explore.     A  room  is  shown  ^ 
in  the  principal  inn,  which  was  occupied  by  her  when  she  came  to  the  < 
healing-springs  which  gave  her  temporary  relief,  and  on  the  window  of  j 
which  she  wrote  two  well-known  lines,  expressive  of  her  despondency  J 
or  of  her  hope, 

Derby,  although  uninviting  in  itself,  has  the  advantage  of  being  near, 
and  by  its  railroad  close,  to  some  of  the  most  beautiful  scenery  of  Eng-  1 
land.  Ilardwick  Hall  is  reached,  by  Chesterfield,  in  a  few  hours; 
Bakewell,  with  its  enchanting  sites,  its  Gothic  church,  and  the  unrt*  J 
vailed  mansion  in  its  vicinity,  the  far-famed  Iladdon  Hall,  rich  in  oriel  I 
windows,  and  carved  panels  and  ceilings  without  end ;  hanging  ter-1 
races,  secluded  turrets,  lofty  towers,  and  deep  recesses :  HatWon,  rife  j 
with  the  memory  of  the  fair  fugitive,  Dorothy  Vernon,  who,  another  J 
Jessica^ 

**■  Oa  lucb  a  n%htt 
When  the  sweei  wind  did  gently  kin  the  tract 
And  they  did  make  no  ncute^'* 

Stole  from  her  father's  mansion  with  the  happy  Manners,  and  proved] 
that 

*«  She,  of  all  mankind^  oould  kve  bui  bim  aloae,** 

as  Prior  ha*  sung  of  her,  tlie  original  of  Iiis  "  nut-brown  maid." 

From  Derby  may  be  made  excursions  to  those  beautiful  vales,  fammit  \ 
in  description,  and  a  continual  variety  of  charming  objects  are  i%nthiii 
the  traveller's  reach  who  makes  the  town  his  head-quarter*. 


363 


THE  BLACK  PROPHET. 


1  WAB  quartered  at  Berhainpore,  in  the  — th  native  infantry,  in 
the  year  18 —  ;  the  King's  — th  foot  made  up  the  garrison.  A  better 
*et  of  men  and  officers  were  never  collected  together.  The  greateet 
harroony  existed  between  us  j  the  many  feuds  which  arise  between 
her  Majesty's  troops  and  those  of  the  Company  were  unknown 
amongst  us.  The  grand  objects  of  our  society  seemed  to  amuse,  and 
be  amused.  In  India  the  evenings  always  pass  pleasantly  enough, 
but  the  mornings  often  hang  heavily  on  our  hands.  Racket  and 
billiards  are  the  only  pastimes  for  idle  persons.  These,  however 
interesting  at  first,  become  dull  by  frequent  repetition  ;  and,  as  we 
have  no  books,  as  in  Europe,  to  ny  to,  no  power  of  walking  or  of 
riding  out  under  the  broiling  sun,  the  hours  between  breakfast  and 
dinner  time  otlen  seem  so  wearisome,  as  to  force  the  person  fond 
of  excitement  to  seek  out  new  sources  of  enjoyment. 

I  waa  lolling  on  my  cane  couch  smoking  my  hookah,  alternately 
glancing  at  the  purdah  (an  object  about  the  size  and  form  of  the 
leaf  of  an  Knglish  screen,  which,  being  suspended  to  the  ceiling  by 
ropes,  is  swung  to  and  fro  by  an  attendant,  in  order  to  create  an 
artificial  breeze)  over  my  head,  and  the  oflen-read  pages  of  an  old 
"  Gentleman's  MagaKine/'  when  my  he^d  bearer  walked  in,  and 
requested  leave  to  absent  himself  for  an  hour. 

In  England  such  a  demand  would  not  have  surprised  me  ;  but  in 
Bengal  such  a  solicitation  was  so  novels  I  could  not  help  asking  the 
man  his  reasons  for  wishing  to  go  out,  eBpecially  at  an  hour  when  he 
might  be  required  to  attend  my  palanquin. 

*'  It  18  to  go  to  the  bazaar,  sahib^'  replied  the  man. 

*'  Yo\i  wish  to  make  purchases  there;  if  bo,  why  not  wait  till  a 
later  hour  ?" 

**  Such  ia  not  my  wish,     I  do   not   go   there  to  buy  anything, 

"To  see  your  family,  then?" 

"  No,  sahib  /  I  have  no  family  there.  My  surviving  relatives  are 
At  AloorshedabaJ." 

'*  What  do  you,  then,  go  to  seek  ?" 

The  man  hesitated  a  moment  ere  he  replied, 

"  I  wish  to  consult  the  Brahmin  Jesserie  Poore/* 

•^  And  who  is  this  Jesserie  V* 

•*  The  great  soothsayer,  sahib.  He  who  knows  and  foretels  the 
destiny  of  every  disciple  of  Vishnou." 

"  And  you  believe  in  his  power  ?" 

**  Sahib  T*  replied  he  interrogatively,  as  if  doubting  the  possibility 
of  the  question  I  had  put. 

^  Can  he  also  predict  the  fate  of  Europeans  ?"      ^ 

*'  No,  sahib  ;  nor  will  he  ever  hold  converse  with  them.  He  is 
forbidden  to  do  so  by  a  vow." 

'*  Still  I  should  like  to  go  and  see  him." 

*'  Impossible/* 

A  thought  suddenly  struck  roe,  I  ordered  my  palanquin,  which 
in  a  few  minutes  stood  ready  in  my  verandah. 

•'  Take  me  to  Jesserie's,"  said  I^  as  I  jumped  in. 


354 


THE    BLACK    FEOPHET. 


My  head  bearer  approached,  and  bowing  his  head,  he  lowly  mut- 
tered, '*  I  have  already  said  to  my  master  that  the  Brahmiti  will  not 
receive  the  white  stranger." 

'*  I  know  it ;  so  hark  ye,  take  me  to  the  door  of  the  place  where 
this  Jesserie  Hves,  where  I  can  see  all  that  passes.  On  your  way 
undo  aome  of  your  cumbcrbands  (livery  sai>hes)  and  turbans,  close 
the  iloors  of  t!ie  palanquin,  and  set  it  down  carelessly,  as  if  it  were 
empty  ;  and^  if  asked,  say  you  have  left  me  at  the  racket  court,  and 
on  your  way  home  yon  have  stopped  to  learn  your  future  fortune- 
Nay — ^nol  a  word.  There  is  a  rupee  for  you  ;  and  mind,  make  him 
tell  you  your  fate,  and  let  me  be  near  enough  to  hear  it**  And  so  ^^ 
saying,  to  stop  all  further  remonstrance,  I  closed  the  doors,  and  cry-  ^H 
ing  out,  **  Gehii**  (go  on),  was  soon  en  route  for  the  bazaar.  ^^ 

Accordhig  to  my  orders,  I  was  soon  set  down  at  the  open  en- 
trance of  the  mud  hovel  in  which  the  "  wise  man  "  sat,  squatted  on 
his  calves,  with  half  a  dozen  natives  smoking  their  hubhk  bubbks 
(the  lowest  grade  of  hookah)  round  him.  By  peeping  through 
the  Venetian  blinds  in  the  panel  of  my  palanquin,  I  was  enabled 
to  see  and  hear  all  that  passed;  so,  peering  out,  I  began  eagerly  to 
glance  around  me. 

The  Brahmin  (or  "  holy  man,**  for  he  was  not,  I  believe,  a  regular 
priest)  sat  perfectly  silent  in  the  centre  of  the  floor,  with  his  eyes 
firmly  fixed  on  an  openinpj  in  the  roof,  as  if  mentally  piercing  the 
sky  which  was  perceptible  through  the  aperture.  His  right  arm 
was  fixed  straight  up,  and  the  finizer-nai!a  of  his  doubled  fist  had 
grow^n  through  the  back  of  it.  This,  1  am  aware,  may  appear  im- 
probable to  a  Kuropean  ;  but  there  wre  few  who  have  been  in  India 
that  have  not  seen  similar  self-inflicted  tortures,  the  consequence  of 
early  religious  vows.  The  man  before  me  had  held  up  bis  arm  pro- 
bably from  his  very  earliest  youth  :  it  had  now  grmvn  in  that  posi- 
tion. Unless  it  were  broken^  nulhing  could  again  bring  it  dowOt 
His  clenched  hand  hail  probably  been  cotemporary  with  the  other 
distortion  ;  for  he  seemed  to  feel  no  pain,  though,  as  I  said  before, 
tfie  nails  had  grown  actually  through  the  flesh,  and  come  out  at  the 
back  of  his  hand.  His  cheeks  showed  the  scars  of  many  self- 
inflicted  gashes.  He  was  perfectly  naked  from  head  to  foot,  but 
wore  a  strange-looking  necklace  and  armlet,  witli  a  very  large  rough 
turquoise  round  his  neck.  He  was  evidently  very  tall,  though,  in 
his  present  posture,  I  could  not  accurately  tell  his  height.  His  age 
was  about  sixty. 

When  my  sedar-bearer  approached  and  made  known  his  wishes, 
the  holy  man,  ere  he  replied  to  him,  muttered  several  prayers  ; 
then  taking  a  small  earthenware  pot  of  water,  he  dipped  his  fingerf 
in  it,  and  sprinkled  some  on  the  ground,  and  some  on  the  foreknow- 
ledge-seeker;  then  throwing  some  yellow^  powder  into  a  few  hot 
a  Jibes  which  stood  beside  him,  he  began  muttering  extremely  fast  a 
number  of  adjurations,  which  were  of  course  unintelligible  to  me, 
rolling  his  eyes  about  all  the  time  like  a  furious  maniac.  The  in^ 
cantatioiis  complete,  the  folluwing  was  about  the  substance  of  Mi 
queries  and  prognostics:  — 

'*  You  are  unhappy  ?" 

"I  am.*' 

•*  You  have  lost  your  children?" 

•*  I  have." 


THE   BLACK    PROPHET. 


355 


"  Your  wife  is  sick — your  mind  is  sore — no  riches  accumulate 
beneath  your  roof." 

**  None." 

*'  Yet  your  master  is  kind,  and  your  own  Iiealth  good/* 

"  Yes." 

**  What  is  your  desire  with  me  ?  I  tell  you  the  present — would 
you  know  more  ?" 

'*!  would.' 

*•  What  seek  you  to  know  ?" 

*'  The  cause  and  remedy  of  those  evils  which  beset  rae." 

Here  he  dropped  the  rupee  I  had  given  him  close  to  the  Brahmin j 
who  affected  not  to  notice  it,  but  began  again  muttering  his  incanta- 
tions, and  throuing  his  yellow  powder  around  him.  Suddenly  he 
started  up,  twisting  quickly  round  and  round  ;  at  length  he  stopped 
with  his  face  towards  the  east,  and,  after  a  few  apparently  painful 
convulsions,  desired  the  sedar  to  propound  such  questions  as  he 
thought  fit. 

"  How  long  have  I  to  live  ?" 

**  Seven  days/'  unhesitatingly  replied  the  sage. 

"  What  cause  shall  occasion  my  death  ?*' 

**  Vengeance  for  the  wronga  you  now  suffer." 

'*  By  whom  are  those  wrongs  brought?'* 

**  The  evil  eye  of  a  stranger." 

•'  A  native  of  Bengal  ?" 

**  No  ;  a  white  man." 

"  And  when  shall  these  persecutions  cease?" 

"  Only  when  the  evil  eye  is  closed  for  ever." 

'*  And  how  shall  I  recognize  that  eye  ?** 

**  'Tis  the  eye  of  the  first  white  man  you  behold  to-morrow  after 
iope  duggar  (gun-fire) — 1  think  it  is  a  soldier's.  Beware  of  it,  and 
begone." 

And  the  soothsayer  fell  flat  on  his  face^  and  began  quickly  utter- 
ing a  string  of  prayers. 

In  a  few  moments  my  servant  appeared,  plunged  in  profound 
meditation,  as  if  arguing  within  his  own  mind  the  probability  or 
improbability  of  the  Brahmin's  assertions  ;  then  suddenly  turning 
round,  he  beckoned  to  his  companions,  and  in  less  than  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  I  was  again  at  home,  puffing  away  at  my  hookah. 

I  spent  a  short  time  vainly  entleavounng  to  point  out  to  my  sedar 
the  folly  of  believing  in  a  palpable  impostor,  the  danger  of  giving 
car  to  such  folly  and  nonsense.  He  only  shrugged  his  iihoulders, 
bowed  low,  and  held  his  tongue.  1  could  elicit  no  answer  from  him  ; 
and  1  evidently  perceived  the  words  of  the  fortuneteller  had  taken 
deep  root  in  his  mind. 

At  mess  that  day  I  told  the  story  to  several  of  ray  brother  officers, 
who  agreed  on  a  future  day  to  accompany  me,  and  to  try  to  induce 
the  holy  man  to  foretcl  our  fate. 

The  next  morning  1  was  startled  from  my  sleep  by  hearing  the 
heavy  volleys  of  infantry,  caused  by  the  troops,  who  on  this  day 
were  to  fire  a/ew  dejoie  in  honour  of  the  royal  birthday.  Now,  as 
I  ought  to  have  been  present  on  the  occasion,  this  loud  notice  tJiat  I 
was  fully  half  an  hour  too  late  was  anything  but  agreeable;  so  I 
started  up  in  my  bed,  and  began  roaring  loudly  (for  we  have  no 
bells  in  officers'  bungalows)  for  my  sedar,  whose  duty  it  was  to 


356 


THE  BLACK    PROrHET, 


awake  me,  with  the  kind  intention  of  introducing  my  English  horie- 
whip  to  his  Bengalee  shoulders*  After  shouting  at  least  a  doien 
times,  my  kidmutgur  entered. 

*<  Where  is  the  sedar- bearer  ?'* 

"  1  know  not,  sahib'* 

"  Desire  him  to  come  here  directly/* 

The  man  went  out,  and  returned  in  a  short  time  afterwards, 

"  Sahib,  the  sedar  is  nowhere  to  be  found.  I  have  vainly  sought 
him  everywhere  :  he  has  not  been  seen  this  morning." 

**  Well,  then*  assist  me  to  dress  as  quickly  as  you  can.  But  mark 
me  well, — by  the  waters  of  the  Ganges,  and  the  hundred  arms  of 
Vishnou,  1 11  chawbuck  (horsewhip)  him,  as  an  example  to  all  idle, 
bad  servants," 

My  toilet  completed,  I  called  for  my  sash  and  sword,  which  in 
this  hot  climate  we  were  allowed  to  wear  with  a  white  jacket  and 
foraging-cap.     The  first  was  brought  to  me,  but  the  second  could 
nowhere  be  found;   the  belt  and  the  scabbard  were  in  their  re-^ 
gular  places,  but  the  sword  itself  was  missing.     This  was  Indeed^^ 
most  strange  ;  but,  fancying  that  some  one  had  played  me  a  trick»  I  ™ 
borrowed  that  of  my  next  neighbour,  who  was  on  the  sick  list,  and 
hastened  off  to  m^ike  the  best  excuses  I  could  to  our  commandaDt, 
who,  being  a  good-natured  man,  not  only  forgave  me,  but  invited 
me  to  breakfast. 

The  colonel  had  a  pretty  daughter  and  an  English  billiard*tabl( 
so  I  amused  myself  till  late  in  the  afternoon  ;  when,  just  as  I  wr 
leaving  his  house,  I  was  horrified  by  the  report  being  brought  in 
the  murder  of  a  European  soldier, — a  circumstance  almost  unpreci 
dented.  The  body  had  not  been  rifled :  it  could  not  have,  therefori 
been  committed  with  any  idea  of  robbery  ;  and,  as  the  deceased  wail 
known  to  be  a  most  quiet,  peaceable  soldier,  it  was  out  of  the  quc9* 
tion  that  the  assassination  could  have  arisen  out  of  any  quarrel  or 
previous  ill  will.  It  seemed,  from  the  account  given,  that  the  poor 
fellow  must  have  been  quietly  walking  along  the  road  to  AIuorsbe« 
dabad,  when  some  miscreant  had  come  behind  him^and  stabbed  him 
to  death. 

The  colonel  desired  me  to  Accompany  him  to  the  spot  where  Uie 
barbarous  act  had  taken  place,  in  order  to  inquire  into  it ;  we  there- 
fore mounted  our  horses,  and  galloped  off. 

We  had  scarcely  proceeded  half  a  mile  when  we  met  a  party  of 
the  — th,  bearing  the  body  of  their  murdered  comrade  on  a  rough 
bier  made  of  the  branches  of  trees.  The  dead  man  had  receivcd^| 
several  sUibs  in  the  back.  A  tear  might  be  seen  in  the  eye  of  morO^H 
than  one  present,  as  we  examined  the  corpse.  A  low  murmured 
threat  of  vengeance,  if  the  assassin  was  ever  found,  was  fervently 
muttered  by  the  bystanders. 

We  again  remounted  our  horses,  and  went  on,  desirous  of  sertng 
the  spot  where  the  murder  had  been  committed.  Before  we  reached 
it,  however,  we  perceived  a  crowd  of  Engh^sh  and  natives.  One  of 
them,  seeing  us  approach,  ran  forward  to  meet  us.  He  told  us  that 
they  had  found  and  seized  the  assassin  still  armed  with  the  weapon 
of  destruction,  and  were  now  bringipg  him  into  the  cantonments. 

The  next  person  who  came  up  to  us  brought  with  him  the  death*^H 
dealing  blade.  Imagine,  readers,  if  you  can,  my  horror  on  behold«^| 
ing  the  very  sword  1  had  lost  in  the  morning, — a  loss  I  had  relateif 


THE   mermaid's   HOME.  857 

at  breakfast  to  the  colonel,  to  whom  I  now  turned  to  tell  the  fact  of 
the  identity  of  the  weapon  before  us^  when,  to  my  additional  grief 
and  amazement,  I  saw  in  the  prisoner  before  me  my  long-tried  and 
atUched  sedar-bearer !— his  cumberband,  his  turban,  still  smeared 
with  the  blood  of  his  victim.  My  once  valued  and  trusted  servant 
stood^before  me  a  self-convicted  and  confessed  murderer ! 

'*  You  did  this  dreadful  deed  ?"  cried  I,  rushing  up  to  him,  un- 
willing to  believe  in  the  possibility  of  such  an  occurrence. 

"  Ay,  sahib." 

"  And  why  ?" 

"  You  know,  sahib." 

I  recoiled  with  surprise.  The  bystanders  looked  on  me,  as  if  de- 
manding  an  explanation.  The  criminal  saw  my  astonishment ;  he 
continued :— * 

*'  You  alone  were  present  when  the  holy  Jesserie  told  me  of  the 
evil  eye.  The  soldier  I  slew  was  the  first  white  person  I  beheld 
after  sun-fire  this  morning.  I  had  fled  from  your  quarters,  that  the 
lot  might  not  fall  on  you,  my  dear  master.  I  took  with  me  your 
sword,  and,  feeling  convinced  that  the  soldier  I  first  met  possessed 
the^evil  eye,  which  Jesserie  told  me  was  the  cause  of  all  my  woes,  I 
slew  him.  My  family  may  now  rest  quiet,  and  in  happiness :  the 
spell  is  removed.  As  to  me,  I  know  my  fate,— I  wish  not  to  avoid 
it.     The  holy  man  foretold  it :  you  heard  him,  sahib." 

I  confess  the  man's  calmness  filled  me  with  superstitious  awe,  and 
made  me  for  a  moment  almost  believe  in  the  tenets  of  predestination. 

The  soothsayer's  predictions  were  literally  fulfilled.  My  unfortu- 
nate sedar-bearer  was  hanged  on  a  gibbet  near  Berhampore,  on  the 
seventh  day  from  that  on  which  his  fate  had  been  foretold  by  the 
Black  Prophet ! 


THE  MERMAID'S  HOME. 

'TwA8  not  in  the  depths  of  the  bright  blue  sea, 

All  along  by  the  coral  isles. 
That  the  ocean-maid  appear'd  to  me, 

With  golden  locks  and  witching  smiles. 
No  syren  voice  like  a  silver  bell 

Cried,  *•  Ome  and  dwell  with  me,  my  love  ! 
Our  home  shall  be  a  coral  oell» 

Our  sky  the  deep  blue  sea  above.*' 
No— 'twas  within  a  case  of  gkss. 

In  the  depths  of  a  sixpenny  caravan, 
Where  with  the  sea- nymph  there  was  shown 

A  six-legg'd  adf  and  a  spotted  man. 
And  harsh  and  gruff  the  voice  that  cried, 

"  A  genu-ine  mermaid  to  be  shown— 
Walk  in,  ladies  and  gentlemen  !— 

The  honly  specimen  hever  known  I  " 
Deceivers  both  !  for  a  watery  grave 

Was  his  who  believed  the  mermaid  s  gammon  j 
And  this  was  a  regular  hoax,  made  up 

Of  the  head  of  a  monkey  and  tail  of  a  sahnon. 

Banks  of  the  Caldew.  *•  *"* 


358 

THE  GAOL  CHAPLAIN; 
OB,  A  DARK  PAGE  FROM  LIFE'S  VOLUME, 


CHAFTKR   LXTIII. 


THE   COURT    PHYSICIAN. 


"  To  irais«  a  fortuoe,  and  eipecialty  a  great  fortune,  a  man  must  hare  a  kind  of 
wit  I  but  it  is  neither  the  good  nof  the  fine,  the  great  ntir  tlie  sublime,  the  »trong 
nor  Ihe  delicate.  I  am  at  a  lu&a  to  explain  which  it  is ;  but  they  who  hare  e3rpe> 
rieuced  il  may  probably  help  mi;  out/^ — Bruyerc. 

Old  Lazarus,  in  the  meantime,  felt  extremely  ill  at  ease  as  he 

EomJered  over  the  interview  just  concluded.  It  was  clear  Mr*  DcU 
ynty  thought  unfavourably  of  his  case :  and  il  was  equally  clear 
he  should  not  get  his  medicines  gratis.  As  for  a  Plymouth  medical 
attendant,  the  expense  of  such  an  appendage  wouM  ruin  him.  In 
an  unsettled  and  melancholy  mood  he  took  up  to  divert  his  thoughts 
a  London  paper.  An  advertisement  caught  his  eye,  stating  that  the 
celebrated  Dr.  M.  Baillie  saw  patients  every  tlay  at  No.  2,  Great 
George  Street,  Montagu  Square,  from  nine  o'clock  till  twelve  ;  that 
he  had  been  invariably  successful  in  dys^peptic  cases  ;  and  that  his 
fee  was  only  half  a  guinea.  The  name  struck  the  Jew  forcibly.  It 
was,  he  well-recollected,  that  of  the  distinguished  man  to  whose 
care  the  life  of  the  sovereign  was  entrusted  ;  and  who  was  from 
time  to  time  in  attendance  on  the  various  members  of  the  royal 
family.  Who  so  qualified  to  give  an  opinion  on  his  case?  And 
then — -the  last,  but  by  no  means  the  least,  attractive  feature  in  the 
aifair — the  m oil e rate  fee  I  Without  giving  himself  further  lime  for 
reflection,  Mr.  Lazarus  hastened  up  to  London,  and  on  the  very 
morning  of  his  arrival  proceeded  to  No.  2,  Great  George  Street. 
The  house  was  small,  but  respectable  in  appearance.  He  was  re- 
ceived by  a  male  attendant,  who  demanded  his  name,  and  then  with 
considerable  form  ushered  him  into  a  waiting-roonii  where  several 
feeble  and  ghastly- looking  beings  were  seated  impatiently  expecting 
their  turn  of  audience,  Lamech's  name  was  called  at  last,  lie  was 
shown  up  stairs,  and  introduced  into  the  presence  of  an  elderly 
and  grave*looking  personage,  who  spoke  with  a  broad  Scotch  ac- 
cent, and  asstired  his  patient  he  would  attend  to  kirn — but  that  he 
was  much  pressed  for  time,  and  had  only  a  few  seconds  to  spare. 
Lamech  commenced  his  cMalogue  of  symptoms;  the  doctor  listen- 
ed only  to  a  few  ;  and  then  telling  him  that  his  case  was  serious; 
that  it  was  a  fortunate  circumstance  he  (Mr,  Lazarus)  had  fallen 
into  his  (Dr,  Baillie's)  hands ;  that  had  any  further  delay  taken 

Elace  he  would  not  have  answered  for  the  result;  that  he  happily 
ad  a  medicine  by  him  which  would  precisely  meet  the  peculiar 
symptoms  of  Mr.  Lazarus'  complaint,  consigned  the  submissive  Jew 
to  the  custody  of  his  private  secretary,  who,  he  remarked^  *'  would 
receive  the  fee,  an*l  hand  over  to  him  his  medicine.**  The  doctor 
then  bowed  himself  off  with  the  cursory  observation  that  he  must 
**  hasten  to  his  appointment  with  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  xad  then 


THE   GAOL  CHAPLAIN.  359 

proceed  onwards  to  Kew  Palace  to  prescribe  for  the  Princesa  Au- 
gusta." The  Jew,  with  exemplary  patience,  waited  further  order* 
for  three-quarters  of  an  hour^  when  the  private  secretary  appeared 
bearing  three  very  small  packages,  whidi  he  presented  with  great 
courtesy  to  Lamech,  requested  his  close  attention  to  the  directions 
vo'itten  on  the  labels,  and  hinted  he  was  Dr.  Baillie's  debtor  for  two 
pounds  twelve  and  sixpence. 

Mr.  Lazarus  jumped  upon  his  legs  and  roared  at  the  top  of  his 
voice  that  the  advertisement  stated  the  fee  to  be  neither  more  nor 
less  than  a  half-guinea.  The  secretary  bowed,  pointed  expressivelj 
to  the  three  little  mysterious  packages,  and  deigned  only  to  re- 
peat,— 

"  Two  pounds  twelve  and  sixpence !" 

"  I  '11  never  pay  it  I"  cried  the  Jew  frantically — ^*' never  !  nothhig 
shall  make  me.*' 

This  determination,  so  unequivocally  expressed,  brought  other 
parties  into  the  consulting-room.  The  dispenser,  a  stout,  burly, 
pugilistic-looking  personage  ran  in,  followed  by  James  the  door- 
porter,  both  eager  to  maintain  their  absent  master's  rights. 

''  Most  ungentlemanly  conduct !"  said  one. 

'*  We  are  accustomed  to  no  such  scenes  in  this  house !"  cried 
another. 

*'  Such  attention  as  Dr.  Baillie  has  given  to  the  case  l"  observed 
the  dispenser ;  "  and  then  to  raise  a  squabble  about  the  fee  !" 

And  thus  the  changes  were  rung  in  Lamech's  ears.  ''Ingrati- 
tude !'• — '•  Niggardliness  !" — «'  Premature  death  !" — "  Heaven's  first 
blessing— he Jth!"—" Dr.  Baillie's  skill!"- "Her  Majesty  Queen 
Charlotte !"  In  a  word,  the  secretary,  dispenser,  and  footman  car- 
ried their  point.     The  Jew  was  bullied  out  of  his  money. 

As  soon  as  he  reached  the  street,  somewhat  out  of  breath  and  un- 
commonly chagrined,  he  began  to  suspect  that  he  had  been  hoaxed ; 
and  this  suspicion  deepened  into  certainty,  when  on  his  reaching  a 
first-rate  chemist,  to  whom  he  was  personally  known,  in  Piccadilly, 
he  asked  if  he  could  put  him  in  the  way  of  seeing  Dr.  Matthew 
Baillie. 

"  The  great  Dr.  Baillie  you  mean.?*"  The  Jew  nodded.  "The 
Court  physician  ?"  another  gesture  of  assent.  '*  He  is  attending 
some  foreigner  of  distinction  at  £scudier*s  Hotel;  and  generally 
visits  him  about  four  o'clock.  If  time  is  not  an  object  to  you,  and 
you  can  wait  till  that  hour,  you  will  be  sure  to  see  him.  He  gene- 
rally leaves  his  carriage  at  the  top  of  Dover  Street,  and  walks  to  the 
hotel  opposite.  I  will  point  him  out  to  vou  :  as  to  his  appearance 
you  will  be  disappointed ;  there  is  nothmg  striking  in  his  person, 
gait,  or  manner." 

*'  I  have  my  reasons  for  wishing  to  see  him,  if  only  for  five  se> 
conds,"  was  Xiamech's  ready  reply.  He  ground  his  teeth  for  vexa- 
tion while  he  made  it. 

The  hour  drew  on,  was  completed,  passed  away  without  bring- 
ing before  the  Jew's  aching  eyes  the  distinguishixl  MSdecin  whom 
they  sought  At  length  a  dark-green  chariot,  handsomely  appoint- 
ed, rattl^  up.     The  chemist  glanced  towards  it,  and  was  satisfied* 

*'  Follow  me  !"  cried  he  to  the  worn-out  Lazarus,  "  and  quickly. 
The  steps  at  Escudier's  will  enable  us  to  command  a  view  6£  both 
the  inmates  of  that  carriage :  press  on,  for  doctors  drive  rapidly/' 


360 


THE   GAOL    CHAPLAIN- 


Panting,  and  heated  alike  from  vexation  and  overspeed,  the  Jew' 
moynted  the  steps  of  the  hotel  byt  slowly,  yet  in  time  to  gain  a  tho- 
roufjjh  survey  of  both  gentlemen,   who,  having  alighted  from   their 
carriage,  pas&ed  with  dignified  and  deliberate  ttep  through  the  door 
which  led  to  more  than  one  suite  of  private  apartments  connected 
with  the  building.     The  first  was  in  person  tall  and  thin,  with  a 
countenance  bearing   alight  impress  of  mind,  but  extreme  suavity* 
He  replied  to  some  observation  of  his  companion  as  they  ascended  j 
the  steps  together  ;  and  his  air,  his  smile,  his  bow,  one  and  all  gave  I 
yon  the  idea  of  a  person  whose  demeanour,  uniformly,  was  charac«| 
teriietl  by  the  most  polished  urbanity. 

'*  Ho!  ho!''  cried  the  chemist,  whose  knowledge  of  all  matters 
appertaining  to  the  niedica.1  world  seemed  intnitive — ^**  a  consulta- 
tion, eh?  The  peril,  then,  is  imminent.  Humph!  and  here  coraes  our 
sedative  friend  from  Spring-Gardens.  That  is  Dr,  Maton,  the 
Queen's  physician*  So  much  for  tact  and  manner  !  He  owes  his 
introduction  into  the  Court  circle  to  the  Princess  Elizabeth's  love^ 
of  plants  antl  his  own  knowledge  of  botany.  Her  Royal  HighnesiH 
was  forming  an  ker barium,  and  he  was  able  to  forward  her  a  per^* 
feet  specimen  of  some  rare  lichen,  for  which  she  had  been  long  and 
vainly  searching.  This  happy  hit  "  letl  on  to  fortune,"  With 
Queen  Charlotte  he  is  an  especial  favourite ;  plays  quadrille  with 
t/te  pQVtrty -stricken  old  lady  ;  and — uhvatfs  hsex  /  Her  Majesty  is 
partial  to  a  pool  at  quadrille,  and  is  particular  about  having  at  her 
table  only  first-rate  players.  Dr.  Maton  is  one*  And  yet  he  al-J 
ways  manages  when  the  Queen  is  his  antagonist  to  lose,  and  beavilyvl 
Capital  isn't  it?  Nothing  like  tact!  With  nineteen  people  out  oil 
twenty  it  will  usurp  the  honours  of  talent  Now  stare  your  best:  j 
this  to  the  left  is  the  cautious,  grave,  and  money-making  Scotch* 
man,*'  continued  he,  as  Dr.  Baillie  slowly  moved  on  his  way.  He ' 
was  denouncing  some  party's  want  of  punctuality  which  had  dc* 
ranged  all  his  appointments  for  the  morning.  He  spoke  with  a 
strong  Scotch  accent — marvellously  strong,  when  there  is  taken 
into  account  the  period  which  had  elapsed  since  he  quitted  Scot* 
land,  and  the  circle  of  society  in  which  he  raoved,^ — **  I  keep  lUlfl 
mon  waiting :  time  is  siller."  ^B 

*'  That  Dr.  Baillie  ! "  cried  Lazarus,  as  the  grave,  thoughtful 
douee'looking  man  *'  went  his  ways.*' 

**  The  great  medical  authority  in  this  country,"  responded  tb€ 
other. 

'*  Dr.  Matthew  Baillie,  I  mean,*'  persisted  the  Jew,  pettishly;! 
**  the  King's  physician  ;  the  leader  among  the  faculty  ?** 

**  There  he  ambles,"  was  the  chemist's  cool  rejoinder, 

*'  Duped — grossly  duped  I"  groaned  the  Jew:  and  then   he  .-    , 
iieved  hia  over- burdened   spirit  by  detailing  to   his   knowing  ac-  - 
quaintance  his  adventure  of  the  morning.     Peals  of  laughter  awo* 
ceeded  the  avowal.     His  companion  enjoyed  his  discomfiture. 

^*  Rare  fiini"  exclaimed  he,  during  one  of  the  intervals  of  his 
lairth.  *'  What!  dupe  you,  Mr.  Lazarus P  Mystify  the  most 
knowing  head  in  Plymouth  i  Capital !  The  rarity  of  being  chmted 
must  make  this  occurrence  doubly  agreeable  to  you.  And  ao  the 
aham  Simon  Pure  prescribed  for  you  }  And  valued  his  opinion  on 
your  caae  at  no  leas  than  two  pounds  twelve  and  sixpence*  We 
Londoners  imagined  that  the  George  Street  bubble  had  burat  long 


THE   GAOL   CIIAPLATN, 


since.  Months  ago  the  whole  aflTair  was  blawn  upon.  Bat  Uut  jok 
should  swell  the  list  of  victims  is  comical.  H« !  ha !  ha !  'Two 
pounds  twelve  and  sixpence!  why  you  *ll  never  survive  the  lo«s?*' 

**  I  'ra  not  quite  clear  that  it  is  a  loss,**  said  Lamech,  sullenly. 

The  banter  of  his  chemical  friend  had  irritated  hira,  and  he  slunk 

I  moodily  away,   but  not  to  rest.      A  thousand  schemes  presented 

I  themselves  as  he  tossed  on  his  uneasy  pillow.     One  he  selected  as 

I  unexceptionable  and  safe  ;  and  having  resolved  on  his  line  of  re- 

I  venge,   dozed  uneasily  till  daybreak.     At  an  early  hour  the  Jew 

'  was  stirring ;  and  before  eight  had  taken  up  his  post  of  observA* 

t  tion  in  Great   George  Street.     About  nine  some  dismal^  parti-oo- 

loured,  bilious  beings  might  be  seen  crawling  up  the  steps  of  No,  3. 

That  they  required  medical  aid  none   could  scan  their  variegated 

visage  and  gainsay  ;  that  this  aid  should  be  afforded  by  the  ptemdo 

\Dr.  Baillie,  Lazarus  was  bent  on  preventing.     Deeming  an  intro- 

^  duction  whollv  superfluous^  he  boldly  accosted  each  invalid  as  be 

or  she  pausea  at  the  door  of  No.  2  ;  explained  the  farce  going  on 

within  ;  dwelt  on  the  extortion  practised  ;  related  how  he  bad  been 

subsidized,  for  a  single  interview,  to  the  tune  of  two  pounds  twelve 

and  sixpence— a  bitter  and  ever   recurring  topic  !^ — warned  eiich 

party  of  the  folly  of  believing  that  he  or  she  was  about  to  consult 

the   celebrated   and    skilful   Dr.   Baillie,   physician   to  George   the 

Third;  repeated  loudly  and  positively  that  the  whole  affair  was  a 

mockery — a  cheat, — an  imposture  ;  and  that  the  man  who  assumed 

the  deservedly  eminent  name  of  Baillie  was  neither  more  nor  less 

than  some  shamele^  empiric. 

With  many  these  representations  were  successful ;  but  not  with 
all.  Some  there  were  whose  bitter  prejudices  against  his  race  in* 
disposed  them  to  listen,  for  a  moment,  to  any  statement  from  La- 
mech's  lips  ;  others,  who  took  exception  at  the  gesticulations^  earn* 
estness,  and  asseverations  of  the  enraged  Israelite :  not  a  few  who 
had  a  predilection  for  being  duped^ — a  decided  vocation  and  call 
that  way ; — all  these  pressed  on,  and  were  admitted.  Bat  nearly  a 
dozen  aid  Lamech  deter  from  entering.  Their  suspicions  were 
roused :  they  eyed  the  door-plate  doubtfully  ;  scaned  with  dissa- 
tisfied  air  the  mean  exterior  of  the  dwelling;  Siul  after  a  pause 
decided  on  "  deferring  their  visit  till  they  had  made  further  in- 
quiry.** 

Meanwhile  the  Jew's  proceedings  had  exdted  evident  uneasiness 
and  alarm  within.  Doors  were  slammed :  windows  rattled :  eyes 
were  seen  peering  over  the  blinds,  and  looking  with  a  very  anxious 
expression  into  the  street.  The  garrison  of  No.  2  was  manifestly  iil 
at  eaae^  and  either  meditating  or  expecting  some  hostile  demonstra- 
tion. 

The  former  was  decided  on  :  for  about  eleven  the  scarecrow  porter 
came  out,  and,  affecting  great  nonchalance  of  manner,  ordered 
Lamech  ''about  his  business." 

**  What  would  you  have  ?  I  am  about  ray  business,  and  hotly  en- 
gaged in  it — the  exposure  of  the  humbug  that's  going  on  within/* 

"A  Bow-street  runner  is  sent  for,"  continued  the  janitor. 

*'  Good  I"  was  Lamech's  commenL 

'*  You  will  be  in  custody  in  a  few  moments,  and  the  magistrate 
will  deal  with  you  according  to  your  des<irvings*'* 

This  last  threat — as  the  porter  delivered  it— came  out  with  a  vct^ 


362 


THE   GAOL   CHAPLAIN. 


tlalorous  quaver.     The  idea  of  Bow  Street  did  not  seem  associated  i 
in  the  speaker's  own  mind  with  the  most  agreeable  recollections. 
Lainech  it  roused  instantly. 

"  Take  me,"  cried  he,  *'  to  Bow  Street^  by  all  means  ;  I  desire  no 
better  errand.     Give  me  but  an  opportunity  of  facing  a  magistrate, 
he  shall  aooo  be  put  up  to  your  roguery.     Come!   we  lose  time.  , 
The  office  will  be  closed-     Lead  the  way.     Where's  the  runner?" 

The  perplexed  menial  was  cudgelling  his  brains  for  a  rejoinder, 
when  the  door  opened  for  the  exit  of  a  tall,  thin,  very  erect,  mid<lle* 
aged  lady.  She  was  a  faithful  type  of  an  ex-governess  of  "  unde- 
niable qualifications  and  unblemished  character,"  whu  had  '*  con- 
ducted herself  with  uniform  propriety,"  and  had  retired  from  active 
duties  upon  a  satisfactory  life-annuity.  She  held,  with  firm  grasp, 
a  large  bottle-green  umbrella,  on  the  brass  handle  of  which  was  en- 
graven in  conspicuous  characters,  Mias  Knipe,  and  in  much  smaller 
letters  below,  to  he  reiurufd, — a  remark  which,  considering  the  f/in/£*- 
rial,  size  and  cut,  of  the  said  umbrella^ — the  length  of  service  it  had 
evidently  seen— the  honourable  scars  in  the  shape  of  divers  rents, 
duly  patched,  which  it  bore,  did  seem  a  somewhat  superfluous  in- 
jtrnction.  He  must  have  cherished,  to  an  alarming  degree,  '*ii  felo- 
nious  intent"  who  would  hesitate  abuut  **  rctttrmng**  Miss  Knipe's 
umbrella!  Its  owner,  in  departing,  glanced  at  the  house  with  a 
rueful  and  suspicious  air.  Lazarus  noted  it  with  delight*  He  had 
warned  the  lady  on  her  arrival  ;  but,  with  dignified  gesture,  she 
waved  him  from  her  presence,  and  passed  on  with  the  air  of  a  prin- 
cess. As  she  descended,  the  Jew  made  her  a  low  bow — another  still 
more  deferential — a  third;  but  his  civilities  failed— not  a  syllable 
in  the  shape  of  corament  escaped  her.  Was  it  likely  ?  Could  a 
maiden  lady  of  considerable  experience  be  justified  by  any  circum- 
stances in  addressing  a  bystander  ?  But  as  she  slowly  walked  away 
the  Jew's  heart  w^as  cheered  by  hefiring  the  murmured  soliloquy:— 
**  Duped,  I  fear  !  Most  confused  interview  !  No  two  statements 
coincided!  Can  account  for  it  only  on  one  supposition.  And  yet 
that  a  Physician  to  the  Royal  Family  should  be  'muddy'  bemre 
mid' day  seems  rather  staggering  1"  And^  supporting  herself  by  her 
umbrella,  Miss  Knipe  sailed  aw^ay. 

Meanwhile  the  Jew  kept  diligent  watch  and  ward.  Till  the  hour 
for  seeing  patients  had  long  passed,  and  the  last  victim,  duly  plun- 
dered, had  lefl  Dr,  Baillie*s  presence,  did  JVIr.  Lazarus  parade  before 
No.  2.  At  length  the  dispenser  gently  unclosed  the  door,  and» 
beckoning  to  his  peripatetic  tormentor,  invited  him  to  enter. 

*'  No  i"  cried  the  wary  Israelite ;  **  I  *ve  been  there  once  too 
often." 

*'  Our  intentions  are  purely  amicable,*'  insinuated  the  dispenser, 

*'  So  you  said  when  you  fleeced  me  out  of  two  pounds^  twelve^inci 
sixpence,"  was  the  reply- 

"  We  have  matters  of  personal  interest  to  submit  to  you/' 

*^  Oh  I  that  alters  the  appearance  of  afiairs  somewhat,"  remarked 
the  Jew%  softening. 

*'  We  have  that  to  propose  which  we  are  sure  will  be  agreeable 
to  you." 

"  Name  it ;  now,  and  here." 

"  In  one  word,  then,  why  should  we  be  enemies  ?  What  may 
yon  w^ant?" 


THE   GAOL   CHAPL.\rN. 


369 


My  own  I"  roared  the  Jew.     "  Am  I  to  be  robbed  wholesale 
rithout  making  a  single  wry  face  at  the  operation  f     Hand  over  toy 
fo  pounds,  twelve  shillings,  and  sixpence/* 

"  I  purpose  doing  to,"  returned  the  other,  "if  you  will  speak  in  a 
lower  key,  and  hear  reason/* 

I  listen,"  remarked  Mr.  Lazarus,  soito  voce  —  *^I  linen  atten- 
_ively  ;"  and,  with  an  eager  grin,  he  extended  his  yellow  shrunken 
palm. 

**  There,"  exclaimed  the  other,  "is  the  sum  we  received  from 
you  :  now  go, — leave  us  to  ourselves  :  you  cannot  complain  of  injury 
when  we  restore  to  you  the  entire  fee  obtained  from  you.  Go;  pray 
go  ;  and  let  us  pursue  our  respective  avocations  in  peace.*' 

"Ah  V  said  the  Jew,  His  grasp  closed  mechanically  on  the  sum 
tendered  him  ;  and,  without  a  syllable  of  acknowledgment  or  acqui* 
edcence,  he  strode  away. 

The  medical  firm  at  No.  2  held  high  festival*  Dr.  Baillie  was 
mightily  relieved.  The  foe,  he  imagined,  had  raised  the  siege ;  no 
further  hostility  from  him  was  to  be  expected.  A  long  and  golden 
career  was  yet  before  him.  Alas  for  human  anticipations  1  the  first 
object  which  met  the  Doctor's  eye  on  the  morrow  was  the  restless 
Mr.  Lazarus,  loitering  about  the  door,  bent  on  following  up  his 
frightful  purpose  of  intercepting  patients.  Once  more  the  medical 
staff  was  panic-stricken ;  and  once  more  the  pale  and  pappy-faced 
diiipenser — he  looked  as  if  he  lived  on  nothing  but  pills  I — sounded 
a  parley, 

"  You  are  not  true  to  your  agreement,  friend,"  said  the  go-be- 
tween, drawing  Lazarus  aside,  and  addressing  him  in  his  most 
dulcet  tones:  "we  concludedj  after  our  arrangement  of  yesterday, 
that  we  should  see  no  more  of  you/' 

"What  arrangement?"  inquired  Lamech  cunningly.  "We  re- 
turned you  the  fee  which  you  deemed  so  exorbitant ;  and  — " 

"  I  accepted  it,  and  said,  '  Ah  /  "  added  the  Jew  coolly. 

The  dispenser  now  looked  aghast  in  his  turn, 

'*  I  wag  a  party  to  no  agreement/'  continued  Mr.  Lazarus,  sturdi- 
ly ;  "made  no  promise;  gave  no  pledge;  purposed  nothing  of  the 
kind.     /  ktiotv  the  dutjf  I  owe  to  socieit/^'* 

"  Of  what  nature?" 

"  This — to  warn  my  fellow-creatures  against  fraud  and  dishonesty. 
This  man  owat  to  man  in  all  countries/' 

The  dispenser  looked   into   the  Jew's    eyes   long   and    steadily. 
There  was  an  insincere  twinkle  in  them  which  prompted  the  go- 
etween's  inquiry — 

*•  What  was  the  duty  to  which  you  were  alluding  ?** 
The  duty  which  every  Hebrew  gentleman  (t)  owes  to  society  : 
that  duty  I  mean  to  discharge." 

"  What  inducement  would  tempt  you  to  forego  it?** 

"  The  proper  discharge  of  the  duty  /  owe  to  mt^seif/' 

**  Terms  ?"  said  the  other  bluntly. 

"  My  travelling  expenses  from  Plymouth  to  town,  and  hacl^*'  be- 
gan the  Jew  in  an  easy,  business-like  tone— "a  ten-pound  note 
might  possibly  cover.  Then  come  my  tavern  charges  for  three  days, 
at  one  pound  per  day  ;  —  and  then  I  must  make  a  claim  for  '  loss  of 
time  and  hinderance  in  business  ;'  fur  this  I  can  say  nothing  under 
two  pounds — not  a  farthing  ;  so  that  taking  a  disinterested  (!)  view 


364 


THE   GAOL    CHAPLAnC, 


of  matters,*'  eontinued  Mr.  Lazarus  with  enviable  nonchalance,  *'  no-^ 
thing  under  iiE^een  pounds  will  make  me  forget  my  way  to  George 
Street/' 

"  And  supposing  thia  sum  to  be  tendered  to  you/'  said  the  dis* 
pcnser  in  a  hesitating  tone,  '*  what  then  ?" 

'^Run  your  course  at  will/'  replied  the  accommodating  Mr,  La2a> 
ruB  ;  '^  /  visit  you  no  more/* 

Dr*  Bail  lie's  negotiator  smiled  distrustmgly.  He  doubted  much 
and  seriously  the  sincerity  of  his  opponent. 

"  You  may  depend  on  me/*  resumed  Lamech,  interpreting  his 
glance,  **  IVIy  promise  once  given,  I  abide  by  it.  Accede  to  my 
terms,  and  you  have  seen  the  last  of  me/'  A 

"  To  insure  that  result- — to  insure  it,  mark  me/*  repeated  the  dis-  ■ 
penjser  emphatically*  **the  stipulated  sum  shall  be  forthcoming,  un- 
fairly earned  though  it  be/* 

"The  best  bargain  you  ever  made/'  interposed  Lfimech  roughly, 

"A  truce  to  comment/'  cried  the  other  ;  "let  that  give  place  to  _ 
action.     Leave,  I  beseech  you»  this  street,  and  let  our  friends  have  ■ 
free  access  to  our  residence.    The  first  turning  on  the  right  will  take  ' 
you  into  the  square ;  there  in  a  few  moments  1  will  join  you,  with 
notes  for  the  amount/' 

**  I  will  wait  your  leisure,  sir,*'  said  Mr,  Lazarus  complaisantly. 

In  a  shorter  period  than  the  Jew  thought  it  possible  for  any  mes" 
senger,  however  nimble,  to  traverse  the  distance,  the  dispenser  stCNxl  I 
again  by  his  side,  with  bank-paper  in  his  hand. 

"  I  thus  fulfil  my  part  of  the  compact,"  said  the  whey-faced  gen- 
tleman. 

"  And  I  mine  1  **  exclaimed  Lamech,  toddling  eastward  with  a 
will 

JMr,  Lazarus  characterized  this  scene  as  ''abounding  in  true  pa^ 
triotism/'  It  was  the  last  in  which  he  played  a  leading  part.  His 
predilection  for  cordial  compounds  speetlily  consigneil  him  to  his 
narrow  hornet  But  his  adventures  in  Great  Ceorge  street  formed  a 
favourite  topic  to  the  last.  He  spoke  with  triumph  of  the  "care" 
he  had  taken  of  "  the  interests  of  society  /*  of  the  distinction  which 
he  had  endeavoured  to  lay  down  between  truth  and  falsehood  ;  of 
the  many  whom  he  had  warned  against  the  sham  Dr.  Baillie  ;  and 
of  the  laborious  effort  which  he  had  made  to  unmask  him. 

"  It  is  in  doing  your  duty  to  the  public,"  contended  Mr.  LaxuruA 
most  heroically,  **that  true  patriotism  consists.  He  does  *  the  stale 
service  *  who  looks  to  the  general  interests  of  society/'  But  he  lel- 
dom  alluded  to — and  then  but  incidentally  and  briefly — the  hard  cash 
which,  in  looking  after  the  general  interests  of  society,  he  had  taken 
care  to  pick  up  and  apply  specially  to  his  ow'«. 

But  let  Mr.  Lazarus  be  spoken  of  with  all  imaginable  res{)ect 
He  cherished  no  fanciful  or  impracticable  creed  ;  he  belonged  to  a 
party,  and  that  by  no  means  a  small  one  ;  for  there  are  gentlemen, 
both  within  and  without  the  walls  of  a  Refi>rmed  Parliament,  who, 
without  adopting  Mr.  L.'s  religious  tenets,  are  paAcncALLY  much  of 
his  way  of  thinking  with  respect  to  the  **  general  interests  of  society  *' 
and— their  own. 


365 


THE  LITTLE  VELVET  SHOES. 


BY    F,   P,    PAI.MBB. 
WITH    AN    ILLCSTRATION    BY    JOHN    LEECH* 

Whbn  I  was  but  a  scliool-child,  1  resided  for  a  certain  period  upon 
"ihe  Welsh  Border,  with  my  fmtherj  who  was  an  invalid.  He  had 
Tetired  awhile  frum  the  fatigue  and  anxieties  of  a  professional  life^  to  a 
small  farm  which  he  possessed  there,  and  we  ren>ained  for  many  vveek.% 
"with  the  humble  people  of  the  district,  until  his  health  was  recruited. 
Owen  StdJshury,  the  surgeon,  was  very  kind  to  my  father,  and  to  him 
-we  became  indebted  fur  our  tishing,  archery,  and  other  recreations. 
He  was  a  portly,  aristocratic  personage,  at  the  head  of  his  profession  in 
that  country,  and  half  as  much  in  vogue  for  his  skill  in  horse-flesh  and 
HiA  actimen  at  whist  as  for  more  grave  knowledge  of  the  ailments  of  the 
liodily  structures*  He  had  two  daughters  of  less  beauty  than  intelJi- 
l^nce  and  amiability^  and  these  were  reared  in  elegance,  and  endowed 
irith  all  such  accomplishments  as  could  be  provided  for  them*  Xong 
years  afterwards,  beinjaf  engaged  in  matters  of  property,  near  to  that 
earlier  home  of  hospitality,  I  made  earnest  inquiries  about  the  family, 
and  received  in  return  the  communication,  the  substance  of  which  is 
Lere  rehearsed. 

Soon  after  we  had  left  that  retirement,  Owen  Salisbury  was  found 
dead  in  his  bed,  the  morning  after  the  celebration  of  a  borough  festivity. 
When   his  affairs  were  scrutinized  sul>sequently  to  the  funeral,  it  was 
discovered  that  he  died  in  embarrassed   circumstances,  and  that  he  had 
squandered  the  means  plentifully  at  his  disposal  in  upholding  himself 
in  a  too  forward  position  with  the  gentry,  who  were  so  infinitely  his 
superiors  in  point  of  worldly  circumstance.     The  girls,  who  had  lost 
their  mother  many  years  before  the  father's  decease,  were  left  orphins, 
and  the  fate  of  the  ttnprovided-Jhr  awaited  at  their  cheerless  threshold. 
LHorses  and  equipage,  furniture  and  tenement,  were  spe€'dily  disposed 
"at  the  will  of  ctwil  executors,  a  trifling  annuity  derived  from  the  mo- 
Ither  was  rendered  to  them,  and  in  a  secluded  syhurb,  they  concealed 
ItLemselves  from  the  open  slights  and  ungrateful  oblivion,  hereditary  to 
Itliose  who  become  **  fallen  in  estate.**     In  common  parlance  they  were 
ftlermed  **  iht  doctor  s  girh/'     Ellen,  the  younger  of  the  two,  was  about 
figliteen  years  of  age  when  she  lost  her  father,  the  other  sister  was 
I'tipwards    of  thirty.     They  were  the  youngest  and   the    eldest    of  a 
ijurge    family    of   sons   and  daughter^:,   gathered    to   the  grave.     The 
twu  poor  retired  ladies  felt  their  altered  situation:  at  first  bitterly, 
but    afterwards,  with    time  and    tranquil  thought,  they   surrendered 
themselves  to  a  placid  resignation.     A  kindly  interest  with  all  unfor- 
"tuoHte  persons^  and  the  pursuit  of  curiain  philosophical  occupations  to 
k'hich  they  w^tb  addicted,  gave  cheerfulness  to  their  monotonous  exist- 
ence, and  made  sunshine  in  the  wintery  void  around  them,     A  few 
giK>d,  old-fashioned  people  occasionally  called  upon  them,  and,  in  holi- 
day time,  there  would   be  a  neat  and   bashful  array  of  young  masters 
and  misses  at  their  g:irden-gatet  attt'uding,  by  customary  invitation,  to 
pore  with  flushed  cheeks  over  the  trays  of  minerids,  and  gems,  and 
carved  ivories,  which  Wlonged  to  JIiss  Ellen,  and  to  chatter  imd  gaae 
fOn  tiptoes  over  the  in.sects  and  stuffed  birds,  the  oriental  orn^tments* 
and  the  volumes  of  history^  and  bUjk-rb  Gothic  illustration  which  old 
VOL.  xvni*  tt  \> 


366 


THE    LITTLE    VELVET    SHOES. 


ition,      I 


Doctor  Siilis»bury  bad  left  to  the  learned  Miss  Barbara !     Witli 
little  people  tliey  sometimes  would  be  seen  promeiiading  in  the 
in^s  of  the  summer  time,  by  tlie  rude  stone  relics  of  the  ancient  outk, 
once  appertaining  ti>  the  Lcrtijt  Marchers y  upon  the  "  BailJy  Hill,**  or 
by  the  graves  of  the  French  pritioners  in  the  old  church  cemeterVt  of 
near  to  tlie  brink  of  the  legendary  well,  named  after  the  brave  Siiiit 
OswaUl.  That  apology  might  not  be  wanting  for  neglect  and  indifference 
at  the  h.^nds  of  former  a^i^ocmtes,  they  were  nicknamed  ''  queer  folkiT 
and  "  bhie  stockings  i*'  all  which  desertion  and  malicious  feeling    " 
endured,  as  if  it  had  been  otherwise,  seeking  but  one  purpose,  wh 
was  to  be  in  peace,  and  to  be  un remembered  by  worthless  acouaj 
ances  of  other  days.     This  even  tenotir  of  their  way  was  destined  to  1 
broken,  and  the  two  sisters  were  separated  by  an  event  which  occurred 
suddenly  and  most  unexpectedly. 

Often  whikt  Barbara  was  sitting  In  her  lonesome  bower,  mu^off 
over  the  vivid  pages  of  the  worthy  old  chroniclers,  Ellen  was  far  afield 
sketching  the  nnti(|iiities  of  the  interesting  nei|^hboiirhood,  and  glean- 
ing from  rude  tongues  the   legends  handed  down   to  unsentimental 
times.     It  was  an  uccttpation  in  which  she  had  immense  gratiBcatioa, 
and  so,  on  a  rainy  day,  when  there  was  dangerous  lightning  in  the  j 
nittsphere,  and  loud  thunder,  and  waterfall  upon  waterfall  of  rain,  i 
the  long  hours  of  a  dismal  afternoon,  it  was  her  chance  to  be  shelterin 
with   one  of  the  like  occupation  as  herself,   in  a  poor  turf  cuttaj^ 
There,  by  a  romantic  introduction*  she  became  first  known  to  a  young 
artist,  who  was  [sketching  the  castles  of  the  Welsh  Border,  and  be  wis 
ah^iduous  in  his  attention  to  her,  called  next  day  at  her  own  residence, 
where,  in  spite  of  the  fears  and  prudences  of  her  sad  and  gentle  sister, 
he  became  her  accepted  lover,  her  instructor,  and  her  daily  guide.     He 
waa  a  thing  made  up  of  speculations  and  artifices;  he  won  the  affec- 
lionute  latly,  and  the  new  love,  natural  and  strong  as  the  link  which  had 
biiund  her  tu  her  sister,  prevailed.     She  was  married,  and  retired  wit! 
her  plausildi>  bridegroom  to  his  home  in  London.     She  left  sulitud 
and  tear«j  too  soon  to  he  the  partaker  of  repentance  and  grief.     Sfc 
had  been  wretchedly  deceived.     Her  so  called  husband  was  a  man  de- 
void of  common  principle.     He  had  a  first  wife  living  in  France,  wbiiiq^^ 
he  hiid  deserted.     In  due  time  he  plundered  and  forsook  poor  £11^^| 
Salisbury,      So  deeply  was    he  implicated  with  villains  of  base  dS^^ 
gree,  that    she  was    glad    when   he    ceased   to   frown    upon  her  and 
curse  her  in  his  unmitigated    phrenzies  of  passion.      Soon  she  wai 
reconducted   by    her    careful    sister,    from    scenes   of  agony,   ta   tief 
former  home  and   habitation.     What   calumny  and  vitu iteration   ac- 
companied the  unfortunate  lady's  return,  may  best  be  conceived  br 
those  who  are  intimate  with  the  fastidiousness  of  some  who  are  sell 
named   the   spotless  and  the   blameless   of  a    wicked  world  !     EIJ 
Talbot,  who  hjd  discarded  her  false  husband's  name,  died  after  ha?? 
ing  given  to  the  same  censorious  world,  and  to  the  care  of  its  aunt 
Barbara,  a  niitle  child,  which  even  in  the  dawn  of  existence  bore  a  r«^ 
mark  able  lifieness  to  its  dying  mother.     This  hasty  and  unfortunate 
marriage  occurred  just  seven  years  after  old  Owen  Salisbury's  de 
From  the  very  moment  that  the  awful  stillness  of  death  rested     ^  _^_ 
thr  pnle  features  of  his  pitiful  child,  a  fierce  love  and  a  fresh  soul  aimc 
to  full  life  in   Barbara  Salisbury's  bosom.     Not  for  the  loss  of  hec^ 
father  had  she  nurtured  sorrow;  it  was  Heaven's  dispensation  whii 
rviiioved  him  from  bin  family,  and  she  had  blessed  that  i»ower 


aau 


siigM 

hav^i 
aunt 
a  re- 
Ttnnate 

d  np«H 

111      AatWiA 


THE    LITTLE   VELVET   SHOES.  367 

which  was  the  source  of  the  infliction.  Not  for  altered  circumstances 
had  she  pined  or  gathered  store  of  sorrowful  sentiment,  for  the  early 
instructions  of  her  conscientious  mother  had  made  her  proof  against 
such  ordinary  emharrassment ;  that  her  sister's  vile  husband  was  away 
and  unheard  of,  was  subject  of  exultation  to  her,  because  he  had  de- 
ceived both  by  claim  of  merit  and  smooth  words,  and  he  was  too  despi- 
cable even  for  the  giving  of  a  single  hope  for  his  ultimate  repentance, 
or  any  proffer  of  satisfaction.  There  was  something  seeming  merciful, 
in  her  beloved  sister's  departure,  for  death  had  taken  her  from  much 
of  woe,  and  of  the  contempt  of  human  kind.  Poor  Ellen,  too,  had 
lived  and  died  in  innocence  and  purity  of  intention,  and  tranquillity 
dwelt  with  dove-like  repose  upon  her  humble  grave,  and  a  perpetual 
bright  hope  illuminated  her  memory.  It  was  none  of  such  feelings 
that  moved  the  change  in  Barbara.  She  was  ever  intensely  fond  of 
all  young  creatures,  especially  of  tender  children,  and  this  legacy,  so 
dear,  so  romantic,  and  so  tearfully  bewildering,  became  the  focus  of 
her  earthly  love.  Her  secluded  soul  at  once  ventured  forth,  with  all 
its  maternal  affections,  to  the  wailing  supplicant  for  her  aid.  With 
the  care  of  old  Molly,  her  faithful  Welsh  servant,  the  baby  thrived 
and  grew  strong,  and  in  due  time  became  the  sweet  singing-bird  and 
joy  of  the  sequestered  habitation.  Happily,. too,  all  its  best  kisses  and 
endearments  were  for  aunt  Barbara,  whom  it  knew  only  as  a  mother, 
and  weeping  or  laughing,  in  its  waking  hours,  the  child  followed  her 
with  rapture,  and  the  cadence  of  its  quick  footsteps,  was  ever  in  her 
vigilant  ears.  Well,  the  child  grew  up  into  its  active  boyhood,  and  then 
the  vivacities  of  its  intellect  were  the  perpetual  admiration  of  the  dili- 
gent foster-parent.  Certainly  she  thought  there  never  was  such  a  child 
born, — so  comely,  so  graceful,  so  eager  for  knowledge !  So  far  as 
fairy  lore  and  fable  were  food  for  the  brains,  the  child  attended  its 
lesson  assiduously ;  and  under  the  tuition  of  ancient  Molly,  it  became 
proficient  in  melody,  singing  all  her  guttural  Welsh  ditties,  with  exceed- 
ing gusto— "  ^Sir  Watkins's  Delight,  ''  The  March  of  the  Men  of  Har^ 
lech,"  and  other  such  combinations  of  merriment  or  melancholy,  popular 
in  the  Border  Ground.  For  the  rest,  it  never  could  hear  too  much  of 
battle  and  violence,  and  the  few  curious  weapons  which  belonged  to 
the  antiquarian  collection,  were  in  turn  suspended  from  its  juvenile 
girdle,  much  to  the  destruction  of  the  first-fruits  of  the  garden,  and 
of  the  sweet  willows  and  hollyoaks  in  the  overgrown  plot  before  the 
dwelling.     Young  Owen  grew  up  a  forward  and  reckless  youth. 

He  was  sent  to  a  neighbouring  school.  He  became  rude  and  un- 
manageable. Boys  of  quiet  habit  he  spurned  from  his  companionship 
with  open  contempt.  The  bold  vagabond  of  rags  and  oaths  was  his 
selection.  It  was  a  dreadful  mortification  to  the  aunt  to  observe  this, 
and  to  be  informed  of  his  trespasses  and  rebellious  conduct ;  more  so 
was  she  concerned  when,  as  the  standing  rule,  he  adopted  towards 
herself  an  insolent  and  tyrannical  bearing.  He  was  ever  truant  from 
the  threshold,  and  the  only  punishments  which  he  suffered  at  school 
seemed  to  harden  him  in  all  vicious  determinations.  She,  poor  crear 
ture,  lamented  that  he  was  under  female  jurisdiction  at  all,  for  verily, 
she  accused  herself,  that  she  had  misunderstood  him,  and  had  curbed 
some  natural  spirit,  which,  in  proper  direction,  would  have  been  the 
making  of  him.  The  rector  oi  the  place  held  consultation  with  her, 
and  was  imperative  that  the  boy  should  be  placed  under  stricter  care. 
She  had  ever  submitted  to  his  superior  counsel,  and  a  change  was 

D  D  2 


368 


THE   LITTLE   VELVET   SHOES. 


agreed  upon.     In  fact,  he  had  become  a  nuisance  in  the  vicinity,  for 

he  was  fwreman  in  alJ  jiivtnilc  delinquencies.  An  old  friend  of  her 
father's  kept  an  academy  upon  the  v^estern  coast,  and  the  boy  was 
equipped  and  sent  to  a  hoardiiig'-schaol.  In  le«8  than  half  a  y^3.r  he 
ran  away  in  the  tram  pin  {j;  society  uf  the  rogues  he  had  met  with  in 
his  Wanderings.  For  many  months  it  was  never  known  to  what 
quarter  he  had  betaken  himself,  only  to  ohl  JMoUy  and  to  the  aunt, 
who,  shuddering  at  his  communications  and  half  broken-hearted,  sup- 
plied him  with  frequent  money  and  the  contribution  of  necessaries  he 
required.  In  the  town  it  was  well  buspected  that  sbe  was  maintaining 
him  in  idleness,  to  her  own  ruin,  for  she  made  frequent  journeys  fmm 
home,  wliieh  seemed  to  injure  her  health  and  spirits.  And  then  she 
had  retrenched  in  her  small  way  of  housekeeping,  and  in  her  owu 
attire,  so  that  the  occasion  of  all  this  was  frequently  debated  upon. 

At  last,  one  winter  time,  a  talJ,  thin  vagrant  waited,  shivering  and 
bleeding  with  cold,  at  Barbary  Salisbury's  d(K>r,  and  it  was  rumoured 
that  her  nephew  Owen  had  returned  to  her  protection.  Wounded, 
and  discarded,  he  sought  once  again  the  early  tlireshidd,  Itst  he  should 
die  in  some  hospital  or  inlirmary,  and  be  hurried  to  an  untimely 
burial.  Medical  aid  was  requirLU  ifistantly.  He  remained  u|xin  the 
bed  of  sickness  for  several  months.  The  rector  visited  him  :  his  con- 
science was  touched  ;  lie  appeared  of  altered  il  is  positions  ;  and  for 
long  after  his  recovery  he  remained  quiet,  and  with  s*mie  tokens  of 
repentance,  with  his  fond  and  attentive  relation. 

The  rector  had  a  friend,  a  ship-master,  in  Liverptiol ;  a  situation  wm 
procured  for  the   nephew,  and  another  equipment  was   forthcominj;;. 
The  poor  aunt  was  again  destined  to  feel  sorrow,  and  to  weep  over  her 
prodigal  cbild.     He  never  presented   his  introduction,  but  disposed  of 
his  equipments,  and  again  buried  himself  in  haunts  of  evil  and  divso^ 
iutc  iiersons.     It  would  be  painful  to  trace  the  intermediate  stations  t*f  | 
his  guilt  and  prgfli^acy.     The   last  money  she  sent  to  him  ^ — it  was 
raised  by  sale  of  hm  few  curiosities  and  books,  wliich  had  long  fur- 
nished   supplementary  aid   to  Ids  importunate  demands  —  he  w«s  a 
recruit  on   board  a  steam- vessel  bound  for  Linbon,  witli  men  for  the 
service  of  Duid.  Blaria,  in  tlje  Pedroite  and  Miguelite  struggles  of] 
that  disturbed  country.     lie  acknowledged  the  rt-mittance  ;    and  for  ] 
three  years  afterwards,  buried  in  inconsolable  grief,  the  poor  lady,  hy 
all  the  efforts  within  her  power,  was  unable  to  receive  intelligence  of  I 
tlie  irreclaimable  child. 

Ellen  Salisbury  had  been  dead  just  nineteen  years.     Swift  is  the 
passage  of  time,  swifter  than  the  pen  which  is  hurried  to  complete  the 
catastrophe  of  the   narration.     Such   a  recluse  had  Barbara  made  of 
herself,  tliat   she  was  forgotten    almost  as    much    as  the   rest  of  her  J 
family,  who  were  peacefully  in  the  oblivion  of  the  sepulchre-     The  j 
lease  of  the  house  in  which  she  resided  terminated  ;  the  tenement  wu« 
in  ruins  ;  she  removed  to  a  short  distance  from  the  town,  and  occupied 
a  blank-locdcing   cuttsige-d welling,  standing  all  alone,  near  to  the  cen- 
tral  embankment  of  an  old  Roman  camp  in   the  vicinity.     It  vnm  a 
weird  situation,  u  broken  tint,  with   clusters  of  gorse  and  fern  in  the 
foreground,  Hsinked  by  irregular  copse,  with  an   ugly  hollow  scooped 
out  of  an  elevuled  sand-stone  rock  in  the  hack-ground,  where  was  A 
profusiijn  of  brushwood,  and  the  gaping  perforations  of  the  rabbit  and  , 
the  sand-nmrtin.     It  was  winter-time  when  Barbara  entered  ujwn  iJie ' 
new  residence,  when  the  daik  stones  of  the  rudely-enclosed  grotmd 


THE    LITTLE    VKLVET   SHOES. 


3«9 


peeped  ihruugii  xhe  lingering  snow,  and  tlie  bare  arms  of  the  dismal 
poplar  were  rt'Stlcss  in   the  stormy  windn  of  tbe  comfurlle«s  eventide, 

Christmas  pnssed  away  without  one  hour  of  smiles  or  festivity. 
Molly  took  thf  tone  of  melancholy  from  the  lonesmiie  laJy  of  that 
wilderness,  and  "  old  Morgan  the  mole-cat clier/'  to  whom  they  had 
permitted  a  kitchen-residence  and  a  hed-room  in  the  out-huildinf*  for 
liimself  and  hi$i  do^,  as  fee  for  \m  nightly  guardianship,  was  a  creature 
full  of  omens  and  prophecies,  which  fancy  he  had  derived  from  sire 
and  grand  si  re  in  the  Fay-lands  of  Powiss  Country. 

The  spring-time  came  and  disappearedj  hut  no  tidings  of  iMaster 
Owen  reached  t!ie  silent  cottage.  The  birds  huilt  in  the  clustered 
trees^  and,  summoned  by  the  sweet  lark  in  the  brightest  of  all  hlne 
skies,  poured  forth  their  music  of  love  and  gay  emotion  without  influ- 
encing with  a  sympathetic  thril!  one  heart  of  the  liumun  be[n*;s  witliin 
the  solitary  edifice  so  near  to  them.  Barbara  spent  the  greater  part 
of  her  time  in  her  bed-chamber,  much  in  prayer,  frequently  in  medita- 
tion, and  frequently  in  tears*  The  bed- room  was  curiously  arranged  ; 
by  especial  direction,  each  article  of  furniture  was  placed  in  the  exact 
position  it  had  relatively  occupied  tn  the  chamber  of  the  furiner  resi- 
dence. By  the  window-place  as  as  a  small  recess  ;  near  to  this,  and 
towards  the  foot  of  the  bed,  against  the  wall  opposite,  was  an  escri- 
toire, covered  with  a  fall  of  curious  tapestry.  Upon  the  top  of  this 
was  upraised,  upon  the  support  of  an  ancient  clasped  volume,  a  re- 
markable inljid  cabinet,  the  folding  dwirs  of  which  were  onnimenttd 
rn  dim  mosaic.  If  blinking  old  Molly  the  housekeeper,  who  was  as 
imperturbable  in  her  old  age  as  a  frozen  snake,  ever  knew  what  won- 
der might  be,  it  was  in  connexion  with  that  singular  cabinet.  For 
»everal  years  all  but  the  very  necessaries  of  housekeeping  had  disaf)- 
peared, — ^instruments  of  music,  books,  plate,,  and  the  small  museum 
which  the  sisters  had  collected  in  the  father's  lifetime.  The  inlaid 
cabinet  was  diligently  preserved. 

When  Owen  returned  to  his  aunt  in  the  deplorable  state  we  men- 
tioned, she  nursed  him  in  a  small  room  a ilj tuning  to  her  own  sleeping- 
apartment,  that  she  might  never  be  absent  from  his  call  for  aid  in  his 
miserable  allhction.  When  he  had  recovered,  in  a  conversation  with 
the  queer  old  housekeeper,  who  loved  him  as  dearly  as  her  own  soul,  , 
he  questioned  her  as  to  the  service  and  contents  of  the  cabinet  in  hitj 
aunt's  chamber,  because  he  had  seen  her  so  frequently  bending  over  it 
by  midnight,  when  she  had  risen  from  a  restless  |iiliow^  and  he  had 
heard  her  speak  with  a  full  heart  and  suppressed  voice  to  something 
which  was  hidden  in  that  strange  depository.  He  never  could  gain 
anything  from  the  withered  dame  but  a  trembling  sigh,  uplifted 
hands,  and  a  slow  repetititm  of  these  words  in  an  impressive  %vhisper, 
"  It  is  a  treasure,  boy  l  It  is  a  treasure  V  and  those  words  burnt  into 
the  very  depth  of  his  imagination.  Like  him,  JVIolJy  knew  nothing 
more  than  she  had  stealthily  witnessed  a  hundred  times  by  night  and 
day*  She  had  seen  her  lady  for  hours  before  the  unfolded  doors  of  the 
cabinet ;  she  had  heard  her  prayers,  and  bitter  grief*  All  beside  was 
mystery. 

A  miniature  of  Ellen  Stdisbury  in  her  girlish  day  hung  over  the  ark 
of  the  secret,  and  the  superstitious  Welshwoman,  in  her  private  faxifa|4 
conceived  that  by  some  whispered  spell  or  jewelled  talisman  the  sur- 
viving sister  corresponded  with  Ibe  one  who  had  wasted  in  the  grave, 
and  in  her  earthly  form  and  earthly  tongue,  though  invisible  to  ev^f^ 


^mm 


THE    LITTLE   VELVET    SHOES. 


tiiie  besiilt^     Moreover,  she  steadfastly  believed  there  was  treasure  of  ^ 
gald  ihere  resservt^d  for  some  particular  purposes*     Thereupon,  we  will 
rest  from  u  continuation,  and  tiike  up  the  iinale  of  the  story. 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  month  of  July,  when  the  meadows  were 
shorn  of  their  lengthened  verdure,  and  tempting  fruit  hung  upon  the 
slender  houghs  of  the  garden,  Owen  Salisbury  returned  from  the  wnn 
in  Portugal  a  beggar  aud  iin  invalid*  Hither  and  thither  he  roamed^  s 
prowling,  unprepossessing  vagabond.  One  evening  he  met  a  compa- 
nion of  former  dissolute  times  at  a  western  sea-port,  and,  inflamed  with 
ardent  litjuors,  the  thought  of  the  old  cabinet  in  his  aunt's  bedchamber 
came  to  mind ;  for  treasure  ^vas  there — ^treasure  which,  craftily  obtained « 
might  give  luxuries  to  his  need,  for  a  length  of  time  measured  only  by 
his  hot  and  greedy  imagination.  Parting  from  the  evil  spirit  that  had 
miniatered  to  his  criminal  intention*  he  set  forward  alone,  and  with 
good  speed  J  for  his  native  borough  again. 

In  the  darkness  of  a  stormy  night  he  reconnoitred  the  dilapidated 
habitation,  and  found  it  was  tenantless  and  void.  With  the  twilight 
of  the  following  morning  he  plunged  into  the  wild  and  wooded  vicinity, 
lest  his  foreign  garb  and  strange  countenance  should  lead  to  a  recog^ 
nition,  or  to  troublesome  observation.  There,  whilst  he  straggled  from 
rock  to  rock  over  the  gnarled  stems  and  gwshing  brooks,  he  heard  an 
un tuneful  voice  droning  out  the  broken  measure  of  a  pensive  lament 
popular  in  thtit  border-country  :  and  looking  down  from  the  precipitous 
point  upon  which  he  was  stationed  towards  the  more  level  ground  I 
wrinkled  with  the  indistinct  circles  of  Homan  forti^cation^  he  perceived 
near  the  outbuildings  the  stooping  figure  of  a  decrepid  woman. 

It  was  old  JMoUy  trimming  up  the  wicker  prison  of  her  favourite 
nmgpio  'f  and  he  knew  her  at  once  by  form,  and  by  the  song,  which  ' 
had  been  a  Jullahy  to  his  infancy;  and  presently,  from  the  porch  in  the 
ivied  walls  of  the  garden  enclosure,  he  saw  the  tall  and  stately  person 
of  his  Aunt  Biirbara,  hwded,  as  was  her  custom,  and  with  a  volume 
pressed  by  one  wliite  hand  to  her  troubled  bosom^  There  was  such  ft 
clear  light  upon  the  whole  scene  that  it  looked  like  some  vivid  picture 
held  at  proper  distance  from  the  eye  of  the  beholder, — the  white  stone 
house  reflecting  the  sunshine, — the  wooden  bridges  over  the  surround-* 
ing  trench, — the  female  forms, — the  picturesque  variations  of  the  8oil^ 
and  the  crisp  and  waving  foliage  of  the  orchard-trees.  Speedily  he 
gathered  in  the  whole  of  the  landscape,  with  a  rush  of  bitter  thoughts^ 
and  then  he  hastened  to  the  shadowy  grove,  where  he  remained  unol>*  ] 
served  till  the  sunset  of  the  evening. 

Barbara  was  wasted  as  the  wreathed  cloud  whidi  faded  graduaUj  ia 
the  faint  blue  of  the  eastern  sky.     She  was  seated  at  the  chamDOw  . 
window  in  the  front  of  the  mansion,  and  around  the  window  8pre«4| 
the  dark  and  withered  branches  of  a  lifeless  tree.     Sometimes  ihtt' 
gazed  steadily  njion  the  high  heaven  and  its  sunset  hues ;  ever  and 
anon  she  cast  a  melancholy  look  upon  the  dense  woodland,  and  the  few 
quiet  residences  upon  the  skirt  of  the  adjacent  town.     The  sad-colour* 
ed  tower  of  the  venerable  Friary  church  arose  from  the  edge  of  the 
sun- lit  habitutiotis,  and  uplifted  its  turret  of  legendary  fame,  called  the 
**  Gidfttx  Cluiir^*'  into  the  transparent  atmosphere*     The  glorious  gr^ 
dation  of  clouds  in  the  west  gave  place  to  lines  of  broken  fidl-cloudi» 
and  soon  all  upon  the  earth  was  bosomed  licneath  the  indistinct  grey* 
Here  and  there  the  twinkling  stars  prochiimed  the  coming  of  the  duU- 
footed  spirits  of  the  night.  There  was  a  delicious  stillness  every  wiiere  ;  J 


t 

i 


If' 


THE   LITTLE   VELVET   SHOES. 


371 


iuid  ^e  p<ior  faint  lady  thought  uf  !ier  sister's  child^  Her  own  clear 
castaway.  The  cool  brec's^  upon  Iilt  lips  broiif;ht  retneiiibriince  of  bis  , 
|ilayful  kisses  in  cbildhood*  tlappy  were  tbe  hours  when  he  leaned  tti 
her  knees  to  bear  of  the  eloquent  ialking-birds  of  eastern  romunce,  anii 
t<i  listen  to  tbe  wild  and  sportive  melodies  sung  and  cherished  by  the  ^ 
brave  and  gentle  pirinces  of  ancient  Britain.  She  drew  down  the  case* 
mentj  and  summoned  the  decrepid  servant  to  ber  chamber. 

Old  Morgan,  the  moJe-catcber,  who  bad  means  of  entrance  to  his 
own  apartments,  dined  that  day  with  his  *"  Society  of  North  Britons," 
at  a  village  eight  miles  distant,  and  was  not  expected  home  until  a 
later  hour.  The  servant  retired  to  rest,  and  then  the  lady.  Tlie  latter 
carefully  searched  the  dwelling,  and  then  pniyed  a  long  time  before  sbe 
unvested  herself,  spending  the  usual  time  at  tbe  mysterious  cabinet  I 
Indeed,  she  lingered  there  an  unmtuul  time  (even  tu  the  darkness  of 
night)  upon  that  solemn  occasion.  It  was  Ellen's  birthday  1  and  her 
son,  with  evil  thoughts,  was  at  tbe  threi^bold- 

Poor  Aunt  Barbara  lay  upon  her  bed,  and  a  quick  hoUr  told  upon 
the  dial,  which  was  almost  the  only  thing  in  that  chamber  which  re- 
dected  a  gleam  of  b'gbt.  She  bad  not  slept,  but  she  bad  seemed  ta 
sleep  ;  for,  wbilst  ber  thoughts  were  divided  with  tbe  land  of  dreams*  J 
ttbe  became  sensible  that  the  window  of  her  apartment  bad  been  open- 
ed, imd  that  a  strange  perst»n  was  in  the  room,  stealing  along  gently 
near  to  the  foot  of  the  bed.  She  maintained  a  breathless  silence*  Tbe 
intruder  did  tbe  same.  She  tried  to  speak  ;  a  fire  burnt  upon  ber 
brain,  and  she  could  not  whisper  the  smallenit  word.  She  became,  as 
it  were  tbe  shadow  of  herself.  Here  eyes  alone  had  intense  apprecia^ 
tion  of  form,  and  she  saw  an  arm,  and  tbe  upper  portion  of  a  mans 
body,  slowly  rising  as  from  tbe  floor  to  the  sacred  ciibinet;  then  rose  a 
second  arm,  and  the  cabinet  was  cautiously  removed  from  tbe  summit  , 
of  the  piece  of  furniture  on  which  it  rested,  and  withdrawn  gently  to-  , 
wards  tbe  ground.  An  ice-ltke  death  pervaded  ber  limbs,  and  then  ; 
glow,  as  with  a  delirious  fever.  She  leaped  at  once  to  the  floor,  and  | 
found  herself  in  the  grasp  of  a  savage  miscreant*  As  be  loosed  for  i 
moment  tbe  prize  be  bad  found  to  enfold  ber  in  his  dreadful  arms,  she 
looked  closely  and  surely  into  his  face,  and  saw  his  glistening  eyes; 
and  in  that  instant  horror  and  amazement  stilled  every  pnlsating  flbre  ' 
of  her  frame.  She  recognised  the  child  that  bad  lain  in  ber  bosom. 
As  one  would  hurl  a  bundle  of  withered  leaves,  or  straw,  he  flung  her 
with  a  slight  exertion  against  tbe  wall  of  tbe  chamber ;  and  when  he 
saw  that  she  moved  not.  nor  breathed,  after  the  fall,  struck  wiib  re- 
morse, he  descended  by  tbe  bare  arms  of  the  tree  from  the  casement  to 
the  ground*  At  the  same  second  of  time  the  old  housekeeper  was 
screaming  terribly  from  her  window  for  aid  ;  and  I^Iorg-an,  with  bis 
fierce  dog,  were  ascending  a  ridge  of  the  intrencliment  in  sight  of  the 
habitation.  Rapidly  the  villain  turned  to  tbe  woodland;  the  dog  pur- 
sued. Morgan,  who  was  more  thju  half  intoxicated  with  festival 
drinks,  was  unable  to  join  in  tbe  chase  ,*  however,  us  s«>on  as  he  learned 
from  IHoUy  at  tbe  open  window  that  iMiss  Barbara  was  murdered,  be 
left  dog  and  rascal  to  their  several  chances,  and  ran,  steadied  by  the 
excitement,  to  tbe  nearest  family  dwelling.  The  clownish  people  were 
soon  afoot ;  one  went  for  aid  to  a  second  farm  ;  one  to  Ibe  next  town 
spread  the  alarm. 

Miss  Barbara  was  not  dead,  but  ber  senses  were  gone  for  ever. 
VVbexi  the  doctor  arrived,  with  others  to  whom  the  express  had  been  de* 


372 


THE   ANCIENT  CHVKCH. 


livci'ed,  be  found  neitber  wound  nor  bruise  upon  ber  person.  Sbe  afu*r- 
wvk  lecuyered  feeling  sod  motion ;  but  insanity  bad  fixed  a  terrible 
aeil  of  testtnwMiy  upoii  the  brain.  It  was  d«?clared  to  be  fear  and  horror 
wbicb  bsd  to  disturbed  tbe  fountain  of  her  tbougbt.  Tbe  constables, 
and  tbe  parties  wbo  bad  been  aroused,  pursued  the  seareb  fur  the  cri- 
minal. Tbe^r  beoimed  in  tbe  woodlands^  and  made  assiduou:^  scrutiny 
of  the  corers  and  rugged  ebeltering-places.  At  la&t  tbe  eurgeon^  who 
bad  preceded  with  those  on  horseback^  who  carried  torcbe^^,  came  up 
with  his  company  to  the  entmnce  of  a  carern  since  known  ai»  Salis* 
buwy'M  CaiCt  ana  there,  suspended  by  a  handkerchief  to  the  lower 
branch  of  a  wjtcb-elm,  bung  a  youth  of  singular  Hppearan<^.  Upon 
bis  head  was  a  torn  cloth  cap^  circled  \i-ith  lace,  such  aa  is  worn  hy  the 
military  in  undress;  bis  grey  trousers^  banded  with  red  cloth*  were  in 
tattered  condition.  In  spite  of  his  sallowed  complexion  and  lengthen* 
ed  hair^  moustacboed  lip,  and  pointed  beard,  he  was  at  once  recognised 
as  that  returned  vagabond,  O^ven  Salisbury. 

Near  to  tbe  foot  of  tbe  tree  was  Moi^an  s  favourite  dog,  bleeding  to 
death  from  a  wound  in  the  throat,  which  had  evidently  been  indicted 
by  a  clasp-knife,  which  lay  upon  the  dewy  grass.  Within  the  opening 
of  tbe  cave,  upon  the  gravelled  floor,  where,  from  the  impression  that 
¥raa  made  in  the  sand,  the  villain  had  some  while  been  seated  to  rum* 
mage  the  spoil  be  bad  taken,  was  fonnd  the  mosaic  cabinet,  identified  by 
the  tearful  mole-catcher.  The  contents  were  emptied,  and  by  the  side 
of  it  /fljf  a  Hftle  pair  of  embroidered  velvet  shoes!  They  wejre  the  work 
of  his  poor  Aunt  Barbara,  worn  in  the  days  of  his  innocence,  and  her 
only  treasure,  and  bad  been  watered  daily  with  the  tears  of  her  af- 
fectbn. 


THE  ANCIENT  CHURCH. 


The  ancient  churcb  of  my  childhood's  days  ! 
A  cbami  stili  hreattiea  an  itn  hnJlonring  praise; 
Th«  winds  are  teeming  now  with  its  vhime, 
But  it  souiidf  to  me  at  tbe  kndl  of  Time  ! 
I  heard  it  oft  when  a  simple  child, 
'Midst  tbe  summer  gale,  or  the  tempest  vnM; 
But  never  till  now  could  the  «well  irapArt 
A  tone  so  soft  fia  to  melt  the  heart  1 
I  love  tbe  spot  where  my  fathers  nest, 
And  dear  is  the  pile  thpir  voiees  blest ! 

Oft  have  I  storn  at  the  twilight's  doae 
Where  the  knight  and  his  ladye-Iore  repose  ; 
And  there^  a.%  the  evening  shades  grew  dim^ 
M'ould  tune  my  thoughts  to  a  vesper  hj^mn  ! 
Years  have  passed ^  »nd  I  trt»»d  iigtiin 
With  a  fttltiiring  step  that  ancient  fane  ; 
liut  all  seems  changed,  though  I  trace  not  where, 
Till  1  press  my  hrow,  iind  1  find  *iia  tliere  ! 
1  bjve  the  spot  wbeifs  my  fuihers  rest. 
And  dear  i«  the  pile  their  voices  ble«t ! 


373 


ODE  TO  LOVK. 


STROPHE. 

Come,  Btnpling  god,  select  thy  keenest  shaft. 

With  tighten *d  cordage  be  thy  bow  oomprest. 
Deep  in  my  soul  the  feathery  barb  engraft. 

And  with  th*  adored  one's  image  fiU  my  breast ; 
Flush  me  with  transport  warm  and  wild. 

Inspire  the  tide  of  numbers  bold  and  fair. 
Now  rolling  foamy  proud,  now  rippling  mild. 

Thy  lineage,  birth,  and  actions  to  declare  : 
When  Venus  yielded  to  the  god  of  war, 

And  panted  in  th*  armipotent's  embrace. 
Thy  birth  was  hailM  by  erery  rolling  star  ; 

With  smiles  Hyperion  ran  his  blazing  race  ; 
Time  leaned  impatient  from  his  dusky  car. 

And  urged  his  fire-eyed  coursers  on  their  pace. 

AKTISTBOPHE. 

The  laughing  dame,  with  silent  tread, 

Traversed  the  wild  wood's  deepest  gloom. 
Where  groves  of  myrrh  their  dropping  frag^nce  shed. 

And  spikenard  thickets  welter'd  ridb.  perfume. 
She  sought  her  bower  of  amaranthine  woof, — 

Her  bower,  where  thomless  roses  paved  the  ground. 
And  honeysuckles,  arching  to  a  roof. 

With  odorous  myrtles,  wreathed  the  walls  around. 
Her  snowy  bosom  fell  and  rose. 

Her  fluttering  heart  heaved  fast  with  anxious  joy  ; 
There,  with  soft  tumults  and  celestial  throes, 

On  flow*rs  the  goddess  bore  her  lovely  boy. 
Him  Truth  received  upon  her  stedfast  knee, — 

The  fairest  nymph  that  roam*d  th'  Arcadian  bowers. 
Whom  Jove,  her  sire  eternal,  joy'd  to  see. 

And  raised  her  golden  throne  amid  th'  immortal  powers. 
Her  meek  unsullied  vesture  white. 

Bound  with  a  cincture  of  cerulean  dye, 
Floated  in  folds  so  lucid  and  so  light. 

That  scarce  one  charm  escaped  the  curious  eye. 

STROPHE. 

Nature  rejoiced,  for  Love  on  earth  was  bom  -, 

Zephvrus  gently  stirr'd  the  glades  ; 
The  tall  trees  bent  their  head  like  sedgy  corn. 

The  nodding  palms  commixed  their  amorous  shades ; 
Astraea,  with  her  spotless  train. 

From  mom  till  evening  made  the  valleys  ring  ; 
Each  Sylvan's  pipe  accorded  to  the  strain  ; 

Erato,  kindling,  swept  her  heav'nly  string. 
And,  when  led  forth  by  Tmth,  his  guardian  sweet. 

The  dimplinff  cherub  first  impress'd  the  dew, 
The  green  ear£  glow'd  beneath  his  tiny  feet ; 

The  heaven  above  him  flamed  a  purer  blue; 
Their  swelling  throats  with  harmony  replete, 

The  winged  warblers  chaunted  as  they  flew  ; 
Each  water-nymph  her  waves  before  him  roll'd, 

Murmuring  against  their  banks  with  music  wild  ; 
The  Dryads  strew'd  his  path  with  flow'rs  untold  ;^ 

The  Graces,  when  they  met  him,  sigh'd  and  smiled, 

Smooth'd  back  his  flaxen  curls,  and  kiss'd  the  rosy  child. 


ODE   TO    LOVE. 


AJTTISTBOPHE. 


11  it  iii£uit  jeKTS  o*erpast  with  glee, 
Unaided  to  ibe  fields  be  sprung  ; 
A  abeaf  of  arrows,  bumiiig  to  be  freOf 

Betvaen  bis  gold>fiadg«i  pimons  hung» 
Witb  tbeae  abov«  tbe  douda  he  toar'd 

To  old  Olrropiia'  hoarj  height. 
Then;  drew  his  silver-twisted  cord, 
And  fiU*d  tb*  immortalt  with  a  stmn^*  delight. 
Tbe  aire  of  goda^  who  gives  the  lightning *»  Kleain, 
With  eudleM  jroutb  t^invest  his  forehead  high, 
Nodded  his  sanctioti^  and  tbe  sign  supreme 

Shook  tlie  pule  pillars  of  tbe  vaulted  sky, — 
Then  realoii  terrestrial  yielded  to  bis  search- 
Bis  biirtn,  aasalUng  first  the  plumy  throngs 
Smote  tbe  pounced  i»gle  on  liis  rocky  perch. 

And  checked  tbe  laverock  in  her  mornlitg  song. 
Roving,  witb  bow  still  beaded  at  bia  breast^ 

The  plain,  the  mountun,  and  tbe  inaay  bower^ 
Wide  as  tbe  earth  CKtenda  ber  emerald  vest, 

Tbe  hairy  lavagee  corafessM  bis  power; 
Tbe  wild  boards  horrid  bristles  fell, 

Tbe  cavQching  tiger  kissM  the  plain. 
And  softly  sunk  in  many  a  curling  sweU 
Tbe  shaggy  terrors  oi  the  Uou*s  mane. 


Nor  leai  inflamed  witb  rapture  high, 

Tbe  u&poUsb'd  Sylvana  felt  his  force, 
And  roused  t*  unwonted  melody 

Tbdr  oaten  pipes  and  tahreu  hoaiM, 
Swift  to  the  green-hair'd  forest 'taaidv 

With  rude  devotion,  pre&s*d  the  honest  Fauns, 
i'laiting  them  garlands  in  the  woodland  shades^ 

Or  dancing  fur  their  sport  along  the  luwns, 
The  raviih*d  cocoa's  milky  juice 

They  brought,  with  bloomy  grapes  like  purple  gems. 
From  husky  prison  set  the  filbert  locne. 

And  tore  tho  wild  roil  apples  from  their  Atems. 
Each  to  the  nymph  he  loved  his  spoilage  look  : 

Tb'  approving  nymphs  no  more  their  fcight  forbear. 
But  ga3E«  upon  thoir  spurts  with  sniiUng  look, 

And  Kid  them  in  tbe  honeyed  lianquet  share. 
Echo  their  songs  from  hillock,  maze,  or  brook, 
And  pcmr  freob  floods  of  socmd  along  the  whispering  air. 

▲XTISTEOPBB. 

But  chief  within  itie  generous  breast  of  man 

He  proved,  exulting^  his  superior  might. 
And  strewM  the  race  hia  mortal  footsteps  ran 

Witb  softening  herbs  and  tlow'rs  of  rich  delight. 
When,  resting  on  his  crook^  the  shepherd  swaiu 

Beholds  tlie  meek -eyed  virgin  in  the  grove. 
Deep  in  his  breast  he  feels  the  pleasing  pain> 

Chasing  her  shade,  liis  raptured  glances  move  ; 
Th'  enamour'd  youth  forgeU  each  rustic  strain. 

And  tunes  hi$  moUow'd  pipe  to  nought  but  love. 
To  win  her  praise  his  manly  nervcR  he  strung) 

And|  Danger  uf  his  vizard  grim  despoilMf 
To  dcsperutc  deed«  and  bold  achievements  sprung, 

From  which  his  iinimpassion'd  heart  recoiled. 
He  tame^i  the  forest- timer's  pride. 

Out  nil  1  the  nntelii|>e  tind  ibex  tieet, 
HiilihM  tlie  strong  panther  of  hii  brindled  hide, 

And  luid  their  sleeky  ireaiures  at  her  feet* 


ODE  TO   LOVE.  375 

With  mutual  hands  they  kindle  Hymen's  torch. 

Then  sheltering  roofs  above  the  rafters  close  ; 
Bright  flames  the  hearth  within  their  oaken  porch— 

And  thus  domestic  happiness  i 


Ages  on  ages  rolling  still  succeed, 

Empires  altematdy  ascend  and  fall. 
The  brazen  throau  of  war  bid  nations  bleed. 

And  nations  sink,  yet  Love  survives  them  all. 
Fresh  at  his  steps  the  joys  of  life  increase. 

His  smile  can  soften  man*s  severest  woes. 
And  still  he  prunes  the  olive-branch  of  peace, 

And  twines  the  myrtle  round  the  thorny  rose. 
He,  generous  power  1  first  taught  my  heart  to  beat. 

He  fired  my  bosom  with  a  lasting  flame. 
And  tum'd,  impulsively,  my  wayward  feet 

From  Dissipation's  devious  route  of  shame. 

AKTrSTKOPHE. 

Within  those  wilds  my  tent  shall  ne^er  be  cast. 

Where  Bacchanals  their  roystering  orgies  sing. 
And  Anteros,  the  hydra- serpent  vast. 

In  scales  of  gold  conceals  his  mortal  sting. 
These  would  I  shun,  and  equally  avoid 

The  haunts  where  Fashion  spreads  her  gaudy  lure. 
Where  dubious  Faction  struts,  and  pompous  Pride, 

With  hypercritical  aspect  demure ; 
There,  link'd  with  Discord  in  a  massy  chain, 

Stalks  foul  Suspicion  with  her  hundred  arms. 
And  Adulation's  soft  obsequious  train 

Heap  on  the  shrine  of  Wealth  their  proflTer'd  charms^ 
In  borrow'd  splendour  moves  the  glittering  throng,-. 

Profane  or  trifling  objects  all  engage. 
Hark  !  how  unwearying  Scandal  wags  her  tongue, 

And  purblind  Prejudice  exalts  his  rage ! 
Let  mad  Ambition  grasp  his  lacquerM  gains, 

Let  Vanity  still  centre  on  himself. 
Let  Sloth  ignoble  hug  her  leaden  chains. 

And  doating  Avarice  heap  the  drossy  pelf ! 


My  breast  shall  glow  with  more  exalted  fires. 

At  nobler  aims  my  heart  shall  learn  to  bound  ; 
Philosophy  shall  bridle  vain  desires. 

And  calm  contentment  sprinkle  sweets  around  : 
Though  huntress  Diligence  still  wind  her  coil. 

Bidding  me  early  quit  the  couch  of  Rest, 
Through  the  long  day  to  speed  with  honest  Toil, 

And  blithe  Activity  with  hairy  breast. 
Orey-mantled  Eve  shall  bring  her  stores  of  jov. 

And  healthy  Temperance  solace  Thirst  witn  bliss. 
And  Gratitude  the  plenteous  meal  employ, 

And  mild  Affection  print  her  artless  kiss ; 
Then  Fancy  shall  her  glistening  robes  unfold, 

T*  invest  each  image  by  Reflection  made ; 
And  Mirth  her  nimble-flashing  torch  uphold. 

To  lighten  Mebincholy's  passing  shade : — 
Love  shall  the  clouding  cares  of  life  subdue. 

And  Virtue,  glorious  guide  !  behind  her  cast 
The  broad  enticing  gate,  and  still  pursue 

The  straitened  road  that  tends  to  Heav*u  at  last. 

w.  y.  B. 


S76 
OUTFOURINGS. 


uiATHnr  nx  sstsxth. 

•'tmnr  Mat.  lac^  Tnrf~ — fine  ir  Ymapr^iten^ Sir  ftidiBrd  Kmi^ — Sioddart  and 

Ofc   •■McmBjres^ — ir«Bm.*»  liwncy. — ^SiarTC. — Tlir  rvo  Snitla,  Ac, — Warde 
— fill*-  Binir  if  uiMK.  nnr. — Herrr — Hif  fcwm  die  xvaxt^  whk  P«wer.^RcB* 

L— Fs«  iiyiBi  ■nil  OP  tW  «aJaM.--Bob  C 

BL. — Smrer  K  Tam^t, — llemhen  «f  the  Buiiingtoo. 
L—FaBi:  Bediara.  &c — Mmmtr  puadk-kovl.— Penifbge. 
— 'lUkBiv-  imp 

v^  cmsmif  liif  arwinc-TooBi  m  Kxx^  Scrcet  one  monun^,  I 
tmmc  Pnvsr  hc^sani^  the  air  fnnonslT  witii  the  poker.  Dubious  of 
i»f  «uiirL   Z  pmuaec  oc  aie  ifasiedkcud. 

"  Or     some  in.'  cnsd  he,  lan^iim^    ''I>an*t  be  afraid.    I'm  only 


*  T«»  £  }s3sht  imn  1  csjiks  tr  be  allied  on  to  pUj  in  the  oourte 
nf  iitf  mirmni^.  ^Z^iere  i-  & feLnir  ^cang  about — some  repdie,  beloog- 
m£  ur  I.  iMTiAdica  loas.  ^aoiiecL  who  ^s  eop^ed  to  write  our  bic^;r»- 

T^if&     2t  salUiL  OL  C ycsardax  far  husb-inoDej.  and  I  'we  no 

onuh:  h<  *1.  )v  a:  au..  If  I  ind  he  iDeMut  to  attempt  wnf  Gfe,  I  mem 
XI  ^Ti-iir-i  -dtf  mnuilmisn: ;  sc  I  'ic  jad  ^«c&ng  mj  hand  in  a  little— 
^u-     i2L     iu.       Thic '« all.'' 

It  mn^arsii.  ztaa  C was  at  broakfasc  when  a  stranger  was  an- 

•  Xr  iT •  «Bj£  ibf  tancT.  *•  I  'hi  coiraged  to  write  your  life  in 

litf  f-irnirnminr  nimihfr  /if  Tht .     Now,  there  are  two  ways  of 

i:i:js£  liiiiw.     1  car  dUie:  "vriif  vou  k^**  or — ** 

-  CV  write  xw  omrL.  2  siai|uic^*'  siod  C . 

Tbf  fcnizice'  smijftd.  n?*r«  hif  dttaar  ckiser,  and  whispered  some- 

t>rSg  iat;  C *  ear. 

^  Goad  Heai  esf : "  ciLchanied  C ,  taming  pile,  "  tou  wouldn't 

trU  i-iic: .'  If  h  fvc  ix&o  jcrnn  jaA  xiow  I  dtonld  be  ruined — I  should 
nercr  be  al«9wni  to  affioar  on  the  London  boaitis  a^^un !" 

Now.  C wafc.  i*^  and  aiiwti'S  has  beien,  a  highly  respectable 

man.     Bct^ 


There  are  pasagcs  in  evar  bhi*s  fife  which,  on  the  principle 
^  ike  iJkree  cromt,  asaj  be  reptcjuatted  to  his  prejudice.  The  stran- 
fo^*  whiqwr  icfaicd  to  aoaae  joarthM  peccadillo,  venial  enough  in 
UaM,  but  which  C—  saw,  prapcrij  Tunped  up  and  peppered, 
aught  rain  him  in  the  present  state  of  pnblic  feeling,  which,  owing 
to  orcmnstances,  happened,  just  at  mat  precise  period,  to  run 
itniiigl  J  against  the  sU^^  and  its  proleasora. 

"I >e  no  wish  to  injure  joo,  or  hurt  Toar  feelings,"  resumed  the 

^ ;  "but  mj  doty  to  the  pnblio-I'* 

'a  jofor  price?**  intefTQDted  C ,  who  saw  the  necessity 

■ighiiD.    "  How  nadi  am  I  to  give  you  to  suppress  it  ?  " 


OUTPODRINOS. 


377 


^Two   hundred  pounds!"  returned  the  other,    encouraged    by 
.  fears* 

imoiint  startled  C *     It  recalled  him   to  his  better  aelf. 

He  did  now  whjit  be  ought  to  liave  done  the  moment  he  compre- 
hended the  motive  of  the  man's  visit — urdered  him  out  of  ike  /tottJtc, 
and  refused  to  givt:  him  t.me  farthing 

C— ^-  mentioned  the  matter  next  moming  to  Sir  Richard  Birnie, 
adding,  '*  I  'd  a  great  mind,  Sir  Richard,  to  have  kicked  the  rascal 
■^ut/' 

**  Why  didn't  you?*'  exclaimed  the  indignant  magistrate ;  '*be'd 
bavc  got  no  redress  if  he  'd  come  to  me/' 

One  day  I  dined  at  Power's  with  Sharpe,  the  artist,  and  ]Mr.  8tod- 
dart,  of  Sidney,  Stoddart,  who  had  formerly  been  a  bookseller  in 
tlie  Strand,  gave  ns  a  very  interesting  account  of  his  being  robbed 
amd  detained  by  the  bushrangers.  While  proceeding  to  a  farm  he 
possessed  up  the  country,  a  voice  hailed  him  from  the  bush.  Bend- 
ing on  bis  saddle,  he  put  spurs  to  hia  horse,  when  a  bullet  whistled 
over  his  head.  Convinced,  from  the  wretched  slate  of  the  road,  that 
he  had  no  chance  of  escaping,  be  deemed  it  mast  prudent  to  pull  up. 
Four  ruffians  now  rushed  from  the  bush  and  seized  his  bridle. 

"You  did  right  to  pull  up,  Mr.  Stoddart,"  said  the  ringleader,  ad- 
dressing him  by  his  name.  **  The  next  shot  must  have  floured  you, 
I  Ml  trouble  you  tor  what  money  you  have  about  you.  You  've  no- 
thing tt>  fear/'  continued  be,  when  Stoddart  had  complied  with  this 
requisition.  '*  We  can't  let  you  go  yet.  but  we  '11  treat  you  civilly. 
And  with  thi^  they  led  him  acunsiderable  distance  throuyb  the  hush 
to  their  bivouac,  where  they  shared  with  him  what  provisions  they 
had,  besides  giving  him  a  glass  of  grog  and  a  cigar. 

These  *'  nn'nions  of  the  mocui"  freely  discussied  their  plans  before 
Stodddrt.  They  mentioned,  without  the  least  reserve,  their  intention 
of  robbing  thix  settler,  burning  out  t/mt,  &c,  &c.  Nay,  they  even 
commissioned  Stoddart  to  tell  a  neighbour  of  his»  who  had  made  him- 
self particularly  obnoxious  to  these  miscreants,  "  that  he  was  booked, 
and  would  get  his  gruel  the  first  opportimity,'* 

"  We  know  we  shall  ;dl  be  hangetl,  IMr,  Stoddart/'  said  the  ring- 
leader, at  parting.  "  but  we're  resiUved  to  lead  a  merry  life,  and  en- 
joy ourselves  while  we  can.  But  let  those  who  meddle  with  or  re- 
sist u»,  look  to  themselves.     Good  night !  " 

Sharpe  nientioned  JMargate.  lie  asked  Power  how  his  friend 
Weston  was. 

"  Ob  !  what  the  King's  tailor  I'*  said  Power,  laughing.  "  Ay  I  you 
remember  1  used  often  to  have  a  chat  with  him  on  the  pier.  11  a  1 
ha  !  ha!  Weston's  veneration  for  George  the  F»mrth  was  certainly 
most  amusing' — ha !  ha  !  ha  l«-the  oddest  species  of  loyalty.  *  Talk  of 
the  Duke  of  York  !'  he  used  to  say,  '  Phoo  !  what 's  the  Duke  of  York, 
sir  ? — What  *s  there  in  managing  an  army  ? — Any  man  may  manage 
an  arniy-=-there 's  nothing  in  that.  But  put  a  pair  of  shears  into  his 
hand,  sir — ^Jus^t  put  a  pair  of  shears  into  his  hand,  and  let  us  see 
what  he  can  do  then!  But  tlie  King,  air  i  The  King,  ]\ir.  Power  ! 
There's  a  man!  Ah!  the  King's  got  some  twuse  in  him! — hc^s  a 
genius  ! — he  untlerstands  it !— //t*  knows  what 's  what,  ^ir !  Just  put 
A  pair  of  shears  into  his  hand  f — Just  see  him  cut  a  wrinkle  out ! 
Why,  be  understands  it,  ay^^  almost  as  well  as  I  do.  Ob  !  the  King's 
I  genius,  sir  !— a  very  great  geniu8  !     Why,  now,  if  any  misfortune 


378 


OUTPOURTNGS, 


was  to  happen  to  that  man,  Mr.  Power,  if  he  was  obliged  to  work 
for  his  bread,  I  *il  give  him  five,  aj,  six  guineas  a-week  only  to  cut 
out  for  meV* 

Sharpe  painted  humorous  subjects  with  great  ability.  He  liked 
good  living,  and  his  rubber;  accompanied  himself  on  the  piano  to 
comic  songs  of  his  own  composition,  and  possessed  an  inexhaui»tible 
store  of  anecdotes  and  ghost- stories,  which  latter  he  retailed  with  all 
the  ^«/^^£>  of  a  true  believer,  to  the  ines^presaible  dismay  of  all  the 
young  ladies  of  hh  acquaintance. 

One  day  ElUston  with  the  two  Smiths  dined  with  Sharpe.  Hi* 
cellar  waxed  low,  but  his  guests  liked  their  wine*  Sharpe  scrawled 
with  his  pencil  on  a  card,  **  Send  for  mme  pori  to  the  puhHc-fumse — 
quick!"  and  slipping  it  into  the  servant's  hand,  whispered  him  to 
give  it  his  mistress,  who  immediately  dispatched  the  man  ictr  half-a- 
dozen  of  port,  which  arrived  just  as  a  fresh  bottle  was  wanted. 

**  Now,  fortune  send  they  *ve  drunk  too  much  to  find  out  the  dif- 
ference!" prayed  Sharpe  to  himself,  as  he  passed  the  bottle.  *•  Of 
course  it 's  regular  black-strap.  1 11  not  touch  it  myself  if  I  can 
help  it.** 

His  guests  drank — smacked  their  lips — drank  again — and  re- 
placed their  glasses.  Sharpe's  ears  tingled — he  sat  upon  thorns — he 
wished  himself  at  the  Antipodes !  "  They  *ve  found  it  out,"  thought 
Sharpe,  ^'^I  shall  never  get  over  it — what  a  shabby  dog  they'll 
think  me." 

'*  Sharpe,  you  *re  a  capital  fellow  !  **  exclaimed  Etliston.  **  You 
ought  to  have  your  statue  erected.  Where  did  yoii  get  that  wine? 
It's  without  exception  the  best  of  it's  kind  I  ever  tasted." 

"  I  was  just  going  to  make  the  same  remark,"  84iid  Horace  Smith* 
holding  up  his  glass  to  the  light.  ''Did  you  import  it  yourself, 
Sharpe,  or  did  you  get  it  from  Durrant?" 

"Hope  you  've  a  full  bin  of  it,"  pursued  his  brother  James,  after 
draining  his  glass  ;  ''  ha  !  ha  i  ha  !  Any  bin  but  the  has  been,  you 
know.  Eh,  Sharpe  [  especially  where  such  wine  aa  this  is  con- 
cerned." 

"  Yea !  I  knew  I  should  catch  it— I  knew  I  should  get  preciously 
badgered  about  it,"  cried  poor  Sharpe,  ''but,  the  fkct  is — " 

'*  Pshaw  !  toss  off  your  wine,  man»  and  pass  the  bottle,"  interrupt, 
ed  Elliston,  impatiently.     "  I  want  another  glass," 

Sharpe  obeyed,  but,  to  his  infinite  surprise,  found  the  black^strap 
mod  excellent  cfarct  J 

Next  mornhig  he  went  to  the  public-house. 

*'  Ah  f  I  know  what  your  come  about,  J\Ir.  Sharpe,"  said  the  land- 
lord as  soon  as  he  saw  him  ;  *  you  've  come  to  scold  me  for  sending 
you  that  sour  port.  But  it  waan*t  my  f;iult — it  wasn't,  indeed,  sir. 
It  was  the  only  port  I  had,  and  I  told  your  servant  it  wasn't  fit  for 
gentlemen  to  ^riiVk,  but  he  said  he  must  have  it,  sir,  and  so  I  gave  it 
him." 

*'  Where  did  you  get  it  ? "  inquired  Sharpe. 

"  At  a  sale*  sir,  I  bought  six  dozen  of  it.  But  it 's  so  plaguy  thin 
and  sour  ihrtl  none  of  my  customers  will  drink  it" 

"Have  you  much  le*\  ?  "  said  Sharpe,  carelessly. 

"  Nearlv  the  whole  lot»  sir— I  don't  suppose  1  *ve  used  half-a-doien 
bottles.     It  only  does  to  make  negus  of.     I  only  wish  I  could  get 


< 


A 


OUrrOURTNGS, 


S79 


somebody  to  take  it  ofT  my  hands>  I   know.     He  should  have  it  a 
bargain." 

"  Well,  I  don't  care  if  /  take  it,"  said  Sbarpe. 

''You  sir  r' 

"  Yes,  the  fact  is,  that  sort  of  light  wine  agrees  with  me.'* 

In  half-an-hoiir  the  whole  batch  was  snug  in  Sharpens  celhir. 

One  night  Sharpe  was  playing  at  loo  witli  his  brother  Henry.  He 
won  every  trick. 

"  Now,  sing  your  song  of  triumph  over  me"  said  Henry, 
peevishly, 

"  I  will,"  returned  Sharpe,  laughing,  "  I  *11  sing  tfal-f^foo-t/ou  /  " 

I  sometimes  met  Warde  in  King  Street,  Warde  was  a  Bath  man. 
His  real  name  was  Prescott,  He  was  originally  in  the  artillery  ;  but 
his  success  as  an  amateur  induced  him  to  turn  his  sword  into  a 
truncheon,  and  adopt  the  stage  as  a  profession,  in  which,  with  com- 
mon prudence,  he  might  have  realized  an  independence.  Warde 
was  at  the  bead  of  second  class  tragedians.  Though  his  features 
were  petit s,  and  his  action  somewhat  formal,  his  person,  on  the 
whole,  was  good,  and  he  declaimed  finely.  I  thought  his  Fauiklund 
excellent  With  the  exception  of  Young,  1  never  saw  any  actor  play 
that  wayward  personage  better. 

Practical  jokes  were  sometimes  played  off  upon  Warde.  One  tXiky 
he  went  down  with  Power  and  a  large  party  to  eat  white  bait  at 
Greenwich.  IJe  had  scarcely  seated  himself,  when  a  gentleman, 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  requested  Warde  would  change 
places  with  him,  as  the  Ught  from  the  window  hurt  his  eyes.  Warde 
had  no  sooner  complied  with  this  requisition,  than  another  gentle- 
man from  the  bottom  of  the  room,  begged  he  might  be  permitted 
to  sit  next  to  his  brother,  who  was  on  Warde's  right,  upon  which 
our  tragedian  again  shifted  his  seat. 

"Warde!"  shouted  Power,  who  was  in  the  cliair,  *'yon  mustn't 

id t  there ;  you're  in  the  draught,  man !     Here,  come  up  here ;  we  can 

easily  make  room  for  you  !"  and  Warde,  who  dreaded  catching  cold^ 

I       eagerly  obeyed  the  summons. 

I  Here,  it  was  iliscovered  that  the  sun  must  annoy  him,  and  not- 

'       withstanding  he  declared  he  rather  liked  it  than  otherwise,  he  was 

once  more  forced  to  vacate  his  seat,  and  move  to  the  opposite  side  of 

rihe  table. 
^    **  My  dear  Warde,"  exclaimed  G ,  starting  up,  **  I  can't  permit 
you  to  help  that  dish  ;  you  11  get  no  dinner.     Allow  me  to  take  the 
trouble  off  your  liands  ;  I  insist  upon  it." 
In  vain  Warde  assured  him  the  trouble  was  a  pleasure ;  in  vain 
he  protested  he  liked  carving  above  all  things,  and  was  tired  of 

changing   his  chair;   move  he  must,      Q was  inexorable — he 

made  a  point  of  it.  The  whole  company  seconded  hira»  the  presi- 
dent decided  in  his  favour ;  and,  in  a  word,  under  one  pretext  or 
other,  these  Don  Pedro  Positives  obliged  poor  Warde  to  make  the 
entire  ^rro  of  the  table  before  he  could  swallow  a  morsel. 

Betty,  the  ci-ckvaftl  Young  Roscius,*  paid  great  deference  to  Power, 
who  exercised  a  beneficial  infiuence  over  him.  The  FaktaflT  face  and 
bulky  figure  of  this  gentleman,  made  it  difEcult  to  believe  he  had 


*  Fudier  iff  the  preteat  tragediazu 


380 


OUTPOURmoS. 


once  been  ttiat  ynuthful  phenomenon,  whose  extraordinary  personal 

and  intellectual  graces  had  intoxicated  a  kingdom  ;  for  whose  pre- 
sence peeresses  contended ;  whose  slightest  indisposition  made  mana- 
gers tremble  ;  while  all  ranks,  yea,  the  very  princes  of  the  bloody 
rushed,  with  feverish  impatience,  to  consult  the  daily  bulletins  issued 
by  his  physicians;  I  never  saw  Betty  without  feeling  inclined  to 
exclaim  with  Job  Thornberry,  *^La!  were  i/ow  that  pretty  boy? 
How  you  are  altered!'*  But  there  was  one  thing  in  Betty  which 
time  h;id  tiot  altered— a  kind  and  benevolent  heart;  and  that  most 
assuredly  he  still  possesses, 

Betty's  failure  as  a  tragedian  in  his  riper  years  is  a  curious  fact. 
Notwithstanding  the  excellence  of  his  tutelage,  there  is  no  reason  to 
doubt  that  in  boyhood  he  displayed  a  capacity  far  beyond  his  yean. 
Did  the  strain  upon  this  thus  early,  prevent  its  ripening  ?  Aletaphy- 
sicians,  decide ! 

One  night  Power  and  Betty,  after  supping  together,  agreed  to  go 
the  rounds,  and  investigate  those  mysteries  which  Modem  Babylon, 
during  the  darker  hours,  offers  to  the  speculative  and  the  curious. 
About  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  these  two  philosophers  found 
themselves  at  the  door  of  one  of  those  early  public-houses,  which 
open  at  daybreak  for  the  accommodation  of  those^  whose  callings, 
lawful  or  unlawful,  render  such  resorts  necessary.  Here,  the  thief, 
the  prostitute,  and  the  ancient  charley  met,  at  the  close  of  their  pro- 
fessional labours,  on  neutral  grouml,  and  solaced  themselves,  after 
the  latigues  of  the  night,  with  hot  mulled  wine,  strongly  spiced, 
before  they  turned  in  to  sleep  like  owh  through  day,  in  which  the 
mHJority  of  them  delighted  not, 

**  Shall  we  go  in?"  quoth  Betty. 

**  Ay,  pui*h  on/'  said  Power.     "  Let  us  see  all  we  can,  Harry/* 

8ti  in  tliL-y  went. 

Tliu  place  was  crowded  wlih  wretched  remnants  of  humanity, 
poor  done-up  cretitures,  alike  hopeless  and  reckless,  the  o|f-scounng« 
of  the  community,  all  eagerly  clamouring  for  that  h'quid  lethe  which 
was  to  afford  them  a  temporary  oblivion,  but  which  apparently  waj 
not  forthcoming  quite  so  soon  a«  their  cravings  for  this  indispensable 
stimului»  required.  '* Curses  deep  amf  loud**  resounded  through  the 
pantleuionium. 

*'  Why  don't  they  bring  the  hot  s^tuff,"  muttered  in  a  hoarse  voice 
a  dirty-looking  drab,  who  had  seated  her  quaggy  carcass  on  the 
counter,  and  was  swinging  her  tnill-post  legs  to  and  fro.  "  Do  they 
think/'  continued  this  amiable  personage  with  an  oath,  **  we  hji*vn*t 
money  to  p;iy  for  it?" 

Here  her  eye  caught  Beity*s, 

**  Why,  it  *s  Betty  !'*  exclaimed  she  w  iih  another  OHih*  after  staring 
at  him  for  a  moment.  Then  springing  from  the  counter,  she  threw 
her  nrms  around  the  astounded  object  of  her  i^cruDny,  and  honoured 
him  with  a  salute.  At/ss !  there  was  a  time  nhcn  Bdttf  would  harets^ 
iecTticd  tkh  an  honour, 

**  Why,  don't  you  know  me? — have  yon  forgotten  me,"  continucii 
•he.  as  Betty,  half  stifled,  disengnged  himself  from  her  embrace; 
'*  I  'm  Harriet  B  !"     Then  rapping  out  another  oath»  she  atlded. 

'*  You  needn't  look  so  shy  at  me !  Many  a  glass  of  champaigne 
fni«*ue  had  lit  my  table/' 

was  too  true.     In  the  bloated,  brutalized  object  now  scowling 


OUTPOURINGS. 


381 


on  him*  Betty,  with  difficulty,  recognised  the  once  graceful  and  ele- 
gant Ninon,  whose  smiles  senators  coveted,  and  whom,  only  two 
little  years  before,  he  remembered  at  the  head  of  a  handsome  estab- 
lishment, revelling  in  all  the  luxuries  of  the  town.  Surehf  more, 
much  Jiwre,  might  be  done  for  these  unjoriunates !  Few  women  arc 
naturatlif  vicious.  Yet  many  Jhll,  and  when  the^  Jail,  ihei/  fall  Jor 
ever  /     Is  this  juxt  ?     Is  it  jx)iitic? 

Dropping  a  sovereign  into  the  hand  of  this  unfortunate,  our  philo- 
sophers proceeded  to  the  Old  Bailey,  where  two  murderers  were  to 
be  executed.  Bettj^  who  happened  to  know  the  sheriff",  t^ent  in  hia 
card,  on  which  they  were  admitted  into  the  interior  of  the  prison* 
Here,  while  explorinj^  a  long  dark  passage,  a  large  bell  suddenly 
boomed  above  their  heads.  Anxious  to  escape  this  dismal  knell, 
thev  rushed  up  a  flight  of  steps,  and  found  themselvea^-o«  the 
scaffold! 

**  Here  they  are,  Bill  !*'  exclaimed  a  voice  among  the  crowd,  who 
immediately  rang  the  welkin  with  their  execrations* 

Well  do  I  remember  Power's  describing  the  horror  he  felt  at  thus 
unexpectedly  making  his  def?ut  on  such  a  stage,  and  experiencing 
such  a  reception  1 

Honest  Bob  C !  Who  that  visited  in  King-street,  has  forgotten 

thee?  Bob  was  an  excellent  companion,  for  he  preferred  listening 
to  talking;  and  would  sit  for  hours,  no  matter  where,  provided  he 
had  his  tipple.  I  shall  never  forget  going  to  see  Power  play  in  the 
City, — where,  Heaven  knows,  for  I'm  sure  I  don't ;  but  the  theatre 
had  been  a  chapel^  and  Power's  dressing-room  was  a  sort  of  rhom- 
boid under  a  staircase,  in  which  every  angle  in  the  building  seemed 
assembled  in  general  congress.  Power,  dressed  tor  Dr.  0  I'mk,  sat 
wedged  into  a  niche,  with  his  hands  on  his  knees,  and  his  head  held 
forward  for  fear  of  damaging  his  wig  ;  a  posture  more  convenient 
than  elegant. 

*'  Bob  I  hand  Canter  the  porter,"  said  Power- 

**  Bob  !"  echoed  I,  hitting  ray  head  against  the  ceiling*  **  la  Bob 
with  you  V* 

And  there,  sure  enough,  in  the  angle  formed  by  the  stairs  with 
the  floor.  Bob  had  ensconced  himself,  with  a  huge  porter-pot  between 
his  legs.  Ay  J  and  there,  too,  he  would  h«ive  remamed  till  doomsday, 
always  providing  the  aforesaid  pot  had  been  regularly  replenished,* 

Bob  had  a  legacy  left  him.  The  executor  inquired  what  he  intended 
doing  with  it.  Bob  didn't  know  —  supposed  he  must  purchase 
consols. 

**  Pve  a  capital  spec  in  view,"  said  the  executor,  lolling  against  the 
chimney-piece.  **  Capital— I  shall  net  fifty— ay,  if  I  «dd  seventy 
per  cent,  by  it,  I  dare  say  1  should  tipeak  within  the  mark.'* 

**  Deuce,  you  would?  *  grunted  Bob* 

"  You  '11  only  get  three  per  cent,  in  the  funds,"  resumed  the  exe- 
cutor, after  a  pause ;  *'  only  three." 

*'  Only  three,"  said  Bob;  ^'that's  all." 

'*Mr.  C !"  said  the  merchant,  suddenly  erecting  himself,  and 

seizing  Bob's  hand,  ''I've  a  regard  for  you,  a  very  great  regard  in- 
deed ;  and,  to  prove  it,  I  'U  do  for  you  what  I  wouldn't  do  for  my 

•  Porter  if  a  favmirite  bcfverage  nmong  artutes,  parti cMl«rly  foroigriera.  Afany 
nm»i  recollect  with  what  ^tw/ti  Pft«ta  «eixed  ihf  jwirtcr-pol  after  her  gmnd  icena  In 
**  Semi  rum  ide/* 

VOL.    XVIII.  «   E 


382  OUTPOURINGS. 

own  brother ;  if  you  like  to  leave  this  money  with  me,  you  ahill 
have  a  share  in  this  speculation." 

"  You  don't  mean  it }"  said  Bob,  squeezing  the  merchant's  hand 
in  return. 

"  I  do  though — I  'm  quite  serious,"  returned  the  latter  warmly. 
**  The  fact  is,  Bob,  you  're  a  capital  good  fellow,  and  I  'm  glad  in  the 
opportunity  of  serving  you  ;  so  say  no  more,  say  no  more,  my  good 
sir.  We  '11  consider  the  matter  settled.  Here,  Mr.  Allen !  Show 
Mr.  C—  out,  ha,  ha,  ha  !  good  morning — business,  you  know ;" 
and  away  went  Bob,  overjoyed  with  his  investment. 

A  year — eighteen  months — two  years  passed — and  not  a  word  of 
his  venture.     Bob  thought  he  might  as  well  inquire  about  it.     Ac- 
cordingly he  repaired  to  Austin  Friars,  and  asked  if  Mr.  D.  was  in. 
"  He  is,  sir,"  replied  the  clerk,  with  a  smirk ;  "  but  he's  engaged 

at  present.     Can  I  do  your  business  for  you,  Mr.  C ?" 

"  Why,  I  called  about  that  speculation,  which  — " 
*'  Ah  !  I  see,"  interrupted  the  clerk  :  "  that  South  American  bu- 
siness —  yes,  yes,  I  understand.     Allow  me — a  word,  Mr.  C ;" 

and  taking  Bob  out  into  the  passage,  he  whispered  in  his  ear,  *'  Take 
my  advice,  and  cut  as  fast  as  you  can." 
"  Cut !"  echoed  the  astonished  Bob. 

"  Ay,  and  be  sure  you  don't  come  again !  The  thing  turned  out 
a  dead  failure ;  and  if  you  stir  in  the  business,  you  '11  have  to  cash 
up.  Good  morning  !"  And  this  was  all  Bob  ever  heard  of  his  two 
thousand  pounds. 

Mrs.  Hoffland,  Linton,  the  Carews,  with  many  others  connected 
with  the  arts  and  the  press,*  visited  in  King  Street,  where,  with  the 
reader's  permission,  we  will  now  pass  an  evening. 

Enter  we  two  moderately-sized  drawing-rooms,  conveniently 
rather  than  elegantly  furnished,  communicating  with  each  other. 
That  door  leads  into  a  small  third  room,  dignified  with  the  name  of 
"  Library,"  where  Power  does  his  writing  ;  but  it  is  carefully  closed, 
you  see,  only  a  favoured  few  being  admitted.  There  is  some  mys- 
tery in  this.  Those  two  full- lengths  in  the  principal  apartment  are 
by  Frazer  ;  that  on  the  left  represents  Power  as  Captam  Cleaveiand 
in  "  The  Pirate  ;"  the  other,  his  lady  —  which  is  all  we  shall  see  of 
her,  more's  the  pity—  for  this  is  a  gentleman's  party,  about  five  and 
forty  of  whom,  you  see,  are  already  assembled.  Those  three  wcr- 
vetlieux  on  the  sofa  are  members  of  "  The  Burlington,"  discussing 
the  merits  of  the  favourite,  and  the  advantages  of  Melton.  These 
are  la  creme  de  la  crcme, — the  flower  of  the  party  !  Observe  what 
marked  attention  Power  pays  them ;  how  he  exults  in  their  pre- 
sence !  how  happy  it  makes  him  !  That  handsome  man  with  the 
ebony  cane  is  D— sb — we.  His  family,  for  more  than  half  a  cen- 
tury, have  held  situations  about  the  court.  M —  S— ,  who  is  seated 
next  to  him,  will  be  a  peer  of  the  realm.  His  father,  poor  man, 
much  against  his  inclination,  has  just  been  banished  into  the  Upper 
House.  B — r,  to  whom  Power  is  now  speaking,  is  descended  from 
a  great  legal  functionary,  and  is  to  follow  the  law  himself —  let  us 
hope,  as  successfully. 

But  how  noisy  that  group  is,  standing  before  the  fire  !  how  they 
wrangle  !  how  they  laugh !  how  they  scatter  the  puns  about !  —  ha, 

•  To  be  noticed  when  I  come  to  "  The  Widow's." 


OUTPOURINGS*  38S 

ha,  ha  I — You  are  right,    The»e  are  lawyers  too,  Teraplara,  Lincoln's 

Inn  men,^shcarp  clogs,  merry  fellows^  gentlemen  to  the  back-bone, 
the  best  and  most  intelligent  companions  in  the  world.  There  is  the 
making  of  a  chanct^Ilor  among  those  wild  sh'ps. — But  the  door  opens; 
some  one  enters.  Who  can  this  tall  gentlemanly  man  in  black  be? 
As  you  observe,  there  is  a  modesty,  a  propriety  in  his  demeanour 
which  prepossesses  you.  Here  'a  Power  1  1  *ll  ask  w*ho  he  is.  Ah, 
Stan  field  I     Indeed,  I  could  have  sw^orri  he  was  somebody  — 

But  hush  !  who  runs  through  the  chords  in  that  masterly  manner? 
'Tjs  little  IVIajor  ;  and  little  JMajor,  let  me  tell  you,  if  you  are  fund 
of  music,  is  worth  listening  to.  Ah,  he  is  going  to  accompany  Poer, 
I  see,  the  best  amateur  singer  in  England,  except  Mrs.  Arkwright, 
poor  Stephen  Kemble's  daughter.  Ah  f  bravo!  bravissimo  I  what  ex- 
ecution I  what  splendid  bass  ni>tes  \  Did  you  ever  hear  Nor*  pitt  andrai 
sung  better  ?  Deuce  take  it!  w^hat  can  they  be  about  in  that  little 
study  there  ?  Saw  you  not  how  cautiously  Power  closed  the  door 
when  he  came  out  just  now  ?  ♦  •  •  Ah  I  Abbott,  Htansbury, 
and  Paul  Bedford  I  Then  the  theatres  are  over ;  and  see,  they  are 
setting  out  the  supper — not  a  formal  aflair  of  temples  and  waterfalls, 
with  a  dish  of  sweetened  soapsuds  in  the  centre,  but  crabs,  lobsters, 
scallops,  anchovies,  devils !  a  glorious  army  of  Stimulants  and 
Provocatives  I  serveii  in  profusion,  and  scattered  hither  an<l  thi- 
ther, as  best  suits  the  convenience  and  disposition  of  the  company. 

Let  U3  join  Stanfield  and  Paul  Bedford  at  thcit  httle  round  table  in 
the  corner  there  I  Lord  !  how  droll  Paul  is  I  how  adroitly  he  man- 
ages to  c^itch  the  servant's  eye !  how  kindly  he  caters  for  us  \ 
Stanfield  is  rallying  him  on  his  figure.  He  calls  him  a  slip,  a  lath, 
a  hobbledehoy.  Paul  heeds  it  not;  Paul  is  too  busy;  he  sticks  to 
his  scallop  with  the  devotion  of  a  pilgrim  ;  he  quaffs  his  ale  like  a 
holy  father  !  And  why  for  no  ?^  why  for  no  ?  After  taking  care 
of  others,  it  is  but  fair  Paul  should  take  care  of  himself.  Besides, 
be  has  been  delighting  the  public,  he  has  been  singing  in  *'JVIas8&. 
niello ;"  and  singing  and  acting,  let  me  tell  you,  my  friend,  are 
dry  work. 

What  a  forest  of  glasses  !  what  hecatombs  of  havannahs  they  are 
placing  on  the  table  I  ^ — ^and  seel  see!  the  door  of  the  little  study 
opens,  and  —  ha,  ha,  ha  !  ho  !  ho  1  ho  !  what  be  these,  my  masters  ? 
What  merry  and  diverting  spectacle  is  this  >  As  I  live,  a  pageant  I 
4  right  Bacchanalian  pageant  f  So,  so,  so!  It  was  for  this,  then, 
was  it,  we  were  so  carefiiUy  excluded  >  Really,  B — r*s  jolly  god  is 
not  amiss. 

*  Flufth'd  with  a  purple  grace, 
lie  shows  his  ro«e-piiik*d  face.* 


A  foil,  his  Thyrsis;  Dr.  O'Toole's  wig,  bis  chaplet;  and  Abbott — 
haj  ha,  ha  !  only  look  at  Abbott!  How  ludicrously  he  bounds  on- 
ward, twanging  that  guitar  to  Handel's  grand  chorus,  which  Paul 
andStansbury  are  burlesquing  so  gloriously;  while  Power  brings  up 
the  re^r  with  Suin field,  groaning  beneath  the  weight  of  that  huge 
vase,  that  seething  cauldron  which  —  may  I  die  if  it  isn't  filled  with 
brandy  punch  !  Oh  \  I  'U  swear  it 's  brandy  punch  by  the  perfume 
it  sends  forth.  They  nuiy  well  sing  "  The  conquer hig  hero  V  Oh  ! 
if  we  're  to  drink  all  ///tf/,  you  know  !  why,  it  contains  three  gallons, 
at  the  very  least,  my  good  sir  ! 

K  n  % 


3&4  OCTPOrBIXCS- 

:  dgpflHtrd  OQ  the  table  andd  the  dieert 

;  installed  in  th^  diair. 

i  Povcr,  as  aooo  as  the  pastes  were  charged, 

t0  icTie  Tua  a  toast,  which,  I  am  sore,  joa  will  dnnk 

wadk  pLeasxre.    I  hai^  known  William  Abbcvtt  kmg —  {kear,kear!) 

Aiitc^—Ya ;  aad  I  hope  joa  H  know  William  Abbott  a  little 
jaover.  apeciiHj  if  Toa  brew  sadi  good  punch  as  thia.'*  (a  lamgk,) 

Pimrer. — Look  at  xhe  man !  {Ereryhodw  starts  at  Abbott,  who  iria 
at  ^memr  aaerfitiMg.      Look  at  the  man,  I  saj  * 

J*«Mc:. — Weil,  thej  arf  all  looking  at  me.     (Sips  kis  pmmckJ) 

Pam^r^ — I  repeaL.  I  hare  known  him  long,  and  can  consden- 
tua^j  declare  thai  be  is.  without  any  exception  —  (Jkear,  kear !) 
wxkans  jbt  excepdoo.  gentlemen  —  {kear,  kear,  kear!)  —  thb 
ckzats«t  T-ujL.^rs  rxHTNe! — t  Roars.) 

-Imhcz. — O^  oh  !  what  a  shime !  what  a  shame  !  I,  really — 

Pnv^fr. — Gcactl^cnea.  the  torpitode  of  that  man's  conduct  is  shame- 
fa^— oft  !  shamed  !  no  words  coold  do  justice  to  it  {—{Hear,  kear, 
««c  it£Mfi£eT.  —  The  miscine€  he  does  is  incalculable.  Count  the 
saads  oc"  the  sea.  the  crixses  of  aCataline,  ike  potatees  in  Covent  Gar- 
des Hskec  bet  hope  doc  trust  not.  seek  not,  gentlemen,  to  esti. 
laa&e  tiie  wickedness  o<  Wiiliim  Abbott  there!— (CAemnai/  Bravo!) 
ITaier  these  crramnances  grntiemen,  as  well-wishers  to  the  com- 
c:=rf:T.  gent^cses  :  as  Christian  brethren,  gentlemen  —  {kear,  kear, 
ifTX'  " — ^  ftri^w- subjects,  actuated  by  those  feelings  of  justice  and 
phi^inthrvpy  which  reign  within  this  heart  here  — 

.ivxjcf. — That  '*  the  wrong  side  I— {-"^  kimgk.) 

Pcmer. — I  be^  your  pardon ;  moms  atoms  ckamge  tout  cda.  I  feel 
cocTizsced  too  will  all  most  cordially  join  me  in  drinking  ''  Cm- 
/%j%m  .V  n'lLu^jf  Ab3:tt,  amd  ike  soomer  ke  is  hasged  ike  better!'* 
— ^/?cx:rr.  cma  c^ies  of  Braro .') 

Ai'. — Coofusioo  to  William  Abbott,  &c.  Hip !  hip !  hurrah !  hur- 
rah !  hurrah  .* 

Air — The  migkt  be/ore  Larry  was  siretcked. — PosR. 

Abbt3tt  ^risimg\ — Gentlemen !  for  the  honour  you  have  done  me — 
{roars)  —  after  the  eulogium  that  has  been  pronounced  upon  me — 
{roars,  amd  cries  of  Ho,  ko  .*)  ErLOGiCM,  gentlemen  !  I  repeat  it ! 
for  when  a  man  lives,  as  Tyrone  Power  does,  "by  ike  badmess  of  kis 
ekaracter" —  {roars,  amd  kear,  kear  /) — when  every  word,  every  syl- 
lable he  utters,  gentlemen,  is  the  converse  of  truth  —  {Hear,  kear, 
kear  !)  —  abuse  becomes  the  highest  panegyric  !  —  {ckeers  and 
braro.')  —  the  highest  panegyric,  gentlemen  !  —  {Ckeers  amd  Bravo 
agaimJ)  —  Actors  are  proverbially  modest  —  {a  laugk)  —  and  really, 
gentlemen,  when  I  sit  and  hear  myself  made  out  such 

'an  cdio 
Ot  perfection  in  folio,* 

such  a  conglomeration  of 

*  Sugar  and  spice. 
And  all  that  *8  nice,' 

as  the  old  song  says,  great  as  I  am  aware  my  merits  are,  I  feel  quite 
'^{takes  out  kis  pockel-kandherckief) — 

Power. — Can  any  gentleman  accommodate  him  with  a  smelling- 
^le  ? — {Roars,  and  cries  of  Order,  order  !) 


THE   SORROWS   OF   THE    POOR. 


385 


Abbott, — Gentlemen,  I  will  not  trespass  on  your  attention  any 
further.  I  shall  content  myself  with  reciprocating  your  good  wishes 
— (roar*)— and  conclude  with  the  hope  that  that  monster,  that  mis- 
creant there — (pointing  to  Pofver) — may  speak  as  ill  of  ^ou  all  as  he 
has  of  me,  gentlemen  ! — {Cheers  and  laughter,)  • 

After  a  glee,  admirably  sung  by  Poer,  Stansbury,  and  Paul  Bed- 
ford, Power  proposed  that  we  should  all  sing  an  extempore  verse, 
commencing  with  the  chairman,  under  the  penalty  of  drinking  a 
tumbler  of  punch,  which,  to  the  consternation  of  those  whom  "  the 
gods  "  had  not  **  made  poetical,"  was  agreed  to. 

Abbott  had  strenuously  opposed  this.  Cunning  rogue !  he  was 
all  the  time,  I  suspect,  concocting  his  couplets,  which  ran  as  fol- 
lows : — 

**  I  am  averse  to  miUce  a  verse. 
Because,  d*  ye  see,  I  can*t ; 
But  if  I  could,  I'  m  sure  I  would, 
But  as  I  can't,  I  shan't.** 

$S'  Hock  and  soda  water  in  great  request  next  morning ! 

•  This  species  of  persiflage  was  much  in  vogue  at  Power's,  Don  Tnieba's,  6tc. 


THE  SORROWS  OF  THE  POOR. 


TuE  poor  man  hath  a  lonely  lot, 

To  misery  allied ; 
His  very  being  is  forgot 

Among  the  sons  of  pride. 
He  rises  with  the  morning  light, 
And  labours  through  the  weary  night, 

A  scanty  meal  to  gain  ; 
Then  lays  his  wearied  head  to  rest. 
But  anxious  cares  disturb  his  breast,— 

To  slumber  is  in  vain  ! 

The  cold  neglect,  the  with'ring  scorn, 

That  meet  him  on  his  way, — 
The  spirit  bow*d,  and  sinews  worn 

By  premature  decay,— 
A  brow  o'ershadow*d  by  despair, 
The  trembling  gait  produced  by  care. 

The  constant  dread  of  ill : — 
These  mingle  with  his  ev'ry  dream, 
And  Hope  hath  no  consoling  gleam 

To  pleasant  thoughts  instil ! 

Alas  !  to  him  the  changeful  earth 

Hath  features  ever  sad  ; 
For  when  the  summer  wakes  its  mirth, 

He  only  is  not  glad. 
For  what  to  him  is  Nature's  smile. 
That  may  another's  heart  beguile. 

But  cannot  pierce  the  shed 
Where  he  is  wasting  life  away, 
Unheedful  o(  the  night  or  day. 

So  long  it  brings  him  bread  ! 


God's  blessing  on  the  verdant  fields, 

When  sunshine  dwelleth  there  ! 
And  ev'ry  flow'r  that  fragrance  yields 

Becomes  more  sweetly  fair ! 
In  truth  'tis  beautiful  to  view  ! 
But  rip'ning  corn  and  violet's  hue 

Are  bidden  from  the  poor  ! 
They  cannot  watch  the  season's  change. 
To    them    all    blithesome    scenes    are 
strange : — 

Their  sense  of  joy  is  o'er ! 

Vrithin  a  dose  and  foetid  room, 

Through  sickness  and  in  age. 
They  labour  on,  and  pass  in  gloom 

Their  life's  declining  stage, — 
The  slaves  of  want ! — while  those  who 

have. 
And  from  the  depths  of  woe  could  save, 

Evade  their  haggard  mien. 
Nor  mark  the  signet  death  hath  placed. 
Where  many  a  sorrow  could  be  traced, 

And  painful  years  be  seen  ! 

The  poor !  oh,  mock  not  those  who  weep. 

The  wretched  and  the  lone  ! 
For  Heav'n  doth  surely  record  keep. 

When  earthly  aid  is  gone  ; — 
And  at  the  Bridal  Feast  the  guest 
May  be  the  mortal  leastwise  blest 

Among  his  fellows  here. 
Then  cheer  the  poor  man's  solitude. 
And  smooth  the  briars  on  his  road 

To  kindlier  lands  ebewhere  I 


■  3L.r-i  -nit  .71c  ar-  'rcrcsks^SL  md  ?:isa^siiiim  r** 
r  .=.  ^CT—  -o  *-r  TT'.r  I  Inns. ' 


j^Tx.  -r-LT  ':he«-  ire  71  jnre  1  sudden  and  trcmendoos 


ITiii  .rm  T-^  --nsa  -d  Tre  ir  i  -rnman-^nie  of  conaidenciaiiy'— 4ntk 
L  .•••IV  .ULL  'M&r  iiiiT  Ti'iua  ziixicax^  1  jouwiedise  of  things  K^»»»*<  the 
**~*- -     I  ^tv  "mi*  ?iic  £a.i.«w^  i  sun*  ir  Twn  m  the  cfaeqoered  ginie : 

.i  v.-:,  ji  "Tzr  ji  Z  jc  --^nv^^fTit*!.  :r  t-H  tuc  le  if  modi  cooseqaenoe-  1 
>j  1-'  ^ar  r.-r  r"  rt***a  md  ~hjLZ  ?  ul.  Small  aien  ought  to  stick  to 
■r.'--:r  TTuie  •!  Ma^cc-T:  t  -fTn c  Aid  I  -ii.ul  TTtiOt  by  mj  ie»oa,  yoa 
— -  -    .rTtsai   ta  z.      *  T.ie  n..i*  piiiloESunue  .  diiux  ims  joueor  deCer- 

?  -rrir>  "iic  -=e~  -::.rk  "dirr  .nir-i  :he  jme  lil  ai  theinaelTes ;  that 
'i:»r^  —  ::t  :ri  r^rsi*!  j;.lJ.  If  rhcy  iu,  :iier  are  jsnevoaaly  mistaken- 
'V*.  ii  s  .1  -i-nt  xiikw-  loindvc  jv  rir  .c^  mil  just  now  than  it  naoallj 
-  lUTT"^  --e  .'-iri3:c  "•  > "initHrr?  -i  :iie  'c'la  *mf  hav^  remained  be- 
.:.:::-:  to  -lh  k  ifr^r  :-ie  t:uji  7uinr.  :ur  emouiiciiiaily  is  railroad  specida- 
*::lii  --in.*!  iL-rv-i  —  e  it:;.:!  Ti.iac  unuriiT^C  L  un  aorry  to  sav,  too  many  of 
tiler  ii  "jis  iiHiren.:.  J irts;.  !7ir  *.i:e  s.me  rt^HsoOt  has  bemi  scarcely 
31,. r-  ^.--  ir  LZT  seih*!^  :r  ^ji.j  -^arriian  :iie  pnnent.  A  certain  &hion- 
jbie  mil  r.iA::2anz;r  z:ar:ii;.:iufas  ui  E:iuu>uxFiiman  too),  a  resident  of 
the  riT  ::iriT-il  ^t  Lel_j:i:ij.  -v-ia  rv«atT-nre  thousand  pounds  there  a 
ffc'F  -vet-ii  isurk  in  :cLe  :«'..;f  4XF'H}p.  Y-m  ^uuid  like  to  know  how 
she  iiiii  :r-  A  zrl.iiz,z  iic^io./  -vere  isik^mbled  at  the  hotel  of  a  Rus- 
iiaa  iiibiesiaz  ia  ii^  Fmiiiirx  Sc  Hooure  :  ind  between  one  of  the 
paudcs  ac  the  d^  tue.  x  disCLnczTiLd^ieti  •fia^r  nf  the  opera  was  entertain- 
in«  the  riescs  w.ti  1  r\T.;<inte  air  frim  ■'  Nirma/' — it  nuicht  be  from 
•*  n  Barhoere  **  or  *•  I>>u  GSoruzai."* — »>r  rt  might  not.  All  was  breath- 
less altentioa,  and  iztesse  delist.     No !  not  alL     The  voang  and 

l&w^j  MarchMueaa  *yi occupied  a  ^limttmii  in  a  comer  ot  the  salom. 

The  war  wssbcaatifol — 

She  Learri  it.  box  she  htfcdcd  not — her  eye* 
Wan  viui  Ltf  heart,  uid  that  was  or  xw^j, 

very  fiff  sway  —  in  the  share-market!  for  even  into  such  a  gentle 
B,  and  amidst  such  a  scene,  the  ruling  passion  of  the  age, — call  it 
e,  gamblinj^  what  yon  will,— could  enter  and  assert  its  empire. 
'  I  have  got  a  better  song  for  yocr  Ladyship  than  eren  Mario's 
^id  a  Toong  and  gallant  cavalier,  approaching  her  softly,  and 
imseff  on  an  unoccupied  couch  beside  her. 
ii  It?"  said  the  Marchioness  hastily. 


THE   RAILWAY   QUEEN.  387 

*'  Within  the  last  hour  the  King  has  expressed  to  the  minister  his 
approval  of  the  Great  Northern  Line.  Hush !  don*t  speak  or  appear 
agitated  ;  we  may  be  observed." 

*' WasR there?" 

"  Yes  ! — closeted  for  two  hours  with  you  know  whom :  and  he  left 
the  palace  about  a  minute  or  two  before  me  with  a  joy  in  his  face  that 
I  shall  never  forget.  It  spoke  millions.  You  must  see  him  to-morrow 
early ;  for  the  news  will  be  over  the  town  before  the  evenings  and  the 
applications  will  be  innumerable." 

'*  To-morrow ! — ^to-night  1"  And  in  a  few  moments^  her  Ladyship's 
carriage  having  been  ordered^  she  left  for  the  house  of  the  great 
financier. 

It  was  in  vain  that  porter  and  portress^  valet  and  butler^  major-domo 
and  secretary,  opposed  the  entrSe  of  the  fair  besieger.  Stop  a  woman^ 
indeed^  when  she  will  go  a-head  ! — stop  a  house  on  fire  with  a  single 
bucket  of  water !  She  made  her  way  to  the  sanctum  sanctorum — the 
bureau  of  bureaux.  It  was  not  her  first  time.  Plutus  was  not  petrified : 
he  knew  the  goddess  well.  He  knew,  too,  that  she  must  be  obeved ;  so, 
to  save  time,  every  moment  of  which  was  worth  a  diamond  to  him  that 
night,  he  obeyed  the  commands  of  his  fair  tyrant.  She  arranged  for 
a  pretty  considerable  transaction,  and  departed  to  sleep  happily  on  her 
pillow. 

From  the  titled  dame  to  the  actress,  even  to  the  grisette^  all  the 
women  are  playing  the  railroad  game  in  Paris.  In  London,  if  things 
are  not  going  on  pari  passu,  at  the  same  mail- train  pace,  amongst  the 
female  speculators,  they  are  going  on  fast  enough.  Heaven  knows ! 
considering  the  curves  and  inclines. 

I  called  on  a  lady  in  St.  John's  Wood  the  other  day.  She 
was  reading  a  morning  newspaper.  *'  Nothing  in  that,  certainly," 
yuu  '11  say ;  but  wait  till  you  hear  what  part  of  it  she  was  reading. 
Not  the  deaths,  births,  and  marriages ;  not  the  court-circular ;  not  the 
fashions  of  the  month ;  not  the  column  of  advertisements,  in  which 
broken-hearted  lovers  address  each  other  in  monosyllables,  and  roman- 
tic runaways  are  told  to  come  home  directly  to  indignant  and  respect- 
able fathers  and  virtuous  and  disconsolate  mothers ;  nor  was  she  diving 
into  the  delicate  columns  of  law  and  police  reports ;  nor  discussing  the 
moralities  of  the  quacks ;  nor  laughing  at  the  quotations  from  Punch  ; 
no,  not  on  any  of  these  features  of  the  daily  romance  of  the  world  was 
my  lady's  attention  fixed ;  but  on  the  city  article  and  the  railway  share 
list  I  \  1  Upon  my  conscience  I  'm  not  joking ;  and  to  make  matters  worse, 
she  is  one  of  the  finest  young  women  in  England,  although  nearer  to 
thirty  than  five-and-twenty.  She  has  refused  scores  of  good  offers, 
fancying  that  her  accumulating  fortune  will  secure  her  some  old  mar- 
quis or  duke  at  last. 

"Namur  and  Liege — what's  the  news — Louvaine  and  Jemappe— 
how  are  they  ?"  said  she  to  me,  the  other  day,  as  I  called  upon  her  to- 
wards the  afternoon,  and  all  this  in  the  same  breath  as  her  "  How 
d'  you  do  ?" 

*'  Namur  and  Liege — Love — and  Jem  !"  exclaimed  I  in  broken  ac- 
cents, and  looking  as  stumped  as  a  bee  in  a  fallow. 

"  Do  you  know  nothing  about  them  ?"  said  she  sharply. 
"Why,   nothing   particularly,"    I   answered,   "but   that  they   are 
respectable  places  enough  with  regard  to  the  picturesque  and   the 
population." 


388  THE   RAILWAY    QUEEN. 

"  No,  no,  that's  not  what  I  want  to  know, — ^how  are  the  Belgians?" 
said  she  with  a  fidgety  laugh  that  I  did  not  relish. 

"  Is  it  how  are  the  Belgians  ?"  I  inquired. 

"Yes." 

"  Oh,  bravely  ;  horum  omnium  foriissimi  sunt  Belgct"  said  I,  pluck- 
ing up,  "  whicn  means — " 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Arabella  ;  and  she  read  the  share  list  in  the  Globe, 
indulging  in  a  running  comment  as  she  went  along — ''  Direct  Manches- 
ter— capital !  South  Midland — up  asain !  Cambridge  and  Oxford — 
oh  confound  them  !  London  and  York^-oh  that  abominable  Hudson ! 
London,  Manchester,  the  Potteries  and  London — a  good  idea  that 
about  cheap  crockery — three  and  a  half  premium — bravissimo !  North- 
ampton, Banbury,  and — still  going  up— more  sugar  on  the  Banbury 
cakes — how  nice !  And  let  me  see,  here 's  another  new  line  jnst  out 
to  connect  the  eastern  and  western  coasts — what  do  they  want  to  con- 
nect the  coasts  for,  I  wonder  ?  but  that 's  not  my  affair.  Everybody 
and  everything  will  be  all  connected  together  soon.  I  must  write  to 
Moonshine  and  Crash  to  purchase  me  a  hundred  of  the  Cut-ahead- 
right-across-direct-eastem-and- westerns— one  and  a  half  premium  to- 
morrow— ^two  and  a  half  next  day — sell  them — ** 

"  A  cool  hundred  that,  IVIadam,"  I  ventured  to  observe. 

**  Cool !"  said  she ;  ''  to  be  sure — in  and  out  like  a  cold  bath  ! — 
that's  the  new  spirit  of  the  age.  It's  only  changing  about  the  circu- 
lating medium  more  quickly  after,  all,  as  the  nursery  rhyme  has  it, 

*<  Here  we  go  up,  up,  up  I 
Here  we  go  down,  down,  down,  oh  !  " 

"  And  perhaps,"  I  observed  "  too  many  will  have  to  chime  in  with 

<<  Directors,  and  brokers,  and  scrip, 
We  're  all  done  brown,  brown,  brown,  oh  ! " 

**  Oh,  not  at  all — none  are  to  be  done  but  the  green.  Are  you  not 
doing  something  in  the  railroad  world  yourself,  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy  ?" 
inquired  the  lovely  speculatrix. 

I  answered,  "  A  little." 

"  In  foreign  railroads  ?" 

*•  No,  thank  you — I  don't  like  spending  one  's  capital  out  of  the 
country."  (I  did  not  even  whisper  a  word  about  the  Spitsbergen  and 
Patagonia.) 

**  But  you  get  it  back  again  three  fold  and  more ;  even  I  as  a  woman 
am  a  better  political  economist.     You  sell  at  a  premium-—" 

'*  Or  I  don't." 

''  Well,  then,  what  are  yon  doing  in  shares  ?" 

**  Looking  on  — " 

"  Looking  on  ;  why  women  are  not  content  to  look  on  now-a-days," 
she  observed  contemptuously. 

''  So  I  perceive,"  said  I,  sending  back  the  shuttlecock  in  the  direc- 
tion from  whence  it  came. 

''  If  I  were  a  man,"  said  Arabella  with  emphasis,  **  I  should  be  se- 
cretary to  a  new  railroad  before  a  fortnight.     I  wish  I  were  a  man." 

"  Indeed  !"  I  ejaculated,  rather  surprised. 

*'  Yes ;  and  should  you  like  to  know  how  I  would  set  about  it  ?" 

''  The  secretaryship  you  mean  ?"  said  I. 

**  The  company,"  said  she:  •*  you  must  get  up  the  company  before 


THE    RAILWAY    QUEEN.  389 

you  can  be  secretary.  Who  is  going  to  give  you  such  a  berth  unless 
you  prove  your  patent  of  invention?" 

"  That  may  be  very  true." 

"  Buy  a  map  of  England/'  said  she ;  '*  or,  better  still,  a  map  of 
Ireland." 

"  First  catch  your  hare,"  was  not  an  unnatural  observation  on  my 
part. 

*'  First  catch  your  grandmother!"  (how  sordid  pursuits  make  the  most 
refined  forget  themselves  !) — **  run  your  finger  up  and  down,  and  across 
through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land.  Hit  upon  some  obscure 
uninitiated  district,  as  yet  not  cut  up." 

"  Rather  a  difficult  matter  to  find  that,"  said  I. 

"  By  no  means,"  she  replied  ;  *'  you  '11  find  an  opening  somewhere." 

"  Talking  of  running  your  finger  up  and  down  a  map,  the  French 
monarch,  wishing  to  find  fault  with  Marshal  Turenne,  put  his  finger 
on  a  line  that  marked  a  river,  and  said, '  Why  did  you  not  cross  here  ?' 
— '  Because  your  majesty's  finger  was  not  the  bridge,'  answered  the 
marshal." 

**  Ah,  but,"  said  Arabella,  "  Marshal  Turenne  did  not  live  in  a 
railroad  age.     Nothing  is  impossible  to  steam." 

"  Well,  say  that  I  have  hit  upon  an  opening,  what  next  ? 

"  Point  your  guns." 

"  Point  my  guns  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  tnen  shot  them  to  the  muzzle." 

"  Guns  and  shot — muzzles — really — " 

"  Well,  then  issue  your  prospectuses." 

**  Cramming  them  well  with  promises  of  public  advantage  is  what 
you  mean  by  shotting  the  guns  ?"  said  I,  getting  a  slight  glimpse  of 
land. 

"  Exactly  so.  I  shall  make  something  of  you  at  last.  If  the  dis- 
trict be  agricultural,  talk  about  increasing  its  produce  and  popula- 
tion, about  running  up  to  the  cattle-show  in  Baker  Street,  with  a  tup, 
or  an  ox,  or  an  ass,  or  a  newly-invented  plough,  in  an  hour  or  two.  If 
the  district  be  a  manufacturing  one  — " 

*'  Say  we  are  on  the  map  of  Ireland." 

"  Well,  be  it  so.  Would  you  cut  through  one  of  your  Irish  bogs  ? 
Talk  of  it  in  El  Dorado  terms,  praise  its  picturesque  beauty  and  fer- 
tility, and  the  vast  quantity  of  unexplored  riches  in  the  bowels  of  the 
earth.     But  perhaps  you  are  chary  of  railroad  speculation  ?" 

I  confessed  that  I  was  not  over-enthusiastic. 

"  Well,  try  something  else  in  the  national  line  for  Ireland.  Irish 
improvement  according  to  English  notions  will  be  all  the  rage  when 
our  *own  commissioner'  returns  from  Ireland.  You  have  seen  what  he 
has  written  about  Lough  Erne  being  only  four  miles  from  the  sea,  and 
that  there  is  no  outlet  to  it  in  that  direction.  Why  not  cut  a  canal 
through,  and  make  Enniskillen  a  rival  to  Cork  ?  Or,  better  still,  for 
it  will  require  more  money,  and  consequently  give  rise  to  more  specu- 
lation— drain  it." 

"  Drain  it !" 

"  Yes.  A  good  board  of  directors  ought  to  be  able  to  lay  a  plan  to 
drain  anything.  Talk  about  Holland,  the  drainage  of  the  Fens,  and 
Whittlesea  Mere  in  your  prospectus." 

**  I  am  afraid  that  we  have  had  already  one  or  two  too  many  of 
those  sort  of  companies  connected  with  Ireland^"  I  observed.     ''  They 


S90  THE   RAILWAY   QUEEN. 

were  drainage  oompanies  in  reality,  which  drained  off  more  than  the 
water, — to  wit^  the  inveatments  of  the  only  moneyed  persona  con- 
nected with  the  undertaking.  I  know  one  in  particular,  which  went 
to  work  on  the  Irish  plan  of '  leap  before  you  look.'  They  drained  off 
all  the  Mrater;  and,  instead  of  the  rich  alluvial  soil  which  was  pro- 
mised beneath,  and  over  which  the  golden  gifts  of  Ceres  were  to 
flourish  in  future  years,  they  found  a  sandy  bottom." 

''  Ah !  it 's  just  the  way,"  said  she ;  '^  whenever  a  new  thing  is 
started,  there  are  plenty  of  growlers  and  grumblers  like  you,  Mr. 
O'Shaughnessy,  to  oore  us  with  your  ponderous  platitudes  about  the 
ancient  ways  and  the  slow  coaches.  The  only  part  of  the  railroads 
with  which  you  sympathise  are  the  sleepers:' 

"  And,  what 's  the  odds  ?" 

**  Ten  to  one  against  your  getting  on,  unless  you  purchase  into  the 
Dublin  and  Oalway." 

"  At  five  premium— eh  ?" 

"  Well,  you  might  do  worse." 

''  You  have  not  heard  the  new  song,  then,  about  the  throwing  out  of 
the  bill  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  No,"  said  she,  *'  I  have  not.  It 's  not  difficult  to  guess  its  author. 
You  can  amuse  one,  at  all  events ;  and,  to  do  you  justice,  you  are  al- 
ways willing.    The  instrument  is  open." 

6n  which  hint  I  turned  round  to  the  ivories,  and  gave  the  ^'r 
gambler 

A   HOWL   FOB   THE   DUBLIN   AND   OALWAY. 

(fc  Ocbone  I  Father  Dan,  did  you  hear  the  report, 

Lillibiillero,  bullen-a-la ! 
When  the  Dublin  and  Oalway  was  kickM  out  of  court  f 

liillibullero,  bullen-arla ! 
I^ero  !  lero  !  lillibuUero  !  lillibullero !  bullen-a-la  ! 
Lillibullero  !  lillibullero  !  lillibullero  !  bullen-a-la  ! 

Ua  !  by  my  sowl,  it  was  Brougham  and  Vaux  ; 

Lillibullero,  bullen-a-la  I 
He  don*t  like  our  sharen  like  the  London  and  Yorks, 

Lillibullero,  bullen-a-la  1 

Misther  Fitutephen  French  said  the  bill  would  succeed  ; 

Lillibullero,  bullen-a-la ! 
But  they  swore  they  were  stags  sign'd  their  names  to  the  deed, 

Lillibullero,  bullen-a-la ! 

*Twas  the  Sassenach  hunted  us  down,  I  *11  go  bail ; 

Lillibullero,  bullen-a-la ! 
Clanricarde  cried  out  it  would  help  the  Repayle, 

Lillibullero,  buUen-arla ! 

Och  !  didn't  their  witnesses  take  a  big  swear, 

Lillibullero,  bullen-a-la  I 
That  our  Company's  funds  were  the  dlvil  knows  where, 

LillibuUero,  bullen-a-la ! 

Bowld  French  in  the  Commons  callM  Brougham  blackga-ard  ^ 

Lillibullero,  bullen-a-la ! 
Sure  every  one  read  it,  though  nobody  ha-ard ! 

Lillibullero,  bullen-a-la  I 

There  was  an  ould  prophecy  found  in  a  bog, 

liillibullero,  bullen-a-la ! 
That  ^  the  line '  would  be  croM'd  by  an  ass  and  a  dog. 

LillibuUero^  huUen-a-la  I 


THE  RAILWAY  QUEEN.  391 

Now,  the  ould  prophecy  ii  oome  to  pass  ? 

Lillibullero,  bullen-a-U ! 
For  Lord  Harry  'i  the  dog,  and  Paddy  's  the  ass  ? 

Lillibullero,  bullen-a-la!" 

"  Lord  Harry  is  a  compound  of  both,*  sir/'  said  the  lady,  with  no 
small  degree  of  warmth  ;  "  for,  in  spite  of  your  sneering  and  his  hosti- 
lity, the  Dublin  and  Galway  is  one  of  the  greatest  favourites  in  the 
market," 

"  Well,  I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  as  much,  if  you,  madam,  have  your 
affections  centred  in  it,"  said  I,  resuming  my  gossamer,  and  my  little 
bit  of  timber,  and  bidding  Miss  Arabella  a  very  good  afternoon. 

"  Good  evening !"  said  she,  waving  her  hand  ;  "  you  'U  be  a  dreamer 
all  vour  life!" 

As  I  went  down  the  stairs,  an  odd-looking  fellow  with  a  jaunty  air, 
and  his  clothes  built  in  spread-eagle  fashion,  passed  up,  three  steps  at 
a  time,  humming 

*'*'  Yankee  Doodle  borrows  cash, 
Yankee  Doodle  spends  it. 
And  then  he  snaps  his  fingers  at 
The  jolly  flat  that  lends  it." 

"  Could  she  have  been  mad  enough  to  buy  Pennsylvanians  ?"  thought 
I  to  myself.  I  dare  say  she  did  ;  for  the  next  day  the  news  arrived 
that  the  drab-coloured  people  no  longer  repudiated,  but  were  going  to 
pay :  although  at  a  long  date.  Yes !  they  at  length  promised  to  pay. 
Now,  if  I  had  invested  amongst  them,  not  a  penny  should  I,  or  any  of 
the  other  creditors  have  got,  although  we  lived  a  hundred  years,  and 
as  long  as  we  liked  afterwards. 

Whereupon,  moralizing  on  the  uncertainty  of  all  things  here  below, 
and  the  folly  of  most  of  them,  I  rambled  into  the  woods  and  fields. 

"  You  '11  be  a  dreamer  all  your  life  I"  said  the  railway  queen  to  me. 
Well,  I  *d  rather  be  a  dreamer  or  a  lotos-eater,  —  ay,  a  "  mild-eyed, 
melancholy  lotos-eater,"  —  and  have  easy  days  and  nights  of  it  in  the 
wilderness  of  "  a  dissolute  island,"  as  Faday  called  Robin  Crusoe's 
territory,  than  be  obliged  to  lay  my  head  upon  a  restless  pillow  stuffed 
with  tormenting  arithmetic,  and  turbid  visions  floating  about  me  of 
Mammon  and  bankruptcy. 

"  Is  there  any  peace 
In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  ware  ? 
All  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  toward  the  gmve 
In  silence,  ripen,  fall,  and  cease. 

Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  death,  or  dreamful  ease 
How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  downward  stream, 
With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 
Falling  asleep  in  a  half-dream  ! 
To  dream  and  dream,  like  yonder  amber  light. 


**•  People,  And  what  punishment 

Will  you  inflict  upon  the  Magabeean 
Who  acted  thus  ? 

Black-pudding-seller.  Nothing  that  *8  very  harsh, 
Except  that  he  shall  exercise  my  trade, 
And  be  the  only  person  that  *s  allowed 
To  sell  black  puddings  at  the  city-gates." 

Aristophanes,  Tlie  Knighit;  Dan  Walsiie*8  Translation. 


Fr**:*  d-r  Wafxkft. 


B-  cic*  z^ 


ITid*  ..il-  fcu^ 
IT:.,    :-.n;t*»  awriz"  yl  csr 

"Vii-rt  if  p  i.-r  Hi-  cnuL  . 


^sin. 


Via:  k-wci  «as.  'dft  ? 
:  : jt*  u*  rr."irV  tie  b^H  ; 

Aml  n.  wu.zez  irf  tftkcs  Lis  rwi. 
I>r3Jt  it  lie  nv<.  A-f-*" 


Tk  naj  'v-fZ  «CT.  iL  tiifr  f^iir}:  ic  tW  macirtain  &i}d  tbe  mouse, 
oac  tjisri  -v'u  &J.  A-Eiinmifil  izwel  is  iLe  Ifckes^.  and  forth  came — a 
fpic:      E  :•»  £  Tt -it  irn.  r 

-^  \  »c  *c  iZ  r  I  hekJ  TOL  occii3xii :  *-'  iat  Zffu«r:  a/Z^x  philomphy 
wwi't  iff  for  lie  tttmeet  izaDo." 

Verr  w«Z ;  irt  iit  c»  whi  tbe  spint  of  the  mge-  You  know 
what  s^  tAie  n  -rbes  be  vonld  be  m  politician,  and  prevailed  upon 
Japiter  to  c£:i£^  bit  kiiu:.  Yon  are  aware,  aim,  of  tbe  melancholy 
rcwh  of  bi»  ambctaocs  effects  to  svell  himself  out  to  the  size  of  tbe 
boIL     You  bare  beard  of  tbe  fatal  misfortune  which  happened  to  him 

*  Et«m  6  rw  Sarpaj^Wg  n«2rr,  3ioff.  ol  pcXcdainn 
Tor  TO  wutM  iyxoiwTm,  waptm  yaff  a4SomMF  avrm, 

TBEOcaiTUS,  Id^U  X 
t  Bpcncsnf  aw(  OMf. 

AaiSTOPHAJTEs  Rama 


AxACBXOX,  Otir  /X 


Uimt  it  9t99pt  avr4w. 


BALLAD. 


393 


when  he  would  "  a-wouing  go."  Perhaps  he  may  do  better  in  the 
share-market,  and  come  to  something  at  last.  Nous  verrons  !  As  to 
capital,  character,  and  head-piece,  I  '11  back  my  speckled  hero  against 
some  of  the  best  of  the  lucky  ones  :  I  mean,  when  they  started.  Now 
they  are  wise,  good,  noble,*  handsome,  anything  you  like,  because 
they  have  been  so  far  successful ;  although  at  first  it  was  only  a  ques- 
tion of  six  ace  or  six  deuce,  heads  or  tails,  the  throw  of  a  diei  or  the 
toss'up  of  a  sixpence. 


**  The  frog  he  would  a-stagg^ng  go, 

Heigho  I  says  Reilly, 
The  frog  he  would  a-stagging  go. 
Whether  he  'd  got  enough  money  or  no. 
Wily,  slily,  gammon  and  bubble  ! 
Heigho  I  says  Misther  Reilly. 

Off  he  went  with  his  scrip  in  his  hat, 

Heigho  !  says  ReiUy  ; 

Off  he  went  with  his  scrip  in  his  hat ; 

(He  gave  an  address, — he  might  easy 

do  that,) 

Wily,  slily,  gammon  and  bubble  ! 

Heigho  !  says  Misther  Reilly. 

fle  soon  arrived  at  the  broker's  hall, 

Heigho !  says  Reilly, 
He  soon  arrived  at  the  broker's  hall : 
'  Sell  out/  says  the  frog,  before  the  first 
call. 
Wily,  slily,  gammon  and  bubble  ! 
Heigho  !  says  Misther  Reilly. 

Froggy  went  on  a-speculating, 

Heigho !   says  Reilly, 
Froggy  went  on  a-speculating, 
Slap-dash,  like  a  hero,  at  all  in  the  ring. 
Wily,  slily,  gammon  and  bubble  ! 
Heigho  !  says  Misther  Reilly. 


But  soon  a  panic  came  over  the  town, 

Heigho  I  says  Reilly, 
Soon  a  panic  came  over  the  town, 
And  the  small  men  were  done  most  ex- 
cessively brown, 
Wily,  slily,  gammon  and  bubble  ! 
Heigho  !  says  Misther  Reilly. 

This  put  frog's  affairs  into  such  a  sad 
plight, 
Heigho  !  says  Reilly, 
This  put  frog's  affairs  into  such  a  sad 

plight, 
<  I  must  hold  on,'  says  he,  *  or  be  ruin'd 
outright.* 
Wily,  slily,  gammon  and  bubble  ! 
Heigho !  says  Misther  Reilly. 

But  the  calls  came  on  fast, — all  his 
shares  he  must  pop, 
Heigho !  says  Reilly, 
The  calls  came  on  fast, — all  his  shares 

he  must  pop, 
And  a  little  black  Jew  came  and  gobbled 
him  up, — 
Wily,  slily,  gammon  and  bubble  ! 
Heigho !  says  Misther  Reilly.'* 


*  Et  genus  et  forman  regina  pecunia  donat." — Horace,  Epist.  VI,  Lib,  /. 


BALLAD. 


Mr  Jamie  !  thou  wert  kind  to  me. 

When  we  were  bairns  together  ; 
An'  'tis  but  right  this  hand  should  be 

Thine  ain,  and  that  for  ever  ! 
But  while  'tis  press'd  upon  thy  lips. 

Oh,  think  ye  frae  this  hour. 
That  where  the  bee  its  honey  sips 

It  leaves  unbroke  the  flow'r  ! 

Remember  that  I  leave  my  all. 
And  trust  me  to  thy  keeping. 

An',  let  whatever  may  befall, 

I  'm  thine  through  joy  and  weeping  ! 


Through  weal  or  woe,  whate'er  betide. 
The  vow  for  aye  I  've  taken. 

That  binds  me  ever  to  thy  side, — 
Then  leave  me  not  forsaken  ! 

My  sisters  gather  round  me  now, 

Their  tears  for  me  are  falling  ; 
I  can  but  kiss  each  saddening  l>i-ow, 

For,  Jamie  !  thou  art  calling. 
I  leave  my  happy  home  for  thee. 

The  home  we  loved  together ; 
For,  Jamie,  thou  wert  kind  to  me. 

And  I  will  love  thee  ever  ! 


394 
THE  BRIDAL  OF  MANSTONE  COURT. 

A   BOMANCB   OF   THE    ISLE   OF   THANET. 
BY   HENBY   CUBLING. 

The  Island  of  Thanet  is  a  familiar  spot  to  at  least  three  parts  of 
the  excursionists  of  Great  Britain.  At  a  spot  which  lies  some  three 
miles  from  the  town  of  Margate  and  one  from  St.  Lawrence,  and 
which  is  still  called  Manstone,  is  yet  to  he  seen  (albeit  it  is  seldom 
Tisited  by  the  tourist)  a  venerable  mansion  called  Manstone  Court. 
The  outward  appearance  of  this  curious  specimen  will  at  once  pve  the 
spectator  a  better  idea  of  the  style  of  dwelling  used  by  our  Kentish 
ancestors  during  the  reign  of  the  Plantagenets,  than  any  building  we 
happen  to  know  of  in  the  island. 

The  manor  of  Manstone  was  the  residence  (for  many  generations) 
of  a  family  of  the  same  name.  During  the  reign  of  King  John  it 
pertained  to  one  Ralph  Manstone,  a  gentleman  whose  ancestor  haying 
accompanied  William  the  Norman  and  assisted  him  in  conquering 
England,  had  been  rewarded  by  a  grant  of  the  estate* 

Sir  Ralph  (for  he  had  been  Knighted  by  King  John  for  his  services 
before  Anglers)  was  a  man  of  some  sixty  years  of  age.  Tall,  powerful, 
and  gaunt-looking,  he  was  a  perfect  specimen  of  a  warrior  of  his  day. 
A  man  whose  right  hand  sought  his  cross-hilted  sword  on  the  slightest 
provocation ;  one  who  would  strike  sooner  than  speak,  and  who  governed 
nis  household  with  an  iron  rule ;  whose  word  of  mouth  was  law ;  and 
who,  possessing  power  and  influence  at  this  period  in  Thanet,  ruled 
the  wnole  island,  and  made  the  laws  of  the  land  almost  subservient  to 
his  own  purposes,  during  this  distracted  reign. 

Sir  Ralph  Manstone  had  married  (in  early  life)  a  lady  of  Saxon 
descent  and  great  beauty,  who,  dying  soon  after  the  birtli  of  her 
second  child,  bequeathed  her  husband  the  care  and  education  of  a  son 
and  daughter. 

The  son,  who  had  accompanied  the  host  led  by  Richard  the  First  to 
Palestine,  had  helped  by  his  bones  to  whiten  the  shores  of  the  Dead 
Sea.  The  daughter  (who  in  outward  favour  took  after  her  Saxon 
ancestry,  and  was  indeed  lineally  descended  from  the  Kings  of  Kent) 
was  a  peerless  specimen  of  excelling  nature.  To  the  form  of  a  Grecian 
statue  was  added  the  peculiarly  noble  and  exquisitely-moulded  features 
of  the  high-bom  Saxon  of  a  former  day. 

Bertha  de  Manstone  at  the  present  time  resided  an  unhappy  in- 
mate of  her  father's  halls,  where  indeed  she  mieht  be  said  to  spend  her 
dull  hours  under  the  strictest  surveillance,  and  in  almost  solitary  con- 
finement; the  exigences  of  the  times  rendering  it  necessary  far  the 
fiery  knight,  her  sire,  to  be  so  constantly  in  the  saddle,  and  an  absentee 
from  home,  that  of  late  (for  months  at  a  time)  he  had  scarcely  resided 
at  Manstone  at  all; 

In  early  youth  this  young  lady  had  been  betrothed  to  the  son  of  a 
neighbouring  knight.  Sir  Hugo  Dentdelion  (the  turrets  of  whose  castle 
are  still  visible  from  Manstone  Court),  but  who  having  lately  returned 
from  the  East  a  broken  man.  Sir  Ralph  Manstone  had  thought  fit  to 


THE    BRIDAL    OF    MANSTONE    COURT, 


395 


^  dimolve  the  etjgagement,  trans^fcrring  his  consent  to  a  rich<;r  suitor. 
The  affection,  however,  which  the  lady  Bertha  felt  for  the  young 
Dentdelion  was  not  so  easily  to  be  transferred.    Marriaf^e  she  considered 

I  8  matter  of  more  worth  than  to  be  thus  dealt  in  by  attorneyship,  and 
during  the  frequent  ahi^eiice  uf  lier  sire,  the  yoiuig  kiii|^ht  had  passed 

I  many  an  hour,  whispering  a  soft  tale,  in  the  pleasaunce  of  BI  an  stone 
Court.  The  consequence  of  this  was  a  deadly  hatred  between  the 
houses  of  IVIanntone  and  Dentdelion,  and  the  im prison nnent  of  the  lady 
Bertha  in  her  own  apartments. 

The  times  at  this  juncture  were  wild.  Contention,  dismay,  and 
distrust  pervaded  the  country.  No  man  could  promise  himself^  as  he 
lay  down  at  night,  that  his  windpipe  would  be  whole  and  .sound  when 
morning  dawned.  Hordes  of  armed  ruHians  iufetited  the  woods  and 
fastnesses  ;  the  whole  land  was  under  an  interdict,  and  '*  without  benefit 
of  clergy.*'  The  dead  lay  unburied  ;  pestilence  raged  in  tlie  air ;  mi 
invading  army  was  hourly  expected  to  land  upon  some  part  of  the 
coast ;  every  day  the  nobfea  of  the  country  were  revolting  from  their 

,  allegiance;  and  all  England  was  one  scene  of  discord,  horror,  and 
misrule. 

The  King  himself  meanwhile  was  confounded  ;  his  barons  were 
leaving  him,  and  wild  amazement  hurrying  up  and  down  the  little 
number  of  his  doubtful  friends. 

Thanet  in  particular  at  this  crisis  was  even  more  distraught  than 
any  other  part  of  England,  The  whole  island  from  the  town  of  Stonar  • 
to  the  villa  of  Bradstowf  was  filled  willi  fears  and  factions  incident 
to  the  dreadful  occasion,  Iffion  the  devoted  shores  of  Tlianet  would 
the  invaders,  most  probably,  first  swoop,  and  bring  fire  and  sword  over 
its  fat  abbey -lands  and  fertile  pastures. 

^m  Some  few  places  of  strength  in  the  island  had  drawn  their  resources 

^Hgether,  and  resolved  to   keep  loyal  to  the  crown.      Others   were 

^t  «ort  of  '^waiters  upnn  Providence y"  ready  to  join  the  strongest, 
and  cry  '*  Long  life  to  the  conqueror  !*'  whilst  others,  again,  em- 
boldened by  the  near  approach  of  the  revolted  barons,  made  no  scru- 
ple of  declaring  for  the  Diiuphin  and  his  power.  Amongst  the 
fiiTTOer  of  these  stood  IManstone  Court,  now  filled  with  retainers,  and 
ita  mai^sive  gates  rammed  up  against  all  comers  not  of  the  party  of 
the  hated  John. 

Although  I  however,  the  times'  abuse,  and  distracted  state  of  the 
kingdom  in  general,  and  of  the  isle  of  Thanet  in  particular,  might  have 
been  reasonably  expected  quite  sufficient  to  occupy  the  whole  thoughts 
of  Sir  Ralph,  it  will  yet  be  presently  seen  that  his  own  particular  in- 
terests and  worldly  ambition  more  perturbed  his  spirit  at  this  crisis, 
than  the  thousands  of  invaders  who  were  perhaps  enranked  upon  his 
native  soil,  ready  to  fall  upon  its  inhabitants,  and  give  to  the  edge  of 
the  sword  his  whole  kith*  kin,  and  acquaintiince. 

At  the  present  period  of  our  story  we  tiike  leave  to  introduce  the 
reader  to  the  principal  apartment  of  ]\Ianstone  Court, —  along,  low- 
roofed,  thick-walled  room,  with  the  huge  log  glowing  upon  the  ample 
hearth,  several  large  hounds  dreaming  before  its  hlaxe,  the  heavy  rain 

I    beating  in  fitful  gusts  against  the  grated  casement  at  the  further  ex- 

•  SUkliar  no  longer  exists.  Its  very  foundation  can  hardly  he  traoed  upon  the 
•em-beach  near  Sand  with,  It  wtis  a  Norman  town^  and  of  ten  stood  sack  and  siega 
at  thti  time.     It  wns  at  lant  totally  ruined,  biirtit,  and  ilt&entitl. 

<f  The  villa  of  Brndstow,  now  BroikdBtairs. 


■n  ■»::•  vi.  •■:   ii^r    ^-..c  zi^r  Til_»    :.r  —t  cum- 


r  "TT 

•  —  z.-i:":*7T. 

Oz. 

_     "TI 

-.fSr  ■-!_.  izii  >.M:rr 

.:'T-i 

•  -  t    '■  i_     r-  ■ 

■sei  i: 

^i^. 

-•r     .f   1     7  ...: 

:1  ^h 

._TT  r 

r    'if^«>^.Ttf. 

■3-ii 

r    u: 

-    r":*..!   z'-Ti^ 

1-  T-1 

;_-    ... 

~  «■  is-Le.  _z 

-  "»!  ■ 

It  : —    :  -'._■_*:  -«  l-.ur:. 
^:  -  :  ■  -  — -  rt".  enjc  rt  ii- 


> "^t     :•.     *_ :    _i. 


V-    -'•  -    :_:*  J*.  iLTi::":'.'!*..  L:^ 

.     - .  k  ii.  _ :  -:>  >: n- :  ^riiu  at 

:.  -  -^:    :^-.  ^r-ir-.r^fnt.  he 

>     "  L  Jj-ir-i  z.'.l  \:  o  r.eiir 

-.-rL  —"Viiy  Iv  :. '.re  aiinii'^t 

'-  .   :   :  ii  >.>::  rxtd  t"i»r 

c  :••::;•-  :z:^»  LitxvrriJiiL: 

:   15^-.'.;.    ::.  iLe  u;iy  i»f 

:,.  >:_:...   ■. :   l.«  vificiatin^ 


TTc  L  -!•:  rcr.i-I  t.ur  rc.\dcr>  that 

T.L*Z.  A-:  "wl  •  IT  :l:c  ^cjjle  vt  t:.e  ;v»tv  1  ail 
s:  :.:-  re-j-^l  I.z'.zt.  li>  p^**:er:ty  for  fivr 


THE  BKTDAL  OF  MANSTONE  COURT. 


397 


It  was  under  the  difficulties  thus  encountered  by  Sir  Ralph  Man- 
stone  (who  had  searched  church,  chnpeJ,  and  hermitage  withont  being 
able  to  procure  even  a  hedge  priest  to  officiate)  that  the  evil  mind  of 
Curbspine  conceived  a  diabolical  |iroject>  which  the  devil  who  served 
him  (except  under  cover  of  the  excommunication  of  the  Pope)  could 
hardly  have  thrown  in  his  way*  He  had  that  inorning  himself  volun- 
teered to  procure  the  assistance  of  a  churchman,  who,  he  affirmed,  had 
formerly  been  confessor  to  his  family,  and  returning  home,  dressed  up 
one  of  his  own  rascal  followers  In  canonicals,  desiring  him  not  to  make 
his  appearance  at  Manstone  Court  until  the  very  last  moment  of  the 
expected  ceremony.  By  this  means  he  hoped  to  obtain  the  fair 
Saxon  by  a  trick  as  villanous  as  it  was  dangerous* 

Whilst  tliere,  the  lord  of  Manstone  paced  his  hall,  as  we  have  before 
descrilied ;  and  the  crookhack  was  chuckling  in  the  chimneyH:firner, 
and  hugging  himself  in  the  probable  success  of  his  device.  Word 
being  brought  that  the  churchman  was  arrived,  and  in  readiness  for 
the  ceremony,  Sir  Ralph  i\Ianstone,  ordering  his  daughter  to  be  in- 
stantly summoned,  baue  Curbspine  follow,  and  took  his  way  to  the 
adjoining  ehapeh 

The  chapel  of  Manstone*  was  an  erection  of  much  earlier  date 
than  any  other  part  of  the  building.  It  was  one  of  those  rudely-con- 
Btructed  edifices  whose  massive  walls  were  entirely  composed  of  hold- 
ers and  coarse  mortar,  and  which  took  its  date  from  the  earliest  Saxon 
times.  It  was  a  dark,  melancholy-looking  building,  the  few  and  nar- 
row windows  hardly  serving  to  make  its  gloomy  recesses  visible  during 
the  daytime.  At  the  present  moment,  as  Sh  Ralph  strode  into  it, 
followed  by  his  intended  son-in-law,  a  single  lamp  placed  on  the  altar 
was  the  only  light  by  which  it  was  illumined*  As  the  lovely  Bertha, 
however,  was  conducted  along  the  aisle,  an  attendant,  completely 
armed  from  head  to  heel,  followed,  bearing  a  torch  in  his  hand.  Com- 
pletely veiled,  and  accompanied  by  her  female  attendants,  the  lady 
Bertha  advanced  with  a  firm  pace  to  her  sire,  as  he  stood  with  arms 
folded  beside  the  altar,  and  thus  addressed  htm  : — 

'*  It  is,  sir,  I  fear,  vain  for  your  hapless  child  to  reiterate  her  ab- 
horrence of  the  nuptials  you  are  about  to  force  upon  her.  Once  more, 
however,  I  entreat  of  you  to  pause  ere  you  compel  me  to  wed  one 
80  vile  in  disposition  and  character  as  Sir  Geoffrey  Curbspine.  You 
have,  indeed,  dragged  me  to  the  altar,  but  my  lips  will  scarce  utter 
other  vows  than  those  of  horror  and  detestation  of  the  bridegroom  you 
have  provided  for  me." 

As  the  lady  finished  her  address  she  shrank  back  beside  her  attend- 
ants, and  the  knight,  her  sire,  drawing  himself  up  to  his  full  height, 
with  flashing  eye,  uttered  his  stern  rejoinder: — 

*'  My  firm  resolve  I  have/'  he  said,  "  already  pronounced  in  this 
matter.  My  reasons  for  such  resolve  you  well  know.  They  are 
of  sufficient  weight,  I  should  have  thought,  to  have  prompted  you  to 
obedience.  Enough  I  the  child  who  has  no  proper  feeling  towards  her 
parent,  and  who  seeks  to  herd  with  his  bitterest  foes,  deserves  not  that 
father  should  sacrifice  his  dearest  interest  at  her  caprice.  Pro- 
ceed, Sir  Priest,"  he  continued,  stamping  his  armed  heel  upon  the 
b  pavement,  "  proceed,  I  say,  the  parties  are  ready ;  the  bridegroom 
■  waits  r* 

**  N»y,  then/*  eald  the  lady,  casting  herself  upon  her  knees  before 


*  This  chapel  fltill  rematni. 


VOL.  XVllI. 


2  w 


398 


THE    BRIDAL    OF    MANSTONE  COURT, 


the  monk   who  was  to  officiate,  *^  of  this  holy  man   I  implore 
Perform   not  this  hateful  ceremony,  huly  father,  as  you  yourself 
for  mercy  hereafter." 

The  monk,  who  had  remained  standing  somewhat  within  the  gloom 
of  the  chapel,  as  yet  had  not  removed  the  cowl  from  hi&  foce, 
which  was  so  closely  drawn  before  hia  features  that  not  a  particle  of 
his  countenance  could  be  seen,  except  his  piercing  eye,  whicfi  had  UeeiL 
immovably  fixed  upon  the  villaiu  Curbspine  from  the  moment  of  hit 
entrance. 

'*  Arise,  minion  V'  said  Sir  Ralph,  in  stem  tones  to  liia  daughter, 
'*  base  and  degenerate  as  thou   art-     And  you.  Sir  Alonk^  do  as  I  hii' 
ye*     Proceed  with  the  ceremony  you  have  come  hither  to  perft 
Time  presses^  and  with  niorning's   dawn  I    must  to  horse  totrardt 
Dover  Castle  ;  the  spirit  of  the  times  must  teach  us  speed.** 

The  monk  had  not  looked  upon  the  lady  as  she  knelt  before  him. 
As  the  knight  finitshed  lipeaking  he  started,  and  assisted  her  to  ariae*^ 

"  Upon  your  head,  father,"  said  the  lady,  '*  be  the  dreadful  conse- 
quences of  this  hateful  marriage,  if  you  persist  in  commanding  it," 

Anything  more  perfect  than  the  beauty  of  the  sorrowful  maiden  yoa 
might  have  searched  sea  and  land  without  being  able  perhaps  to  find, 
and  her  pallid  features,  as  she  withdrew  her  veil,  and  looked  around 
her,  bore  so  exclusivelv  the  Saxon  eharacter  in  their  expression  ta  to 
leave  no  trace  of  the  Norman  blood  which  flowed  in  her  reins.  She 
looked  a  worthy  specimen  of  her  mother's  royal  lineage ;  whilst  the 
frightful  appearance  of  Curbspine,  i^dth  mouth  grinning,  lips  quiver- 
ing, and  his  shrivelled  limbs  iidgeting  with  anxiety  for  the  perform- 
ance of  the  ceremony,  gave  him  the  semblance  of  some  demon,  who 
had  been  sent  on  earth  to  torment  his  angelic  victim  before  her  time, 

*'  Beware,"  said  the  monk,  for  the  trrst  time  coming  near  the 
light  upon  the  altar,  and  confronting  the  Lord  of  l^Ianstone  Court; 
**  beware,  Sir  Ralph  AInnstone,  what  you  do;  1  am  here  upon  a 
Bolemn  promise  given  to  Sir  Geoffrey  Curbspine  to  perform  this 
marriage,  and  upon  yimr  behest  I  am  bound  to  fulfil  my  part  of  the 
contract.  Our  abbey  will  he  greatly  enriched  by  his  liberaLity  if  I  do 
so  ;  but  I  knew  not  that  the  bride  vvas  an  unwilling  party.  The  wnsth 
of  Heaven  may  fall  upon  those  who—" 

'*  Patter  your  priestcraft  elsewhere,"  impatiently  interrupted  the 
kntght ;  "  proceed  with  the  ceremony  at  once,  or  dread  my  anger." 

*'  1  um  the  minister  of  One  mightier  than  the  Lord  uf  ^lanstone 
Court,"  returned  the  monk  contemptuously.  ^*  1  have  already  said  1 
will  perform  this  ceremony,  but  the  lady  has  hinted  at  consequences 
likely  to  follow  being  thus  coerced  into  a  marriage  distasteful  lo  her. 
Belore  therefore  I  undertake  to  join  the  parties  in  holy  wedlock,  I 
demand  five  minutes'  conversation  with  the  bride.  Let  all  avoid  the 
chapel,  and  fur  that  space  leave  me  alone  with  her." 

'*  How  mean  ye  by  that>  villain  ?"  said  Curbapine,  gliding  close  up  to 
the  monk,  and  speaking  in  a  whisper  ;  "  what  new  freak  possesses  you  ?** 

*'  Remain  quiet,"  returned  the  monk,  in  a  low  voice.  "As 
yet  all  goes  well  ;  thwart  me  in  my  proceedings,  and  I  betray 
your  plot.  Bethink  ye  (an  I  do  so),  your  own  and  my  life's  blood 
will  crimson  this  altar  where  we  stand/* 

"  The  scruples  of  the  priest  are  natural.  Sir  Geoffrey,"  returned  tlit* 
Lord  of  Blanstone,  after  conferring  with  one  of  his  attendants  ;  "  we 
grant  him  the  live  minutes  he  dL»sires  ;  and  may  he  have  the  tongue  of 


i 


i 


4 


THE    BRIDAL    OF    MAN8T0NE    COURT. 


ersuosion  to  induce  this  undutiful  girl  to  yield  to  tlie  wishes  of 
er  only  parent.  Remember,  monk,  a  hundred  marks,  besides  Sir 
eoffrey  Ciirbspine's  donation,  awaits  your  abbey  on  completion  of  this 
business." 

So  saying,  the  knight  left  the  chapel,  followed  by  his  attendants 
and  the  females  who  bad  accompanied  the  lady  Bertha-  Meanwhile 
Sir  Geoffrey  Ctirbspine,  whose  cunning  surmised  some  cheat  upon  the 
cheater,  taking  advantage  of  the  gloom  of  the  dimly-lighted  cbapel, 
instead  of  passing  out  of  the  door,  stepped  a  pace  or  Iwo  aside,  and 
throwing  bis  deformed  body  upon  a  flat  marble  tomb  which  stood  be- 
hind one  of  the  8axon  pillars  of  the  aisle,  (himself  unseen  and  unsus- 
pected.) quietly  awaited  the  comma nication  which  the  counterfeit 
monk  w^as  about  to  make  to  his  intended  bride. 

He  was  not  long  suffered  to  remain  in  suspense.  Soon  as  the  re* 
ceding  footsteps  of  the  knight  and  his  followers  proclaimed  that  they 
had  left  the  chapel,  and  a  distant  door  was  heard  to  close  upon  them^ 
the  monk  for  an  instant  took  the  single  lamp  by  which  the  gloomy 
chapel  was  lighted,  and  holding  it  aloft,  gave  a  rapid  glance  arouna. 
His  eye  for  a  moment  crossed  the  prostrate  figure  of  Curbspine,  as 
he  lay  motionless  upon  the  niar()le  tombj  -^-  but  so  still  did  be 
remain^  that  he  took  him  for  some  elligy  of  the  Manstouesj^-and 
returning  towards  the  altar,  threw  back  his  cowl,  and  casting  liim- 
self  upon  one  knee  before  the  lady,  seized  her  hand,  and  covered  it 
with  kisses* 

The  Jjadv  Bertha  at  first  recoiled  w^ith  the  surprise  at  this  sudden 
outbreak  of^the  officiating  minister.  The  next  moment,  however,  she 
found  her  lover  was  at  her  feet» 

'*  Sir  Hugo  Dent  de  Lion  I*'  she  said,  in  still  greater  astonishment ; 
"  and  here  in  the  power  of  bis  bitterest  foes  ?  Unhappy  youth  !  your 
life  is  spanned.  Every  part  of  this  building  is  strictly  guarded;  every 
loophole  watched  with  jealous  care.*' 

•*  We  have  indeed  but  little  time  for  conference,  lady/*  returned  the 
youth ;  "  scarce,  perhaps,  sufficient  for  me  to  explain  the  meaning  of  my 
appearance  here,  and  the  plans  by  which  I  hope,  at  least,  to  save  you  from 
tne  nuptials  with  which  you  are  threatened,  or  to  perish  in  the  attempt. 
Suffice  it,  tliat  I  this  morning  became  aware  of  a  trick  by  which 
my  rival  intended  to  become  possessed  of  your  hand^  In  I^  I  an  stone 
w^ood  lies  the  body  of  a  villain,  w^ho  sacrilegiously  profaning  the  cowl  I 
now  WTar,  was  stabbed  by  me  on  his  way  hither  to  perform  a  mock 
bridal  in  your  despite.  Assuming  the  garments  he  wore,  I  am  here  by 
virtue  of  the  same  disguise-  There  is  yet  one  only  chance  remaining  for 
us.  Suffer  me  to  proceed  with  the  ceremony ;  after  which,  retire  to 
your  chamber,  and  leave  the  issue  of  the  business  to  my  management, 
I  have  arranged  the  means  of  escape,  if  we  can  once  lull  the  jealousy  of 
your  father *s  suspicions  by  a  seeming  acquiescence  in  his  wishes.  The 
eremony  performed,  he  starts  instantly  for  Dover,  when  I  will  take  a 
errible  revenge  upon  the  villain  Curlispine,  and  convey  you  where  I 
liave  friends  to  protect  us." 

'*  Mow,  Sir  Hugo  Dent  de  Lion  f  *'  returned  the  lady.  "  Thinkest 
thou  I  would  for  one  hour  become  the  leman  of  the  demon  Curb- 
spine,  and  knowingly  permit  a  mock  wedding  ?  No,  I  will  instantly 
recall  my  father,  and  denounce  the  caitiff  who  would  have  thus  dis- 
honoured his  house." 

**  Alaa !  lady,"  returned  the  youth,  ''  you  would  but  put  off  the  evil 

2  T  2 


400  THE  BRIDAL  OF  IfANSTONE  COUBT. 

daj,  mud  procvre  either  destL  or  a  dungeon  for  me,  yoar  fsEdihfiil  ser- 
^imnt.  Nmj,  weep  not;  but  do  M  I  adrise.  Beliere  me  there  is  no 
•Iher  chance  left  na." 

There  was  indeed  hot  maU  time  for  the  lady  to  deliberate  upon  the 
Matter,  m  almoat  ere  the  jooth  oonld  resume  his  cowl,  the  footstm 
of  the  Lord  of  Manatone  were  heard  in  the  passage  leading  to  tbc 
chapel ;  and  the  next  minute  his  dsnhing  stride  rang  upon  the  pare- 
■wnt  of  the  aisle. 

As  the  party  advanced  up  to  the  altar,  Curhspine  glided  firom  his 
place  of  concealment,  and  joined  them.  Whaterer  part  of  the  young 
^^it's  discourse  he  had  heard,  it  appeared  by  hn  ailence  that  he 
meant  to  arail  himself  of  the  services  of  his  riral  in  regard  to  the  oere- 
mcny  ;  after  whidi  his  fertile  brain,  no  doubt,  had  conoeiTed  some  pro- 
ject \j  whidi  to  defeat  the  scheme  Dent  de  Lion  had  hinted  at  for  the 
escape  of  himadf  and  Bertha  Manstone.  The  counterfeit  monk,  there- 
fare,  annoanoed  to  her  sire  that  the  lady's  scruples  were  in  some  sort 
lemsfted  by  his  exhortation,  and  that  she  consented  to  the  Derfmaaoee 
of  the  ceremony.  The  fair  Bertha  had  indeed  but  little  dioiee  in  the 
matter,  unless  she  prefierred  seeing  her  lorer  slaughtered  where  he 
stood  ;  and  she  was  soon,  to  all  appearance,  joined  in  the  holy  bands  of 
matrimony  with  the  hideous  bridegroom  of  her  fsther^s  choiee- 

As  soon  sa  the  ceremony  was  performed,  the  Lady  Bertha,  shrinking 
from  the  touch  of  her  mock  spouse  as  from  some  renomous  reptile, 
pleading  indispositioii,  scoompsnied  by  her  female  attendsntsi,  was  the 
irst  to  TeaTO  the  chapel ;  whilst  her  sire  issued  orders  for  a  hasty  re- 
past, and  desired  his  esquire  to  hare  aU  in  readiness  to  moont  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice.  The  attention  of  Sir  Geoffrey  Curhspine,  meanwhile, 
seemed  transferred  from  all  sare  the  monk,  watching  his  every  mo- 
tion, and  looking  the  living  portrait  from  which  the  cunning  architects 
of  the  period  had  carved  some  of  the  ugly  figures  which  ornamented 
the  roof  of  the  building. 

The  Lady  Bertha  (as  soon  as  she  gained  her  chamber)  drew  bdt  and 
bar,  in  an  sgony  of  fear  and  apprehension  as  to  what  next  was  about  to 
hapnen.  l^t  Sir  Hugo  Dent  de  Lion  meditated  some  desporate 
deed  by  which  to  attempt  averting  her  tormentor's  schemes,  and  effect- 
ing her  deliverance,  she  felt  assm^  ;  but  that  he  would  be  likely  to 
h£L  in  that  attempt,  and  by  his  own  destruction  leave  her  in  the  power 
of  Curhspine,  she  had  also  but  too  much  reason  to  fear. 

One  moment  she  listened,  in  breathless  expectation,  for  some  signal 
or  sound  of  what  was  transpiring  below.  The  next  she  threw  open  her 
casement,  and  endeavoured  to  gain  a  sight  of  the  apartment  beneath. 
All  was,  however,  dark  and  ominous*  The  distant  sound  of  prepara- 
tion for  her  father's  departure  alone  met  her  ear,  as  the  men-at-arms 
were  mustered  and  paraded  in  the  courtyard,  and  steeds  were  being 
quickly  caparisoned  and  led  from  their  stalls. 

This  state  of  suspense  appeared  even  more^dreadful  than  the  cer- 
tainty that  her  lover  had  been  detected,  when  suddenly  the  great  bell 
of  the  chapel  rung  violently.  Soon  afterwards  dire  yells  were  heard, 
and  then  a  confusion  of  tongues  in  the  passages  below,  accompanied  by 
heavy  blows.  After  listening  in  great  agitation  for  some  minutes,  the 
Lady  Bertha  despatched  one  of  her  maidens  to  learn  the  meaning  of 
these  sounds.  In  order  to  explain  them  satisfactorily  to  the  reader  we 
must  again  return  to  the  chapel,  at  the  precise  moment  the  lady  had 
herself  retired  from  it. 


THE    BRIDAL   OF   MANSTONE   COURT. 


401 


As  8ir  Ralph,  with  the  remainder  of  the  bridal- party,  left  tlie 
chap^'l,  Curbspiiie  laid  his  withering  hand  upon  the  monk,  who  was 
about  to  follow,  and  signed  to  him  to  remain  behind.  The  monk  start- 
edf  hut  was  fain  to  obey  ;  and  the  hnnchbaekj  closiijg  the  chapel  door  a» 
soon  as  they  were  alone,  placed  his  buck  against  it,  and  for  a  brief  space 
•eemed  to  enjoy  the  evident  agitation  of  the  counterfeit  churchman, 

•*  Your  reverence/*  he  said,  with  hb  shrill  tones  and  bantering  laugli, 
*'  has  played  yonr  part  in  this  deception  to  admiration.  But  that  I 
know  you  for  a  low  ruffian,  I  could  swear  you  had  been  all  your  life 
educated  in  a  cloister." 

"You  are,  then,  satislied  with  my  administration?"  returned  the 
counterfeit  priest. 

"  Quite,"  returned  the  other  ;  *'  I  will  even  exceed  the  remunera- 
tion promised.  Here,"  he  continued,  stepping  towards  t!ie  altar,  ''  is 
the  reward  of  your  fidelity."  As  he  was  apparently  about  to  produce 
his  purse  from  the  bo^om  of  his  furred  tunicj  he  started  in  affected 
alarm,  "  Holy  Virgin  V*  he  exclaimed,  *'  do  my  eyes  indeed  deceive  me? 
or  has  the  dead  returned  to  life  ?  Behold,  the  Jigure  so  lately  occupy- 
ing that  monument  has  left  its  resting-place,  and  stands  behind  you  !" 

The  young  crusader  was  not  altogether  without  the  superstitious 
fears  so  prevalent  during  that  dark  age.  Pie  started«  and  turning  his 
head,  belield  the  tomb  on  which  he  had  so  lately  observed  what  he  con- 
ceived a  monumental  ettigy  was  now  without  its  occupant.  Struck 
with  dread,  he  seized  the  lamp  from  the  altar,  and  glanced  around  the 
gloomy  chapel.  As  he  did  so,  the  dagger  of  Curbspine  leaped  from  its 
sheath,  and  was  driven  with  so  much  force  against  his  bosom  that  he 
was  staggered,  and  almost  struck  down  by  the  blow. 

In  his  eagerness  for  revenge  the  cunning  of  Curbspine  had  for  once 
deserted  him  ;  his  rival  wore  a  shirt  of  mail  beneath  his  monkish  hahi- 
limenta^  and  the  dagger,  which  would  have  been  buried  to  the  hilt  in 
the  young  kniglit's  heart,  was  shivered  with  the  blow. 

*'  Stain  to  thine  order  V*  said  Dent  de  Lion,  as  he  recovered  himself, 
and  s«ized  ujion  the  hunchback ;  **  that  felon  stroke  has  accelerated 
thy  fate!" 

With  all  his  faults  Curbspine  possessed  considerable  bravery.  He 
grappled  with  his  more  po^verful  foe ;  and,  had  not  his  weapon  been 
orokeuj  might  even  yet  have  made  a  decent  fight  of  it.  As  it  was,  he 
managed  to  twist  himself  like  an  eel  from  his  antagonist's  gripe,  and 
being  well  acquainted  with  the  intricacies  of  the  chapel,  darted  into 
the  low  entrance  which  led  up  to  the  tower,  and  tied  op  the  winding 
atairs  into  the  belfry,  where,  seizing  upon  a  bell-rope,  he  commenced 
hauling  at  it  with  all  his  might,  in  order  to  alarm  the  household.  In 
fak  eagerness,  how^ever,  his  foot  became  entangled  in  the  rope,  and  the 
next  moment  he  was  drawn  up  with  terrific  force,  and  his  akuU  frac- 
tured as  he  became  jammed  into  the  aperture  through  which  the  rope 
ascended  to  the  wheel  of  the  great  bell  of  the  chapel. 

The  sound  of  the  bell  in  the  lower  of  Manstone  chapel  struck  omin- 
ously upon  the  ear  of  Sir  Hugo  Dent  de  Lion.  In  the  present  dis- 
tracted state  of  the  island  it  was  seldom  used,  except  in  cases  of  alarm. 
Scarcely,  however,  had  its  chime  tolled  halfni-dozen  sullen  beats  ere  it 
was  followed  by  a  yell,  and  a  dull,  heavy  blow- 

The  Dent  de  Lions  of  Thanet*  (as  the  name  would  seem  to  impl)  ) 

*  The  ancient  iveac  of  the  Dent  de  Lions  (now  called  Dandelion)  was  nrar  Mitr- 
ptte,     Soine   portion   af  lu  wnlls  and  ri  g^nte-honse    m»y  yet  Ih»   seen.     Over  the 


402 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  MAN8T0XE  COUET. 


were  a  fierce  and  liauglity  race.  They  bore  upon  their  shield  a  lion  i 
head,  with  the  teeth  displayed,  and  a  label  issuing  from  his  mouth,  on 
which  was  written,  ''We  gripe  hard*"  The  present  representative  of  the 
family,  however,  seemed  more  likely  to  feel  the  fangs  of  his  enemy  in  hi* 
own  rtesh,  than  be  able  to  gripe  hard  in  this  instance.  He  was  alone  in 
the  midst  of  his  deadly  foe3,  who,  rushing  to  the  chapel,  demanded  the 
meaning  of  the  summons.  His  religious  garment,  however,  as  in  many 
other  instances,  served  as  a  cloak  to  mask  the  real  charActer  of  the 
wearer.  His  hand  sought  the  crosa-hilted  weapon  beneath  his  monkiah 
habiliments,  and  commending  himself  to  the  patron  saint  of  the  chapel* 
be  prepared  to  bide  the  brunt  as  best  he  might. 

"  How  now,  priest  ?"  said  Sir  Ralph,  confronting  his  tall  form»  as  the 
counterfeit  monk  stood  with  his  arms  folded  before  the  altar.  What 
devil's  matins  are  these  you  hold  here ;  and  where  tarries  Sir  Geoffrey 
Curbspine?" 

*'  The  wrath  of  heaven/*  returned  Dent  de  Lion,  solemnly  crossiDg 
himself,  "  is,  I  fear,  manifesting  itself  upon  the  transactions  of  this 
night.  May  its  forgiveness  he  extended  to  me  for  the  part  I  have  per- 
formed I  Behold,"  he  said,  pointing  towards  the  belfry.  "  The  enemy 
of  mankind  is,  I  fear,  in  person  within  the  holy  edifice.  For  myself,  I 
have  wrestled  with  the  evil  fiend  ;  and,  lo  \  he  hath  fled  and  barred 
himself  in  yonder  tower ;  where.  I  fear  me,  he  is  engaged  in  tearing 
the  bridegroom  to  pieces.  Hark  to  yonder  sound  I  His  groans  are 
even  yet  to  be  heard  in  the  belfry. 

**  Hence,  impostor  1"  said  the  knight  of  Manstone,  rushing  at  and 
endeavouring  to  force  open  the  door  of  the  tower.  "  What  ho,  there ! 
bring  hammer  and  lever,  men  i  Some  dire  accident  hath  surely  be- 
fiiUen  Sir  GeoiFrey  Curbs  pine." 

The  attendants  were  struck  with  dread  at  the  words  of  the  myateri- 
0U8  monk,  and  even  Sir  Balph  himself  was  horrified  when,  after  smash- 
ing in  the  iron-studded  door,  he  beheld  the  dreadful  situation  of  his 
would-be  son-in-law. 

Sir  Geoffrey  was  yet  alive,  as  the  trembling  attendants  attempted  to 
extricate  and  draw  him  through  the  aperture  in  which  be  had  been 
jammed  ;  but  died  during  the  operation. 

Bleanwhile,  the  monk  seized  the  moment,  which,  once  neglected, 
never  returns.  He  required  no  formal  notice  to  quit,  or  even  a  second 
order  by  word  of  mouth ;  hut  during  the  excitement  and  confusion  of 
the  scene  he  quietly  withdrew  from  the  chapel,  and  meeting  with  the 
attendant  of  Bertha,  desired  to  be  instantly  led  to  her  chamber*  Ar- 
rived there,  it  required  but  small  persuasion  on  his  part  to  induce  the 
terriiied  maiden  to  make  use  of  the  present  oppartunity,  and  escape 
with  him  to  Dent  de  Lton  castle ;  from  whence  they  crossed  the  seas 
to  Calais,  and  were  speedily  joined  in  holy  bands  of  matrimony. 

larger  arch  are  the  urniB  of  Daundelyou,  sable,  three  lions  rampant  Vi^tween  two 
bar*  daacotte  arf^etit.  Above  the  »mall  arch  h  a  blank  esnittheoii^  i%nd  to  the  left 
of  that  a  demi-lion  with  a  label  in  his  mouthy  on  which  is  engraved,  in  old  Saxcrn 
characters,  the  word  '■*  Diiundolyon."  Uader  the  right  iide  of  the  gateway  a  cu- 
nous  apartment  was  formerly  discovered,  large  enough  to  C4>ntJLia  ten  pemons,  in 
wlitch  were  found  portions  of  lacrymEHory  urns  of  glass  and  earth  ^  on  the  other 
aide  is  a  well-prison* 


< 


4 


n 


403 

GLIMPSES  AND  MYSTERIES. 

WRITTEN    AND    rt,LUSTRArKD    BV    ALFRED   CROWQUILL. 

THE  APPARITION. 


iV^,^,'i: 


kQX"^ 


k^^^^^ 


J 


.-^^j^^^ij.Hev;'^" 


E  were  marFietl  \  I  was  a  very 
young  bird,  and  hopped  mto  the 
trap  with  all  the  innocence  of  the 
world  requisite  as  an  excuse  for  such  an 
early  indiscretion*  I  suddenly  found 
myself  transformed  from  a  remarkably 
independent  young  gentleman,  who  was 
known  only  to  waiters  and  box-keepersf, 
and  who  had  nothing  to  take  care  of  but 
the  latch-key,  —  into  a  citizen  of  the 
world ;  good  to  the  government  for  all 
taxes;  to  the  parish  for  all  parochial 
rates,  extra  and  otherwise;  to  the  col- 
lector of  the  water-rate,  who  won't  call  twice  ;  to  gas  companies, 
whose  lamps  I  had  formerly  broken  ;  and  to  the  church,  for  all  sorts 
of  register  its,  christening  and  burial  fees,  &c.  &c.  &c,  I  confess  I 
was  rather  startled  at  first  when  I  heard  the  rattle  of  my  chains; 
butj  like  a  young  colt,  I  soon  got  ysed  to  my  new  harness.  No 
young  bachelors,  of  course,  have  any  furniture,  except  a  collapsed 
portmanteau,  and  an  unhmited  number  of  boots  ;  so  that  my  small 
capital  began  sensibly  to  ooze  away  under  the  frequent  attacks  made 
ypon  it  for  furnishing  our  little  apartments.  Every  evening  found 
us  dangling  round  some  broker's- shop,  buying  Bomething  which 
we  pouiiiydxf  wanted.  After  the  first  fortnight  this  became  less  fre- 
quent; but  my  experience  has  taught  me  that  it  is  a  chronic  disor- 
der, which  appears  stronger  or  weaker  through  a  man's  existence. 

The  honeymoon  waned,  at  least  the  legitimate  time  allowed  for  it 
had  arrived;  but,  as  yet  having  no  real  troubles,  and  a  few  pounds 
left  of  our  little  fortunes,  we  still  made  very  good  moonlight  of  our 
own.  My  literary  employment—  I  don't  think  I  have  before  men- 
tioned that  1  was  an  author — varied  considerably  ;  and  as  I  had  not 
been,  as  it  is  called  by  idle  men, "  i'the  vein  "  during  my  honeymoon, 
and  had  lived  a  lite  of  independence,  the  reference  to  our  stock  of 
current  coin,  prompted  by  the  appearance  of  a  forgotten  tailor's  bill, 
rather  startled  us,^''  BL  10.f. !"     We  looked  at  each  other,  and  aaw 


jaCD  HT51X23]S&. 


CMHif!^  li&  lend  Hi  flome  iiuiuri  nntil  ire  cnnld,  as  it » l 
«ai7KsH'e§  rosxid.*'  A'twrnn^r  iQ]  cf  ilftem  bxriik^  wmn 
DdiDt  3c  iiMBJjiiug  at  aUv  Therr  iras  m  toj  tfm^  faeteAl  fiv  liieir  re- 
toBDg  tx>  lend  iu  1^  TiaTVig  ■mlifliim  If  j poor  Htde  wile,  hcnr. 
eve.  at  litf  liiDneiii  afonr  amtt-wisii  wban  i^  had  readed  vhena 
cinid.  and  viic  ilie  knrv  bad  maner,  but  at  ibe  Bane  taoe  a  linaig 
ion  ID  pan  villi  ii.  y uia ilbitfaiWriug  vluc^  abe  wnmld  Tcn- 
Sbe  artAe  iir  imaLiiig  wir  ■laiijage,  but  btix^iiouIiii^  €€001 
^Hfnhin,  itaang  ^mr  wkb  to  oone  dova  and  embraoe 
I  bad  6tam  |acMu!  nj  wi&  to  cobk  and  reade  vith  her. 
ward  *=  badiand  *  looked  rt4>Mdli^i  droO  writtoi  fior  the  toA 
it.  We  ^■ng;*'^^  £ke  a  giddj  bor  and  iriri,  and  I  coald  see  b j 
vile'f  f^aaat  ibr  «crethr  vidied  nj  arbxdkcri  bad  grown  to  a 
re  wisaa  cae  ;  bai^  «/  daperndtn^  We  filed  the  tutor's  bOl, 
1  wzted  acxxmsir  to  bear  from  oar  coantrr  relation. 

dajt  paved;  dnrin^  vbkb  tame;  being  both  — ^'^*i'f  for 
ver.  w€  foond  oat  bov  manr  defifciies  Her  Jla- 
tboagbt  iHiM  nil  I  per  daeai,  and  knew  erery  cne 
I  dte  ft?ccl;  for  no  genaine  poitman's  knock  eoold 
br  a  futmlu"%}  be  pefpctnfted  whbont  its  striking  oar  ears..  Hagical 
rasad do«^  knocks. never  attempted  bribe  aMMt  impadent 
dae  antboritT.  Adt  man  who  does  it  iiieieicntly,  or 
_  .  duuit*  to  be  kicked  ;  be  does  not  know  opon  what  diord 
af  kiTpe  cr  fear  be  but  strike.  I  am  now  gman  sensitiie  to  its  im^ 
I  leaBcmber  barried^T,  in  a  drenching  ibower,  loadly 
the  goTciiiment  tone  on  a  friend's  kno^cr.  I  certainly 
■y  ciKi  bj  bftTing  the  door  qaickly  opened ;  bat,  having 
piafnlT  bc«!=  the  casse  of  mocfa  dissppointment,  I  was  not  only  oold- 
ij  rwofiieii.  b-::t  deprircd  of  a  coorteous  inritatiofi  to  dinner.  I  was 
lest  i£  ctd  cotton  axnbrelia,  and  sent  on  my  way  a  wiser  man. 

A  real  ckxibte-rap  at  last  I  the  servant  was  at  tbe  door  I  bdiere 
fine  :  bat  my  wife  and  1  were  doae  upon  her  slip-shod  heels.  The 
tfrraat  possibly  had  an  interest  in  the  knock,  —  it  might  have  been 
lor  her ;  so  thought  CTery  body  in  the  house,  for  heads  popped  out  of 
all  the  doors,  from  the  parlour  to  the  garret.  It  was  for  us ! — ^post- 
mark all  right ! — ^we  bore  it  off  in  triumph.  With  trembling  hands 
and  beating  hearU  we  opened  it. 

*^  Db  AM  Xixcjx, — Tour  letter  startled  me.  At  best  you  have  done 
an  iaBpradent  thing.  I  was  thirty-five  before  I  marned  your  poor 
dear  ande.  I  am  sorry  to  say  he  is  fast  failing :  he  will  hardly 
know  youy  CSome  down,  that  I  may  see  your  husband,  and  consult 
bow  we  can  better  a  bad  thing.     Yonr  affectionate  aunt, 

"Dinah." 

**  PjS. — Mj  kind  respects  to  your  husband." 


kind  respects  to  your  husband"  —  a  rapid  thought  passed 

my  mind.    I  felt  by  anticipation  what  she  would  think  of 

BoeV  magnificent  protector.     The  letter   dropped  upon  the 

"^  ^Lumcd  a  light  flutterer  from  its  folds.     '*  Hy.  Hacs  and 

mine  kind  old  soul !     We  were  soon  deep  in  the 


GLIMPSES    AND    MYSTERIES, 


405 


mysteries  of  packing;  at  which  my  wifefkr  surpassed  me:  my  only 
practice  hitherto  having  been  getting  as  many  things,  with  the  dd 
of  ray  foot,  into  a  carpet-bag  as  possible. 

The  packing  over,  we  trotted  off  to  inspect  railway-bills  with  all 
the  delight  and  importance  of  young  travellers,  and  as  is  mostly  the 
case,  found  that  the  company  would  put  us  down  in  the  middle  of 
some  field  very  far  from  where  we  wanted  to  go.  However,  we  had 
no  ahernativej  and  were  obliged  quietly  to  travel  by  the  railwajs  all 
the  stage-coaches  being  "  but  things  that  were/'  Their  melancholy 
memoriala  may  any  daybe  seen  at  the  stage-coach  cemetery  near  St. 
MartinVle-Grand*  We  were  to  get  to  the  train  at  an  early  hour  in 
the  morning  ;  and  had  it  been  necessary  to  go  much  earlier  we 
should  have  been  ready,  for  we  never  during  tlie  whole  night  closed 
our  eyes.  The  time  at  length  arrived,  and  we  got  to  the  stiition  con- 
siderably before  the  stated  time;  but,  notwithstanding  this,  we  were 
much  alarmed  on  our  way  lest  we  should  be  too  late,  and  the  train 
go  off  without  us.  We  felt  what  is  usually  felt  by  novices,  great 
anxiet}'  about  our  luggage ;  and,  what  with  the  rushing  of  steam 
and  the  demon  whistle,  we  were  completely  bewildered.  At  last  we 
were  quietly  resigned  to  the  hands  of  an  official,  who  locked  us  up 
in  one  of  the  carriages. 

The  journey  was  accompanied,  like  all  railway  journeys  are, — ^as 
I  have  found  by  much  experience  ^ —  with  screaming,  hurrying, 
bumping  through  very  damp  tunnels,  a  shockingly  smeared  land- 
scape, and  execrable  smells,  as  though  some  giant's  candle  were 
blown  out.  The  end  being  almost  the  beginning,  your  journey  is 
certainly  soon  over.  We  had  now  reached  our  destined  place,  and 
found  ourselves  in  the  midst  of  a  pretty  landscape,  at  a  magnificent 
Gothic  station,  which  appeared  much  too  large  for  the  red-headed 
young  gentleman  clerk,  and  the  very  green  porter,  who  seemed  the 
only  occupants.  Beside  the  embankment  slept  a  young  native  in  a 
wheelbarrow,  who  was  soon  wideawake  enough  to  seize  upon  our 
boxes,  and  guide  us  to  the  nearest  village,  from  which  our  aunt's 
house  was  eleven  miles. 

We  entered  the  village,  which  had  the  usual  supply  of  very  white- 
headed  children,  and  old  men  leaning  against  walls.  Our  guide  rat- 
tled his  single  wheel  with  a  very  imposing  effect  into  the  quadrangle 
of  a  magnificent  inn ;  the  grass  grew  over  the  stones,  and  the  dog 
slept  upon  the  door-step.  Beseemed  just  to  half  open  his  eyes,  and 
look  at  the  wheelbarrow,  and  close  them  with  philosophical  con- 
tempt, as  though  he  thought  it  not  worth  ivhile  to  disturb  his 
master,  the  landlord,  for  guests  so  insignificant  as  us.  Our  guide 
thought  differently,  for  lie  soon  began  to  call  about  him,  and  brought 
the  landlord  and  his  wife  from  an  opposite  garden,  where  they  were 
digging  potatoes.  The  exeitement  became  alarming, — a  post-chaise 
wanted  !  The  host  pulled  wildly  at  the  hostler's  bell,  which,  choked 
with  the  ivy,  signally  failed  in  its  attempts  to  ring  ;  but,  however,  it 
made  sufficient  noise  to  bring  a  decrepit  old  man  in  a  white  hat,  long 
smock-frock,  and  boots,  from  the  tap.  This  was  the  postboy.  His 
boots  were  scrupulously  clean,  but  patched  beyond  belief;  the  post- 
boy guard  was  buckled  over  his  riglit  leg,  as  if  he,  as  in  the  days  of 
old,  really  expected  his  turn.  He  was  too  old  to  emigrate  with  the 
younger  men,  so  remained  at  his  post  to  pass  away  bit  by  bit  with 
*  only  chaise  and  pair  lef\  upon  the  once  popular  road.  The  whole 


406 


GLIMPSES   AND   MYSTERIES. 


viDigc  became  busy  ;  the  bradxings  and  rubbiogs  were  very  enter- 
t^">g  to  bcbold,  Ererrbodj  tvovid  do  something.  The  brass  on 
tiK  old  vidp  pruned  under  the  famod  of  one  old  man,  while  another 
tioddled  of  for  lys  best  white  hat  for  his  chum.  The  postboy's  wife, 
who  becwac  at  once  aomebcMlj,  was  busied  in  nearly  choking  her 
htzahand  with  the  my stericnis  tie  of  the  handkerchief,  only  known  to 
the  craft.  At  last  aU  was  ready  ;  the  boxes  corded ;  the  door  dam- 
ned. Crack  went  the  whip !  The  boya  cheered ;  and  we  rattled 
avm*  fivm  the  throng. 

Tne  day  drew  rapidly  to  a  dose  as  we  bumped  alon^  the  un^e- 
qoented  roada.  The  landscape  became  cold  and  blue,  like  the  cele- 
hnied  Chinese  one  on  our  dinner-plates.  A  dulness  fell  upon  the 
fftfrits  of  b€>th  of  us  as  we  listened  to  the  low  moaning  winci,  and  a 
nervoittoeMft  natural  to  our  situation,  crept  gradually  ov^er  us.  The 
postb<7  pulled  up  on  the  summit  of  a  hill,  and  pointed  out  to  us  in 
the  distant  Talley  the  isolated  house  to  which  we  were  going,  —  its 
tall  gables  stood  primly  up  in  the  evening  sky,  and  its  cold  white 
§tce  we^med  to  be  staring  at  us  from  the  distance.  The  dark  6rs 
nade  m  solemn  and  unpleasant  background  to  the  old  place,  which 
teemed  to  promise  but  very  little  comfort  to  us  poor  wanderers.  I 
shivered  as  I  looked  upon  its  unpromising  aspect,  and  pressed  my 
little  wife  to  my  side,  whose  spirits  were  more  subdued  the  nearer 
we  approached  the  house. 

The  old  entrance  gate  was  swinging  back,  and  we  bowled  softly 
over  the  dried  leaves  which  lay  thickly  over  road^  as  we  pulled  up 
at  the  door  ;  it  was  opened  by  an  old  servant  woman,  who,  curtsey- 
ing  lowly,  led  us  into  a  side-room,  and  went  to  seek  her  mistress. 
We  exchanged  looks,  as  well  as  the  deepening  twilight  permitted  us, 
which  plainly  said  **  Here  we  are  V  The  room  was  thickly  panelled 
with  dark  oak,  and  contained  a  gaping  lire-place  and  dog-irons, 
polished  most  brilliantly,  upon  which  I  believed  no  burning  logs 
could  have  ever  reflected  ;  the  chairs  were  all  carefully  covered  and 
taped ;  their  backs  were  alarmingly  long  and  straight,  but  their  legs  j 
equally  short  and  bandy,  with  their  toes  turned  out  in  the  most  ' 
priggish  manner.  One  side  of  the  room  was  occupied  by  one  of 
those  long-forgotten  instruments  called  a  spinet,  in  the  shape  of  a 
magnified  mutton  chop,  and  the  other  by  a  table  with  a  good  many 
more  legs  than  it  could  by  any  possibility  want. 

The  minutes  appeared  hours  ;  when  a  rustling  of  silk  started  our 
nerves  and  made  our  hearts  beat  a  violent  tattoo ;  the  door  opened 
<*  Our  aunt !"  We  rose  as  the  tall,  painfully  upright  figure  ap- 
proached us.  She  embraced  my  wife,  who,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
cried,  whilst  I  stood  still  to  be  kissed  upon  the  forehead, —  which 
lef\  an  impression  very  like  that  which  would  be  left  after  the  appli- 
cation of  the  cold  knob  of  a  steel  poker  to  the  part.  Her  cold  blue 
eyes  wandered  palpably  over  us  both.  I  felt  them  creep  from  my 
boots  to  the  crown  of  my  head.  I  was  posidvely  mesmerised! 
She  conducted  us  from  the  room  into  an  adjoining  chamber,  where, 
beside  a  large  log- fire,  was  seated  a  heavy- looking  man,  who  only 
answered  our  greeting  by  a  vacant  stare ;  this  was  our  uncle,  at 
least  all  that  was  left  of  him,  for  he  was  quite  imbecile;  beside  him 
mt  a  little  grey-headed,  pippin-faced  man,  dressed  snugly  in  black  ; 
thU  was  the  curate  of  the  adjoining  village.  He  rose  at  our  en- 
and  bowed  solemnly.      We    placed  our  chairs   round  the 


GLIMPSES    AND    MYSTERIES. 


407 


small  tea-table^  and  took  some  refreshments,  nearly  in  solemn 
iilence,  for  a  mutual  embarrassment  seemed  to  chill  us  all,  and  I 
felt  myself  completely  under  the  influence  of  my  aunt's  eyes  and 


^%-  ,r 


L*fjf 


the  continued  stare  of  her  poor  husband,  who  was  dreaming  and 
puzzling  in  the  corner  over  our  appearance.  The  meal  was  soon 
ended,  and  my  aunt  retired  with  my  wife  to  have  a  no  very  enviable 
cross-examination  as  to  my  rent- roll,  &c. 

The  little  parson,  after  arranging  the  flannel  and  footstool  of  my 
uncle^  who  jippeared  quite  helpless,  ttirned  to  an  old  bookcase,  and 
brought  forth  a  heavy-looking  volume,  which  he  commenced  read- 
ing, after  sundry  rubbings  of  his  little  tortoise-shell  spectacles.  I 
presume  my  juvenile  appearance  promised  hut  very  little  informa- 
tion to  his  erudite  mind  ;  everything  in  the  house  was  done  with  a 
kind  of  cat-like  quielnt^ss. 

I  followed  the  little  parson's  example,  and  was  soon  buried  in 
the  perusal  of  an  old  black-letter  book,  entitled  "  C^f  Crui  Sf* 
roimtg,  bi)  tl)c  <!Bi>t-lDttnf^^fS,  of  !S!pparttioii^,  ^arntng^,  ^c,  foU 
UflrU  bp  a  tltbonflLatw  tA  Sri^toL** 

After  reading  for  some  long  time,  I  was  disturbed  in  the  midst  of 
a  harrowing  tale  by  the  entrance  of  the  woman-servant,  accompanied 
by  a  rustic  serving-man,  who  wheeled  my  uncle  in  his  chair  out  of 
the  room  preparatory  to  putting  him  to  bed.     As  he  made  big  curi- 


406  OLDCPSES   AND   MT8TEKUS. 

ou  exit,  he  kept  lui  laslrdeai  cjet  upoo  me,  as  if  MMne  ioward 
aftooifllimeiit  was  gom^  on  si  wj  appeanmce.  I  placed  the  book 
vpon  the  tahle,  not  a  whit  the  more  comfortable  f<ir  the  penual  of 
it,  and  began  to  wonder  at  the  prolonged  absence  of  m  j  wife,  and 
the  tadtnmitj  of  the  derical  book-worm  opposite,  when,  much  to 
mj  rdief,  the  door  of  the  room  opened,  and  she  ento^ed.  She 
said  it  was  qoite  time  I  retired  for  the  night,  and  that  the  servant 
would  presently  show  me  to  m j  room ;  Imt  that  her  aunt  had  jet 
moch  to  saj  to  her,  which  wonld  dd^  her  for  some  time.  This  ac- 
eoont  I  receiTed  with  a  rtrj  ill  grace ;  for  the  wh<^e  evening  had 
fended  much  to  make  me  nervoos  and  low-spirited,  and  I  looked  to- 
wards the  little  parson  with  a  shmg  of  disapprobation,  which  mj 
wife  peroeiTing,  smiled,  and  informed  me  that  the  little  man  was  ms 
deaf  asanosL 

She  left  me ;  and,  the  servant  soon  after  entering  the  room,  I 
nodded  to  mj  sQent  firiend,  and  fiiUowed  her  to  my  chamber,  which 
we  gained  afler  threading  paaaages  of  the  most  eccentric  ups-and- 
downs  and  sinuosities.  She  threw  open  the  door,  and  showed  me 
a  large  rambling-looking  oak  rooas,  with  a  bed  at  the  further  end 
large  enough  for  a  reqwctable-siaed  fimiily,  whidi,  with  heavj 
draperies,  looked  very  dark  and  solemn.  I  wished  her  good-night, 
and  was  alone. 

Now,  I  was  not  a  bdiever  in  ghosts.  I  had  never  seen  one.  1 
had  a  cousin  who  had ;  but  he  was  given  to  drinking,  and  died  of 
"delirium  tremens,"  so  too  much  faim  could  not  be  pinned  upon  his 
story.  Besides,  his  ghost,  after  aD,  was  of  a  very  low  comic  order. 
The  very  curious  variety  introduced  into  ^ostrstories  has  tended 
more  to  shake  my  faith  than  anything  else ;  for  we  constantly  hear 
of  an  immaterial  ghost  tspping  with  his  knuckles  against  wainscots, 
or  taking  a  gentleman's  chair  at  a  convivial  meeting  without  invita- 
tion. Another  old  curmudgeon's  ghost  will  dislodge  every  tenant 
by  his  disagreeable  behaviour  when  he  can  no  longer  take  tne  rents 
himself.  Again,  you  will  meet  a  ghost  who  is  very  particular  about 
where  his  body  lies,  and  will  not  be  buried  by  his  murderer  in  a 
field ;  but  insists  upon  being  decently  interred,  and  having  the  pa- 
rochial fees  paid.  And  you  constantly  fall  over  your  "  breach-of- 
promise-of-marriafe  ghost,"  who  pops  in  just  in  the  nick  of  time, 
and  nibbles  the  false  and  treacherous.  But,  notwithstanding  all  these 
discrepancies,  there  is  always  a  lurking  doubt  creeps  into  a  man's 
mind  when  he  is  in  a  state  of  loneliness.  I  certainly  began  to  feel  a 
doubt  of  my  doubt,  and  a  strong  desire  to  look  under  the  bed,  but 
did  not  do  it ;  and  a  great  wish  that  the  large  dark  doors  of  the 
wardrobe  were  wide  onen,  that  I  might  look  full  into  the  interior. 
I  undressed  very  auickly,  and  leaped  into  the  bed,  which  received  me 
like  the  waves  of  the  sea,  and  I  was  swallowed  up  in  an  ocean  of 
down.  I  snuggled  down  with  that  congratulatory  shudder  that  all 
timid  people  leel  when  they  gain  any  imaginary  security ;  but,  alas ! 
with  me  it  lasted  but  a  very  short  time,  for  my  mind  began  to  con- 

iiiro  up  all  kinds  of  imaginary  horrors ;  and  the  whole  of  my  even- 
iig**  reading  became  as  it  were  animated,  and  the  mysterious  dramas 
l«V  l^isxmir  passed  like  a  frightful  phantasmagoria  upon  the  dark 
curtainii  uf  tlie  bed.  If  I  closed  my  eyes,  I  thought  of  the  death- 
hand  that  l>e)ongtHl  to  nobody,  which  tweaked  the  noses  of  the 
iJiH^pi^rs  between  its  icy  finger  and  thumb,  so  that  it  never  recovered 


SLJOKPSES   AND   MYSTEEIES. 


409 


h«  warmth ;  or  the  skeleton  lady,  who  stood  beside  your  bed^  and 
amused  you  by  pulling  herself  to  pieces,  and  counting  her  bones  on 
the  counterpane  until  she  buried  you  beneath  their  weight.  All 
this,  and  more,  kept  galloping  through  ray  brain,  until  every  fibre 
of  my  body  «eemed  to  feel  its  own  particular  business  to  make 
me  uncomfortable.  How  I  did  wish  to  hear  the  footfall  of  my  wife, 
to  dispel  the  illusion  ;  but  she  did  not  come*  My  ears  grew  larger 
and  larger  under  the  operation  of  listening.  At  last  I  listened  to 
3  purpose.  I  won't  say  what  I  felt  I -^  it  must  be  —  it  was  a 
ticking  i  My  heart  beat  thick  and  heavy  ;  it  appeared  to  pulsate  in 
the  very  bolster  under  me.  The  wind  gave  a  prolonged  moan  ;  then 
rushed  wildly  by  the  window.  I  determined  to  jump  up  and  dress 
myself.  One  leg  was  out  of  the  bed,  when  the  candle  gave  two  or 
three  dancing  blue  flashes,  aa  long  as  a  walking-stick,  and  then  ex- 
pired, leaving  me  in  total  darkness.  My  leg  was  in  bed  again  in 
what  is  understood  by  "no  time,"  and  I  shrank  up  so  small  that  I 
am  sure  I  could  have  got  into  my  own  carpet-bag  without  rumpling 
myself. 

In  vain  I  struggled  against  the  horror  that  was^  with  a  slow^ 
chilly  hand,  fast  creeping  over  me ;  my  mind  had  no  power  over  my 
body ;  a  supernatural  influence  seemed  to  completely  chain  my  im- 
agination and  fetter  my  liraba — ^the  mysterious  snapping  and  ticking 
continued.  The  death  watch  I  A  sigh  seemed  to  be  breathed  close 
to  my  ear  !  I  listened,  for  I  could  not  resist  it,  and  my  closed  eyes 
seemed  gifted  with  the  power  of  sight  even  in  the  darkness,  for  my- 
riads of  jibbering  figures  floated  by,  of  every  fantastic  form,   dia- 

i        tinct  yet  indistinctj  like  moats  in  a  sunbeam. 

I  A  cracking  sound,  loud  and  distinct,  rang  through  the  chamber  ; 

f  I  cowered  beneath  the  bed- clothes,  and  a  cold  bath  of  fear  spread 
over  my  bod3^  How  I  wished  for  the  power  to  spring  from  the 
bed  and  rush  from  the  room  ;  but  the  darkness  around  was  filled  by 

I         my  imagination  with  a  cordon  of  horrors  which  made  it  impossible: 

I        I  expected  every  moment  to  feel  the  bed-clothes  torn  forcibly  from 

I        my  grasp  by  some  horrible  spectre, 

1  My  memory  like  an  officious  librarian  opened  and  thrust  before 

L       me  all  the  volumes  of  horrible  tales  that  I  had  read  in  my  boyhood  ; 

^KI  seemed  to  have  twenty  memories,  for  the  tormenting  lines  whirled 

^^^ast  as  if  wound  off  on  a  reel.  How  extraordinary  a  quickener  of 
tlie  memory  and  thought  is  fear  or  imminent  danger.  In  one  mo- 
ment you  review  a  w  hole  life,  or  think  through  a  circulating  library 
of  horrors, 

I  endeavoured  to  force  ray  mind  to  take  another  course  ;  I  thought 
of  my  aunt — a  complete  failure!  for  her  stately  figure  w^as  trans- 
formed, by  my  mischievous  imagination,  into  a  form  three  times  as 
long  and  three  times  as  stiff,  and  her  blue  eyes  glanced  upon  me  like 
the  coloured  bulbs  in  a  doctor's  shop- window  ;  the  imbecile  face  of 
my  uncle  appeared  to  press  itself  close  to  mine.  Fear  has  its  courage 
jn  desperation  ;  mine  liad  arrived  at  this  pitch,  for  I  started  up,  and 
seizing  the  curtains  to  pluck  them  asunder,  was  nearly  paralysed  by 
6nding  the  darknes^s  suddenly  changed  into  a  supernatural  blajce  of 
light  which  illuminated  the  whole  chamber;  a  momentary  pause, 
and  1  recovered  courage;  I  tore  the  curtains  asunder,  determined  to 
face  the  worst,  and  beheld,  in  the  wide-mouthed  gaping  chimney  a 
blazing  turf  Jire  f  f  i     The  ghosts  all  vanished  as  c fleet u ally  as  if  it 


410 


GLIMPSES   AND   MYSTERIES. 


had  been  cock-crow  ;  the  fire  had  been  laid  with  a  live  turf  and 
covered  over  to  smoulder  on  until  bed*time,  ns  is  the  custom  of  the 
country ;  the  cracking,  hissing,  and  other  sounds,  clothed  by  my 
distempered  brain  and  nervous  temperament  with  sypertiatural  at- 
tributes, were  all  accounted  for.  I  remained  for  a  time  laughing 
actually  at  myself,  when  another  light  gladdened  the  chamber,  car- 
ried by  ray  wife,  who  started  back  with  astonishment  at  my  odd 
appearance.  I  was  half-ashamed,  but  did  confess  that  I  had  been 
alarmed  J  and  in  return  I  got  heartily  laughed  at,  but  considerably 
cheered  by  the  result  of  my  wife's  chat  with  her  aunt,  which  entirely 
relieved  us  from  anxiety  for  the  future,  and  enabled  me  some  few 
years  after  to  write  this  nervous  narrative  in  a  very  easy  arm- chair. 
1  should  have  made  it  ranch  longer,  but  our  eldest  boy,  who,  by  the 
bye^  la  spoilt  by  his  aunt,  has  upset  the  inkstand. 


£6}ji'/^fS 


r^^/ 


-■^-■v 


.y  ;^ 


V 


411 


THE  UNFINISHED  PICTURE. 


A  REVERIK, 


BY   CHARLES  KENNEY. 


There  is  a  certain  branch  of  commerce  limited  entirely  to  large 
and  populous  towns  which,  although  forrainjj  a  perfectly  distinct 
class,  yet  deals  in  a  staple  so  varied  and  indefinable  that  it  has  never 
yet  received  a  name.  Who  has  not  observed  in  passing  through 
those  narrow,  dirty,  yet  wonderfully  be-peopled  thciroughfarea, 
which  lie  in  clusters,  like  capillary  vessels,  between  the  great  arte- 
ries of  London,  and  are  seldom  entered  but  by  bold  adventurers, 
who  devote  themselves  enthusiastically  to  the  discovery  of  wonder- 
ful north-west  passages  tVom  the  Strand  to  Oxford  Street  —  who  has 
not  observed,  we  say,  certain  chaotic  shops^  that  look  as  if  the  whole 
furniture  and  fittings-up  of  several  houses  had  been  violently  shaken 
down  into  them,  and  had  tumbled  into  a  thousand  fragments  in  the 
fall? — door-handles,  rusty  keys,  queer  old  books,  such  as  only  find 
their  parallels  in  out-of-the-way  country  inns  ;  ancient  chests  of 
elaborate  configuration,  whilome  the  guardians  of  some  raiser's 
fondled  treasure,  about  which  the  echoes  of  chinking  gold  seem  still 
to  linger;  frames  without  pictures,  pictures  without  frames;  tools  of 
every  craft,  and  strange  odd&  and  ends  of  rusted  iron,-^for  what 
earthly  purpose  designed  or  applicable^  is  beyond  human  suggestive- 
ness  to  divine; — all  are  crowded  and  huddled  together  without  link 
of  parity  or  connection  ;  and  await,  in  mournful  exile,  the  eye  of  the 
shrewd  housewife  or  thrifty  artisan  to  be  singled  out  one  by  one,  and 
rejoin  once  again  die  useful  workL 

Upon  mc  these  rattle-trap  shops — I  have  ventured  to  give  them  a 
name— possess  a  most  attractive  influence,  and  more  than  once  have 
I  been  lured  to  ponder  over  their  wondrous  contents,  wrapt  in  a  kind 
of  mysterious  aw^e  at  the  maxy  congregation  of  things  that  had  once 
held  a  responsible  situation  in  society — had  been  associated  to  house- 
holds: silent  witnesses  and  participators  in  their  scenes  of  joy  or 
grief,  calm  contentment  or  stagnant  misery  ;  things  that  had  roughed 
it  through  the  wojld,  and  were  invested  with  an  air  of  careworn  ex* 
perience  that  impressed  one  with  an  air  of  profound  reverence. 
Every  article  seemed  bursting  to  tell  its  tale.  Had  they  spoken,  and 
could  I  have  noted  down  their  words,  what  a  book  of  human  life 
would  have  resulted  I — what  an  endless  fund  of  original  plots  for 
farces,  comedies,  and  domestic  dramas,  that  would  have  made  Jeft*s 
and  Delaporte  shake  in  their  shoes  for  the  safety  of  their  avocations] 
Here  the  grim  visage  of  a  door-knocker  seemed  grinning  at  the  re- 
collection of  the  **  spree"  when  it  w^as  wrenched  off  by  a  crew  of 
after-dinner  revellers ;  there,  a  fine  gold-headed  cane  seemed  preg- 
nant with  its  moral  tale  of  vanity  laitl  low  in  rags  and  repentance. 
But  where  is  the  Cuvier  that  could  classify  these  organic  remains  of 
homesteads  deriving  their  ruin  from  the  volcanic  fire  of  reckless  ex- 
travagance, or  the  slow  decay  of  penury  and  want,  tracing  the  his- 
tory of  eacli  disjointed  fragment,  and  giving  to  each  *'  a  local  habita* 
lion  and  a  name  ?  *'     Where  there  a  mind  endowed  with  such  powers^ 


412 


TIIE   UNFTNISHED   riCTUEE. 


whose  researches  would  lay  bare  the  obscure  depths  of  socie^,  many 
a  monstrous  existence  would  be  discovered  at  which  the  placid 
gazers  on  the  surface  would  shudder  or  stare  with  half-^in credulous 
wonder. 

On  one  occasion^  whilst  I  was  standing  before  one  of  these  depo- 
sitories of  the  **  dotsonie  and  jetsome"  of  w* recked  households^  glan- 
cing from  object  to  object,  and  pursuing  our  meditations  in  the 
above  strain,  my  attention  was  fixed  by  a  canvas  of  the  half-1engt]|| 
size.     It  was  the  unfinished  picture  of  a  female,  evidently  a  portrait 
and  had  that  peculiar  characteristic  expression  which  makes  us  i 
once  decide  a  picture  to  be  a  likeness,  although  we  are  unacquainte 
M'ith  the  original.     The  features  of  the  face  lacked  but  a  few  finish 
ing  touches,  but  the  bust  and  remainder  of  the  figure  were  roughlj 
brushed  in^  and  the  only  background  was  an  uniform  shadow  on  the ' 
side  nearest  the  light-     The  face,  which  was  a  narrow  oval,  waa  not 
strikingly  handsome  (of  a  pale  complexion),  but  there  was  an  odd 
mixture  of  languor  and  espi^glerie  about  it  that  was  extremely  fasci-^ 
Dating,  and,  ae  frequently  occurs  with  portraits,  the  eyes,  which  wer 
nf  a  light,  transparent  grey,   with  an  expanded  pupil  of  brilliants 
black,  Bcenicd  to  be  fixed  stedfastly  upon  me,  and  reflected  an  intel 
ligent  sympathy  y\hh  the  gist  of  my  speculations*     So  striking,  IQ 
fact,  was  its  effect  upon  me,  that  the  very  next  second  saw  me  wit 
the  picture  tightly  clutched  under  my  arm  and  handing  over  thu 
price  of  it  to  the  owner  of  the  shop. 

I  had  retired  to  my  chambers  af^er  dinner,  and,  with  a  cup 
coffee  before  me  and  my  meerschaum  in  my  mouth,  had  nestled  my- 
self by  the  fire  in  a  comfortable  easy  chair*     The  unfinished  picture, 
stood  before  me  with  the  same  mysterious  intelligence  of  expres&ioQ 
thc'it  had  riveted  mc  in  the  morning,  only  inteuijified  by  the  cleaning 
and  sponging  process  to  which  I  had  subjected  it«    Dreamily  puffinM 
the  smoke  from  my  pipe,  I  sat  gazing  on  it  as  it  emerged  at  interval! 
from  the  clouds  w  hich,  ever  and  anon,  slowly  rolled  before  it.     Atl 
every  reappearance  the  countenance  seemed  to  assume  a  more  ani« 
mated  and  intelligent  look  ;  and  gradually,  as  my  eyes  peered  into] 
those  of  the  picture,  I  found  myself  gliding  into  tliat  sort  of  ineffable 
communion  which  estabbshes  itself  at  a  distance  between  a  man  and 
his  mistress  across  a  crowded  ball-room   or  the  area  of   a  public 
theatre,  and  plunges  both  into  a  reverie  in  which  all  surrounding  ob- 
jects and  influences  are  forgotten.     As  I  continued  in  this  mood  my 
thoughts  teemed  with  every  possible  circumstance  of  a  painter's  lite 
that  coultl  have  arrested  the  artist  in  the  progress  of  his  n-^nrV     til 
the  vicissitudes  that  beset  the  path  of  genius — its  stormy  atrtiggW 
with  the  fiery  and  wayward  temperament  which  is  too  often  thccon»J 
dition  of  its  existence — its  daily,  hourly  humiliations  before  the  nig-l 
gartlly  exigences  of  this  working-day  world — fierce  and  bitter  triiiUj 
so  frequently  terminating  only  in  obscure  martyrdom,   unrecorded' 
and  uncaitonized.     While  almost  bewildered  by  the  suggestions  of 
my  imagination,  1  was  suddenly  relieved  from  further  attempts  by 
seeing  the  picture  close  its  eyes  slowly  and  deliberately,  darkening  i 
the  cheeks   for   a  moment  with  their  long  sweeping   lashes,  then  [ 
almost  immediately  re-opening  them  beaming  with  an  intensity  of] 
intelligence  almost  supernatural,  while  the  lips  slightly  parted  with 
a  lit^ht  smile  and  yielded  passage  to  a  gentle,  single-knock  cough, 
such  as  is  emitted  by  per^ions  about  to  make  a  public  speedi* 


THE  UNFINISHED   PICTURE-  413 

"Ahem  !"  said  the  picture. 

I  confess  I  was  a  little  startled  at  this  demonstration  on  the  part 
of  the  picture ;  but,  unwilling  to  betray  my  astonishment,  I  pre- 
tended to  take  no  notice,  and  continued  puffing  my  pipe.  My  eyes, 
howeyer,  I  had,  from  sheer  nervousness,  withdrawn  from  the  pic- 
ture, and  fixed  stedfastly  on  the  bowl.  After  a  short  interval,  thus 
very  disagreeably  spent  on  my  part,  another  **  Ahem ! "  escaped  the 
picture,  which  betokened  a  feeling  of  impatience. 

This  time  I  mustered  up  courage,  and,  turning  round  face  to  face 
with  the  picture,  said,  with  perfect  coolness, 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  did  you  speak  ?" 

"  Not  exactly,"  replied  a  voice  from  the  lips  of  the  portrait,  at 
first  resembling  in  tone  the  creaking  accents  of  certain  wax  dolls, 
which,  on  moving  their  arms,  are  made  to  emit  sounds  bearing  a 
more  or  less  imaginary  resemblance  to  the  words  "  Pa-pa,  Mam-ma ;" 
but  as  it  continued,  apparently  to  the  great  satisfaction  of  the  pic- 
ture, whose  abortive  efforts  at  speech  had  at  first  brought  a  blush  into 
its  cheeks,  the  voice  became  clear,  musical,  and  silvery.  *<  Not  exactly ; 
I  merely  wished  to  engage  your  attention,"  was  the  reply.  **  You 
seem  anxious  to  knoAr  something  of  my  history." 

'*  I  confess  the  interest  you  have  awakened  in  me  is  considerable." 

The  picture  here  smiled,  and  cast  its  eyes  down  with  the  modest 
expression  of  a  young  lady  acknowledging  a  compliment. 

"  We  pictures,"  it  continued,  recovering  its  normal  appearance, 
**  have  the  privilege  of  speaking  to  a  class  of  mortals,  whom  we  are 
enabled  to  recognise  by  a  distinctive  mark  situated  over  the  eyes." 

"  I  am  not  aware  of  possessing  any  such  mark  as  you  allude  to," 
said  I. 

"  The  perception  of  it,*'  answered  the  picture,  "  belongs  to  a  phy- 
siognomical art,  which  is  not  commonly  possessed,  and  which  indi- 
cates the  hidden  relations  of  certain  individuals  with  a  corresponding 
class  of  what  you  call  inanimate  objects." 

I  did  not  clearly  understand  the  import  of  this  speech,  and  indeed 
I  had  a  slight  suspicion  that  the  picture  was  imposing  upon  me  with 
a  show  of  superior  depth ;  not  wishing,  however,  to  raise  a  discus- 
sion, I  remained  silent. 

**!  was  apprehensive  at  first,"  continued  the  picture,  "that,  not 
being  in  a  complete  state,  I  should  be  unable  to  use  the  privilege  of 
communicating  with  you  ;  and  it  is  to  that  I  attribute  the  difficulty 
of  utterance  you  must  have  remarked  on  my  commencing  to  address 
you.  As  my  fears,  however,  were  groundless,  I  shall  have  much 
pleasure  in  acquainting  you  with  my  history." 

Making  a  profound  bow,  I  replied,  **  Believe  me,  I  feel  the  kind- 
ness of  your  offer :  in  the  first  place,  will  it  be  long  ?  and  secondly, 
is  it  interesting  ?" 

"  As  to  its  length,"  said  the  picture,  smiling,  "  I  will  endeavour  to 
reduce  it  to  moderate  proportions ;  interest  it  certainly  possesses, 
although  the  hero  of  a  tale  is  apt  to  be  too  partial  a  judge." 

"I  must  take  your  assurance  for  want  of  a  better,"  said  I ;  "allow 
me  to  fill  another  pipe,  and  then  I  shall  be  all  attention." 

*'I  hope  you  don't  imagine,"  rejoined  the  picture,  "that  I  wish  to 
force  upon  you  what  you  seem  to  consider  a  bore.  I  did  it  under 
the  impression  that  the  reverse  was  the  case." 

This  was  said  in  a  sharp  pettish  tone,  which,  considerably  nettled 

VOL.  xviii.  o  Q 


4U 


THE  UNFTNISHKD    PICTURE, 


me;  and  accordingly  I  replied  in  the  sarae  key,  "Bless  me J  you 

forget  your  poaition.     Remember  that  it  is  only  this  morning  thai  I 
purchased   you  for  ten  shillings   (a  great  deal  more  than  you  are  J 
worth,  by  the  bye,)  and  that  you  are  therefore  addressing  your  lord  ] 
a  nil  ma.5ter/* 

Ere  I  had  finished  my  speech,  which  I  flattered  myself  was  rather] 
severe,  a  shrill  peal  of  laughter  broke  forth  from  the  picture,  and  it 
exclaimed:  *M1  aster!  my  master!     Fool!  know  you  not  that  the 
possession  which  is  acquired  by  money  is  an  empty  mockery.     The  | 
witless  lordling  who  gives  his  thousands  for  a  picture  is  its  felave, 
while  it  becomes  the  conquest  of  the  penniless  student  admitted  to  I 
view    it,   who  invades  it  with  an  army  of  kindred  thoughts^    and] 
plants  the  standard  of  all-grasping  genius  upon  its  soil/* 

This  was  uttered  with  all  the  grandiloquent  cadence  ofa  public  I 
orator;  the  eyes  of  the  picture  rolled  with  fiery  lustre  in  their  orbits,  , 
and  its  whole  appearance  was  that  of  an  inspired  Pythoness  deliver- 
ing an  oracle.     1  was  already  seized  with  considerable  alarm,  for  it 
was  evident  that  the  picture  was  decidedly  cracked,  and  I  wisely 
determined  to  temporise.     Accordingly,  with  some  difficulty  bring-  I 
ing  myself  to  meet  its  stern^  indignant  gaze,  I  said  with  an  amiable  ' 
smile,  **AIy  dear  picture,  I  was  but  jesting.     Do  not  believe  fur  a 
moment  that  I  was  in  earnest.    I  have  too  much  respect  for  the  fine 
arts,  of  which,  indeed,   I    am   reckoned  no  mean  en  tic     My  Imst 
article  on  the  Suffolk- street  Gallery  excited  general  admiration." 

**  Among  the  exhibitors  who  had  previously  invited  you  to  din- 
ner," interposed  the  canvas,  with  triumphant  sarcasm. 

I  winced   under  the  hit,  but  proceeded   with  a  galvanic  laugh* 
**  Hal   ha!  a  fair  retort.     I  am   delighted  to   have  afforded  you  ai 
revenge— very  neat,  ha !  ha !     But  to  proceed,  I  am  delighted  to  be  [ 
in  the  company  of  one  who  can  so  profoundly  appreciate  the  graiwl 
deur  and  sublimity  of  genius,  and  express  it  with  such  eloquence." 

The  countenance  of  the  picture  rippled  with  smiles — luy  policy  j 
was  successful  "  To  be  candid  with  you,"  it  replied,  **  the  s])eech 
is  not  my  own;  I  heard  it  iu  the  ateiier  where  I  was  painted;  itj 
was  spoken  by  a  young  gentleman  with  a  pale  face  smothered  io] 
hair,  who  smoked  himself  to  death,  leaving  behind  him  sixteen  bran  I 
new  prepared  iianvases  of  all  sizes,  and  one  wretched  un  likeness  of  J 
a  little  milliner — his  Foniarina/' 

I  was  not  at  all  taken  aback  by  this  announcement,  which  would 
have  floored  a  less  determined  courtier,  but  returned  unabashed  to 
the  charge,  ''  You  are  no  less  to  be  complimented,  then,  for  having 
treasured  up  the  fragrant  exhalations  of  this  crushed  floweret,  which 
else  had  died  upon  the  careless  wind." 

''Wasted  their  sweetness  on  the  desert  air/' said  the  picture^  re- 1 
minding  me  that  I  was  plagiarising.  I 

I  swallowed  the  pill  without  a  word;  thinking  to  myself,  however^] 
that  it  W.18  following  up  its  advantap;e  with  ungenerous  zeal*  '*  Per-  | 
haps,"  saiti  1,  **  now  that  our  little  difference  is  cleared  up,  you  will  j 
be  kind  enough  to  recount  your  history." 

**  Willingly,"  was  the  reply.  **  Allow  me  to  collect  my  thought*. 
and  you  shall  hear  it  in  as  few  words  as  I  can  manage  to  confine 
it/' 

Here  the  picture  closed  its  eyesp  knit  its  brows,  and  remained  in 
a  stale  nf  abstraction  for  several  minutes,  which  I  filled  up  by  re* 


THE   UNFINISHED    PICTURE. 


415 


plenishing  my  pipe«  and  surroumling  myself  in  volumes  of  fragrant 
cloudsj  from  the  mitls*t  of  w  hich  1  heard  the  picture  speak  as  fol- 
lows: 

**  I  was  commenced  one  fine  afternoon  in  the  month  of  IVIay  last 
year.  Three  days  before  the  few  chalk  lines  which  laid  the  founda- 
tion of  my  existence  were  drawn,  Bryant  Thurlston  and  Clara 
Seymour  met  for  the  first  lime.  To  the  first  I  owe  my  humhle 
origin,  and  of  the  second  I  may  say,  without  conceit,  that  I  am  a 
tolerable  resemblance.  It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when 
Bryant  Thurlston  returned  to  his  modest  chez  sot  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Fitzroy-rtq«are,  after  a  party  at  the  elegant  dwelling  of  Miss 
Seymour,  where  he  had  that  ni^ht  had  what  was  generally  consi- 
dered the  envious  distinction  of  being  introduced.  Clara  Seymoyr 
was  the  only  daughter  of  an  Indian  Colonel.  Her  mother  was  one 
of  those  young  latlies  who,  not  being  found  to  *  go  off*  very  briiikly 
at  home,  are  unceremoniously  shipped  off  to  the  Indian  market, 
where  the  more  rapid  consumption  uf  wives  causes  a  more  active 
demand.  Soon  after  presenting  her  husband  with  a  daughter^  she 
died  in  accordance  with  the  more  common  lot  of  such  exports. 
Colonel  Seymour  bore  the  loss  as  such  losses  are  borne  in  India,  but 
did  not,  however,  marry  agair».  Shortly  after  the  death  of  his  wife, 
his  sister-in-law  came  to  reside  with  him  ;  her  husband,  who  had 
turned  Mahommedan  and  entered  the  service  of  a  native  prince, 
having  been  assassiufited  for  some  treachery  to  his  master, — an  ^%u\ 
she  had  long  anticipated  for  her  spouse,  who  was  in  the  habit  of 
changing  religions  and  governments  about  once  in  a  Hindoo  year. 
To  her  Colonel  Seymour  entrusted  the  c.ire  of  his  child,  and  much 
of  her  education  ;  for  althon^di  a  half*caste,  ^Irs.  Charles  Seymour's 
accompli Khmenls  were  of  tlie  highest  order.  On  the  death  of  her 
father,  Miss  Seymour  inherited  a  very  considerable  fortune,  and 
came  to  England,  acconipanitd  by  her  aunt»  to  whom  she  was  fondly 
attached,  and  whose  influence  over  her  thoyghts  and  actions  was 
unboiinded.  Settling  themselves  in  Park-lane,  ere  a  few  seasons  had 
passed »  the  Indian  ladies  had  acquired  general  renown  for  tlie  rt?- 
c/iercA^' elegance  and  distinction  of  their  r^uutotix ;  on  which  occa- 
sions they  were  accustomed  to  attract  around  tliem  all  the  reigning 
celebrities  of  fashion,  literature,  and  the  arts  ;  and  the  praises  uf  the 
blonde  Indian  and  her  thirk  relative,  of  their  exquisite  taiite^  luxu- 
rious refnietnent,  and  remarkable  superiority  of  mind,  were  heard 
in  tdl  quarters,  though  comparatively  few  were  those  who  could 
boast  of  having  tested  their  truth, 

**  It  was  from  one  of  these  assemblies  that  Bryant  Thurlston  re- 
turned, as  I  said,  at  wbout  four  in  the  morning,  and  it  was  at  one  of 
these  that  he  had  made  almost  his  ciefittt  into  society.  He  had  that 
year  exhibited  a  picture  which  had  attracted  extraordinary  notice, 
and  he  already  stood  as  the  rival  of  Etty.  It  was  to  this  that  he 
owed    his   presentation  to   IMiss   Seymour,  at  her  own  request,  by 

M 'j  the  Academician,  with  whom  Thnrlston  was  intimate.     Any 

utie  who  bad  seen  Bryant  Thurlston  that  morning  enter  his  studio 
in  the  grey  dawn,  and  seat  himself  with  a  Hs^hted  candle  in  his  hand, 
his  eye- brows  raised  to  a  perfect  arch,  and  his  eyes  fixed  straight 
before  him,  as  if  gazing  at  some  distant  prospect,  wonld  have  taken 
him  for  a  somnambulist,  or  a  man  under  tl^e  influence  of  some  spell. 
In  |>oint  of  fact,  a  spell  there  was  indeed  upon  him  ;  he  had  tasted  that 


416 


THE   UNFINISHED    PICTURE. 


night  of  two  of  the  mo&t  intoxicating  drafts  that  can  approach  man'* 
lips — love  and  the  flattery  of  society.  AH  that  he  had  experienced 
that  ni^ht  was  entire!}^  new  to  him,  and  seemed  the  result  of  en- 
chantment,— the  brilliancy  and  elegance  of  the  apartments,  where  all 
the  artistic  refinements  of  French  upholstery  were  strangely  blended 
with  the  curious  and  grotest|ue  olijects  of  Eastern  onmmental  inge- 
nuity,—the  attention  and  courtship  of  so  chosen  an  assembly,— but* 
towering  above  all,  the  abaorhing  fascination  exercised  over  him  by 
the  mind  and  person  of  Miss  Seymour,  who  had  flatteringly  accorded 
him  the  larger  share  of  her  attention.  As  he  sat  that  morning 
in  his  studio,  and  recalled  all  the  incidents  of  the  nighty  the  (ete- 
d-ictes  stolen  between  the  intervals  of  the  dance>  which  in  a  few 
words  revealed  the  wondrous  sympathy  which  existed  in  the  minds 
of  both, — and  particularly  that  more  prolonged  one  in  the  little 
boudoir  at  the  further  end  of  the  suite  of  apartments,  where,  seated 
on  a  soft  divan,  surrounded  by  a  thousand  Eas>tern  nicknackeries 
and  curiosities,  on  which  a  richly-painted  Chinese  lantern  threw  a 
soft  mellow  light,  and  breathing  a  strange,  faint  perfume,  hitherto 
new  to  his  senses,  he  had  heard  her  history,  mingled  with  the  ro* 
inantic  adventures  of  her  relative,  rapidly  and  vividly  recounted, 
while  her  full  lustrous  grey  eye,  with  its  black  pnpil  expanding  in 
the  half  light,  turned  on  him  from  time  to  time,  and  made  his  soul 
quiver  with  tcstasy, — as  he  recalled  all  this,  his  heart  beat  high,  his 
brain  mantled  with  a  swarm  of  unspeakable  thoughts,  and  he  feJt 
inspired  with  a  divine  mysterious  power  that  enabled  him  at  one 
glance  to  grasp  the  whole  habitable  globe.  Looking  out,  then,  on  the 
sky,  rosy  with  ihe  approach  of  day,  he  hailed  it  as  the  dawn  of  a  new 
existence/' 

'*  I  beg  your  pardon  for  interrupting  you,"  said  I  to  the  picture, 
•*  but  it  strikes  me  yc^ur  Mr.  Thurlston  must  have  drunk  an  uocon*- 
scionable  cpiantity  of  ehamjmigne  at  supper/' 

"  1  perceive  you  are  a  man  of  the  world,  sir/*  said  the  picture^ 
I  bowed  at  the  compliment,  ami  begged  it  to  proceed. 

*'  Oara  Seymour  had  made  an  appointment  to  sit  for  her  portraii 
to  Bryant  on  the  third  day  from  that  of  the  party.  I  need  not  aay, 
that  the  artist  did  not  retire  to  rest,  as  any  other  mortal  would  have 
done, — uor  indeed  did  he  belong  to  the  material  world  at  all  until  the 
eventful  morning  of  the  sitting.  At  last  the  day  came,  and  long 
before,  the  room  had  been  arranged  for  her  reception,  and  his  pa- 
lette prepared  for  the  work.  When  the  carriage  drove  to  the  door, 
and  Clara  matle  her  appearance  with  Mrs.  ('harles  Seymour,  Bryant 
ThurLston  was  in  a  tremour  of  agitation  frcnn  head  to  foot;  and 
when  he  addressed  her,  he  diil  not  say  what  he  had  planned  in 
his  mind  before-hand,  but  something  very  s-tupid  and  unintelligible. 
Miss  Seymour,  on  the  other  hand,  was  aelf-posses&ion  personified, 
smiling  as  she  accepted  ihe  (jroflered  seat,  carefully  arranging  the  folds 
of  her  gown,  and  making  the  usual  common  place  complimentary 
remarks  on  the  i^ketches  which  Bryant  set  before  her,  to  fill  up  the 
time  uiUil  his  a^'itaiion  should  have  suHiciently  sulisided  not  to 
betray  itself  during  his  work.  Miss  Seymour  was  then  placed  In 
a  suitable  light  and  attitude,  and  Bryant  commenced  his  portrait. 
]VIuch  of  the  sitting  was  spent  in  perfect  silence  ;  the  rest  was  occu- 
pied by  a  few  remarks  and  observations  of  the  most  trivial  kind* 
After  an  hour  and  a  half  had  ehipsed,  Mrs.  Charles  Seymour  looked 


THE   UNFINISHED   PICTURE. 


417 


lit  her  watch,  announced  the  hour,  glancing  significantly  at  Clara. 
The  hint  escap^il  Bryant,  who  coultl   have  continued   for  hours  at 
his  ta^k,  and  the  ladies  were  obliged  to  express  their  regret  that 
ihey   had  an    appointment  which  obh'getl   them  to  break   up   the 
silting*     Another  day  was  named,  and  they  retired,  Clara  exhibit- 
ing the   same   studied  courtesy.      When    they   were  gone,   Bryant 
Thurlston  threw  himself  upon  a  sofa,  and  gave  himself  up  to  his 
meditations.     They  were  unaccountably  gli>omy.     The  meeting  he 
had  looked  forward  to  wuth  such  intense  soid-thirstiness,  had  passed 
by  without  one  single  pleasurable  emotion.     The  peculiar  behaviour 
of  Clara  Seymour,  so  different  from  that  which  she  had  iihown  him 
on  their  fir&t  introduction,  had  not  struck   him  in  the  flurry  of  his 
thoughts  at  her  presence ;  but  now  she  was  gone,  it  returned  to  him  in 
rthe  keenest  detail,  and  overwhelmed  him  with  dissatisfaction.     One 
lof  tho^e  minute  observations,  which  seem  childish  to  any  but  those 
Thurlston's  condition,  was,  that  he  had  not  seen  her  teeth — -they 
Jwere  wonderful  teeth  —  once  that  morning  ;  and  twenty  times  had 
ber  hearty  laugh  shown  the  brilliant  array  on  the  evening  of  the 
[parly.      On  further   reflection,  he  attributed  the   change  to  some 
p passing  annoyance  or  preoccupation  in  Miss  Seymour's  mind,  and 
I  built  up  sanguine  hopes  for  the  next  sitting.     They  were  not,  how- 
I  ever,  realized.   Sitting  after  sitting  passed,  but  still  Clara  maintained 
[the  same  distancej  and  Bryant  failed  to  find  in  her  any  traces  of  the 
I  being  which  had  at  first  so  fascinated  him*     Never  could  he  raise 
lier,  by  all  his  efforts,  from  the  dry  est  commonplace  and  the  most 
"worldly  considerations.     All  he  hazarded  that  made  any  approach 
to  the  ideal,  was  met  with  a  cynical  retort,  or  a  smile  of  sarcasm. 
Once,  and   only  once,  when  JVIiss  Seymour  came,   accompanied  by 
.her  lady's-maid,  to  the  sitting,  did  she  recall  her  former  self ;  and 
)  then,  on  an  allusion  being  made  to  their  first  conversation,  Bryant 
j  »aw  beaming  through  her  eyes  that  sympathetic  expression  which 
had  led   his  soul  captive.      That  day  she  shook  hands  on   taking 
tleave  o£  him,  and   Bryant   fancied  he   detected  a  slight  pressure* 
iHe  was  another  man,  and  his  old  bright  dreams  returned  to  him;^ — 
I  but  the  next  sitting  destroyed  them  all,  and  gloom  and  despondency 
faettled  upon  him  again." 

At  this  part  of  the  narrative  I  gradually  began  to  catch  only  the 
sound  o(  the  picture's  words,  without  the  sense  ;  and  in  a  few  se- 
conds I  was  plunged  in  the  most  prot^und  unconsciousness.  How 
long  it  lasted,  1  cannot  say  ;  but  I  was  startled  from  my  sleep  by  the 
loud  and  animated  tones  into  which  the  picture  warmed  up,  for  it 
had  imperturbably  continued  with  its  story,  either  not  noticing,  or 
not  caring  for  the  absence  of  its  audience, 

'  •  What  !*  were  the  first  words  I  heard, '  do  you  know  me,  then  ?' 
'*  Perfectly  well,'  said  Lariviere ;  '  and  must  compliment  you  on 
[the  lifelike  resemblance  of  your  portrait ;  but,  from  regard  to  you, 
{1  observe  with  pain,  that  it  has  evidently  been  painted  con  amore,* 
'*  This  was  uttered  in  his  usual  dry,  unmoved  manner,  while  hia 
eyes  were  piercingly  fixed  on  Thurlston,    who,   turning   suddenly 
pale  and  then  crimson,  stammered  out — 
'*  I  really  don't  know  what  you  mean  V 

**  1  mean/  replied  hia  friend,  slowly  and  impressively,  '  that  you 
are  ia  love  with  Miss  Seymour,  and  that,  ^or  your  sake,  I  am  sorry 
for  it.   I  have  known  her  both  here  and  in  India,  and  I  have  seen  her. 


MH 


THE    UNFIMSHED    PICTURE. 


on  a  tieliberate  plan,  cause  the  misery — aye,  end  even  tlie 
death  of  more  than  one,  sir, — ^many  more." 

**  And  as  he  spoke  the  last  wordsi  Lariviere  betrayed  more  emodooj 
than  Thurlston  had  ever  known  him  to  show. 

*'^  Vqu  Bpeak/  said  the  latter,  *  with  the  feeling  of  a  sufferer/ 

'*'No,  air/  returned  Lariviere,  resuming  hia  accustomed  sardonie] 
coldness,  'I  am  not  a  genius;  and  it  is  for  the  kingly  eagle  only  I 
that  the  toils  of  Miss  Seymour,  or  rather,  of  Mrs.  Charles  Seymour,! 
are  InicL     For  it  la  that  woman — I  should  say,  that  embodied  fiend^j 
— who  is  the  source  of  Clara  s  sina.    Mrs.  Seymour  was  born  with  an] 
immen.'^e  capacity  for  passion,  and  at  the  same  time  an  unusual  de-l 
gree  of  intellect,  which  led  her  to  venerate  intensely  great  and  daringl 
minds-     Chance  threw  her  in  contact  with  Charles  Seymour,  a 
of  remarkably  fine  person,  brilliant  mental  faculties,  bold,  restlef%] 
and  ambitious,  but  utterly  without  principle, — in  fact,  Milton's  Satan] 
reduced  to  the  scale  of  modern  mortality.     None  could  be  more  cal-1 
culated  to  fascinate  the  mind  and  heart  of  the  ardent  girl.  He  eloped 
with,  and  married  her.   For  two  or  three  years  Mrs.  Seymour*s  hap- 
piness was  without  interruptioUj  without  bounds.     Soon,  however,  I 
her  husband's  capricious  temperament  cooled  towards  her,  and  he  at 
last  broke  out  into  the  most  profligate  and  glaring  infidelities  to  hen  f 
But  ]Mrs.  Seymour's  attachment  resisted  all,  and  she  clung  to  him  j 
through  every  vicissitude,  with  unflinching  devotion,  to  the  end,  de- 
3cending»  to  preserve  still  a  poor  fragment  of  empire,  to  the  most  ab-  I 
ject  and  slavish  humiliations.     At  his  death  she  did  not  shed  a  tear; 
the  feelings  of  the  woman  died  wuth  him  to  whom  they  had  been  de- 
voted, and  her  martyred  soul  became  entirely  possessed  with  a  vague 
thirst  for  retribution.     On  being  charged  with  the  care  of  her  bro-  . 
ther-in-lflw's  child,  she  conceived  and  carried  out»  with  the  perti*] 
nacity  of  an  evil  spirit^  a  plan  of  vengeance  on  mankind,  or,  at  leaft,  ( 
that  part  of  it  which  could  rank  by  the  higher  qualities  of  mind  with 
her  husband.    Winding  herself  like  a  snake  round  the  innocent  spirit 
of  €*lara,  she  instilled  into  it  her  poi&onous  doctrines  of  heartless  co- 
cjuetry  and  misanthropy,  and  by  an  influence  which  can  only  be  com- 
pared to  the  wonders  of  mesmerism,  she  has  converted  her  into  the  j 
obedient  minister  of  her  fiendish  lust  for  human  suffering/ 

'*  An  interval  of  silence  occurred,  while  Tfiurlston  replaced  the 
picture  with  its  face  against  the  wall,  and  paced  the  room  in  moody 
abstraction. 

'*  *  (*ome/  said  Lariviere,  ^  I  trust  you  are  not  so  deeply  fascinated  j 
but  you  may  throw  off  your  passion*  Put  yourself  under  my  care, 
I  have  doctored  a  great  many,  and  think  of  establishing  myself  as 
physician  to  the  court  of  Love.  I  11  nrescribe  at  once.  Come  and 
dine  with  me — I  have  a  party  of  friends  ;  and  then  we  w^ill  go  to  the 
opera/ 

**  Thurlston  after  a  few  moments  accented  the  invitation,  and,  I#ari* 
viere,  without  betraying  his  intention,  led  Bryant  Thurlston *s  mind 
away  from  the  object  of  its  preoccupations,  and  gradually  drew*  hira 
into  an  animated  conversation  on  every  variety  of  topic.  Bryant 
found  Lariviere's  friends  remarkably  entertaining,  and  Lariviere 
himself,  who  had  a  remarkable  talent  for  throwing  ridicule  over 
everything,  poured  forth  an  uninterrupted  flow  of  witticisms,  utter* 
ed  with  his  dry,  imperturbable  gravity,  which  kept  the  table  in  n 
roar.     At  the  opera  his  remarks  on  the  proceedings  on  the  slagei  ai 


THE  I  NFINISHED    PICTURE. 


il9 


well  as  the  different  personages  in  the  house  whora  he  singled  out  for 
observation^  were  no  less  absurd,  and  succeeded  in  winning  Bryant 
from  any  more  serious  reffection^. 

'*  If  you  know  anything  about  these  matters,  you  will  easily  ima- 
gine what  sort  of  a  waking  was  Thurlston's  after  his  oblivious  even- 
ing, when  the  old  familiar  thought  of  J^Iiss  Seymour  recoiled  upon 
him  with  doubled  poignancy^  The  remembrance  of  Lariviere's  reve- 
lations flashed  through  his  brain  with  the  withering  electa  of  light- 
ning, and  let\  his  mind  a  black  despondent  wreck.  Yet  after  a  little 
time  he  imperceptibly  began  to  doubt  their  truth  ;  he  could  not 
believe  that  a  nature,  so  strangely  cold  and  ironical  as  it  constantly 
showed  itself,  could  be  susceptible  of  the  friendly  motives  he  had 
professed.  In  a  few  hours  Miss  Seymour  would  be  there  for  another 
sitting  ;  and  he  determined  to  give  a  turn  to  the  conversation  which 
should  enable  him  to  detect  the  truth  of  Lariviere's  story;  for>  like 
most  men,  he  thought  himself  infallible  at  cross-examination. 

*'  Miss  Seymour  came,  and  our  friend  commenced  his  judicial  in- 
vestigation without  delay.  Circumstances  favoured  him  ;  for  Miss 
Seymour  had  not  been  long  in  the  room  before  she  broke  out  into 
an  eulogium  of  Bryant's  excellences  as  a  painter.  The  artist  seized 
the  opportunity,  and  said^  with  an  ill-assumed  smile, 

"  *  I  hope.  Miss  Seymour,  you  do  not  think  me  a  genius.**  fixing 
his  eyes  at  the  same  time  scrutinizingly  on  Clara,  to  observe  the  ef- 
fects of  what  he  considered  a  home-thrui»t.  But,  without  betraying 
the  slightest  consciousness  of  any  hidden  meaning  in  the  words,  ex- 
cept that  a  sort  of  sarcastic  smile  evinced  the  suspicion  that  Bryant 
was  fishing  for  a  compliment^  she  replied, 

*' '  That  is  a  word  which,  according  to  my  sense  of  its  value,  we 
have  seldom  occasion  to  apply  even  once  in  a  century/ 

**  Thurlston  was  in  a  measure  gratified  by  this  result^  but  con- 
tinued nevertheless  a  series  of  inuendoes  in  the  same  strain,  which 
were  all  met  with  the  same  total  unconsciousness  of  his  intention. 
At  last,  however,  the  nameof  Lariviere  was  mentioned  by  his  friend, 
and  Miss  Seymour's  countenance  visibly  changeil  as  she  acknow- 
ledged her  acquaintance  with  him,  casting  at  the  same  time  an 
anxious  side-glance  at  Mrs,  Seymour,  who  was  apparently  absorbed, 
in  a  volume  of  Tennyson's  Poems.  Thurlston's  blood  curdled  in 
his  veins  as  he  noted  her  emotion  ;  and  he  was  about  to  continue  his 
investigations,  when  Miss  Seymour,  suddenly  pretending  indispo- 
sition, requested  he  would  excuse  her  from  sitting  any  longer,  and 
hurried  away." 

At  this  point  the  picture  paused  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then  said 
with  pathetic  solemnity, 

*'  From  that  moment  he  never  set  eyes  on  her  again*" 

**  And  I  think  he  was  perfectly  right,"  said  I,  with  flippant  de- 
cision, wishing  to  convey  ray  high  senste  of  the  dignity  of  my  sex* 

"  Had  it  depended  upon  him/'  said  the  picture,  **  he  would  have 
seen  her  the  very  next  day,  for  he  called/' 

"  More  fool  he/*  exclaimed  I,  *'  for  his  pains/* 

"  Perhaps,"  replied  the  picture  placidly,  *'you  will  allow  me  to  go 
on  with  my  story  without  further  interruption." 

"  Oh  !  certainly." 

'*Day  af\er  day  Thurlston  called  upon  Miss  Seymour,  but  was  in- 
variably informed  that  she  was  too  ill  to  receive  any  visits.     On  one 


4-20 


Tim    UNFINISHED    PICTURE. 


occasion  he  had  just  left  the  house,  when  &  handsome  cab  drove  up 
to  the  door." 

**  I  really  beg  your  pardon/'  interrupted  I ;  "but,  do  you  mean 
one  of  Hansom's  patents," 

"  I  mean  no  such  thing/'  said  the  picture,  darting  an  indignant 
look  at  me, — **  I  mean  a  handsome  private  cab/* 

'*  Thank  you.     Pray  go  on.*' 

•^^  Actuated  by  a  vague  suspicion,  Thurlston  watched  the  event 
from  a  distance.  He  saw  the  tiger  make  an  inquiry  at  the  door,  and 
return  with  the  answer  to  his  master,  who  immediately  stept  out, 
and  entered  the  house.  Thurlston  recognised  in  him  his  friend  La- 
rivere»  A  creeping  chill  came  over  him,  as  in  his  mind  Lariviere 
took  the  position  of  a  favoured  rival,  and  that  discomfort  and  un* 
easiness,  almost  approaching  to  antipathy,  w^hich  he  had  always  felt 
in  his  intercourse  with  him,  swelled  at  once  into  on  intense  and  dia- 
bolical feeling  of  hatred.  In  this  mood,  his  heart  sickening  with  dis- 
appointment, and  his  brain  teeming  with  projects  of  vengeance,  he 
paced  hurriedly  up  and  down  the  street,  torturing  himsielf,  at  the 
same  time,  with  an  accurate  addition  of  the  minutes  spent  by  La- 
riviere  in  the  society  of  Rliss  Seymour.  After  about  three  quarters 
of  an  hour  La  riviere  dashed  by  in  his  cab,  throwing  a  nod  of  recog- 
nition at  Thurlston,  who,  in  the  fever  of  his  mind,  fancied,  as  it 
glanced  by,  that  his  friend's  countenance  was  ijluininaied  with  a 
fiendish  glare  of  triumph. 

**On  returning  home  he  found  a  letter  on  his  table,  the  direction 
of  which  w^aa  in  the  hand-writing  of  Miss  Seymour;  but  the  »eal 
bore  the  crest  of  Lariviere,  and  seemed  to  burn  Bry^ant's  eyes  as  he 
exatuined  and  recognised  it.  Tearing  it  open,  he  found  the  contents 
as  follow  : — 

**  *  Miss  Seymour  presents  her  compliments  to  Mr.  Thnrlston,  and 
thanks  him  for  his  frequent  kind  inquiries  after  her  health,  which, 
she  regrets  to  say,  continues  so  bad  as  to  oblige  her  to  leave  towD 
immediately.  As  the  picture  is  in  so  advanced  a  state,  Mhs  Sey- 
mour begs  that  Mr.  Thurlston  will  finish  it  in  her  absence,  and  en- 
closes a  blank  cheque  on  her  banker,  which  he  will  be  kind  enough 
to  fill  up  to  the  amount  of  the  value  of  his  work." 

*'A  blank  cheque!"  exclaimed  L  "Well,  that  was  handsome! 
How  much  did  he  fill  it  up  for?" 

Here  the  picture  gave  a  deep  sigh. 

**  Ah  !  I  see,'*  said  I ;  '*  he  did  the  indignant" 

'  Exactly,"  said  the  picture  mournfully;  *'he  tore  it  up,  and 
trampled  on  the  fragments." 

"  Well,  that  was  one  way  of  giving  a  stamp-receipt,"  said  1,  in- 
tending a  pun  ;  hut  apparently  puns  were  not  within  the  range  of 
the  picture's  perceptions,  for  it  took  no  notice,  and  proceeded. 

'*  The  tone  of  the  letter,  almost  such  as  would  be  addressed  to  a 
tradesman,  tlie  enclosed  cheque,  and  the  connection  of  Larivi^ 
with  it,  which  he  traced  through  the  seal,  all  tended  to  tlirow 
Thurlston  into  a  paroxysm  of  fury,  and  he  paced  hi**  room  with  llie 
restlessness  of  a  wild  beast  until  it  was  quite  dark.  Putting  on  hia 
hat  then,  with  an  exprcesicm  of  malignant  resolution,  he  w*eni  out, 
and  walked  to  his  club.  On  entering  the  c«rd-room  his  eyes  wan- 
dered wildly  from  group  to  group,  till  they  rested  on  LarivitTe,  who 
was  one  of  a  knot  of  betters  upon  a  couple  of  (<^cflr/<^- players.    ThufU 


THE   UNFINISHED    PICTURE. 


421 


slon  fitutliously  mingled  in  every  group  of  which,  either  for  play  or 
conversation,  Lariviere  formed  one,  and  took  every  opportunity  of 
addressing  such  speeches  to  him  as  with  another  would  have  infaHibly 
led  to  a  quarrel ;  but  Lariviere  always  with  the  utmost  coolness  and 
dexterity,  retorted  with  some  witticiism  that  raised  a  shout  of  laugh- 
ter from  all  but  Thurlston,  or  so  framed  his  answer  as  completely  to 
cover  the  animu.s  with  which  Bryant  spoke.  At  last,  Lariviere  sat 
down  at  ^cart6  with  his  supposed  rival.  Fortune,  in  causing  Lari- 
viere to  turn  up  the  king  several  times  at  short  intervals,  favoured 
the  design  of  Bryant,  who  exclaimed, 

**  *  By  George  1  Lariviere,  you  're  a  clever  fellow.  I  think  you  'd 
almost  make  as  much  money  by  giving  a  series  of  soiries  mtfsterieuses,' 

■*  Lariviere  paused  for  a  moment,  6xing  his  keen  eye  on  Thurlston^ 
while  his  lip  quivered  with  an  expression  of  fiendish  scorn,  then 
suddenly  assuming  an  air  of  almost  coxcombical  noftchakince,  and 
laying  down  the  cards  said, 

'' '  By  the  bye,  as  you  are  an  amateur,  there  *s  a  clever  pistol-trick 
that  I  do ;  and,  as  1  am  leaving  town  by  an  early  train  to-morrow,  if 

S  you  11  meet  me  before  eight  o'clock  with  any  friend,  I  shall  be  most 
nappy  to  show  it  you/ 
'^This  significant  colloquy,  created  a  sensation  which  was  soon 
communicated  to  the  whole  room.  In  a  few  minutes  the  seconds 
were  chosen,  and  the  hour  and  place  appointed.  Thurlston  then 
hastily  quitted  the  club,  pleased  at  the  prospect  of  an  encounter  with 
one  whom  he  now  so  heartily  detested.  Instead  of  returning  home, 
he  paced  hurriedly  and  heedlessly  through  the  streets,  occasionally 
pausing  from  his  agitated  speculations  to  become  the  spectator  of 
some  night  broil,  in  which  he  interested  himself  with  so  much  ear- 
^^  nest  attention  as  if  he  had  no  other  earthly  concern  than  to  become 
^^its  accurate  historian.  At  last,  wearied  with  bodily  and  mental  ex- 
^^Mrcise,  he  turned  his  steps  homeward.  By  the  use  of  that  bachelors' 
^^mwode  mecum,  a  latch-key,  he  entered  the  passage  of  the  house  he  inha- 
^Fbited  ;  and,  failing  to  find  the  usual  candlestick  and  lucifers,  cursed 
the  carelessness  of  the  servant,  and  groped  his  way,  darkling,  into  his 
'  studio.  On  reaching  the  door,  to  his  surprise  he  observed  a  light 
I  streaming  from  the  chink  beneath  it,  and,  on  opening  it,  still  more  to 
I  his  surprise,  he  beheld  Lariviere  seated  before  the  easel,  calmly  con- 
templating the  unfinished  portrait  of  Alias  Seymour.  Not  sure 
whether  or  not  he  was  awake,  he  rubbed  his  eyes  with  both  hands, 
and  then  walked  up  and  stood  before  Lariviere,  who  immediately 
rose  and  smiled  blandly  on  the  young  painter. 

"  *  To  what  am  I  indebted/  said  Thurlston,  stiffly,  and  still  staring 
with  surprise,  '  for  this  nocturnal  visit  ?  * 

"'You    are   indebted,*    replied    Lariviere,  with   the  same    smile 
—^ihough  somewhat  tinged  with  malice,  *  to  my  conscience.* 
Hp     "  *  As  I  am  rather  sleepy  at  present,  and  at  best  always  slow  at  ap- 
^  '  prehcnding  a  joke,  will  you  expound  the  present  witticism-** 

'*  *  First,  then,  let  us  be  seated,'  continued  Thurlston's  visitor,  '  I 
am  sure  that  you  are  labouring  under  some  delusion.  I  felt  this  when 
,  I  saw  your  intentions  to-night,  and  avoided  gratifying  them  to  the 
last ;  but  your  last  provocation  was  such  that  had  I  not  noticed  it  I 
must  have  forfeited  the  convenience  of  a  very  comfortable  and  agree- 
able  club.    We  have  both  been  to  the  shooting-gallery  together.    You 

VOL,    XV I II.  H    H 


422 


UNFINISHED    PICTITRE. 


know  I  am  a  d — d  good  shot,  and  I  know  you  are  &  d — d  bad  one. 
I  have  no  reputation  to  make  for  pluck,  having  unfortunately  been 
out  more  than  once,  so  I  can  very  well  afford  to  look  this  over,  «nd 
my  second  will  arrange  it  all  if  you  will  admit  the  whole  thing  to 
have  been  a  joke  got  up  between  us  for  the  sake  of  a  little  excite- 
ment in  the  club*  Good  friends  as  we  have  always  been,  and  I  trust 
always  will  be,  no  one  will  suspect  for  an  instant  bnt  that  it  is  so. 
Come>  now,  what  do  you  say  ?  By  the  way,  I  think  you  have  not 
been  quite  happy  in  the  mouth  of  jVliss  Seymour/  added  Lariviere, 
careleasly  pointing  to  the  picture  on  the  easel/ 

'*  Bryant  ThurUton  started  up  at  the  name  of  Sliss  Seymour,  and 
walking  up  to  the  door,  threw  it  wide  open,  as  an  invitation  to 
Lariviere  to  withdraw,  saying  at  the  same  time^  with  ill-Assumed 
composure, 

"  *  Whether  I  am  under  a  delusion  or  not  is  no  part  of  your  busi- 
ness. I  have  insulted  you^  and  am  willing  to  afford  you  the  satis- 
faction which  you  must  require,  and  are  entitled  to/ 

*' '  Then  I  am  d^ — d  sorry  for  it/  said  Lariviere ;  *  but  I  have 
satisfied  my  conscience.     So  au  revoir' 

'*  Lariviere  then  withdrew,  and,  as  soon  as  he  had  crossed  the  | 
threshold,  Bryant  slammed  the  door.  In  a  few  seconds  Lariviere*s  ] 
voice  was  heard  on  the  stairs* 

<f  *  Thurlston  I — ^hoUo,  Thurlston  I '     Bryant  re-opened  the  door, 
« If  you  want  to  have  a  pop  at  me  by  and  by/  continued  the  voice,  1 
'  for  God's  sake  show  a  light,  or  I  shall  break  my  neck/ 

**  *  Curse  his  impudent  coolness  I  *  said  Bryant,  as  he  returned  from  I 
obeying  Lariviere*s  request.  *  But  no  matter — ^I,  too,  will  be  cool/  * 
continued  he,  pacing  the  room  in  an  agitation  very  contradictory  to  J 
the  resolution.  Then  stopping  in  front  of  his  easel — '  This  wretched] 
offspring  of  a  fever-sh  dream/  said  he,  *  must  not  remain  in  itsl 
abortive  state  to  witness  against  my  folly.  To-night  it  shall  be  J 
finished,  and  then  farewell  Art^ — ^thou  pompous  title,  invented  but] 
to  gull  fools,  and  gild  the  meanness  of  a  poor  handicraft ! '  I 

"So  saying,  he  lit  up  a  drawing-lamp,  seized  his  palette  and  I 
brushes,  and  prepared  to  work.     Alas  for  poor  Bryant's  philosophy  i  J 
no  image  presentetl  itself  to  his  mind's  eye  but  the  colti,  hard,  un-J 
ruMed  visage  of  Lariviere     Vainly  did  he  press  his  hand  against  I 
his  heated  eye-balls,  and  strike  his  throbbing  forehead  to  dissipattfl 
the  vision  ;  the  effort  only  brought  with  it  the  host  of  faces  that  had" 
impres^d  themselves  on  his  mind  during  the  scene  in  the  club-room. 
At   last,  goaded  to  a  crisis  of  despair  by  the  fruitless  struggle  €>f 
his   feverish   brain,   he  threw   himself  headlong  upon  the  ground,^ 
A  chest  that  lay  in  the  direction  of  his  fall  presented  a  sharp  corner  J 
to  his  forehead,  and  cut  it  deeply.     Stunned  by  the  blow,   he  laj 
there    senseless    for    a  considerable   time ;   and,  just   as    returnin| 
animation  was  bringing  back  with  it  a  cloud  of  hideous  phantoms] 
and  confused   imaginings,  his  door  was  opened  by  the  young  maiij 
whom  he  had  selected  as  his  second*     His  appearance  succeeded  in 
thoroughly  rousing  Bryant ;  and,  raising  himself,  he  stretched  bti 
stiffened  limbs,  still  clammy  with  the  cold  sweat  that  had  started  on 
them  during  his  stupor,  and  with  a  grinning  smile  wished  his  friend 
a  good  morning, 
"  To  the  qu^tions  of  his  friend^  aAtonished  to  find  him  in  such  a 


TFB   mCFINlSHED    PICTURE. 


423 


pli^t^ — foT^  with  the  gory  wound  which  bisckened  the  very  centre 
of  ais  forehead,  the  disoroered  state  of  his  hair^  and  general  aspect, 
he  looked  very  like  a  drunken  Cyclops. — he  replied »  that  he  sup^ 
posed  that  he  must  have  met  with  a  fail,  by  stumbling  over  some- 
thing in  the  dark  when  he  came  home.  After  recommending  him 
slightly  to  reform  his  toilet^ — a  recommendation  immediately  com* 
plied  with, — Bryant's  second  offered  his  arm,  and  they  drove  off  in 
the  latter's  cab  to  the  place  of  meeting,  their  backs  pressing  during 
the  journey  against  a  pistol-case,  which  unnecessarily  enough  kept 
Bryant's  mind  on  the  ultimate  object  of  their  expeaition.  But  hii 
feelings  were  those  of  discomfort,  produced  by  hurry  and  confusion 
of  mind  J  rather  than  any  awful  sense  of  his  situation. 

**  On  reaching  the  ground,  they  found  Iiariviere  already  there,  in 
conversation  with  his  second.  Bryant  no  sooner  set  his  eyes  on  him 
than  the  deep  hatred  which  possessed  his  soul  flashed  up  within, 
like  the  sudden  kindling  of  a  mass  of  embers.  Nevertheless^  as  he 
passed  him,  he  courteously  raised  his  haL  Lariviere  immediately 
returned  the  politeness,  adding  at  the  same  time  in  a  loud  tone  of 
voice,  as  he  observed  the  mark  in  the  centre  of  Bryant's  foreheatl, 
'Why,  the  man  has  made  a  target  of  himself!'  Thurlston  bit  his 
lips  with  agony  as  he  heard  the  fiendish  remark,  and  could  have 
sprung  upon  Lariviere  with  the  ferocity  of  a  tiger. 

'*  The  seconds  having  measured  out  the  distance^  and  presented 
each  with  a  pistol,  the  signal  was  given  for  the  triggers  to  be 
pulled.  Lariviere  raised  his  arm  aloft,  and  obviously  fired  in  the 
air;  while^  on  the  contrary,  Thurlston's  pistol  was  levelled  firmly  at  | 
his  antagonist,  but  with  an  aim  that  sent  the  bullet  far  wide  of  itt 
mark.  The  seconds  then  interposed,  and  were  desirous  the  affair 
should  stop  here.  Whereupon  Lariviere,  turning  to  Thurlston,  said, 
in  an  almost  inviting  tone, 

"  '  Arc  you  for  another  shot,  Mr.  Thurlston  ?* 
"  'By all  means,'  said  Bryant,  endeavouring  to  emulate  Lariviire'a 
8elf«po6session.     Fresh  pistols  were   placed  in  their  hands,  and  tlie 
signal  was  again  given  to  fire.     Both  behaved  precisely  in  the  sam^j 
manner  as  before,  except  that  the  result  was  a  little  more  credltjabl#l 
to  Bryant's  dexterity,  his   ball   passing  through    the  collar  (»fLiH«| 
viere's  coat,  who  bowed  politely  to  Thurlston,  as  if  to  compliment 
him  on  his  improvement  as  a  marksman. 

**  '  Once  more,  if  you  please,  gentlemen,*  said  Bryant,  turning  to 
the  seconds^  after  returning  Larivi^re's  bow  ;  his  face  flushed,  and 
his  eyes  gleaming  with  feverish  excitement.  The  requent  was  obry-  < 
ed,  toe  pistols  reloaded,  and  again  presented.  Just  before  the  signal] 
vaa  given,  Lariviere,  in  a  loud  ana  solemn  voice,  said, 
**  *  Bryant  Thurlston,  your  blood  be  on  your  own  head  I' 
^  At  that  moment  tne  word  '  Fire !'  was  given  and  oWyed. 
ThurUton  sprang  in  the  air,  and  fell  on  his  face  — •  a  corpse  I  1^- 
liTiare's  unerring  aim  had  driven  his  ball  exactly  throuigh  the 
vowmI  in  the  centre  of  Bryant's  forehead,  and  which  he  hail  desig- 
nated as  a  target." 

Here  the  Picture  paused,  a  tear  glistening  in  each  eye,  apparentlf 
ovrrcoo^e  hj  the  nvid  remembraiMSC  of  tb«  strange    trogeily.     f 
w  bo  had  all  along  from  my  predikdion  in  ikwour  of  fKictleAl  l^* 
tke,  antidpatod  a  conlrary  dHumewi€9U^  waa  no  Icti  ifcciai^ 


424 


THE   UNFINISHED    PICTURE. 


remained  some  time  absorbed  in  reflection  on  the  extraordinary 
incident  thus  strangely  related*  My  musings  led  me  at  last  to 
break  out  into  the  interrogative:  '*  But  who  was  Larivieref  and 
why  did  he  act  in  this  diabolical  manner?" 

*'  My  dear  sir,  you  surely  cannot  have  forgotten  ?*'  replied  thej 
picture. 

It  immediately  occurred  to  me  that  the  explanation  I  sought  had  | 
probably  been  given  during  the  interval  when  I  had  dropped  asleep^  I 
and  not  wishing  to  wound  the  picture's  feelings  by  an  ad niUsi on  j 
that  its  narrative  had  had  that  effect  upon  me,  I  replied: 

"  Oh  1  ah  I  true  —  to  be  sure  —  I  remember  perfectly  well  —  I 
yes,  yea !"' 

And  now,  good  reader,  I  remember  nothing  more  of  my  colloquy 
with  the  picture,  nor,  indeed,  whether  any  further  dialogue  took 
place  or  not  ;  the  next  impression  which  I  have  to  record  being 
that  of  a  louil  knocking  at  my  outer  daor»  which  awakened  me  from 
an  apparently  sound  sleep  m  my  arm-chair.  I  rose  to  obey  the 
summons,  and  found  my  friend  and  schoolmate,  Tom  Middleton^ 
whom  I  had  invited  to  breakfast,  about  to  depart,  cursing  ray  usual 
forget  fulness.  After  overwhelming  me,  according  to  his  custom, 
with  a  flood  of  questions,  beginning  with  **  How  are  ye,  old  fellow?** 
without  apparently  the  remotest  desire  for  an  answer;^  he  filled  his 
eyes  on  the  unfinished  picture  and  said, 

"  Hollo  1  where  did  you  get  that  copy  of  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence't 

portrait  of  Lady  D ?  it  'a  a  devilish  good  one  V* 

"  Copy  of  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence's  portrait !"  said  I,  sneering  at 
his  faulty  connoisseurship  ;  "  why,  it  *s  Clara  Seymour,  painted  by 
poor  Bryant  Thurlaton,  that  was  shot  in  the  middle  of  his  forehead.** 
Middlcton  looked  at  me  with  a  look  of  solicitous  inquiry,  that 
evidently  questioned  my  sanity  ;  and  then,  looking  about  the  room 
and  into  the  recess,  where  my  bed  was  made  up  untouched,  ex- 
claimed, 

**  Why,  stupid  old  fool !  you  have  been  sitting  up  again  in  your 
easy  chair,  smoking  yourself  to  sleep,  and  dreaming  a  parcel  of 
nonsense  - — " 

'*  That  I  think  I  can  make  up  into  an  article  for  *  Bentley ;'  and 
as  you  admire  the  picture,  I  make  you  a  present  of  it,"  said  I, — 
not  wishing  to  keep  an  object  that  had  so  falsely  enlisted  ray  syin* 
pathies. 


425 


THE  MARCHIONESS  OF  BRINFILLIERS, 

THE    POISONER    OF    THE    SEVENTEENTH    CENTUBY, 

A    ROMANCE     OF    OLD     PARIS. 

BY   ALBERT   SMITH. 

[with    ASf   ILLUSTHATlOy    D¥    J.    LEECH.] 


CHAFTEB   XXXI. 

Philippe  Qlazer  throwi  Dea^ais  off  ilie  scent. 

With  all  his  energy  to  overtake  the  fugitives,  the  Exempt  was 

^n  too  late,  althoui^h  fate  appeared  almost  to  have  thrown  them 
nto  his  hands.  There  were  a  train  of  market- carts  coming  into 
Compiegne  on  all  sides  from  the  suburbs ;  and  Desgrais,  atler  stop- 
ping one  or  two,  in  authoritative  tones,  to  the  temporary  astonish- 
nent  of  the  owners,  became  so  confused  with  their  numbers  by  the 
ime  he  reached  the  Place,  where  they  were  all  collecting,  that  he 
Jftve  up  any  farther  search,  and  resolved,  afler  a  little  rest,  to  pro- 
leeed  to  Offemont;    for,  as    may  be  imagined,  after  his  harassing 

i'ourney,  he  was  well  nigh  exhausted.  The  brandy  he  carried  with 
dm  gave  him  a  temporary  power  of  endurance,  and  he  now  stood  in 
need  of  more  substantial  nourishment;  and  feeling  sure  that  the 
Marchioness  would  go  at  once  to  her  chateau,  not  giving  him  credit 
for  pursuing  her  so  closely,  he  still  reckoned  upon  seizing  her  before 
noon,  and  then,  with  the  assistance  of  the  municipal  authorities  of 
the  town,  taking  her  back  to  Paris. 

In  the  meantime  the  humble  conveyance  which  had  taken  up 
Marie  and  Philippe  stopped  with  them  at  one  of  the  principal  inns, 
at  the  very  time  that  the  active  agent  of  the  Marechaussee  was  en- 
deavouring to  discover  them  in  the  streets.  At  Compiegne  the 
Marchioness  was  well  known.  The  firing  of  the  wheels  of  the  post- 
carriage  accounted  sufficiently  for  their  arri^^al  in  the  market-cart; 
and  her  worn,  jaded  appearance,  was  attributed  to  frightat  the  oc- 
currence. Her  character  stood  well,  no  less  at  Compiegne  and  the 
neighbourhood  than  at  Paris,  as  an  amiable  and  much- wronged  lady  ; 
the  wild  career  her  husband  had  followed  since  their  separation^ 
— the  embarrassment  of  her  affairs, —  his  unbridled  licentiousness, 
— all  offered  sufficient  excuses  for  her  attachment  to  Sainte-Croix  : 
more  especially  in  an  age  when  gallantry  was  almost  a  virtue — ^^at  all 
events,  a  most  venial  transgression  ;  and  therefore  it  is  not  to  be  won- 
dered at  that  the  entire  household  of  the  hotel  were  anxious  to  do 
all  they  could  to  assist  her  at  present,  even  to  the  point  of  becoming 
ollicious.  A  fresh  carriage  and  horses  to  Offemont  was  all,  however, 
that  the  Marchioness  required,  and  these  were  immediately  got 
ready, 

"And  now.  Philippe,*'  said  Marie,  as  they  awaited  the  time  to 
start  in  one  of  the  rooms  of  the  hotel,  **  I  shall  no  longer  require 
your  help.  You  had  better  return  to  Paris  as  soon  as  you  well  may, 
and  leave  the  rest  of  my  destiny  in  my  own  hands.  Here  I  am  com- 
paratively at  home,  and  all  are  ready  to  assist  me." 

'*  I  would  see  you  as  far  as  your  homje  at  Oflemont/*  said  the 
student. 

VOL,  XVIII.  I    1 


426 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OF    BRINVILLFERS. 


'*  There  ia  no  necessity  for  your  so  doing,**  returned  Mane;  **  On 
the  contrary,  it  may  involve  you  in  some  little  trouble,  more  es- 
pecially if  I  am  overtaken  before  1  am  able  to  dear  myaelf  to  the 
satisfaction  of  everybody.'* 

**  But  it  is  only  now  a  few  miles  to  the  chateau,"  aaid  Philippe. 

"  And  therefore  is  there  the  less  occasion  for  you  to  accompany 
me,  whichever  way  the  venture  turns.  If  I  get  there  unobserved, 
your  presence  would  be  entirely  superfluous  ;  if  I  am  overtaken,  it 
would  but  involve  another  in  this  persecution.  I  have  already  been 
the  cause  of  too  much  misery.*' 

The  deep-drawn,  almost  wailing,  Bigh  of  utter  exhaustion  and 
misery  which  followed  these  words  carried  with  it  such  an  expres* 
sion  of  desolation,  that  many  who  had  far  less  faith  in  her  sincerity 
than  Philippe  would  have  been  affected  by  it  And  yet  the  deptb 
and  calculation  of  this  extraordinary  woman  prompted  everything. 
She  knew  that  if  Philippe  Glazer  was  found  with  her,  a  fresh  link 
would  be  added  to  the  chain  of  circumstances  that  connected  her 
with  Sainte- Croix's  affairs,  and  the  revelations  of  the  casket ;  and 
she  was  anxious  that  this  should  be  annulled.  Hitherto  she  had 
owed  everything  to  his  escort  and  invention ;  but,  now  that  she  was 
amongst  her  own  people,  and  enabled  to  go  on  by  herself^  she  fore- 
aaw  that»  in  the  event  of  their  being  overtaken,  his  presence  would 
be  considered  anything  but  favourable  to  her  position.  And  yet, 
through  all  this,  she  was  not  at  the  moment  entirely  devoid  of  feel- 
ing. We  have  said  that  the  most  schooled  and  lying  natures  have 
their  gleams  of  candour  and  sincerity^  and  in  an  access  of  this  kind 
the  continued  to  the  student, 

"You  have  been  very  kind  to  me,  Philippe:  risking  everything  to 
save  me,  when,  I  doubt  not,  before  long  the  whole  world  will  have 
turned  its  back  upon  me.     How  can  I  return  this  devotion?"  I 

*'  No  more,  Madame,  I  beseedi  you,*'  replied  her  companion*  **  It 
would  be  a  crime  indeed  not  to  have  asaisted  you  in  this  extremity, 
knowing  all  as  I  do/' 

'*  All !"  half  exclaimed  the  Marchioness,  aa  she  bent  her  eye  upon 
Philippe's  countenance ;  but  nothing  there  indicated  a  meaning  of 
any  import.     She  continued, 

**  Let  this  cloud  but  blow  over,  and  you  shall  not  complain  of  my 
want  of  gratitude.  But  at  present,  take  this  clasp,  and  keep  it  as  a 
souvenir  of  our  journey.  And  promise  me,"  she  went  on,  as  she  un- 
clasped  a  jewel  from  her  dress,  and  placed  it  in  Philippe's  hand, — 
**  and  promise  me  that,  come  what  may,  you  will  see  me  agaiD,  un- 
der whatever  circumstances  it  may  be  practicable  to  do  so." 

**  I  swear  it,*'  replied  Philippe,  as  he  put  the  gif\  in  his  pockety 
*'  even  if  you  were  watching  my  journey  to  the  scaflbld !" 

Again  Marie  regarded  the  student  with  an  intensity,  as  thouffh 
she  would  have  probed  his  most  hidden  thoughts.  It  was  not  the 
first  time  that  he  had  alluded  to  the  Place  de  GrOve  upon  their  jour- 
ney. Still  there  was  an  absence  of  any  apparent  intention  in  the 
speech  ;  but  the  words  caused  a  shiver  to  run  through  her  frame, 
and  she  turned  even  paler  than  before,  a  slight  quivering  of  her  lip, 
in  addition,  betraying  her  emotion.  At  this  moment  the  carriage 
which  was  to  bear  her  to  Offemont  was  announced  ;  and  pressing 
Philippe's  hand  warmly,  she  averted  her  face,  and  without  another 
word  hurriedly  entered  the  vehicle.     The  word  was  then  given  to 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OF   BBINVILLIEM. 


427 


start,  the  windows  were  drawn  up  to  shut  out  the  freezing  morning 
air,  and  in  another  minute  she  was  on  the  road  to  Offemont. 

Philippe  watched  the  carriage  until  it  turned  the  street,  and  then 
returned  to  the  salk-d -manger  of  the  hotel.  The  intense  excitement, 
and  the  hazards  he  had  undergone,  now  left  a  reaction  of  extreme 
depression.  The  beauty  of  IVfarie  de  BrinviUiers,  and  her  singular 
fascinations^her  rank  and  acknowletlged  acquirements — no  less  tlian 
the  romance  which  her  very  gallantries  had  given  to  her  character, 
had  half  turned  the  student's  head ;  and  he  began  to  question  him- 
self, as  he  had  done  a  dozen  times  before  during  the  night,  when  he 
felt  her  clinging  to  him  on  the  horsCj  whether  his  chivalry  was  not 
turning  into  love :  and  lighting  his  pipe,  he  sat  over  the  hearth 
ruminating  upon  her  present  situation,  and  the  events  of  the  last  Few 
hours,  and  whai  a  greiit  thing  it  was  for  a  student  to  be  in  love  with 
a  Marchioness ;  and  lastly  he  determined,  in  the  event  of  her  being 
taken,  literally  to  go  through  fire  and  water  to  assist  her,  if  such 
were  requisite.  And  then  he  remembered  that  when  Camille  Theria 
had  left  Paris  for  Liege,  he  had  spoken  of  some  letters  he  had  re- 
ceived from  the  IVIarchioness,  which  brought  about  a  new  train  of 
thought,  until  his  ideas  became  altogether  confused,  and  he  fell  into 
a  doze  at  the  warm  fireside. 

He  was  aroused  by  the  entrance  of  an  individual  in  the  costume 
of  the  Guet  Royal,  who  marched  clanking  into  the  room  with  an 
important  air,  shouting  loudly  for  the  hostess.  But  the  landlady 
was  engaged  at  that  minute  ;  and,  having  restlessly  walked  up  to  the 
window  and  curled  his  mustachios,  he  returned  to  the  fireplace,  and 
gave  a  loud,  graW '^  hem  I"  which  startled  Philippe  from  his  reverie. 

"  Have  you  been  here  long,  man  brave  ?"  he  asked  with  a  i>atron- 
ising  air,  having  attracted  his  attention, 

"  About  half  an  hour/'  said  Philippe.  **  I  came  in  early  to  the 
market." 

'*  Then  perhaps  you  can  tell  roe  whether  any  travellers  have  ar- 
rived or  departed  within  that  period/' 

Philippe's  first  impulse  was  to  answer  in  the  negative ;  but  a  sud- 
den idea  struck  him  that  he  might  turn  the  reply  to  good  account. 

"  A  lady  left  here  in  a  carriage  about  ten  minutes  ago,'*  he  said. 

*'Pf*/e .'"  exclaimed  the  guard.  **  M.  Desgrais,  the  Exempt  of  the 
Marechausee»  has  just  arrived  at  the  prefecture,  with  an  order  to 
arrest  a  Parisian  lady,  whom  he  has  followed  since  last  evening,  and 
this  must  be  her.  "He  has  sent  messengers  to  every  hotel  in  the 
town  to  stop  her.     Do  you  know  which  road  she  took  ?'* 

"  The  end  of  her  journey  was  Beauvais/*  said  Philippe,  throwing 
the  guard  completely  off  the  scent ;  "  the  horses  were  to  go  to  Bois 
de  Lihus  " 

"  That  is  sufficient,"  said  the  other.     **  I  am  obliged  to  you." 

And,  having  apparently  got  all  the  information  he  wanted,  he  re- 
turned to  the  prefecture,  without  seeing  the  landlady,  who  came  to 
obey  his  summons  within  two  minutes  after  he  had  left 

"So,"  thought  Philippe,  ''they  are  got  rid  of  for  three  leagues 
and  a  half  at  least.     The  seven,  there  and  back,  will  give  Madame 
plenty  of  time  to  steal  a  march  upon  them,  which  they  will  not  rea 
lily  make  up.     And  now  I  had  better  look  to  myself." 

There  was  nothing  to  settle  at  the  inn,  so  Philippe  loum 
out  of  the  saUe-d-mangcr  into  the  street^  where  the  full  b 

I 


428 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OF  BRINVILLIERS. 


activity  of  the  day's  business  was  beginning  to  get  into  play-     On 

arriving  at  the  Place,  he  found  many  of  the  market-carts  about  to 
return  into  the  country*  Several  were  going  back  towards  Seiilis  ; 
but  not  caring  to  travel  the  same  route  by  which  he  had  arrived  at 
Complcgne,  for  many  obvious  reasons,  he  made  a  bargain  with  the 
owner  of  one  of  them  to  carry  him  to  Joulzy,  from  whence  he 
could  easily  get  to  Soissons,  and  return  to  Paris  by  an  entirely  dif- 
ferent route. 


CHAPTKE   XXXIK 

Offemont  to  Lifge.—An  old  acquaintance*— The  lanctuary* 

Within  an  hour  of  leaving  the  poxie  at  Compiegne  the  Mar* 
chioness  had  traversed  a  portion  of  the  Foret  de  I'Aigue,  and  arrived 
at  Olfemont,  at  her  chateau*  Here  no  longer  any  difficuhy  exi^ited 
in  procuring  the  means  of  proceeding  onward.  The  horses  in  the 
stable  were  fresh,  and  prepared  for  hard  work  ;  the  servants  were 
attached  to  her,  from  her  having  resided  so  much  w*ith  them,  up  to 
the  death  of  M.  D'Aubray  ;  and  a  change  of  dress,  from  her  hurried 
costume  lo  more  suitable  habiliments  for  the  journey^  somewhat  re* 
freshed  her. 

Still  she  was  aware  no  time  was  to  be  lost;  and,  knowing  we)I — 
better  than  even  Desgrais  himself — the  imminent  peril  she  woidd  Ije 
in  if  taken,  she  directly  ordered  her  own  carriage  to  be  got  ready, 
her  determination  being  to  reach  the  frontier  of  the  Netherlands  lit 
the  nearest  point.  Her  anxiety  created  some  little  ustontshment 
amongst  the  people  ;  but  they  had  only  to  obey,  and  a  very  little 
time  elapsed  before  the  carriage  was  in  the  courts  and  all  prepared 
for  tlie  fresh  start* 

It  was  a  fine  winter's  morning-  The  sun  was  sparkling  on  the 
frozen  snow,  and  the  nostrils  of  the  horses  steamed  in  the  sliarp 
bracing  air,  which  called  a  flush  on  Marie's  cheek,  and  rendered  her 
appearance  less  haggard,  by  the  temporary  glow,  than  the  terrible 
adventures  of  the  night  had  made  it.  And,  now  that  she  was  en- 
tirely  dependent  upon  her  own  energy  for  safety,  her  firmness  rose 
with  the  dangen  The  first  shock  passed,  all  her  w^ondrous  deter- 
mination came  back  to  her  assistance.  In  her  utter,  fearful  heart- 
lessness,  she  w^as  almost  beginning  to  look  already  upon  the  death  of  I 
(laudin  as  an  accident  by  which  some  clog  had  been  removed,  and 
she  had  been  left  free  and  unfettered  to  follow  her  own  will,  as  soon 
as  her  safety  from  her  pursuers  was  secured. 

A  large  package,  apparently  of  clothes,  was  put  in  the  carriage 
with  her,  and  then  the  word  was  given  to  proceed  at  once  to  Laon» 
— a  large  town,  some  four -and- twenty  miles  off, — with  such  speed 
as  the  horses  could  make  In  the  snow.  Here  she  arrived  towards 
the  afYernoon,  and  then  with  fresh  horses  went  on  towards  Vervins, 
chaiiging  at  the  little  village  of  Marie,  and  taking  some  slight  re- 
freshment. It  will  be  unnecessary  for  us  to  follow  the  Marchioness 
with  minuteness  throughout  her  route  ;  for  nothing  beyond  the  or- 
dinary adventures  of  the  road  occurred  until  she  reached  the  frontier. 
Paying  well  at  every  post,  the  horses  were  urged,  in  spite  of  all  dis- 
advantages, far  beyond  the  common  rate  of  travelling,  and  her  hopes 
Increased  with  every  hour  that  Desgrais  had  been  put  off  the  scent. 


THE  MARCHIONESS    OF  BRrNVILLTERS, 


429 


Reachirtg  Vervina  in  the  mght,  she  went  on  to  Rocroi,  through 
Maubert*  arriving  at  the  former  place  some  twenty  hours  after  her 
departure  from  Offemont.  Here  she  rested  some  little  time,  having 
need  of  refreshment  beyond  the  few  things  she  had,  with  some  fore- 
thought, brought  with  her.  At  Fumay  another  delay  was  occa- 
sioned by  the  lack  of  horses  ;  but  this  temporary  hindrance  was  leas 
annoying  ;  for,  since  the  previous  evening,  the  frost  had  set  in  with 
such  unparalleled  severity^  that,  with  every  contrivance,  the  cold 
had  become  intense,  even  causing  her  to  suffer  acute  pain.  But  at 
ni^ht  she  was  enabled  again  to  be  on  the  road,  and  reached  Givet, 
the  frontier  town  on  the  French  side  of  the  river  JVIeuse,  early  in 
the  evening. 

Although  not  above  five  o'clock,  the  streets  of  this  picturesque 
place  were  almost  deserted,  in  consequence  of  the  cold  ;  and  the 
people  at  the  inn  were  astonished  to  see  a  solitary  female  alight  from 
the  carriage,  which  now  bore  evidences  of  having  come  a  long  jour- 
ney. But  they  carried  the  few  effects  that  Marie  had  with  her  into 
the  common  room  of  the  imi,  and  then  heaped  up  the  fire,  and 
bustled  about  to  serve  her,  impressed  with  some  respect  by  the  libe- 
rality with  which  she  paid  the  po^ts,  and  the  report  carried  on  from 
one  town  to  anotlier,  that  such  had  been  the  case  throughout  the 
journey-  Here  all  danger  she  imagined  was  over.  The  JMeyse  only 
separated  her  from  another  country,  and  to  cross  this  was  the  work 
of  half  a  minute.  Hence  ^he  determined  upon  remaining  at  Givet 
for  the  night;  for,  with  all  her  energy,  her  animal  powers  were  now 
well  nigh  exhausted  by  reason  of  want  of  rest. 

She  was  alone  in  the  large  and  cheerless  public  room  of  the 
L'Ant  Dori, — the  hotel  to  which  the  postilions  had  brought  her, — 
whilst  the  servants  got  another  chamber  warmed  and  ready  to  re- 
ceive hen  The  hurry  and  confusion  of  the  last  two  days  and  nights 
had  left  her  but  little  time  for  reflection ;  but,  now  that  the  great 
risk  was  comparatively  lessened,  reaction  took  place,  and  a  bitter 
depression  stole  over  her  feelings— crushing  and  desolate.  All  the 
terrible  circumstances  which  had  so  lately  occurred  came  back  to 
her  mind  with  fearful  distinctness ;  the  very  shadows  that  danced 
upon  the  walls  and  ceiling  app caret!  endowed  with  ghastly  forms, 
that  flickered  and  gibbered  about  her  with  an  air  of  triumph.  8he 
could  not  close  her  eyes,  and  shut  them  out;  i or  the  mere  notion 
that  they  were  then  still  mocking  her  was  more  insupportable  than 
absolutely  fixing  her  open  eyes  upon  them.  Anon  the  warmth  v^ 
the  fire,  coming  after  the  biting  cold  of  the  open  air^  induced  drow- 
siness ;  and  in  a  half- .sleeping,  haU- waking  stale,  these  fitful  shadows 
changed  from  the  indistinct  shapes  itito  which  her  imagination  had 
transformed  them  to  palpable  iind  horrid  objects.  A  crowd  of  pale 
and  sheeted  spectres,  with  wasted  limbs  and  distorted  faces,  as 
though  they  iiad  died  after  long-protracted  agony,  swept  slowly 
before  her,  bearing  the  semblances  of  those  who,  by  her  hellish 
agency,  had  filled  the  Salle  des  Cadavres  of  the  Hotel  Dieu,  Her 
father,  too,  was  there, — vivid  and  life-like,  as  he  had  seemed  to  her 
on  that  fatal  evening  at  Oifemont,  when  the  first  step  of  her  diabo- 
lical career  had  been  taken.  Her  brothers  rose  up  as  well,  and  de- 
nounced her  as  they  moved  their  blackened  lips  ;  and  lastly,  she  saw 
the  form  of  Gaudin  de  Sainte-Croix  advancing  through  the  immate- 
rial and  hideous  groups  tliat  surrounded  liim*     He  came  towards 


iSO 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OF    BRINVILLIERS, 


her,  and,  although  the  stamp  of  death  was  on  his  features,  she  felt  hit 
breath  hot  and  rifling  on  her  cheek  as  he  advanced.  She  tried  to 
move  away,  but  some  hideous  sensation  riveted  her  to  the  spot.  He 
came  still  nearer,  and  stretched  forth  his  hand  to  seize  her,  when 
with  a  cry  of  terror  she  awoke,  and  found  herself  still  alone  in  the 
chamber  ;  whilst  a  violent  ringing  of  the  bell  in  the  court*yard  re- 
called her  at  once  to  her  senses. 

She  directly  rushed  to  the  window,  her  imagination  picturing  no- 
thing Jess  than  the  arrival  of  Desgrais.  But  to  her  relief  she  saw 
nothing  beyond  a  small  country  vehicle,  drawn  by  one  horse,  from 
which  a  man,  apparently  young,  leapt  down,  and  directed  the  fellow 
in  attendance  to  take  charge  of  it.  He  then  entered  the  court ;  and 
immediately  afterwards  Marie  heard  him  coming  towards  the  room 
in  which  she  was.  She  had  barely  time  to  throw  a  scarf  over  her 
head,  and  draw  it  together,  so  as  in  a  measure  to  conceal  her  fea- 
tures, when  the  new-comer  entered. 

He  started  back  for  a  moment  as  he  perceived  the  room  was  occu- 
pifd  ;  and  then,  with  some  common-place  salutation,  to  which  Marie 
only  replied  with  a  bow,  advanced  towards  the  fire-place.  The 
Marchioness  perceived  that  he  was  scrutinizing  her  witli  sidelong 
glances,  and  again  became  somewhat  alarmed ;  when  the  stranger 
divested  himself  of  a  travelling. cloak,  and  threw  it  on  the  table,  pre- 
viously to  kicking  the  embers  on  the  hearth  carelessly  together  w^jth 
his  foot.  As  he  did  this  the  fire  burnt  up,  and  Marie  caught  a 
glimpse  of  his  face.  A  subdued  cry  of  surprise  burst  from  her  lips 
as  she  thought  she  recognized  him  ;  and  she  then  ei^clainiedy  half 
interrogating,  half  addressing  him, — 

''  Camille  Theria !" 

*'  The  same/*  returned  Theria,— for  it  was  he.  **  The  same ;  and 
at  your  service*  raadame,  mademoiselle,  or  ma  belie, — whichever  title 
you  choose  to  appropriate  to  yourself." 

*' Have  you  forgotten  rae?"«he  asked,  as  she  threw  back  the 
scarf,  and  shewed  her  face. 

"  Marie  V  exclaimed  Camille,  as  he  started  at  the  revelation.  And 
he  added,  almost  directly,  but  in  an  altered  tone,  as  though  he 
would  have  been  better  pleased  bad  his  companion  been  any  one 
else ;  *'  Mon  Dieu  !  how  came  you  here,  for  us  to  meet  thus?" 

*'  You  are  annoyed,  then,  at  meeting  me,"  replied  Marie ;  for  her 
keen  perception  detected  the  difference  of  his  expression.  And,  as 
she  assumed  a  tearful  and  appealing  look,  she  added,  *'  I  am  used  to 
this,  Camille  ;  and  ought  to  have  expected  it.  The  time  was  when 
I  should  have  been  too  proud  to  have  even  replied  to  you  ;  but  per- 
secution and  misery  have  crushed  my  spirit.  My  heart  is  quite  — 
quite  broken." 

She  bowed  down  her  head,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  handa. 
She  meant  Camille  to  believe  that  she  was  weeping.  He  did  to^ 
and  was  touched  at  her  distress.  Taking  one  of  her  hands  in  hii 
own,  he  said  in  kinder  accents, 

"  I  was  surprised  at  this  sudden  rencontre,  Marie.  I  know  not 
why»  but  I  did  not  expect  that  we  should  ever  meet  again.  It  cer* 
tainly  was  not  my  wish,  although  you  will  not  give  me  credit  for  the 
cause,** 

"  And  what  is  that  ?" 

'^Iwill  tell  you.     You  know  I  led  Paris  for  Li%e,  my  native 


THE   5rAR€niONESS   OF   BRINVILLIERS. 


431 


wme  time  ago.  I  have  since  then  fallowed  my  profession 
;  anil  am  about  to  be  married.  My  intended  lives  at  Mezieres^ 
whence  I  am  now  returning  from  a  visit-*' 

**  And  you  ought  to  forget  me,"  replied  Marie:  '^  it  is  right  to  do 
so."  Then  she  added^  **Do  you  remember  the  last  evening  we  met, 
Camille  ?*' 

**  It  would  be  difficult  to  forget  it.  I  have  the  scar  here  on  ray 
arm  from  Monsieur  de  Sainte-Croix*a  sword.  Where  is  he^ — at 
Paris  still  ?'* 

"1  know  not/' answered  the  Marchioness,  with  a  violent  effort 
to  conceal  her  emotion  ;   **  it  is  long  since  we  have  met." 

**  He  may  be  alive  or  dead,  for  aught  1  could  say  to  the  contrary/' 
said  Theria.     **  I  never  hear  from  Paris  now." 

**  He  knows  nothing,  then/'  thought  the  Marchioness. 

*'  But  how  ia  it  I  find  you  here?"  continued  Theria  ;  *'  so  far  from 
horae^  and  alone?" 

''Alas!  Camille,  it  is  a  sad  story,  and  some  day  you  shall  know 
everything,  I  have  been  compelled  to  fly  from  Paris — from  my 
creditors — to  avoid  a  prison.  The  separation  from  my  husband  and 
children  drove  me  to  seek  any  excitement  that  would  drown  my 
wretchedness.     I  played  deeply,  and  I  am  ruined/* 

**  Are  you  pursued  ?" 

*'I  believe  the  authorities  are  close  upon  my  track,  I  only 
left  Paris  the  evening  before  last.  Your  old  friend  Philip  Glazer 
came  with  rae  to  Offemont,  and  from  that  place  I  have  travelled 
alone." 

**  I  think  you  might  have  chosen  a  better  resting-place/'  said 
Theria.  *•  This  is  the  principal  hotel,  and  the  first  to  which  the 
police  w^ould  come.  I  shall  wait  here  until  ray  horfie  is  rested,  and 
then  push  on  to-night,  if  possible,  to  Dinant;  for  I  must  be  at  Liege 
to-morrow.     Will  you  accompany  me  ?" 

"  Again  upon  the  road  !"  murmured  his  companion  in  accents  of 
despair.     **  My  strength  has  nearly  deserted  me  1" 

**  It  will  be  safer  for  you,  if  things  are  as  you  state/'  replied  Ca- 
mille. "  You  will  have  passed  the  frontier,  and  be  three  leagues 
nearer  the  termination  of  your  journey.  We  will  sup  together  if 
you  pleajte,  Marie,  and  talk  it  over  :  1  shall  not  start  for  an  hour 
yet.     Mass  !  how  the  wind  is  shrieking  along  the  market-place  !*' 

"  I  will  go  with  you/*  said  Marie,  after  a  little  deliberation.  **  I 
could  not  bear  to  be  left  here  now^  wretched  and  utterly  deserted  as 
I  am.     The  sight  of  you  has  recalled  so  many  old  feelings,  that — '* 

"Understand  me,  Marie,"  interrupted  Camille,  **the  past  must 
be  never  again  alluded  to  between  us.  I  have  told  you  my  position  ; 
and  if  we  meet,  it  can  only  be  as  friends." 

•'It  shall  be  as  you  wish,  Camille/'  replied  the  Marchioness  with 
a  sigh,     '*  I  will  not  give  you  cause  for  the  lightest  rebuke." 

Some  of  the  people  of  the  inn  appeared  at  that  moment,  and  at 
Camille'a  orders  laid  out  a  table  for  supper.  When  they  left  the 
room  he  said, 

*'  Have  you  no  other  dress  ?  In  my  quiet  vehicle  your  rich  cos- 
tume would  at  least  excite  curiosity  ;  and  the  more  unobserved  wc 
arcj  the  safer/* 

"I  have  provideil  against  any  suspicion,"  aaid  Marie ;  and  tak- 
tlic  bundle  she  had  brought  with  her,  she  left  the  room, 


43i 


THE   MABCHIONESS  OF   BRINVILLIERS. 


retutning  within  five  rainutes  attired  as  a  patjsanne  of  the  Foret  de 
TAigue.  Her  hair,  which  she  usually  wore  in  Bhawering  ringlets 
about  her  neck  and  shoulders,  was  knotted  and  disordered  by  her 
journey ;  and  she  stood  before  a  large  mirror  in  the  room,  to  put  it 
up  beneath  a  em  all  country  cap,  first  letting  fall  it^  entire  fi  owing 
lengthy  with  a  coquetry  that  was  intended  to  produce  its  effect  upon 
TheriA.  But  Camille's  affections  were  fixetl  at  present  rather  on  a 
brioche  that  adorned  the  table,  and  the  effect  was  lost* 

Whilst  thus  occupieJ,  an  unusual  stir  was  heard  in  the  street  be- 
low the  inn.  Marie,  alive  to  every  sound,  again  rushed  to  the  win- 
do  w,  and,  to  her  dismay,  perceived  that  her  worst  fears  were  realixed* 
A  mounted  escort  of  guards  had  surrounded  a  carriage*  in  which, 
by  the  lights  they  carried,  she  could  plainly  recognise  Desgrais^  and 
two  other  exempts.  He  had  closely  followed  her,  making  up  for 
the  time  lost  in  the  wild-goose  chase  towards  Beauvais  by  double 
speed,  as  soon  as  he  found  himself  on  the  right  track  :  and,  a^  Ca- 
mille  had  imagined,  came  first  to  the  principal  hotel. 

'^  1  am  lost  1"  she  exclaimed  as  she  retreated  from  the  window. 
i'  They  have  traced  me !" 

**  Not  yet,"  said  Camille  jumping  up.  *'  But  you  must  be  off  di- 
rectly.    Where  is  your  passport?" 

A  cry  of  terror  broke  from  Marie's  lips  at  the  question*  She  had 
left  home  without  one,  forgetting  that  it  would  be  demanded  at  the 
frontier. 

"  Never  mind/'  cried  Theria :  ''this  way.  We  can  get  into  the 
court  before  they  enter  by  this  staircase,  and  thence  to  some  of  the 
back  streets.  You  must  run  every  risk,  if  you  wish  to  escape; 
though  I  shoukl  imagine,  for  a  matter  of  debt,  they  would  not  be 
very  hard  upon  you.     Come — come  I*' 

Little  persuasion  was  needed  to  induce  Marie  to  accompany  her 
new  guide.  They  flew  down  the  small  flight  of  stairs  indicated  by 
Theria,  and  were  quickly  in  the  street  in  the  rear  of  the  hotel, 
whence  a  few  turns  conducted  them  to  the  river  side,  where  the 
Bleuse  was  chafing  amidst  the  huge  blocks  of  ice  which  had  floated 
down  its  stream,  and  were  gathering  into  one  solid  mass, 

"  If  you  could  but  cross  the  river,*'  he  said,  "  we  should  be  safe. 
But  a  boat  could  not  make  its  way  amidst  the  ice.  We  will  try  it, 
however,  if  you  choose/' 

"  I  am  ready,"  said  ]Marie.  "  The  chance  is  a  desperate  ooe  either 
way." 

*'  We  must  not  be  particular  about  what  craft  we  take,"  said 
Theria,  ^'so  long  as  it  remains  undiscovered*  Here  is  one  I  think 
will  do." 

A  small  boat  had  been  hauled  on  to  the  bank,  which  Philippe 
directly  launched  through  the  brittle  ice  close  to  the  shore ;  and  then, 
assisting  3Iarie  to  enter  it,  he  got  in  himself,  and  pushed  off  with 
one  of  the  stretchers.  So  rapidly  had  everything  taken  place,  that 
before  the  Marchioness  well  understood  what  they  were  about,  she 
found  herself  with  Theria  half  across  the  river. 

It  was  not  very  dark.  One  or  two  lights  were  gleaming  and 
struggling  with  the  wind  along  the  edge  of  the  river  ;  antl  the  frosty 
brightness  of  the  starw  was  sufficient  to  enable  them  to  discern  sur- 
rounding objects.  The  huge  blocks  of  ice  kept  Hoating  about  them, 
at  times  turning  their  boat  completely  round ;  and  at  last  a  conglo- 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OF   BRIN VILLI ERS. 


4S3 


meration  of  these  masses  hemmed  them  io,  threatening  entirely  to 
arrest  their  farther  progress.  Theria  made  a  few  strenuous  efforts 
to  set  the  boat  free,  but  in  vain.  Another  and  another  block  joined 
the  body,  until  the  entire  group,  wedging  itself  in  with  some  fixed 
groups  that  extended  a  third  of  the  way  across  the  river,  became 
altogether  iraraoveable, 

*'  Phciih  /"  said  Philippe,  aSj  after  a  few  laborious  attempts  to 
get  the  boat  out  of  the  mass,  he  threw  down  hid  piece  of  board,  and 
saw  the  futility  of  his  work.  "  What  can  we  do  now  ?  We  are 
fairly  trapped." 

**  It  is  all  over  !"  exclaimed  Marie,  as  she  gazed  at  the  gloomy 
masses,  about  which  the  cold  feathery  spray  of  the  river  was  dash- 
ing, terrible  to  look  at  in  the  obscurity.  **  We  shall  be  kept  here 
until  daylight,  and  then  be  captured/' 

"  If  we  are,  I  shall  be  mistaken,*'  said  Theria^  ''  The  ice  ought 
to  make  a  brldgCt  although  a  slippery  one." 

He  tried  to  gain  a  foutlng  upon  one  or  two  of  the  blocks  ;  but 
they  turned  rout  id  as  he  touched  them.  At  last  he  found  one  larger 
and  firmer  than  the  rest, — a  conglomerate  of  several  pieces,  forming 
a  perfect  iceberg, — and  this  was  frozen  to  some  others  that  had  been 
arrested  in  their  progress  by  one  or  two  piles  just  under  water.  It 
was  extremely  hazardous;  but  their  only  chance  was  to  endeavour 
to  reach  the  bank  by  this  treacherous  passage,  Theria  stepped  care- 
fully from  the  boat  on  to  the  block,  which,  somewhat  depressed  in 
the  middle,  offered  a  safer  platform  to  stand  upon  than  those  of  a 
more  irregular  shape.  Then,  ns-sured  of  its  stability,  he  gave  his 
hand  to  the  JVIarchioness,  and  bidding  her  to  trust  herself  entirely 
to  his  guidance,  assisted  her  on  to  the  ice,  moving  with  extreme 
caution,  and  sideways  towards  the  bank.  The  least  slip  of  the  foot 
or  overbalance  of  weight  would  at  once  have  been  fatal  to  both  ; 
but,  fortunately,  the  severity  of  the  frost  had  so  bound  the  masses 
to  each  other,  that  in  little  more  than  a  minute  their  perilous  journey 
was  accomplished,  and  they  stood  on  the  firm  land  of  the  other  side 
of  the  river.  The  cold  had  kept  all  within  doors,  so  that  they  were 
not  observed  by  any  passers  by  ;  and  the  darkness  hid  them  Irom 
the  view  of  the  sentinels  on  the  adjacent  fortifications. 

Camille  directly  led  Marie'  to  a  small  cabaret  on  the  quay,  and 
told  her  to  await  his  retvirn,  whilst  he  went  back  to  the  hotel  by  the 
bridge, — having  his  passport  en  regie,  and  being,  moreover,  slightly 
known  to  the  authorities.  His  absence  had  scarcely  been  noticed  at 
the  Arte  Dor6  in  the  confusion,  although  they  were  eagerly  seeking 
the  JMarchioness  ;  so  he  ordered  out  his  horse  and  little  conveyance, 
and  drove  over  the  bridge  to  the  spot  where  he  had  left  IVl arie. 
Here  she  joined  him,  and  they  then  set  off  together  to  Dinant,  the 
first  town  in  Belgium  on  crossing  the  frontier,  where  they  arrived 
in  two  hours.  Now  Marie  deter mnied  at  all  hazitrds  to  stop.  She 
had  meant  to  do  so  at  Givet,  had  it  been  practicable^  for  her 
strength  would  hold  out  no  longer;  indeed,  for  the  last  ten  miles  of 
her  journey,  she  had  been  in  a  complete  state  of  stupefaction  from 
want  of  rest,  after  the  trials  she  had  undergone.  Theria  went  to 
another  house  to  avoid  any  suspicion,  recommending  her  to  post  on- 
ward in  the  morning,  so  as  to  reach  Lic'ge  before  Desgrais  could  get 
any  order  for  her  *' extradition"  from  the  Conseil  des  Soixante  in 
that  city.     The  chances  were  in  favour  of  her  security  ;  for  no  one 


434 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OF    BRINVILLIERS. 


had  seen  her  leave  Givet,  nor  would  the  passport  bookjt  afibrd  any 

information  as  to  her  route. 

Meantime  Desgrais  had  learned  sufficient  at  the  Ane  Dori  to  con- 
vince him  that  the  Marchioness  had  been  there  ;  anil  the  discovery 
of  the  garments  she  had  lefl  at  the  hotel  at  once  decided  him.  Bui 
she  had  again  slipped  through  his  handH,  and  this  time  without  leav- 
ing a  trace  of  her  journey  behind  her.  He  immediately  sent  his 
archers  round  to  the  commissaries  of  police  and  the  barriers  ;  but 
ijo  passport  had  been  seen  that  night,  nor  were  the  guards  aware 
that  any  one  had  crossed  the  bridge  since  dark,  except  Theria,  whom 
they  mentioned-  But  ht  knew  that  the  Marchioness  had  the  passage 
of  the  frontier  for  her  object,  and  that  Liege,  as  the  nearest  place  of 
importance,  would  in  all  probability  be  the  end  of  her  journey  ;  and, 
consequent ly,  leaving  a  portion  of  his  men  at  Givet,  with  orders  ta 
make  the  strictest  investigaticm  at  all  the  hotels  and  small  inns  in 
the  neighbourhood,  he  went  on  the  same  night  to  Dhiant,  actually 
sleeping  in  that  town  within  two  hundred  yards  of  his  object* 

Marie  was  up  as  soon  as  there  was  daylight  enough  to  proceed  on 
her  journey.  Twenty  leagues  were  now  all  that  remained  between 
her  and  Liege,  and  these  she  meant  to  traverse  before  night.  The 
rest  of  some  hours  had  refreshed  her,  bodily  and  mentally  ;  and  she 
was  once  more  ready  to  encounter  any  diflicuHjes  her  further  pro- 
gress might  bring  forth.  The  Exempt  never  heard  of  the  departure, 
(which  he  immediately  knew  to  be  that  of  the  Marchioness,  until 
three  or  four  hours  after  she  had  left  Dinant ;)  and  then,  still  at  a 
loss  to  account  for  the  manner  in  whici)  she  had  contrived  to  elude 
the  police  authorities  atGivet»  he  ordered  out  a  carriage  and  horses^ 
and  started  after  her  with  all  the  speed  his  money  and  authority 
could  command,  leaving  his  archers  behind, — with  the  exception  of 
two  who  accomparjied  him, — with  orders  to  follow  him  as  hastily  ai 
their  means  would  permit. 

£m panne, —  Havelange, — Nandrin, — all  were  passed  without  any 
circumstance  occurring  to  obstruct  Marie's  flight ;  and  the  gloom  of 
the  winter's  night  was  closing  fast  about  her  as  the  carriage  came 
within  the  last  mile  of  Liege.  It  was  here,  as  she  looked  behind 
her  through  the  small  window  at  the  back  of  the  vehicle,  to  see  if 
there  were  any  signs  of  pursuit  on  the  road, — which  had  been  her 
sole  occupation  during  the  day, — that  she  first  perceived  two  gleam- 
ing lights  in  the  distance,  evidently  following  her.  She  urged  on 
the  postilions,  and  a  turn  of  the  road  hid  them  from  her  view.  Then 
they  were  again  visible,  and  apparently  nearer ;  directly  the  brow 
of  a  hill,  as  she  descended  once  more,  shut  them  out ;  and  the  next 
minute  she  saw  them  gaining  upon  her  during  every  interval  of 
perfect  darkness.  Swiftly  as  she  was  flying  along  the  road,  it  was 
evident  that  the  other  party  was  more  than  a  match  for  her  aitclagt 
in  speed  ;  anil,  perceiving  from  tliis  that  every  efltirt  was  being 
made  to  come  up  with  her,  she  concluded  that  it  was  Desgrais. 

Lashed  and  goaded  to  madness,  her  horses  flew  on  like  the  wind, 
as  from  the  front  of  the  carriage  she  promised  an  additional  reward 
every  instant  to  their  riders,  if  they  brought  her  to  Liege  before  the 
other  traveller.  But  Desgrais- — for  it  was  he — was  equally  on  the 
alert.  On  the  first  intimation  that  a  carriage  was  in  sight  on  the 
road  before  them,  he  had  lell  the  interior,  and,  clinging  to  the  front 
of  the  voiture,  was  urging  his  own  people  on  as  earnestly  as  the 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OF    BRINVILLIERS. 


435 


Marchioness,  until  the  uproar  of  cries  and  cracking  ^li'Pf  were 
plainly  audible  to  the  lerrifietl  inraate  of  the  first  veliicle.  Tearing 
up  hill^  until  the  breathless  horses  almost  fell  from  being  overtasked, 
— anon  racing  down,  with  a  precipitancy  that  threatened  annihila- 
tion every  instant, — and  then  flying  along  the  Icvtl  roa*l,  so  close 
together,  that  the  steam  from  the  aniujals  in  the  carriage  of  the 
Jilarchioness  waa  still  visible  in  the  gleam  of  the  lamps  belonging  to 
Desgrais, — did  the  chase  continue. 

At  last  they  entered  Liege»  and  the  pursuit  now  became  doubly 
exciting  from    the    cries  of  the    postilion  S3   as   they   traversed    the 
glooming  streets  at  a  fearful   pace,  cracking  their  whips  as  they 
whirled  them  above  theh*  heads,  and  shouting  in  an   unearthly  man- 
ner to  warn  the  passengers  of  their  atlvent.     A  charelte  in  the  road 
oflered  a  temporary  check   to   Marie'a  carriage,  and   Dcsgrais  the 
next  instant  was  close  up  to  her»     But  nearer  be  could  not  come; 
for  the  width  of  the  thoroughfare  would  not  allow  the  two  vehicles 
to  go  abreast.    They  were,  however,  coming  to  a  bronder  street,  and 
then  Marie  knew  he  would  pass   her.     To  avoid  thiaj  and  gain  a 
minute  of  time,— fur  every  second  now  was  worth  the  price  of  her 
life, — she  collected  some  straw  from  the  interior  of  her  c  tach,  and 
tied  it  into  a  bundle  with  her  handkerchief*  then  lighting  it  at  the 
lamp  of  the  carriage,  she  leaned  out  of  window,  and  threw  it,  blaz- 
ing, directly  in  front  of  the  leaders  of  the  other  voiture.     The  horse 
on  which  the  poeitilion  wais  riding  reared  up  in  fright,  and  directly 
threw  him  ;  his  fellow  backed  as  well,  and  the  wheelers  coming  over 
them,  they  were  all  thrown  together  in  a  terrible  confusion  before 
the  carriage,  which  by  its  own   iropetus  came  partly  on   them.     In 
an  instant  Desgrais   leaped  upon  bis  feet, — for  the  shock  had  also 
thrown  him  upon  the  ground, — and  clearing  the  rider  from  the  stir- 
rups, be  cut  the  traces  with  his  poniard,  and  getting  the  horse  upon 
his  legs,  vaulted  into  the  saddle^  leaving  the  rest  of  his  equipage  to 
the  care  of  the  archers  who  were  inside.     The  carriage  of  the  Mar- 
-Chiouesfi  was  not  fifty  yards  ahead  as  it  turned  towards  the  convent 
lllie  had  indicated  to  the  drivers.     Once  more  everything  depended 
fcon  a  few  seconds  ;  and  Desgrais  goaded   the   poor  animal  w^itb  the 
||ioint  of  his  weapon  to  ^pur  it  onwards  ;  as  the  horses  of  his  intended 
iprisoner,  equally  urged,  kept  tearing  on  towards  the  goaL     At  last 
rlhey   slopped  at  the  door  of  the   convent ;  and,  as  its   heavy  bell 
[•ounded  with  a  loud  and  violent  peal^  the  Exempt  came  up  to  the 
*  irriage. 

lie  sprang  from  his  horse»and  tore  down,  rather  than  opened,  the 
Fdoor  nearest  the  road,  and  seized  the  Marchioness  by  her  mantle. 
I  At  that  instant  the  gate  of  the  convent  opened,  as  she  jumped  from 
the  carriage,  and  entered  the  lodge,  leaving  the  garment  in  the  hand 
of  the  Exempt.  Desgrais  rushed  through  the  vehicle,  and  was  about 
to  follow  her,  when  she  seized  a  cross  from  the  porch,  and  held  it 
towards  him  with  a  smile  of  triumph,  that  threw  an  expression  of 
demoniac  beauty  over  her  features. 

**  You  dare  not  touch  me  I"  she  cried ;  "  or  you  are  lost,  body  and 
soul !" 

With  an  oath,  Des^rrais  fell  back  before  the  sacred  emblem,  Marie 
had  thrown  hersrff  upon  the  Church,  and  claimed  a  sanctuary.  An 
impassable  barrier  was  between  them,  and  the  whole  of  his  toil  to 


436 


THE   3tARCHI0NESS  OP   BBINVILUERS. 


anest  her  bad  gone  for  nothing.     The  chance  bad  been  ]o«t,  in 
fHnmtit  of  neuij  one  tmndred  leagues^  by  half  a  minute. 


CHAPTER   ZXSait. 


The  end 

Whu^t  all  this  turmoil  had  been  going  on,  Paris  was  no  \em  \ 
toene  ofcxciteroexit ;  indeed,  it  was  greater^  inasmuch  as  it  affected 
a  laiver  imtsiber  of  persons.  The  awful  death  of  Sainte- Croix,  ; 
the  maoofcrks  which  had  arisen  from  the  unexpected  revelation  of 
ibe  casket,  fumisbed  suflBcient  matter  for  conversation  to  all  the 
gossips  of  the  good  citj.  blaster  Glaxer's  shop  was  more  than  ever 
besieged  bj  the  curious  bourgeoisie,  as  he  was  supposed  to  be  better 
acquainted  than  any  one  else,  not  even  excepting  the  commissary  of 
police,  with  the  circumstances  of  the  event.  But  it  was  remarked 
that  Philippe  pre&erved  a  perfect  silence  respecting  the  share  which 
tbe  Marcbioiiesa  of  Brinvitliers  was  known  to  have  had  in  the  trans- 
acdons  of  the  newly  discovered  poisoners.  He  always  avoided  the 
laost  distant  allusSon  to  the  catastrophe ;  and  even  when  M  ait  re  Pi- 
card  wished  to  push  his  questions  very  closely  > — half  in  his  capacity 
oir  public  functionary,  half  as  a  private  gossip, — the  young  student 
generally  cut  all  his  queries  so  very  short,  that  Picard  almost  ima- 
gined he  must  have  been  one  of  the  parties  implicated. 

"  For,  look  you,  3Iessieurs,"  the  little  chapeUcr  would  say,  when 
he  got  out  of  Philippe's  ear-shot,  and  was  traversing  the  Place  Mau- 
bert,  **  Madame  de  Brinvilliers  had  as  many  accomplices  as  our  good 
King  Z#oui»^whom  Montespan  preserve  ! — has  sweethearts.  Else, 
whence  came  the  powerful  armed  force  which  unhorsed  me  on  tlie 
road  to  Le  Bourget  ?" 

"  She  had  dealings  with  the  sorcerers,*'  observed  a  neighbour. 

*'I  believe  it,"  replied  M,  Picard.  "I  beard  of  her  with  Erili, 
who  is  about  to  suffer  at  the  gibbet  of  IVIontFaucon,  the  night  31.  de 
Sainte-Croix  died.  And  the  Eitempt's  guards,  who  returned  to 
Paris,  have  affirmed  that  she  fiew  past  them  on  a  whirlwind  whilst 
they  halted  at  Le  Bourget.  She  will  never  be  taken — no ;  the  devil 
would  save  her  from  the  centre  of  the  chambre  ardenie  itself,  even  if 
AI.  La  Heynie  had  the  care  of  her.  AUons }  buvons!  it  is  a  wicked 
world !" 

And  then  the  little  bottrgeou  and  his  neighbours  turned  into  the 
nearest  tavern,  and,  whatever  might  be  the  time  of  day  at  their  en- 
trance, never  appeared  until  after  curfew  had  sounded,  when  Maitre 
Picard  was  usually  conducted  home  to  the  Hue  de  la  Harpe  by  the 
Gascon,  Jean  Blacquart,  whose  unwillingness  to  engage  in  personal 
encotmter  was  scarcely  siiffjcient  to  keep  tlie  chapeUcr  from  put- 
\'aliantly  embroiling  himseU  with  everybody  unarmed  that  he  chanced 
to  meet-  Our  business  is  not,  however,  so  much  with  these  person- 
ages just  at  present ;  but  with  those  of  whom  we  have  not  heard  for 
some  little  time. 

^^iirht  was  closing  round  the  gloomy  precincts  of  tlie  Cimetiere 

ocent?, — mysterious,  cold,  cheerless.    The  snow  lay  ii\\on  the 

ound,  and  clung  to  tlie  decaying  wreaths  and  garlands  tlial 


THE  MARCHIONESS   OF  BRINVILLIEKS* 


437 


rotted  on  the  iron  crosses  which  started  up  frora  the  earth.  The  so- 
lemn and  dreary  place  was  doubly  desolate  in  the  wintry  trance  of 
nature.  In  the  centre  of  the  cemetery  a  tall  obeli sk  arose,  and  on 
the  summit  of  this,  some  fifteen  feet  from  the  ground,  was  a  large 
lantern,  from  which  a  pale  light  gleamed  over  the  abodes  of  the 
dead,  throwing  its  rays  sufficiently  far  to  reveal  a  ghastly  procession 
of  corpses,  of  all  ages  and  professions,  painted  on  the  walls  and  co- 
vered charnels  in  which  the  w^ealthier  classes  were  interred,  who 
chose  to  carry  their  exclusiveness  into  the  very  grave.  This  danse 
macabre^  or  dance  of  death^^  was  then  rapidly  becoming  invisible  at 
different  stages  of  its  march.  At  various  parts  of  the  enclosure 
small  lamps  struggled  with  the  wind,  as  they  hung  before  images  of 
the  Virgin  placed  in  niches  of  the  walls  and  tombs;  and  lights  were 
visible  in  the  higher  w*indowa  of  the  crowded,  and  not  unpicturesque, 
buildings  that  enclosed  the  cemetery  ;  but  elsewhere  everytlung 
wais  dark,  and  the  place  was  untenanted  but  by  the  dead. 

One  figure,  however,  might  have  been  seen  kneeling  at  a  fresh 
grave  for  some  time,  in  spite  of  the  inclemency  of  the  weather. 
And  about  this  the  snow^  had  been  cleared  away  :  the  chaplets  on  the 
small  cross  were  fresh,  and  a  few  dark  evergreens  were  planted  at 
the  heatl  and  foot*  A  scroll  in  the  ironwork  bore  the  inscription, 
"  Cy  gislc  Gaudin  de  Sainte^Croix,  qui  irepassftj  la  vingt-ueuviefttc 
annie  de  son  figej*  It  was  the  tomb  of  the  guilty  lover  of  the  Mar- 
chioness of  Brinvilliers,  and  the  solitary  mourner  was  Louise  Gau- 
thier. 

Of  all  with  whom  Sainte-Croix  had  been  on  terms  of  intimacy, 
not  one  had  cared  to  make  inquiry  after  him,  when  the  report  of  his 
death  was  first  promulgated,  but  the  Languedocian,  But  Louise, 
assisted  by  Benoit  (with  whom  she  had  returned  to  live,  since  the 
evening  at  the  Hotel  de  C'iuny,  when  s!ie  again  fell  in  with  him), 
had  seen  the  body  taken  from  the  dismal  vault  below  the  Palais  des 
Thermes,  to  his  old  abode  in  the  Rue  des  Bernardins.  She  had 
been  the  solitary  mourner  when  his  body  was  rudely  consigned  to 
that  part  of  the  ground  allotted  to  those  for  whom  no  consecrated 
rites  w^ere  offered ;  and  her  own  hands  afterwards  had  adorned  the 
grave—- the  only  one  thus  distinguished  in  this  division  of  the  ceme- 
tery—with the  humble  tributes  that  w^ere  about  it.  All  this  she  had 
done  without  one  tear,  or  expression  of  the  wretchedness  that  was 
brea^king  her  heart ;  but  when  it  was  accomplished,  ^he  gave  full 
vent  to  her  pent-up  feelings,  and  was  accustomed  to  seek  the  ceme- 
tery every  evening,  weeping  and  praying  in  the  terrible  solitude  of 
the  burial-place^  over  the  grave  whose  narrow  limits  comprised  her 
world. 

It  was  past  the  time  of  curfew  ;  but  the  dty  of  Paris  had  not  the 
air  of  quietude  which  it  usually  wore  at  this  period  of  the  night. 
The  murmur  of  a  distant  multitude  could  be  heard  mingling  wHth 
lie  occasional  solemn  tolling  of  some  hoarse  and  deep-mouthed  bell, 
ElUid  now  and  then  the  roll  of  drums  calling  troops  together,  Louise 
had  been  some  hours  in  the  cemetery,  when  she  was  surprised  by 
the  appearance  of  Benoit  and  his  wife,  who  had  come  to  seek  her, 
alarmed  at  her  unusual  stay  from  home,  although  they  were  aware 
,  -of  the  locality  in  which  she  w  as  most  likely  to  be  found.  The 
llonest  couple  had  started  off  together  to  bring  her  back  ;  and  now, 

sisting  her  to  rise,  had  persuaded  her  to  return  with  them. 


TITE    MARCHIONESS    OF  BRINVILLIEES. 


As  they  got  into  the  Rue  d«  Lofnburds,  on  their  way  towards  the 
river,  a  sudden  mah  of  people  in  great  numbers  separated  them  from  J 
one  another^  and  they  were  obliged  to  fall  in  with  the  stream,  which«| 
inereaeiing  at  every  corner  of  a  fresh  thoroughfare,  almost  carried] 
them  off  their  legs.  Louise  addressed  a  few  questions  to  some  thall 
ghe  c^me  in  contact  with,  but  no  answer  M'as  returned  ;  all  appearedl 
too  anxious  to  hurry  onward.  Soon  the  crowd  became  more  denetl 
in  the  narrow  streets,  and  the  confoRion  and  jostling  w^as  increaied| 
by  the  mounted  guard  who  pressed  on  through  the  people,  almootj 
riding  them  down,  amidst  the  screams  of  the  women  and  curses  ( 
the  men,  who  only  received  a  few  blows  in  return.  She  was  noi 
entirely  borne  onward  by  the  multitude,  and  in  the  dense  mi 
people  could  scarcely  look  up  to  see  in  what  direction  she  was  I 
impelled,  until  she  found  herself  close  to  the  Grand  Chatelet. 

The  whole  of  the  Carre  four  was  lined  with  troops  carrying  crea^l 
sets,  so  that  it  was  light  as  day  ;  and  in  the  centre  a  scaffold  waul 
erected,  on  which  one  or  two  figures  were  standing.  One  of  these  I 
was  a  priest,  the  others  were  masked,  and  held,  what  appeared  iti  J 
the  distance  to  be  long  staves,  in  their  hands,  Louise's  heart] 
sickened  as  she  foresaw  that  she  was  aboiit  to  be  present  at  an  exe- 1 
cution,  and  one  of  the  most  terrible  kind.  There  was  no  headsman*!  j 
block  on  the  platform  ;  but  some  apparatus  could  be  seen  upon  the 
floor,  but  a  few  inches  in  height.  A  wretch  wa«  about  Co  be  J 
broken  on  the  wheeL 

Suddenly  the  murmurs  of  the  people  ceased  r  lights  moved  in  slovr 
procession    from   the  Chatelet,  and  the  voices  of  monks  could  be 
heard  chaunting  a  requiem.     They  advanced  between  lines  of  troops 
towards  the  scaffold,  and  then  the  criminal  could  be  distinctly  seen.  I 
He  was  not  walking,  however,  between  them,  nor  was  he  dragged 
on  a  sledge,  but  borne  on  a  species  of  bier,  raised  on  the  shoulders 
of  some  of  the  soldiery;   from  which  the  spectators  knew  that  the 
question    had   been    undergone,    and   the  rack   had   lefl  its   victim  f 
crippled,  with  dislocated  limbs.     By  the  men  in  masks  he  was  Hf\ed 
on  to  the  platform  ;  and  then  a  yell  Irrmi  the  vast  multitude  assem^ 
bled  broke  the  silence  that  had  just  reigned*     It  was  a  terrible  cry  J 
of  ferocity  and  denunciation. 

Louise  could   scarcely  speak  ;  but  she  asked  a  female  who  wai ' 
close  to  her  the  name  of  the  criminal. 

•"  One  of  the  poisoners,*'  replied  the  woman  ;  **  his  name  is  Lft- 
chaussee.  He  will  make  up  for  Sainte-Croix's  cheating  us  out  of 
his  execution.  And  the  iSJarchioness  of  Brinviliiers  will  follow, 
when  she  is  caught.  Oh  !  these  are  brave  times  I  1  should  like  la^ 
have  seen  Sainte-Croix  broken.  They  say  he  was  handsome:  and 
that  he  would  have  held  out  to  the  last.     Hist!** 

The  noise  of  the  multitude  ceased  as  the  priest  advanced  to  the  i 
edge  ot  the  scaffold  and  addressed  them.  His  words  could  only  be 
heard  by  the  few  around  him  ;  but  they  were  carried  from  one  to 
the  other,  and  were  to  the  effect  that  the  criminal  had  refused  to 
confess,  after  having  undergone  the  c|ue5tion  both  ordinary  and  ex- 
traordinary ;  that  his  own  guilt  had  been  sufficiently  proved  ;  but 
that  none  of  his  accomplices  had  been  named,  except  his  master  and 
instructor*  Monsieur  Gaudio  de  Sainte-Croix,  upon  whom  a  just  re- 
tribution had  fallen.  The  last  judgment  of  the  law  would  now  be 
carried  into  effect ;  but  the  coup  de  grace  would  be  withheld  uq 


THE   MARCHIONESS    OF    BRINVILLIERS. 


439 


the  criminal  had  confessetl  all  that  he  was  known  to  be  acquainted 
with  respecting  his  presumed  accomplice,  the  Marchioness  of  Brin- 
villiers,  now  in  saoctiiary^  as  it  was  supposed,  at  a  convent  beyond 
the  frontier. 

There  was  an  awful  silence.  The  wretched  man  was  seized  by 
the  other  figures  on  the  scaffold,  and  placed  upon  the  wheel ;  and 
the  next  minute  the  staff  in  the  hands  of  one  of  the  executioners  was 
raised.  It  descended  with  a  dull,  heavy  sound,  distinctly  audible 
at  every  part  of  the  square,  as  was  the  aharp  cry  of  agony  that  burst 
from  the  lips  of  the  culprit.  The  priest  stooped  down,  and  appeared 
to  commune  with  him  ;  but  in  a  few  seconds  he  rose  apjain,  and  the 
blow  was  repeated,  followed  by  the  same  scream,  but  less  piercing 
than  before.  Another  and  another  followed,  and  then  a  conversa- 
tion of  greater  length  took  place  between  the  criminal  and  his  con- 
feiacvr.  The  monk  advanced  again  to  the  front  of  the  scaffold,  and 
waving  his  hand,  stopped  the  murmur  that  was  rising  from  the 
crowd,  as  they  commented  on  the  proceedings. 

"The  criminal  Lachaussee  has  confessed/'  he  said.  **  He  ac- 
knowledges his  guilt,  and  also  that  of  Madame  Marie  Magdalaine 
D*Aubray,  JV I  arch  ion  ess  of  Brinvilliers,  hitherto  suspected,  from 
whom  he  owns  to  have  received  the  poisons  with  which  her  two 
brothers  were  murdered.     The  coup  dc  grace  may  now  be  given." 

He  held  up  a  crucifix  in  sight  of  the  writhing  object  of  his  speech, 
and  directed  the  chief  executioner  to  despatch  his  victim.  The  man 
again  raised  the  bar,  and  it  descended  upon  the  breast  of  Lachaussee, 
crushing  all  before  it.  No  cry  followed  the  blow  this  time ;  the 
death  of  the  wretched  man  was  instantaneous. 

The  multitude  remained  silent  for  a  few  seconds,  as  if  they  were 
listening  for  another  cry.  But  voices  were  at  length  heard,  first  one 
and  then  another,  gradually  spreading,  until  the  murmur  broke  forth 
into  one  savage  roar  of  exultation,  when  they  knew  that  the  criminal 
had  ceased  to  exist.  A  chie  had  been  found  to  the  mystery  in  which 
the  deaths  by  poison  had  long  been  involved ;  and  now  that  one  of 
the  participators  in  the  horrible  deeds,  that  had  so  long  baffled  the 
keenest  vigilance  of  the  authorities,  had  expiated  his  offence  before 
their  eyes,  their  satisfaction  knew  no  bounds.  And,  when  they  had 
thus  vented  their  approval  of  the  sight  they  had  just  witnessed,  they 
turned  away  from  the  Carrefour,  ami  began  to  leave  the  spot  by  the 
different  outlets. 

Louise,  who  had  been  scarcely  able  to  sustain  herself  througb  the 
ghastly  scene,  was  hurried  on  by  the  breaking  up  of  the  crowdj  until 
she  contrived  to  get  within  a  porle  cochere,  meaning  to  let  them  pass. 
But  she  had  not  been  there  an  instant  before  she  was  recognised  by 
a  man  in  the  throng,  who  had  been  a  servant  of  Francois  D'Aubray. 

*'HoI"  cried  the  fellow  as  he  saw  her  by  the  light  of  a  cresset, 
•*here  is  another  of  them.  I  saw  her  with  Madame  de  BrinvllVier»> 
the  night  that  her  brothers  were  murdered.  She  is  an  empoison neuse^ 
To  prison  with  the  witch!" 

He  advanced  towards  the  poor  girl  as  he  spoke,  whilst  the  crowd 
stopped  in  their  passage-  But,  as  he  approached  her,  he  was  seiaied 
by  a  powerful  arm,  and,  having  been  twisted  round,  waa  flung  with 
some  violence  upon  the  ground. 


440  THE  JIABCHIOSEBS  OF   BEIXVILLIEBS. 

CHAFTKM   XXXIT. 
T^  pnnr  s  i3> — ^Tbe  cs^l — Ifjcie  zccsmft  viik  Deagnit  to  the  Condcfferie. 

A^T  ccber  o&eer  diaa  Des^nU  would  have  given  ap  farther  at* 
iB^pci  to  arrest  tiie  JlarcbiooesA.  now  that  she  was  in  the  sanctuary 
«£  a.  03CT-es8,— in  a  town,  too,  where  anj  inTasi<in  of  the  iMivilcges 
btauogLo:  to  a  reIi£:ioas  hoose  would  hare  been  avenged  with  the 
mtnrr  ^scy^mrfng  trteiiti.  But  the  Exempt  felt  bitterly  the  manner 
B  w^ae^  he  had  been  more  than  once  daped  apon  the  road,  at  times 
when  his  peer  was  oompletdT  within  his  grasp.  He  was  exceed- 
m^j  se&BtiTe  as  regarded  his  podtion,  and  reputation  as  the  most 
¥i^£^a=t  c&oer  of  the  Marechaossee ;  and  he  determined  not  to  enter 
Pirif  arain  mrtil  be  could  do  so  accompanied  bj  the  Marchioness. 

To  e^ed  this^  be  took  a  lodging  in  a  retired  quarter  of  Li^e,  and 
■!■  ■'  lid  there  for  a  few  weeks,  dismissing  his  ardiers  and  guards, 
with  orders  to  reCnm  to  Givet,  and  be  in  readiness  to  join  nim  at 
Ucge  upon  the  shortest  notice.  To  the  Marchioness  he  was  per- 
sooallj  unknown.  She  had  not  met  him  above  once  or  twice,  and 
then  without  particulariT  regarding  him  ;  and  this  decided  him  as  to 
die  course  he  would  pursue.  He  was  young  and  active  ;  the  very 
buCTfsti  in  which  he  was  constantly  engaged  had  given  him  admis« 
BOO  into  all  ranks  of  society  ;  and  he  had  tact  and  ready  perception 
to  profit  by  his  observations,  and  adopt  the  manners  of  any  parti- 
cular c^ass  which  be  found  it  necessary  to  assume.  He  arranged  his 
plans :  and,  when  he  imagined  sufficient  time  had  elapsed,  pro- 
ceeded to  put  than  into  execution. 

To  effect  the  capture,  he  disguised  himself  in  the  dress  of  an  abbe, 
and  presented  himself  one  evening  at  the  gates  of  the  convent  in 
which  Marie  had  sought  shelter,  requesting  to  see  her.  The  porter, 
after  a  slight  hesitation,  admitted  him  to  the  parlour,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  the  object  of  his  venture  appeared. 

The  Marchioness  had  entirely  recovered  from  the  fatigues  of  her 
journey.  Those  who  had  known  her  intimately  would  have  re- 
marked a  few  lines  on  her  face,  resulting  from  the  agitation  caused 
by  recent  events  ;  but  to  others  there  was  still  the  same  girlish,  con- 
fiding face,— ^11  the  same  blue  lustrous  eyes,  and  smooth  exfumsive 
forehead,  and  the  rosy  lips  still  half  revealed  the  same  beautiful 
teeth  that  had  so  daaaled  the  sight  of  the  gallants,  and  raised  the 
envy  of  the  dames  of  the  court  at  Versailles.  She  inclined  grace- 
fully to  Desgrais  as  she  entered  the  room  ;  and  then  in  her  softest 
tones  inquired  "  to  what  chance  she  was  indebted  for  the  honour  of 
a  visit  from  Monsieur  I'Abbe  ?" 

'*  I  am  a  poor  servant  of  the  Church,  Madame,"  he  replied,  "  and 
am  returning  from  a  pilgrimage  to  Rome  with  relics  to  be  deposited 
at  the  Jacobins,  in  tne  Rue  St.  Honore.  Being  detained  at  Liege 
upon  matters  of  ecclesiastical  interest,  I  heard  that  you  were  here, 
and  came  to  offer  my  respects." 

''  I  have  done  little  to  deserve  this  attention,  my  holy  father,"  said 
Marie. 

"  You  have  suffered  much  undeserved  misery,  Madame,"  answered 


THE    MARCfirONESS    OF    BKINVILLIERS. 


441 


Des^rais.  **  You  were  a  fiupporter  of  our  Church, — a  goad  and  cha- 
ritable lady,  as  all  Paris  can  vouch  ;  and  I  should  have  taken  blame 
unto  myself  had  I  not  paid  this  tribute  to  your  g-oodness/' 

"'  Alas  I  mon  perc  f*'  cried  Marie  :  **  would  that  the  world  could 
think  of  me  as  well  as  you  do.  Of  what  avail  has  been  my  past 
life?  You  will  find,  on  your  return  to  Paris,  the  blackest  stories 
current  against  me.  A  woman,  once  fallen,  has  no  hope  ;  but  every 
one — those  who  would  have  cringed  to  her  the  lowest  when  she  was 
in  her  position  being  the  foremost — will  hurry  to  crush  her  more 
utterly,  to  beat  her  lower  down.     I  am  lost — for  ever  T' 

'*  Yet  you  should  hope  that  the  consciousness  of  your  own  inno- 
cence will  one  day  prevail,"  returned  the  Exempt. 

**  I  have  no  hope,  Monsieur.  I  am  alone  in  this  dreary  place — 
alone,  even  in  the  midst  of  its  Inmates,  as  though  I  were  shut  out  en- 
tirely from  the  world." 

Desfffais  paused  for  an  instant,  '*  She  has  not  mentioned  her 
comrades."  he  said  to  himself,  **and  she  was  certainly  accompanied 
on  the  road.     All  accounts  agree  in  this." 

*'  You  are  mistaken,  madame,**  he  continued  aloud.  "  Think.  Is 
there  no  one  on  whom  you  think  you  might  rely  ?" 

"  What  mean  you  ?'*  inquired  Marie  eagerly. 

For  a  few  seconds  they  continued  gating  at  one  another,  each 
waiting  for  the  other  to  speak,  Desgrais  was  waiting  for  some  cue, 
from  which  his  tact  might  enable  him  to  proceed  :  and  the  Blar- 
chioness  was  fearful  of  committing  herself  by  revealing  more  than 
the  other  knew*  Two  deep  and  artful  natures  were  pitted  against 
each  other. 

Deflgrais  was  the  6rst  to  speak.  With  an  assumed  expression  of 
countenance,  calculated  to  impress  his  companion  with  the  idea  that 
he  understood  everything  then  passing  in  her  mind,  and  in  a  voice 
of  deep  meaning,  he  said, 

"  Is  there  no  one,  think  you,  who  does  not  feel  an  intereat  in  you  ? 
You  can  trust  me.  What  communication  have  you  held  with  the 
world  since  you  have  been  in  this  retreat?" 

"  None,  father, — on  my  soul,  none." 

f  And  have  you  expected  to  hear  from  no  one?**  continued  Dea- 
raia  in  the  j*ame  tone. 

*'  Camille  ! "  exclaimed  the  Marchiones»  eagerly.  And  then,  as  if 
aware  she  had  been  indiscreet^  she  closed  her  lips  forcibly  together, 
and  remained  silent. 

"  Yes — Camille,"  reph'ed  Desgrais,  quickly  catching  at  the  name. 
*'  Did  you  think  he  had  deserted  you  ?" 

And  he  looked  c^mtiously  round  the  parlour,  and  then  placed  his 
finger  on  his  mouth,  as  though  he  wa»  fearful  of  being  overheard, 

'*  I  did  not  know  in  what  quarter  of  the  town  he  lived,"  she 
answered. 

**  So,"  thought  Desgrais,  **  he  is  iti  Liege,  then." 

"  And,  besides,"  she  went  on,  '*  circumstances  are  changed.  He 
cares  no  more  for  me." 

**  Would  you  see  him  ?"  asked  Desgrais. 

The  vanity  of  the  wonian  triumphed  over  her  cauti(»n.  Camille 
Theria,  it  was  evident  to  IMarie,  had  found  his  old  attachment  re- 
vive, as  they  had  met  again.  He  had  forgotten  hi^JtanciCt  and  was 
anxious  again  to  see  her. 

VOL.  XVltl.  K  K 


44f 


THE   MAECHTC 


OF    BiriNTILIJERS. 


'An  I  tobelirre  j«n?*  AesdtcvL 

•^Ytmmmfh^tTejmm^rytMTr^fi^eAth^Eaaam-    «' He  will  1 
;  the  iaTcni  oTtbr  T^ms  Bmt  M  curfew  tni 
'  Wliy  wil  be  Dfll  cflor  Iwfc  >- 
'WMUItbe^vittlife?     Yon  need  for  Dotkiii^.    I  wfll 

I  the  couv^Ms  ttid  retflsm  with  jrotL.** 
"*  It  will  eo«B|vtcMBiie  joor  pontioti,'  mid  Jklarie* 

I  be  iKjT  oww  sEufy  JuduAey    lepliea  iJcigimB. 
wetfhcr  is  ■■frvemble  enoagli  to  dri^e  the  uMtiigefs  fitm 
streets,  awl  the  wMit  t»  dvk.     No  harm  ent  ■mTC* 
-^  Whit  en  l^wiAl  with  laer  aid  Mflfie^hftlfipcttkhig  to  her- 

"od  andaoded  how  to  ttiL 
'  ToB  wtf  Wn  an.-  aid  Detenu,  BOt  traHbi^  hinelf  to 

a  aalMct  of  which  he  wai  to  ntterlj  ifenofaiit.     "'  Bn 
ca»  aod  the  bdb  wOl  sooo  nog  out.     Cam^  Mm 

:  flojr  other  oo»cri%  than  a  doah  wrafUjcd  abooi  her,  j 
as  —iM'h  aa  poaiiblr  her  head  —'i  &o^  Marie  yMded 
of  Pcjgrak^  and  taldsig  hk  ano,  left  tiie  eoof 
,  hi  the  Ju eoioo  of  the  taTcm  he  had  foentiooed.    Tli 
:  ouetade  ihe  had  eamred  ainoe  her  arrira]  at  the  c9oairen|1 
I  led  aer  to  h^ere  that  the  Frmeb  poHce  had  entireljr  givoi  up 
i  of  arreatifig  ho*.    Sainte-Ooix,  in  her  £»r£l  hi 
had  been  aheadj  forgutteo ;  and  tlie  pmapect  of  a 
> — a  new  vktiBa  to  her  treocherooi  paaawwa — drew  her  on^ 
with  iffeaanhae  attnctMML* 

Thej  tiafowd  the  iteep  and  unereo  streets  of  Li^ge,  ontli  tliejr  ^ 

^  to  the  door  of  the  taTem,  from  whoae  windows  the  red 

i  strecmiikg  across  the  thoroughfare.  Desgrais  maHar 

words  of  excxue  for  the  apparent  hmahle  apparanoe  of  i 

"flaoe,  and  then  oondocted  Marie  into  the  public  rooiD. 

'^One  iutMi^*-  be  sakL     « I  will  ask  if  be  is  bete.*' 

He  left  the  roon,  dosing  the  doer  bdiiiiid  bifli.  aad  Marie  was  a 

few  wiOBWiits  alone  in  the  apartment.    With  asmo  abght  ixiistnifi, 

d  for  his  return,  and  inuf^Dcd  she  bcafdy  for  m  few  ^e- 

dank  of  arms.     Bttt  d^  suboaded  almott  imtoctliateljr^ 

I  Deagrais  came  back  again^ 

'  Is  he  not  jet  here  r  she  asked. 

'He  is  not,  Madame,"  said  Deagrais  in  an  altered  tone; 
;  Itkelr  that  he  will  come.** 
'  What  do  TOO  imply  ?"  ezdaimed  Marie^  somewhat  alarmed^  and 
ad  ranting  towards  the  door, 

«<  Pardon  me,  Madame,"  said  Besgrats,  "  but  jou  cannot  pass/* 
'^Insolartl**  cried  the  Marcbiooess.    "What  does  this  outrage 

**  That  yon  are  my  prisoner,  Madame." 
•*  Prisoner  \     And  by  whose  orders ?'* 

••  Bf  order  of  bis  Alajesty  Loui*  the  Fourteenth,  King  of  France,- 

1  0eamls  loudly,  as  he  threw  aside  his  abbe's  robes^  and  ap- 

id  in  nia  onder-dotbing  as  EiLempt  of  the  guard. 

JThe  words  had  been  the  signal  to  those  without,  whom  he  had 

'  the  room  to  put  upon  their  guard.     As  he  pronounced  tbem» 

Dry  ru$hed  into  the  room,  and  the  Marchioness  found  herself  sur* 

Sttoded  by  the  archers  of  the  royal  guard. 


TriE   MARCBIO^fESS   OF    BRIN VILLI  ERS* 


+43 


In  an  instant  Marie  perceived  the  trap  that  had  been  laid  for  her. 
A  cry  of  horror  broke  from  her  lips,  but  she  almost  immeiUately 
recovered  her  self-possession, 

*'  Mi&creant !  "  she  cried,  as  she  rushed  at  Dcsgrais  in  her  rage. 
"You  have  not  yet  got  your  prey  within  your  fangs.  I  am  in  a 
country  in  which  your  authority  goes  for  naught.  You  cannot  arrest 
me/* 

"Once  more,  you  must  pardon  nie,  Madame  la  Marquise,"  replied 
DesgraiSj  ns  he  drew  a  paper  from  his  belt.  "  The  council  of  thii 
town  has  authorised  your  extradition,  upon  a  letter  from  the  King. 
Vou  are  as  much  our  prisoner  as  though  we  had  arrested  you  in  your 
own  hotel  in  Paris." 

As  quick  as  lightning,  upon  comprehending  the  meaning  of  the 
words,  Marie  drew  a  poniard  from  its  sheath  at  tlie  side  of  one  of 
the  guards,  and  endeavoured  to  plunjrre  it  into  her  breast.  But  her 
hand  was  arrested  by  another  of  the  party,  and  the  weapon  wrested 
from  her,  Biiflled  in  this  intention,  and  in  an  agony  of  powerless 
rage,  she  endeavoured  to  speak,  but  her  mouth  refused  utterance  to 
the  words^  and,  with  a  terrible  cry,  she  fell  senseless  upon  the 
ground- 
Confiding  her  to  the  care  of  one  of  his  men,  and  ordering  the 
others  to  keep  guard  without,  Desgrais  now  returned  to  the  convent 
in  search  of  further  evidence,  furtiished  with  proper  authority  to 
bring  away  whatever  he  could  find.  But  Marie  had  little  with  her, 
A  small  case  of  letters  and  papers  was,  however,  discovered  under 
her  pillow,  and  of  this  Desgrais  immediately  took  possession.  It 
contained  most  imjjortant  evidence  against  her — no  leas  than  a  con- 
fes^^ion  of  the  past  actions  of  her  life. 

In  the  meantime  Marie  gradually  recovered  ;  but  it  was  some 
time  before  she  came  completely  to  herself,  from  a  succession  of 
fainting-fits  supervening  one  upon  another  as  the  least  degree  of  con- 
sciousness returnetl,  and  the  dreadful  reality  of  her  position  broke  in 
upon  her.  The  rough  soldier  with  whom  she  had  been  left,  unused 
to  giiard'auch  prisoners,  and  somewhat  struck  with  her  beauty  and 
evidently  superior  position  in  life,  had  been  in  ^reat  confusion 
of  ideas  as  to  what  he  ought  to  do,  and  had  at  last  called  one  of  the 
females  attached  to  the  establishment  to  the  aid  ui^  tlie  Marchioness. 
By  some  of  those  trifling  remedies  which  women  only  appear  to  have 
at  command  for  their  own  sex,  in  the  like  emergencies,  Blaric  was 
gradually  brought  round,  and  then  the  femnle  departed,  and  she  was 
left  alone  with  her  guard — pale  and  trembling,  resembling  a  corpse, 
but  for  the  still  bright  eye,  and  the  convulsive  quivering  of  every 
aerve  in  her  delicate  frame.  She  uttered  not  a  syllable,  but  remain- 
ed in  a  corner  of  the  room,  on  a  rude  settle  to  which  she  had  been 
carried  by  the  sokliers ;  and  the  sentinel's  heavy  tread  as  he  paced 
backwards  and  forwards  before  the  door  of  the  apartment,  was  the 
only  sound  that  broke  the  dreary  stillness. 

In  less  than  an  hour  Desgrais  returned.  He  came  accompanied  by 
a  vijiikre  de  posic,  having  directly  after  the  capture  of  his  prisoner, 
ordered  it  to  be  in  waiting,  as  well  as  despatched  a  courier  with 
commands  to  have  everything  in  readiness  along  the  road  for  fresh 
relays.  He  now  entered  the  room,  and  requested  Marie  to  accom- 
pany him  into  the  carriage. 

K    K   ^ 


444 


THE    MARCHIONESS   OF   BRINVILLIERS. 


**  You  have  pUved  a  sorry  part,  Monsieur^  in  this  drama,"  ihe 
eaid  to  him,  "  and  you  have  tnumphetl:  do  not  think  I  am  stooping 
to  you  ir  I  make  one  request:  could  you  see  how  deeply  1  feel  my* 
self  to  be  degraded  in  asking  this  favour,  you — even  you — ^might 
pity  rae  and  grant  it.  You  have  played  with  the  name  of  a  person 
this  evening,  and  won  your  stake  off  it.  Will  you  allow  me  to  write 
to  him  ? " 

*'  Provided  I  see  the  letter,  and  you  can  wr^te  it  in  ten  minutes,** 
replied  Desgrais.  "  We  must  reach  Dinant  to  supper,  where  also 
you  will  rest  the  night," 

**  Half  that  time  will  be  sufficient,"  said  Marie.  "Give  me  the 
means,  and  for  a  few  minutes  leave  me  to  myself." 

Desgrais  produced  his  tablets,  and  tearing  a  few  blank  leaves  from 
them  gave  them  to  the  Marchioness,  as  well  as  a  style  he  carried : 
then  placing  the  sentinel  again  before  the  door,  he  withdrew. 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone  Marie  traced  a  few  words  upon  the  paper, 
and  then  spoke  to  the  guard. 

"What  is  your  name?**  she  a^^ked  in  a  low,  hurried  tone. 

**  Antoine  Barba,"  replied  the  man  gruffly,  "  archer  in  his  Maje^ 
ty'a  service/* 

And  he  continued  his  march.  In  less  than  a  minute  she  again  ad- 
dressed him, 

"See  !"  she  exclaimed,  taking  a  massive  jewelled  ornament  from 
her  hair,  **  The  sale  of  this  will  provide  you  with  good  cheer  for 
many  a  long  day,  and  I  will  give  it  to  you  if  you  will  forward  this 
letter  for  me  to  its  address.  There  is  nothing  in  this  against  your 
orders,  See/*  she  continued,  adding  the  address.  " '  M.  Camille 
Theria,  a  Liege  '/  he  is  an  apothecary  in  the  town.  Will  you  do  this 
for  me  ?** 

"Give  It  to  me/'  said  the  man.  *'  I  will  find  some  one  when  I  am 
relieved  who  will  pay  attention  to  it/* 

"  Take  the  wages,  then,  at  the  same  time,"  added  Marie. 

**  No,"  replied  the  archer,  as  he  put  the  proffered  gift  on  one 
side.     *^  I  do  not  want  payment  for  this/* 

In  a  minute  or  two  Desgrais  came  back  to  know  if  the  letter  wjta 
concluded,  as  the  carriage  was  ready  to  start,  Marie  shrunk  from 
him  when  he  entered  as  though  he  had  been  a  serpent — her  horror 
of  the  Exempt  was  not  feigned. 

"  I  cannot  write,  monsieur/'  she  said.  *'  I  am  at  your  service. 
Aiions  f  " 

Slie  put  away  the  arm  of  the  officer  as  he  held  it  forward  for  her 
to  take,  and  passed  into  the  passage,  which  was  lined  with  the 
archers.  As  she  passed  the  sentinel  who  had  kept  guard  over  her  in 
the  inn,  she  whispered  to  him  '*  Remember/'  and  then  entered  the 
carriage  without  another  word,  throwing  herself*  into  «  comer  and 
rauffiing  her  face  in  her  cloak. 

Desgrais  was  about  to  follow^  when  Barhier  slipped  the  note  into 
his  hand.     He  read — 

•i  My  dear  Theria,^ — I  have  been  taken  by  Desgrais,  and  am  on  my 
road  to  Paris  :  save  me  at  all  hazards.  Marie." 

**  Lose  not  an  instant,"  cried  the  Exempt,  as  he  entered  the  car- 
Ttage.     '*  On— on  with  your  horses  as  fast  as  whip  ami  spur  can  urge 


445 


THE  DREAM  OF  A  FAMILY  MAN. 


Mbthouort  that  throagh  a  hideous  grove 

I  trembling  sought  my  road. 
Where  stark,  and  glist'ning  in  the  sun. 

The  trees  all  leafless  stood. 
Whose  branches  dripp'd  with  slimy  film 

From  many  a  serpent  brood. 

Entwined  around  their  vamish'd  trunks 

The  pearl-eyed  cobra  clung. 
And  dangling  thickly  from  each  branch. 

Or  one  with  other  strung, 
Viper,  and  seps,  and  tawny  asp,— 

A  baleful  fruitage  hung ! 

Or^liding  through  the  tangled  paths 

They  won  their  stealthy  way. 
While  flaming  eyes  and  dancing  crests 

Look'd  keenly  forth  for  prey. 
And  here  and  there,  in  curling  steam. 

The  gorg^  boa  lay. 

And^  glancing  swift  firom  tree  to  tree^ 
Bewildering  troops  were  seen. 

Disporting  'neath  the  torrid  glare. 
Their  ^ales  of  rainbow  sheen. 

And  purple  deep,  and  azure  blend 
With  crimson,  gold,  and  green. 

A  maddening  scene !     In  wild  alarm 

My  bristling  hair  arose : 
All  spell-bound  to  the  dismal  trance. 

My  eyes  refused  to  close : 
I  stood — a  solitary  man 

'Mid  thousand  deadly  foes ! 

I  tum'd  to  flee,  but  swarming  crowds 

Forbade  the  sought  retreat : 
On  every  side  malignant  orbs 

My  fainting  vision  greet ; 
And  ah  I  they  coldly  twined  my  limbs. 

And  fix'd  my  nerveless  feet ! 

For  aid  I  call'd— >no  answering  sound. 

Save  hissings  far  and  near. 
Hoarse-rising  from  the  serpent  host, 

Disturb'd  the  sultry  air  :— 
The  wails  of  woe  from  Hades'  gates 

Had  sooth'd  the  harrow'd  ear  I 


446  THE  DREAM   OF   A   FAMILY    MAN. 

Full  oft  to  pierce  iu  inmost  depths 

With  stsrtiiig  eje  I  strore  ; 
Oft  scsnii'd  in  Tsin  for  human  shape 

Thronghoot  the  lifin^  pore ; 
And  stillmj  keen  inqomng  ^anee 

As  oft  did  bootless  pnnre. 

One  lingering,  last  despairing  loidL 

Down  vistas  drear  1  tkrew. 
When  lo !  a  mdd  j  in£uit  form 

Now  issued  to  mj  riew ; 
And  as  it  near^d,  in  that  same  form 

My  own  pet  hoy  1  knew ! 

His  arm  held  forth  a  small  blue  jog. 

O'er  which  an  adder  hung ; 
One  tiny  leg  was  half  conosal'd 

The  whip-snake's  folds  among. 
The  other  rested  in  the  hole 

Where  swelt'ring  lay  its  young. 

With  outcry  loud,  and  giant  strength, 

I  sprang  my  boy  to  sare. 
When  straight  his  little  jog  he  raised. 

And  sang  in  accents  brare, 
"  'Tis  eight  o'clock,  Papa  ;  I've  brought 

Your  water  hot  to  shave  t" 

I  woke> — and  close  beside  my  bed 
The  self-same  form  I  knew,— 

The  self-same  chubby  arm  upheld 
The  self-same  jug  of  blue^ 

And  in  the  self-same  voice  it  cried, 
"  Here^s  water  hot  for  you  I" 

Forthwith  a  peal  of  lauehter  cheer'd 

My  erewhile  froaen  Uood, 
And,  squatting  round  mv  head>  I  spied. 

In  sly  and  merry  mooa> 
My  own  young  mischief-loving  fry> 

In  place  of  serpent-brood  1 

Though  calm'd  my  fears,  I  felt  my  hair. 

As  stiff  with  terror,  move. 
And  heard  low  crisping  sounds^  which  seem'd 

The  hissinss  of  tne  mive ; — 
The  boys  had  screw'd  their  Other's  locks 

En  papiUotes  above. 

I  caught  young  Bobby  by  the  leg. 
Who  scream*d  aloud  with  glee. 

And,  toppling  Joe  o'er  Tommy's  head, 
I  tickled  well  the  three  :*— 

"  You  rogues/'  I  said,  "  your  merry  sport 
Was  dismal  fun  to  me  1" 

loot^  Matfv. 


447 
OUTPOURINGS. 

BY   D.   CANTKB* 


LIBATION   THK    RIGBTH. 

Harrises  Library.— Adolpliua.— Dr.  C^ Skeflington.^-Keunelli'a.— The  Wi- 
dow's, Neele,  Nugent,  &:c.— Tbe  Coal  Htile,  Kuan's  Head,  and  Harp  Tavern. 

Fernjlage  practised  at  thii  Utter  exemplifieii,'— MiseritJS  of  a  strolHog  life.-- 
Woolwich  Theatre — Accmmt  of  the  cMimpany. 

Harris's  library  in  Bow  Street  was  much  frequented  by  tbe  corps 
dramaiifjtWf  who  held  high  ^ctuinge  there  daily,  to  read  the  newspapere 
and  discuss  tbe  politics  of  the  green-room. 

Harris  harmonized  well  with  the  dusky  tomes  around  him.  He  was 
a  tall,  thin,  swarthy  man,  in  a  long  shapeless  surtout,  which  gave  him 
very  much  the  appearance  of  an  eel  with  a  man's  head  ;  and  io  Lad^ 
\  Ma ry-  Woriley -  Monhtg  n  islu 

"  Do  you  want  to  buy  any  soap,  master  ?"  inquired  a  vender  of  that 
unknown  article,  connag  into  the  shop  one  morning. 

Oh  how  we  all  laughed  I 

Adolphus,  when  retained  in  a  Bow  Street  case,  generally  popped  into 
Harris's  to  have  a  cose  with  the  actors,  m  which  he  greatly  delighted. 
Sometimes,  too,  might  be  seen  in  the  darker  recesses  of  the  establisb- 
meikt,  a  certain  reverend  dramatist  poring  over  a  volume  of  Massinger 
in  search  of  an  incident.  This  gentleman  now  is  one  of  the  most  popu- 
lar preachers  of  the  day»  Sir  Lumley  Skeffington  was  also  a  frequent 
visitant. 

'*  A  retired  bean,"  saith  Stephen  Montague,  "  ia  one  of  the  most 
instruetive  spectacles  in  existence ;"  but  a  bean,  aged  and  broken  down, 
who  still  continues  a  beau^is  a  spectacle  too  anomalous  to  be  instructive, 
because  it  baffles  comprehension.  To  see  a  man  in  the  decline  of  life, 
overwhelmed  by  poverty  and  misfortune,  still  making  the  cut  of  his  coat 
and  the  tie  of  bis  neckcloth^  tbe  primary^  objects  of  his  existence,  is  con- 
feiiodly  a  pursier,  and  I  never  saw  Skeffington  at  Harris's  without  re- 
garding him  with  the  profoundest  astonishment,  which  his  literary  ta- 
lents only  the  more  strongly  riveted^  Yes;  there  he  waii.  The  author 
oi  *'  The  Sleeping  Beauty  !'*  habited  in  precisely  the  same  oifire  style 
'  which,  twenty  years  before,  had  made  him  so  conspicuous.  Like  the 
fBourbons,  he  had  forgotten  nothing — learnt  nothing.  Though  age  had 
"  awed  his  form,  —  extravagance  wasted  his  means,  — a  prison  been  his 
abiding- place,  be  was  still  a  beau,  and  a  beau  he  was  likely  to  remain  to 
the  end  of  the  chapter.  TruCp  his  gloves  were  soiled,  —  his  lint/n  was 
less  white,  —  his  coat  somewhat  ptU3i\  and  he  carried  a  bundle  of  old 
plays  under  his  arm ;  yet  there  he  was,  essentially  and  in  an  wins  still 
tbe  same.* 

•  Sepfur  metitiont  a  French  officer  who,  diinnfy^  the  Ruiistfin  ciimpaijiTn,  never 
failed  \ti  muke  *tn€  grantU  imktte  whenever  he  coulil  fuid  an  opimrutnity.  This  121 
perhaps  the  mmt  inv€i0mUi  dandy  on  recurd.  Citunt  Buhl,  whoni  Wraxall  deacribtai 
at  povBCffting  a  «iuit  of  ctothett,  with  cane  and  tnuff-hox  to  mateh,  for  every  day  hi 
the  year,  ii  the  nmMi  fnaffnijicem^ 


448  OUTPOUBINGS. 

TlMM«h  cootemiK  oatnnllT  mmgled  in  the  astonbhment  with  which 
I  recorded  Skefii^ofi,  it  was  impossihle  Dot  to  feel  some  portion  of  re- 
spect for  the  padens  endnrmnce  and  onrepining  serenity  with  which  he 
horv  his  kic ;  nor  was  there  anj  of  that  superciliousness  or  assumption 
ahoc:  bias,  which  was  so  offensiTe  in  Brummell.* 

KsTtfch's.  as  the  comer  of  Russell  Street,  became  a  great  lounging- 
place  fer  actors  and  dangles.  Kenneth,  who  had  himself  been  on  the 
ttve.  aarrvd  a  daughter  of  Jernf  Sntak  Russell's.  He  was  —  and  I 
ko^  sdll  ^  —  a  hostling.  obliging  little  fellow,  much  esteemed  by  the 
ccr-^*  irj»i^^/v<f.  to  whom  he  rendered  great  service. 

The  widow's  in  Little  St.  Martin's  Lane,  was  also  much  resorted  to 
by  hsftnocicSf  gentlemen  of  the  press,  &c.  This  was  a  better  sort  of 
pnbisc^hoQse,  wkh  a  room  at  the  back  of  the  premises,  lit  by  a  skylight, 
and  coctacBxng  a  ptanolbrte.  into  which  no  person  was  admitted  without 
a  sf^fcial  introdnctioQ.  This  was  precisely  one  of  those  odd  sort  of 
KK>k5  in  whach  g«nius  delights  to  nestle.  Here  Johnson  might  have 
enjoyed  his  chop :  Boms,  his  ^  peck  o*  maut ;"  Dr.  Parr,  his  pipe ; 
Hoc?,  his  toddy.  And  here,  it  is  certain.  Power,  Neele,  Nugent,  John 
Reere,  the  Carews.  with  dirers  others,  often  d%d  enjoy  idl  four,  —  with 
ocher  things  besade,  not  quite  so  harmless. 

-  Credit  me,  tbe  bannet  bad  a  Uoodr  tumble  !** 

footed  K one  morning  at  Harris's,  glancing  at  T ^  who  had 

been  cieazsed  om  the  prerioas  night.  But,  as  Lad^  Tcwfdey  mlj9, 
**  Thai  v^ii€  b  an  enticing  deril  P 

The  widow  herself  was  a  neat,  notable  body,  whose  attractions  the 
e}3er  Mr.  Weller  would  haTe  found  it  difficult  to  resist.  I  forget  her 
Base  r>ow. — though  I  must  haTe  often  heard  it ;  but  she  was  generally 
kz^owz  and  addi«^^  by  the  tt:^nqiift  of  "  the  Widow." 

Pc^lc  Xe*!e  !  The  tears  start  as  I  record  his  name.  There  was  no- 
thing hi  Ne^le*5  appearance  indicative  of  his  genius.  You  would  as  soon 
hare  accused  an  Esquimaux  of  a  sonnet.  Like  Moore,  he  was  an  or- 
dxcary  little  body,  with  chubby  cheeks,  and  an  ignoble  nose ;  but,  like 
Moore,  it  was  impossible  to  be  in  Neele's  company  half  an  hour,  without 
Hking — yea.  lo\  icg — him.  Of  course  he  was  a  great  faTourite  with  us 
all.     The  widow  adored  him.     Poor— poor  Neele  I 

Simple  soul !  he  pretended  to  be  an  attorney.  An  attorney,  good 
lack !  Why,  Tom  Rnch  would  have  made  a  better.  Fancy  Neele  put- 
ting in  a  distress  !  He  could  as  soon  have  paid  the  national  debt !  and, 
as  for  arresting  any  one,  he  would  much  rather  have  gone  to  prison 
himself.     It  was  impossible  to  help  smiling  when  the  Httle  man  put  on  a 

*  I  bare  no  patinMe  with  tbit  man,  or  those  who  suocombed  to  hit  insolence. 
How  he  escaped  a  daily  kicking  is  surprising.  To  me,  he  appears  every  way  con- 
JWspiiMti.  Ftvpcry  we  may  tolerate, — ^insolence,  when  witty,  we  may  pardon, — 
bat  utter  heartMaess,  Kke'the  odour  of  the  skunk,  is  unhearahle.  Nothing  proves 
the  diaMMitiiing  tcndocy  of  fashionable  life  more  than  the  power  Bnimroell  was 
fanahtad  to  eieicise.  A  duchess  enjoins  her  daughter  to  propitiate  this  An-siarch- 
BB ! — and  why  ?  Because  his  opinion  may  make  or  mar  her, — the  opinion  of  a 
Vlawy  iII<boni  and  wovse  bred, — without  feeling,  and  without  principle  !  Bah  ! 
r  af  a  vary  brilliant  aitide  in  this  Miscdilany  must  forprive  me  if  I  express 
i  at  his  assorisfiny  the  name  of  BnimmeU  with  those  <if  Walpole  and 
'n  as  anperior  to  Bnimmdl  as  a  raoer  is  to  a  cart-horse.  A  parallel 
wsflll  and  Skeffingtoo  had  been  nearer  the  mark,  though  even  here 
at  sink  in  the  comparison. 


OUTPOURINGS. 


44i> 


business  face  as  you  entered  his  office  in  Blenheim  Street,  and  beg-an 
fymbling  among  the  papers  ostetitatiously  Bet  out  on  bis  labk\  to  coii- 
eeal  not  the  dtrd,  but  j/awra  he  was  engrossing ;  for  Ncele  was  a  poet 
— heart  and  kouI  a  poet— he  could  he  nothing  else.     Aba  I 

"  'Twaa  bia  vt>cation,*' 

And  dearly  he  paid  for  following  it     Poor — poor  Neele  I 

^  *•  The  fftinea  by^  moonlight  danoe  rtiimd  hii  green  b«I* 

And  be  h&IIow'd  the  turf  which  pillow*  liU  head  I'' 

Neele  unt|ue8tionably  stood  at  the  head  of  the  minor  poets.  A  pret- 
tincss  of  idea,  ingeniously  tumedj  clothed  in  harmonious  verse,  charac- 
terized  his  productions. 

Nugent,  whom  Mathews  has  immortalked  in  one  of  his  songs  as 
L  *•  A  true  gentt" 

Certainly  boasted  an  exterior  little  in  accordance  with  the  character,  Ht^ 
could  not  have  travelled  two  poi^trs  with  guch  a  passport.  In  truth,  a 
more  ruffianly -loo  king  little  fellow  never  figured  in  Mrs.  RiKkliffe,  or 
scowled  through  a  melodrama.  His  long  black  locks  enclosing  a  physi- 
ognomy of  rhe  most  ferocious  dtscription,  entailed  upon  him  the  epithet 
Qi\Sanfpiinoj  by  which  he  was  known  among  his  friends.  The  first  time 
I  saw  Nugent  was  at  Power*a,  He  came  in  about  half- past  twelve,  with 
Haines  and  one  or  two  brother  reporters^  quite  **  |)retty  well,  ]  thank 
ye  I'*  as  indeed  he  generally  wag.  Power  introduced  him  to  me  as  "a 
gadlrtnan  ivho  had  borne  a  pdce  in  the  laiit  rebdlioit,** 

"  Ay,  and  would  again  I  "  thundered  Nugent,  knitting  his  shaggy 
brows,  and  striking  the  table  with  his  fist. 

But  this  was  all  manner.  In  reality,  Nugent  was  a  warm-hearted, 
benevolent  little  fellow,  ever  ready  to  contribute  his  mite,  and  advocate 
the  cause  of  the  distressed.  To  considerable  knowledge  he  added  a 
ready  pen,  with  strong  reasoning  powers,  which  made  him  the  Dr.  John- 
son of  our  little  microcosm*  Even  Sheridan  Knowles  wiis  compelled  to 
succumb  to  Nugent,  who,  at  the  time  I  speak  of,  wrote  the  theatrical 
notices  in  The  Twuiff  which  were  remarkable  for  the  critical  acumen 
and  knowledge  they  displayed. 

One  night,  after  the  opera,  I  dropped  into  the  widow's  with  Power  to 
sup:  Nugent  sat  smoking  his  pipe  in  one  comer.  Presently  the  widow 
came  in,  and  told  un  there  was  a  poor  woman  without,  who  would  he  glad 
to  sing  to  us  J  adding  that  her  vocal  powers,  for  a  street-singer,  were  ei- 
traordinary.  Accordingly,  she  was  permitted  to  station  herself  in  the 
passage,  where  she  vociferated  Jtuisc  of  Dumhlnne  in  a  style  and  tone  that 
would  have  excruciated  the  heart  of  a  broomstick— if  broomsticks  have 
hearts*  When  the  song  was  over  we  sent  her  some  money,  which 
so  much  jiurpassed  the  poor  creature's  expectations,  that,  iu  the  excess 
of  her  gratitudej  she  offered  to  sing  us  another  song, 

■  Not  no  I  let  her  go  1  let  her  go  I  weVe  had  cjuite  enough  of  it  T* 

iras  the  general  cry.      But  Carew,  with  one  or  two  more,  for  the  joke*s 

"sake,  insisted  on  having  their  money's  worth — a  point  they  maintained 

with  so  much  pertinacity,  that  we  were  on  the  eve  of  yielding  to  their 

clamour,  and  submitting  to  a  further  infliction. 

Nugent,  who   had   hitherto   sat   stlent,  now  started  up,  and  dashing 


a 


la 


Bd  fiicOifty.iir 


■«>i 


HlTMOaiWS 

Ai 

wkidi  pfdiliariijr 
ftlaigspnpofftioB  €i 
bmI  acton ;  wmSL  k  vuft  be 
of  ber  aoaift  in  1117  of  tliMc 


vkktkelM- 
oB»4»]fortbe  le- 


The  C4m1  Htile,  a  the  Suaad;  and  Tbe  OJ>.  TaTen,  Id  Rimdl 
Court,  too^  were  bien  adkaUmdh  by  histnooicm,  Kesn  leot  his  eooote- 
■nee  ia  both, — UtanaSg,  indeed,  to  tbe  UUer,  for  be  allowed  Fbidi  to 
i  place  bk  portrait  m  Richard  orer  bis  door,  and  call  bk  boysa  The 
Meant  Hmd,  A  tbeatrieal  dinner  took  place  ooce  a  foftn%bt  at  FiscbX 
at  which  BUocbard,  Tokelj,  and  other  respectable  perfenaer^  in  turn 
araaded.  Poor  Tokely  I  His  cockneys  were  excelleot !  I  enjoyed 
\  wem  tbings  more  iban  seeing  this  actor  in  one  of  Jameson's  tbree-aci  co- 
medies at  tbe  Little  Theatre  in  tbe  Hajmarket. 

The  Harp  Tarem,  in  Russell  Street,  was  another  theatrical  hoviMi 
Tlii*  was  chiefly  frequented  by  proTincial  and  other  actors »  in  want  of 
cQgigcaoenta.  Stms,  tbe  tbei^cal  agent,  occupied  the  front  room  00 
tbe  first  floor  as  an  office,  where  files  of  plav-biUa  from  all  parts  of  the 
Idngdoro  were  to  be  seen.  Sims  was  in  the  habit  of  attending  tbe  per- 
formances at  private  theatres,  and  procuring  amateurs,  who  proposed 
making  the  stage  thetr  profession,  engagements*  In  tbe  erening  he 
acted  as  peq)etnal  president  in  a  back  room  on  the  ground  floor,  where 
practical  jokes  were  frequently  played  off"  on  strangers,  and  aspirants  for 
dramatic  fame. 

Take  tbe  following  as  a  sample — 

A  stranger  enters,  seats  himself,  and  calls  for  refreshment. 

Sim9  {afier  eyeing  the  ttranger  wiih  grmt  indiffnQthn), — *'  I  'm  sur- 
prised you  've  the  impudence  to  show  your  face  here,  you  scoundrel ! " 

Sk^amger  (r^oovering  hut  turiirise  al  this  unexjKCtcd  addreu)* — **  Wbat 
d'ye  mean,  sir?  You  *re  a  scoundrel  yourself  t  I've  no  more  reason 
to  be  ashamed  of  showing  my  face  here  than  you  have  I  Perhaps  not 
so  much.'* 

Sm*, — '*  Come — come,  sir,  none  of  that  I  It  won't  do  with  me,  I 
piroQttse  you  1  I  can't  allow  you  to  stay  here.  If  you  doti*t  leave  the 
room  instantly,  I  must  kick  you  out," 

8tT€mger  (Uwiing  up), — ♦*  Kick  me  out !  I  should  just  like  to  see 
ymil- 

Simi. — ^*  You  Ul  have  that  pleasure,  then,  if  you  don't  go  immediate* 
ly*  Oh  I  dou  t  be  alarmed,  geuLleinen  !  Pray  keep  your  scats.  Leave 
me  to—" 


OUTPOURINGS. 


451 


One  of  ike  company^ — "  He  semis  respectable  I  What  ha»  he  done, 
Sims  ?  ** 

^ims, — **  Only  picked  my  pocket  about  two  montha  ago,  for  tihich 
Sir  llicbard  gave  him  six  weeks  at  Brixton.  I  suppose  the  rascars  just 
oome  out. — I  suppose  he  thought  I  'd  forgotten  him." 

^Slriln*/rr  {frjaitutk'j  wiik  r<j//f).^-"  You— you  lie  I  You  *re  a  rascal 
and  a  pickpocket  yourself  I  You  never  saw  nie  before — ^you— you  know 
you  never  did  I  {(Juxmlnfj  off  hu  vo<j().  But,  come  on — come  on,  I  '11 
soon  serve  you  out  1  HI  eoon  show  you  I*m  not  to  he  inBulted  with 
impunity,  you  scoundrel  T* 

Vompaiiif, — "  Pray,  gentlemen,^-" 

8im»  {lai/in^  dmen  his  pipe  ddiheraUl$f,  and  hegiinnhig  to  unbiiUon  kuf 
cuff*)* — "  Oh  I  pray  don *t  trouble  yourselves,  gentlemen.  There  *s  not 
the  least  occasion  for  it — not  the  least  I  If  the  scamp  won't  go  quietly, 
I  '11  soon  rid  you  of  the  nuisance.  I  could  thrash  a  dozen  such  fellows  adi 
ihat^ — ha  I  ha  I  ha  I — thrash  'cm  with  one  hand," 

Strtinffer  (eirippificf  off  ki^  waiMcoal), — **  Come  on — come  on,  I  say  I 
or  1 11  knock  you  off  the  chair  there  I  '* 

Sima  (t{iiI/tUkmm;j  ku  wuiificouty  and  winking  at  the  comparnf), — 
•*  What  a  hurry  ihe  gentleman's  in  1 — how  anxious  he  is  to  get  a  thrash* 
ingi  But  wait  awhile — just  wait  till  1  get  my  ^drt  off,  for  I  always 
fight  fairly ;  and  then  the  coward  shall  see — " 

^nmger. — *'  Coward  I "  {tmn  off  his  s/iirt)* 

The  company,  who  have  previously  provided  themselves  with  full  pots 
of  porter,  now  delude  the  unfortunate  stranger,  which,  of  courae,  is  the 
climax  aimed  at.  In  like  manner,  candidates  for  the  stage  were  induced 
to  favour  the  company  with  a  specimen  of  their  talents,  during  which 
practical  jokes  of  a  similar  description  were  played  off  upon  them.  And 
happy — thrice  happy  the  tyro  whom  such  j^er^fiage  deters  from  follow- 
ing a  profession  which  even  Mathews  and  Elliston,  at  one  time,  aban- 
doned in  despair. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  Dickens,  when  describing  the  habits,  man- 
ners, and  peculiar  tone  of  thinking  of  provincial  actors  in  **  Nicholas 
Nickleby/*  did  not  go  a  step  farther,  and  add  another  valuable  lesson 
to  those  he  has  already  given,  by  permitting  hia  powerfully  graphic  pen 
to  dwell  on  the  pritniiioju  and  <it«/»ic»w»  these  pariahs  in  the  social  scale 
must  necessarily  undergo.  In  the  winter  of  1818,  I  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  witnessing  enough  of  these  to  convince  me  that  the  accounts 
given  by  Riley  and  others,  can  scarcely  be  said  to  be  exaggerated.  In- 
deed, I  almost  doubt  if  they  admit  of  exaggera:ion. 

At  the  period  I  mention  I  happened  to  be  staying  at  Woolwich,  where 
Henry's  company  were  then  playing.  The  business,  as  is  generally  the 
ci*fl€  in  country  towns,  was  wretched  ;  and  my  friend,  Edward  Dacrea 
Daynes  of  the  artillery,  in  the  hope  of  serving  Henry,  presented  him 
with  a  farce  which  he  had  adapted  from  one  of  the  stories  in  «  Boccaccio,*' 
which  was  to  he  read  in  the  green-room  the  following  morning,  Baynes, 
knowing  the  interest  I  took  in  eveiythlug  connected  with  the  drama« 
proposed  I  should  accompany  him,  and,  in  fact,  assist  him  tn  seeing  his 
piece  properly  reliearscd  and  mise  en  «ce#w,  an  offer  I  joyfully  accepted. 

Unlike  that  **  Meaven-bom  minister,"  who  decline<l  going  behind  the 

acenes  on  tlie  plea  that  hr  krui  f*etm  too  nutch  behind  tlk^n,  abradif^  I  had 

^  long    panted    to   explore   that   (rt'ra    incftgnita   which  lay   beyond   the 

\es  of  a  London  theatre,  and  above  all,  penetrate  into  the  gheen- 


45*  OCTPOUMNGS. 

BOOH  ! — chat  gofrgeaus  temple ! — that  earthly  Elysinm  1 — the  gWries  ind 
&9ciiiatioiu  of  which  I  had  read  and  heajrd  so  mnch  of.  Of  oonne,  I 
did  HOC  expect  to  witnesa  ail  thb  at  a  provincial  theatre ;  hat,  after 
m«k:wg-  all  reaaonabie  dedoctiona,  enoogh  remained  to  atimnlate  mj  cn- 
rioficy.  and  interest  my  imaginatinn. 

Nest  morning  we  repaired  to  the  theatre.  It  was  a  hitter  eold  day, 
and  tile  saow  lay  apon  tiie  grtnmd.  Ascending  some  wooden  steps  it 
the  back  of  die  building,  we  fbmid  oarseWes  on  the  stage.  Heann 
knows  the  interior  of  a  London  theatre  on  a  winter's  morning  wfaci 
tae  dierniometer  is  below  ireezing  point,  is  not  the  most  comfortable 
piace  in  the  worid :  buL.  compared  to  the  wretched  hole  we  now  stood 
ihxTenng  in,  'cwaa  paradise !  The  walls  were  bare,  the  sky  was  vbible 
throQgh  the  saked  tiling,  the  wind  penetrated  throagh  countless  crannies, 
not  a  soul  wa;s  to  be  xeru  and  what  few  appointments  were  scattered 
ahocL.  were  miserable  and  shabby  in  the  extreme.  I  confess  a  eomp 
•fjtu  so  &*p(rhizig  somewhat  damped  my  enthusiasm,  which,  like 
3r^  A  T-^ftf  cacrage,  began  oozing  away  through  the  tips  of  my  fingers, 
which  were  !i:iou»rahly  cold- 

A:  iecgth  the  appariiioo  of  the  manager's  head  uprose  in  one  corner 
of  the  sLige. 

-  Oh !  yon  are  come,  gentlemen  !"  said  Mr.  Henry.  "  Please  to 
walk  this  way.  and  1 11  show  yea  the  green-room." 

So  saying,  he  kd  os  down  a  flight  of  dirty  steps  into  a  dismal-looking 
dcngeon,  aboot  ten  feet  square,  and  six  feet  high,  rather  less  uncom- 
fortable than  Sc  Martin's  bone-hou^. 

This,  then,  was  the  green-room ;  and  certainly,  the  Terdant  hue  the 
damps  had  giTen  its  mouldy  walls  entitled  it  to  that  appellation.  The 
light  struggling  through  the  few  dingy  panes  which  had  not  been  re- 
stored by  the  carpenter,  discorered  the  initials  of  divers  incipient  Ros- 
ciuses  traced  with  a  tallow-candle  on  the  ceiling.  Empty  sheWes,  styled 
on  the  B'lrmrc^diKin  principle,  Thr  Wardrohtj  occupied  one  side  of  this 
miserable  den,  which  was  filled  with  smoke  from  a  black,  smouldering 
fire,  too  small  to  throw  out  the  least  beat,  or  neutralize  the  draughts 
which  rushed  through  the  rat-boles  in  the  floor.  A  large  chest,  two  or 
three  cane-bottomed  chairs  used  for  scenic  purposes,  a  couple  of  forms, 
a  cracked  looking-glass,  a  tin  sconce  covered  with  grease,  a  broken 
poker,  a  wooden  coal-box,  with  a  rickety  deal-table  excessively  dirty, 
comprised  the  furniture.  Around  this  latter  article  sat  the  performers 
concerned  in  the  piece,  and,  it  must  be  confessed,  they  harmonized  well 
with  the  locale. 

Notwithstanding  the  severity  of  the  season,  not  one  of  them  had  a 

■econd  coat  on ;  and  FalstaflTs'  company,  I  suspect,  was  nearly  as  well 

|»OTided  with  Imen.     God  knows,  I  do  not  reproach  them  with  this. 

The  reproach  might  lie  in  other  parties.     Let  us  hope  it  did.     General- 

1t  qieakii^,  their  visages  were  elongated  and  prematurely  marked,  while 

ttieir  cnmpleiions  wore  that  dingy  sallow  hue  the  habitual  use  of  paint 

afanoat  invariably  engmdera.     A 'tall,  gaunt  personage,  in  a  shabby  grey 

frock,  whoae  hair  constant  collision  with  a  hot  iron  had  rendered  as  dry 

^  a  withered  furze-boah,  played  the  Doruxmrts  and  Tristram  FickU$, 

I  man,  who  ostentatiously  displayed  a  silver  pencil-case,  proved  in- 

Mj  overbearing  and  hypercritical ;  and  gave  the  author  great  an- 

loe  durmg  the  reading  of  the  piece.     As  I  expected,  his  lalento 

I  to  be  in  an  inverse  ratio  to  his  pretensions.     In  short,  he  was  a 


OUTPOUEINGS, 


453 


d — d  stick  !  The  rest  of  the  performers  expressed  themselves  satisfied 
with  their  parts,  and  appeared  to  relish  the  humour  of  the  situations  ; 
particularly  a  stout  man,  with  lightish  hair,  and  still  florid  countenance, 
closely  buttoned  up  in  a  blue  body-coat^  which,  like  its  master,  had  evi* 
dently  seen  better  days.  This  actor,  whose  wretched  and  neglected  ap- 
pearance painfnlly  contrasted  with  his  intelligence  and  manners,  smelt 
awfully  of  spirits  —the  clue,  alas  I  to  his  present  degradation  I 

Then  the  rest  of  the  company — -what  a  hodge-podge ! — what  a  collec- 
tion of  odds  and  ends  I  —  what  an  epitome  of  trades,  callings,  and  pro- 
fessions, brought  together  by  circumstances,  with  scarce  one  among  the 
whole  exercising  the  avocation  he  was  designed  for,  or  originally  set  out 
with !  —  soldiers,  sailors,  clerks,  merchants,  mechanics,  tradesmen*  pro- 
totypes of  the  characters  they  represented,  with  manners,  habits,  and 
ideas  as  diversified  as  their  numbers  ;  but  by  no  meaubi  amalgamating 
into  one  harmonious  whole.  There  was  the  gagger  of  thirty  years,  who 
had  belonged  to  every  stroihng  company  in  the  kingdom ;  hopeless, 
reckless,  friendless,  who 

*♦  Knew  no  heaven  beyond  a  porter  pot," 

boon  companion  of  any  one  who  would  discharge  the  reckoning,  or  lend 
him  a  sixpence.  There  was  the  youthful  novice,  full  of  professional  ar- 
dour, and  lofty  aspirations,  who  dreamt  of  Kemhle  and  Garrick,  and 
whose  purse  was  not  yet  exhausted. 

There  was  the  hard -featured,  well- worn  actress  of  fifty,  jealous  of  her 
juniors,  crafty  from  experience,  with  a  sharp  eye  to  her  salary,  and  skill- 
ed in  the  alKmysteriea  of  benefit-making.  There  was  the  star,  too,  long 
fallen,  mo<idy,  and  irritable,  writhing  beneath  the  agonies  of  self- re- 
proach^ yet  unable  to  refrain  from  **  a  hair  of  the  dog  that  was  killing 
him."     There  were  others,  again,  destined  for  better  things. 

Among  these,  1  was  much  struck  with  a  lively  little  girl  of  fifteen, 
who  was  chaperoned  by  her  mother,  a  lady  of  ihoughtfnl  and  enduring 
aspect,  who  watched  over  her  little  treasure  as  the  only  hope  and  stay 
of  an  existence  more  than  usually  chequered.  This  charming  child  has 
since  expanded  into  a  magnificent  matron,  whose  regal  bearing,  sustain- 
ed by  strong  talent,  richly  entitle  her  to  that  tragic  sceptre  she  wields 
with  so  much  credit  to  herself,  and  advantage  to  her  audiences. 

There  was  a  youth,  too,  a  mere  stripling* — ^methinka  I  see  him  now, 
with  those  pale,  interesting  features^— that  meek,  resigned  look,  conning 
over  his  part  by  the  miserable  fire,  in  the  miserable  green-room^  while 
hia  mother,  who  played  the  old  women,  deposited  the  dresses  worn  the 
previous  evening  in  the  chest  before-mentioned.  Well  do  I  remember 
this  stripling's  exclaiming,  "  I  only  wish  I  'd  fifty  pounds  a  year  inde- 
pendent, mother  I  I  should  be  quite  contented/'  Now,  if  this  youth 
and  one  of  the  most  distinguished  writers  of  the  present  day  be  one  and 
the  same  person,  as  1  have  reason  to  believe  they  are,  he  has  had  ample 
opportunities  of  more  than  realizing  this  very  moderate  wish,  which,  for 
his  own  sake,  I  hope  he  has  had  the  prudence  to  do. 

Another  tyro  in  the  company  afterwards  became  an  excellent  light 
comedian.  Rouge  wrought  a  magical  change  in  this  actors  counte- 
nance, which,  naturally  mean  and  impassive,  became,  on  the  application 
of  the  hare's  foot,  full  of  animation  and  expression. 

Not  so  his  brother  novice,  a  young  man  of  short  stature  and  genteel 
address^  who  had  quitted  the  army  for  the  stage,  and  was  engaged  in  the 


fonn — w 

gfALeful  action — tbt 

what  UiU  aelor 

Ikifl  powi^l%  and  refidat«d 

Btti  IhhI  doI  owi  to  MirtiMi  tke  fote  i^  mj  frieDa  s  ^ras,  om  «I 
,  tfe  uri—ipri  dMiadm  m  vkieb  baipfwned  to  haT€  a  catcb-word,  or  ptl 
I©  «  T*rfV  fMsr  mnr^  Puskon  t  Et^  morin^  r  tbc 
i  caldi-vordt  or  pei-pbrase,  chanced  to  be  "^  TJkat *«  all!* 
f  wi  oeane*  vn  conalairtlj  recsmngt  and  being  repeated  m  n.  Ta- 
r  of  najft.    A  good  deal  was  expected  from  ibis  character,  which  was 
Ito  the  atoot  man — ^Id comparably  the  be$i  comedian  in  the  rom- 
B«t»  as  oo  reliance  could  be  placed  upon  him,  the  managi&r  on- 
I  to  tab  bini  lioiiie  with  him  after  the  last  rehearsal,  and  lock  hia 
p  orticl  il  waf  Ornate  for  him  to  go  to  the  theatre  to  dress  for  the  fiff 
ieoi^  wUck  hafjfmied  to  be  ^^  The  Irishman  in  Lotidon,** 
Tba  teeet*  aa  wm  aaticipated,  brought  a  f\ill  house,  and  I  alalioned  i 
odf  m  one  of  the  stage-boxes  with  the  aathor  to  witness  the  i 
I  PkiMJidy  the  stout  man  made  his  enirit  as  MuHock  Dctany, 

'.  glaoce^ — looked  again — rubbed  our  eyes,  and,  Uke 
Congress  at  VtenDa»  when  they  heard  of  Napoleon's  escape^  burst  into 
an  iioconiroUable  fit  of  laughter  I  It  was  tf^*  ridiculous  1  Not  a  qutf^ 
tcr  of  an  hour  before  we  had  seen  the  stout  man  released  from  duranca 
perfect^  sober,  and  there  he  was,  so  muddled  with  liquor,  that  he  could 
f  •nroelj  rtcollect  his  part.  Of  course  we  gave  up  the  farce  for  lost. 
At  length  the  latter  commenced,  and  all  went  on  aa  smooth  as  mtik 
of  ro«es  until  the  stout  man  came  on.  The  fellow  looked  his  part  ad- 
mirably, which  only  made  the  matter  more  provoking.  The  catch-word 
was  all  be  could  remember  of  his  part»  so  after  staring  about  him  for  some 
aaeocids  with  a  stupified  air,  he  ottered  "  Tk(U  *s  all  /**  and  marched  off 
again.  The  audience  laughed  heartily  and  applauded  him,  for  the  thiug 
wm  iu  itself  excessively  funny,  and  they  thought  he  was  only  doing  what 
was  set  down  for  him.  But  we  who  knew  how  much  depended  on  whal 
he  ought  to  have  said,  were  in  agonies.  Presently  my  gentleman  came 
on  again — and  again,  as  on  the  previous  occasion,  he  said  "  Tkni^B  a/i  !^ 
and  made  his  exit  This  told  even  better  the  second  time  than  the  first. 
The  audience  were  convulsed.  They  applauded  him  to  the  echo.  But 
when  this  was  repeated  a  third,  a  fourth,  and  a  tifih  tiroe^  they  begin  to 
look  grave,  and  thought  they  had  had  quite  enough  of  it.  At  last^  a 
butcher  in  the  pit  cried  out,  "  Why,  that  man  says  nothing  but  •  Tkat*$ 
ffit  r — whatstuflP"  and  began  hissing,  on  which  a  storm  of  dieapproba* 
tion  arose,  which  was  only  allayed  by  the  manager*8  coming  forward  and 
explaining  how  matters  really  were.  Next  morning  the  part  was  giy 
to  another  actor,  and  the  farce,  which  was  really  very  clever,  did 
service  to  the  theatre ;  and  for  the  present,  gentle  reader,  **  Thai*t  \ 


465 


A  CASE  OF  CONSCIENCE. 


BT   EYBAARD    CLIVB. 

"  Of  course  you  *\\  not  tell  any  one  a  ward  of  all  this*** 

"Oh,  no,  no, — of  course  not/* 

"  Well,  be  careful  that  you  don't ;  because,  you  know,  I  Ve  told 
you  all  this  about  Lucy  Hillary  in  the  strictest  confidence." 

**  To  be  sure  ;  you  may  rely  on  nie»  Yet  what  a  pity  it  is  I^how 
pretty  and  true-hearted  she  looks  ! " 

**  I  do  rely  on  you  and  your  honour,  which  I  look  on  as  pledged, 
not  to  repeat  this  ;  and  mind,  also,  that  you  do  not  in  any  way  show 
that  you  are  aware  of  anythiog  against  her.  There — we  must  nol 
make  our  tbalogue  too  conspicuous.  A*nt  you  going  to  dance? 
They  are  playing  a  Polka.  I  am  going^  to  my  husband  in  the  card* 
room/* 

Mrs.  Omber,  the  lady-speaker  of  this  last  sentence,  left  the  gen- 
tleman to  whom  it  was  addres*e<l,  and  glided  away  from  the  angle 
of  the  room  where  they  had  been  conversing,  bearing  in  her  eye  that 
small,  shy,  puckered  sparkle,  which  certain  reptiles,  and  also  certain 
bipeds  exhibit  when  they  have  succeeded  in  doing  something  spite- 
ful, and  having  also  round  her  thin  lips  that  compressed  smile, 
by  which  the  said  bipeds  show  their  satisfaction  at  havitig  secured 
their  own  safety,  and  guardetl  against  being  called  to  account  while 
regaling  themselves  with  a  slice  of  mischief. 

Mrs*  Omber  had  certainly  succeeded  by  her  narration  in  making 
Philip  Emerson,  to  whom  it  was  addressed,  look  on  Lucy  Hillary 
with  very  different  feelings  to  those  with  which  he  had  regarded  her 
in  the  earlier  part  of  that  evening,  and  during  the  whole  of  several 
former  evenings  and  mornings. 

Not  that  he  was  actually  in  love  with  the  damsel, — he  had  not 
seen  enough  of  her  for  that;  and,  besides,  he  was  diligently  culti- 
vating at  the  same  time  the  germs  of  five  or  six  flirtations  in  other 
quarters.  But  he  luul  liked  her,  and  he  took  an  interest  in  her*  He 
had  been  pleased  with  the  mild,  quiet  expression  of  her  good  looks 
(for,  though  not  strikingly  handsome,  she  was  undeniably  goo<l- 
Jooking),  and  the  clear  gentle  tone  of  her  voice  had  fixed  his  atten- 
tion. She  walked  well, — neither  thrusting  the  soles  of  her  shoes 
along  the  ground,  nor  jerking  herself  galvanically  forward  from  the 
tips  of  her  toes  j  and  voice  and  gait  formed  two  important  elements 
in  Philip  Emerson's  system  of  female  valuations.  He  found  that  she 
decidedly  had  good  sense,  and  he  fancied  that  she  had  gocKl  temper ; 
but  he  had  met  far  too  many  tigresses  in  lamb's  clothing  not  to 
make  him  suspend  his  judgment  as  to  the  article  of  temper  in  every 
fresh  member  of  the  smoother  half  of  the  human  creation.  Perhaps 
it  was  for  points  of  negative  merit  that  his  liking  for  Lucy  had 
principally  grown  up  ;  and,  after  all,  a  woman's  negative  merits  are 
almost  her  best.  She  never  made  the  abuse  of  others  the  staple  of 
her  conversation,  though  she  could  speak  her  mind  firmly  and  keenl}' 
enough.  She  told  no  fictions, — at  least,  he  had  not  caught  her  out  in 
any  ;  and  she  was  able  to  narrate  an  incident,  or  repeat  an  anecdote, 
without  running  into  that  extreme  exaggeration  which  one  hears  so 


4M 


A   CASE   OF  CX)NSriENCB. 


oAbb  hmm  pntty  Up«^  and  which  makes  one  think  that  tli 
fpciker^s  cdncitMHi  nut  bare  been  exclusivefv  devoted  ta  the 
m  flrieotal  htpabuie.  Aa  Bmeraon  said  of  Lucj,  she  was  altno^ 
die  nokj  talking  woDian  he  erer  met  who  was  able  to  keep  dear  of 
Be  iml  seen  her  once  or  twice  a  little  thwarted  and 
but  had  not  beard  her  elevate  her  voice  to  that  un- 
•fadn  ivtch,  which  gratea  on  the  ear  like  the  false  notes  oft 

■00^  indicadng  that  a  great  deal  of  tuning  will  be  reqiiiretl 

Bocii  harmony  can  be  eiipected  either  from  the  lady  or  the 
Lucj  rode  well  on  horseback »  without  being  a  she- 

;  and,  thottgfa  she  danced  welU  she  displayed  none  of  that 
appetite  for  polking  and  waltzing,  which  makes   some 
yilg  Udiea  reaemble  human  teetotums,  perpetually  ready  to  spin 
dboflt,  io  lotig  as  tbej  can  find  some  man  to  take  them  up  and  start 
tJboA.     She  did  ntit  wony  him  about  the  opera  or  John  Parry  ;  and 
•be  Bother  talked  Pu$eyism«  Liebig's  chemistry,  nor  Tennyson*i^H 
|ioelrT«    Altci^edier,  be  had  never  detected  anything  in   her  thal^H 
jarred  vpoB  fan  theories  of  female  amiability  and  propriety,  durin^^^ 
their  mteaenMit  meeings  in  the  course  of  the  nearly  concluded  Lou- 
Philip  EuieiaoD  decidedly  liked  her,  and  the  expectation  of  BmU 
mg  her  at  Mrs.  Astoci's  ball  had  caused  him  to  be  a  little  earlier! 
thao  umal  m  his  appearance  there  that  evening.     Before^  however«r 
be  had  any  opportunity  of  speaking  to  Lucy,  he  encountered  and 
went  throo^  the  operation  of  a  formal  introduction  to  Mrs.  Omber, 
m  diililMr  eoonection  of  his  mother's  family,  to  whom  he  though^J 
htudf  genealo^cally  bound  to  pay  attention,  as  a  matter  of  pedi*f 
gree^  if  not  as  a  metter  of  pastime.     This  lady,  who  had  not  alto>| 
gctber  loal  a  showy  iort  of  beauty,  though  consideritbly  on  the  wanetj 
gladly  manoeuvred  him  into  conversation,  and  in  the  course  of  itf 
iodii^ed  m  a  few  commonplace  spiteful  remarks  on  the  alleged 
«|iieen»ess  of  the  party,  and  paucity  of  pretty  faces,     Emerson,  in 
GontrDirerting  these  criticisms,  had  pointed  out  Miss  Hillary  as  a 
atandiiig  (or  dancing)  argument  on  the  favourable  side  of  the  ques- 
tkm.   Piqued  at  this,  Mrs.  Omber  had  given  an  extra  squeeze  of  the 
lemon  and  an  extra  dash  of  the  cayenne  to  the  elaborate  little  dishj 
of  acandal  which  she  immediately  set  before  him  respecting  Lucy,! 
and  at  the  conclusion  of  it  made  him  give  his  honour  not  to  repeiit 
or  allude  to  her  communication,  as  has  been  already  stated*     With-  J 
oat  going  into  the  details  oS"  the  narrative  with  which  the  lady,  ml 
her  meal  for  the  diflusion  of  usetiil  knowledge,  enlightened  his  mind,  ^ 
and  which  was  given  in  the  genuine  Mrs.  Candour  style,  suffice  it  to 
atate,  that  he  learned  that  she  had  met  Lucy  during  the  preceding 
|September  at  Scrubville,  one  of  the  watering-places  on  the  Esseic  ] 

and  that,  soon  after  Lucy's  arrival  there,  a  certain  officer 
was  observed  prowling  about  the  environs,  evidently  after  no  good, 
but  evidently  on  3Iiss  Hillary's  account,  and  by  her  encouragement; 
for  he  never  appeared  in  public,  and  none  of  the  respectjible  com* 
pouiy  knew  anvthing  of  him,  but  it  was  ascertained,  on  good 
authority,  th^il  lie  and  Lucy  used  to  take  most  improperly  lonely 
1  aether,  in  most  suspiciously  solitary  places,  at  most  repre- 

!  Ute  houra.     Nay,  on  one  occasion,  when  Mrs.  Omber  and 

V      V  ot  her  friends  had  been  out  on  a  fishing  party,  and  had  been 
d  by  a  calm  to  go  ashore  in  the  eveningr  some  way  below  the 


A    CASE    OF    CONSCIENfE. 


457 


town,  and  walk  home  along  the  bay,  Airs.  Omber  herself,  on  turning 
I  he  corner  of  some  rocks,  had  jsucldenly  encountered  Lucy,  *'  with 
her  murtial  youth  around  her," — that  is  to  say,  witli  the  officer *a 
arm  round  lier  waist.  All  this,  and  much  more, — how  all  the  world 
talked  about  it,  and  how  indignant  all  the  world  felt  about  it, — ^hciw 
Lucy  and  her  warlike  adorer  simultaneously  vanished, — did  Mrs, 
Omber  narrate  with  intense  gratificiition,  and  Phihp  Emerson  hear 
with  intense  annoyance,  arising  partly  out  of  mortified  vanity  at 
finding  himself  wrong  in  his  opinion  of  Lticy,  and  partly*  to  do  him 
justice,  out  of  honest  regret  at  feeling  him»elf  oMiged  to  think  ill  of 
one  so  pretty,  and  apparently  so  faultless. 

Airs.  Omber,  after  making  him  renew  his  pledge  not  to  repeat  or 
allude  to  what  she  had  said,  left  him  in  hia  rumination ;  and,  after  a 
short  pause,  he  made  an  attempt  to  escape  from  his  corner,  and  com- 
menced a  circuit  close  round  by  the  walls,  shrinking  back  every  now 
and  then  to  avoid  the  charge  of  some  comet-like  couple  of  Polkers, 
who  came  rushing  eccentrically  out  oi'  the  usual  dancing  orbit, 
whirling  an  extremity  of  ilicir  constellation,  coat- tailed  or  flounced 
as  the  case  might  be,  against  the  daring  circumnavigators  of  the 
ball-room. 

At  length  he  gained  the  cooler  region  of  the  landing-place,  and, 
as  he  leaned  in  the  doorway,  looking  in  on  theTerpsichorean  round- 
about, he  rejected  on  what  be  had  jusi  heard,  and  also  on  Lucy's 
demeanour,  and  the  society  in  whicU  he  had  met  her,  and  then 
thought  on  the  possibility  of  tlie  whole  tale  being  an  invention  of 
the  narratrix.  As  he  revolved  the  chances  of  this  being  the  case, 
the  idea  occurred  to  him, — ■'*  I  *U  watch  if  Lucy  and  that  woman 
meet,  and  see  how  Lucy  looks.  That  will  be  a  clear  test  of  guilty  or 
not  guilty.*' 

Nor  was  he  long  without  an  opportunity  of  thus  putting  her  on 
her  trial.  JMrs.  Omber,  who  had  returned  .into  the  dancing-room, 
was  watching  htm,  and  probably  guessed  at  what  was  passing  in  his 
mind.  The  dance  was  over,  and  the  subsequent  promenading  wa^ 
commenced,  which  always  seems  as  if  every  one  felt  glad  to  re- 
sume the  natural  gait  of  a  human  being,  when  Mrs.  Omber  crossed 
the  room,  as  if  intending  to  speak  to  an  ancient  dame  in  bugles  and 
a  turban,  who  was  sitting  near  the  door  ;  but  suddenly  stopping 
short,  pretended  to  recognise  Lucy  unexpectedly  as  she  came  round 
in  the  cycle  of  promenaders,  and  exclaimed,  in  a  well-pitched,  dry, 
acid  drawl, 

'How  do  you  do?     Olt !  Miss   Hillary,  I  believe.     Have   you 

en  on  the  Essex  coast  lately  ?" — and  then,  without  waiting  for  an 

^wer,  |*assed  on,  leaving  moj»t  of  those  who  heard  her  bUrpHned 
,  the  strangeness  of  lier  manner  and  interrogative. 

Philip  Emerson  was  close  by  ;  he  saw  that  she  and  Lucy  met, 
and  recognised  each  otlier;  he  caught  the  la-^t  words,  and  saw  that 
MittS  Hillary  coloured  deeply,  and  looked  exceedingly  embarranjsed. 
Lucy  quickly  glanced  round,  arid  saw  that  Ernerhun  wan  intently 
watching  herself  and  Mrs.  Omber,  who  was  statuling  at  a  lillle  diM- 
tauce  in  a  quiet  ovation  of  malice.  Lucy  saw  that  he  had  been  clone 
enough  tu  hear  what  had  been  said,  and  coloured  again  beneiith  tin; 
peculiar  gaze  whicli  she  encountered  on  meeting  his  eye.  Philip 
turned  away  from  the  room,  with  his  mind  fully  made  up  tt«  to  tho 
truth  of  what  he  had  been  told.     He  left  Mra.  Aiiton*«  »oon  after* 

VOL.  XVIII.  I-    I* 


458  A    CASE   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

wards,  and  joumejed  eastwards  to  Fumival's  Inn,  and  then  upwards 
along  the  three  staircases  which  intervened  between  his  dormitorj 
and  his  mother-earth.  He  latch-keyed  himself  into  the  den  that 
formed  his  habitation,  while  undergoing  the  process  of  becoming 
learned  in  the  law  ;  and  the  first  object  his  lucifer  showed  him  wm 
a  card  stock  in  the  rim  of  the  candUestick,  with  ''  C.  Melville,  Ade- 
laide Hot^"  pencilled  on  it.  It  was  the  name  of  his  oldest  and  beet 
friend,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  the  last  two  years,  and  supposed 
to  be  still  abroad.  A  short  search  on  his  desk  brought  to  his  sight 
a  letter  in  his  friend's  handwriting,  not  post-marked,  but  evident! v 
written  in  those  very  chambers  that  same  evening.  He  forgot  all 
9hoat  Lacy  and  Mrs.  Omber  in  his  joy  at  the  prospect  of  soon 
shaking  hands  with  his  old  comrade,  eagerly  opened  the  note,  and 
read  as  follows : — 

'^Dkab  Ejibmson, 

**  I  have  just  returned,  sooner  than  I  thought  I  should  be  able  to 
do,  from  Hamburgh.  I  wish  I  had  found  you  at  home ;  however, 
TOur  old  woman,  whom  I  found  dusting  out  your  domicile,  tells  me 
1  am  safe  to  catch  you  to-morrow  morning  ;  so  I  will  victimize  yoa 
for  breakfast  at  half-past  eight,  unless  I  am  obliged  to  leave  by  an 
early  train  ;  but,  as  there  is  a  chance  of  that,  I  scribble  these  hnes 
for  you  now. 

**  I  am  going  to  be  married,  and  that,  I  hope,  very  shortly.  I 
want  you  to  be  one  of  the  trustees  of  the  settlement,  to  come  to 
church  with  me,  and,  in  short,  to  do  all  for  me  that  is  usually  done 
by  a  man's  friends  and  relations  ;  for,  as  you  know,  I  have  no  near 
kith  or  kin  left  me  in  England ;  and,  as  for  fetching  any  of  my 
uncles  or  cousins  over  from  India  for  the  occasion,  I  do  not  suppose 
they  would  come;  nor,  if  they  were  willing  to  pay  such  a  nup- 
tial visit,  should  I  feel  disposed  to  wait  for  their  arrival,  even  in 
these  days  of  overland  celerity.  When  I  tell  you  that  the  lady  to 
whom  I  am  engaged  is  very  pretty,  very  amiable,  and  very  sensible, 
you  will  of  course  look  on  it  as  merely  what  every  engaged  man 
thinks  and  says  of  his  intended.  But  really  and  truly,  Phil,  when 
you  see  and  know  her,  you  will  not  only  wish  me  happiness,  but 
congratulate  uie  on  being  sure  o€  happiness.  She  is  two  years 
younger  than  I  am,  and  half  a  head  Sorter;  and  if  the  richest 
fight-brown  hair  that  ever  curled,  the  softest  blue  eyes  that  ever 
shone,  the  prettiest  mouth  that  ever  breathed,  the  fairest  complexion 
that  ever  beamed,  the  most  graceful  figure  that  ever  moved,  and  the 
neatest  foot  that  ever  tripped,  help  to  make  up  beauty,  she  is  most 
assuredly  beautiful.  We  have  been  engaged  for  upwards  of  a  year. 
You  were  out  of  England  at  the  time  when  I  was  staying  in  Kent, 
where  I  met  her,  before  I  started  for  the  Continent ;  and  I  will  ex- 

Elain  when  we  meet  why  I  did  not  mention  it  in  my  letters.  As  to 
er  family  and  fortune,  suffice  it  for  the  present  to  say,  that  the  first 
is  unexceptionable  (she  is  a  Fair  Maid  of  Kent),  and  the  second  is 
to  me  immaterial.  Her  permanent  name  is  Lucy,  her  transitory 
name  Hillary.     God  bless  you,  old  fellow. 

"  Yours  ever, 

"Charlbs  Mklvills." 

The  letter  dropped  from  Emerson's  hand  as  he  read  the  conclude 
ang  sentence. 


A   CASE  OF   COKSCIENCE. 


459 


'•What!  Charley  Melville  marry  thcU  Lucy  Hillary?  It  can't 
he — it  shan't  be.  1 11  go  and  knock  that  mischief  on  the  head  at 
once/*  Thinking  thus  half  out  loud,  he  seized  his  hat,  designing 
instantly  to  seek  his  friend  at  the  Adelaide ;  but,  as  his  hand  was  at 
the  door,  the  thought  flashed  across  his  mind,  **  /  have  pledged  my- 
self never  to  repeal  nlati  I  heard  about  her.'*  He  staggered  back, 
utterly  beat  and  bewildered.  The  hope  sprung  up, — ^'The  name  is 
the  same  ;  but  yet  it  may  perhaps  be  a  different  person/'  He  took 
up  the  letter  again,  and  re-read  the  description.  Allowing  for  a 
lover's  exaggeration,  every  particular  corresponded*  He  himself  had 
heard  her  speak  of  Kent  as  her  native  county.  He  struggled  in 
vain  to  get  up  a  doubt  of  the  identity  of  his  friend*s  intended  bride 
with  the  girl  upon  whose  character  he  had  passed  sentence  of  con- 
demnation in  his  ow*n  mind,  not  two  hours  ago,  '*  So  gross  a  case, 
too!  "  thought  he.  "  Why,  at  the  very  time  when  she  was  playing 
these  tricks  down  in  Essex,  she  was  engaged  to  poor  Charles  Last 
September — ay,  that  was  while  he  was  in  Russia.*'  Yet  what  was 
he  to  do  in  the  matter?  He  was  scrupulously  sensitive  of  the  obli- 
gation which  his  plighted  word  irapo^es  on  a  gentleman,  and  from 
the  idea  of  doing,  either  directly  or  indirectly,  that  which  he  was 
bound  in  honour  not  to  do  he  recoiled  with  horror.  But  was  he  to 
stand  by  and  see  his  best  friend  ruin  himself,  without  stretching  an 
arm  to  save  him, — without  giving  him  one  word  of  warning  of  the 
cruel,  crushing  disappointment,  the  probnble  disgrace  and  misery 
into  which  he  was  blindly  rushing?  Most  bitterly  did  Emerson 
anathematise  her  who  had  told  him  the  story,  and  then  still  more 
heartily  did  he  devote  his  own  head,  like  Decius, 

"  Dii  infemis  terreque  parenti/^ 

for  having  been  such  a  fool  as  to  listen,  and  such  a  still  worse  fool 
as  to  give  a  retrospective  pledge  of  secresy*  One  chance  alone 
seemed  to  remain, — a  chance,  indeed,  simply  of  delay,— but  that 
would  be  a  reprieve.  IMelville  sjiid  in  his  note  that  possibly  he 
might  be  obliged  to  leave  town  by  an  early  train  ;  it  was  therefore 
not  absolutely  certain  that  the  dreaded  first  conference  would  come 
on  next  morning:  there  might  be  lime  to  imagine  some  plan  to 
pacify  conscience,  and  reconcile  friendship  and  honour. 

Partly  with  this  hope,  and  partly  on  the  *'  Victorine,  or  I  'll-sleep- 
on't  "  principle,  which  a  man  so  often  has  recourse  to  when  he  is 
bothered,  Phil  turned  into  bed,  most  fervently  wishing  that  absent 
friends  might  continue  hi  stattt  quo  for  some  time  to  come. 

He  was  still  absorbed  in  a  farrago  of  visions,  w^hcn  the  sound  of  a 
clear  manly  voice  in  his  outer  rooFU  found  its  way  to  the  senses  of 
the  sleeper;  and,  after  a  i^uccession  of  winks  and  blinks,  a  few  deep 
gasps,  and  partial  elevations  on  the  right  elbow,  openness  was  re- 
stored to  his  eyes.  A  loud  piilsiilion  with  the  knob  of  a  walking- 
stick  against  the  door  of  his  dormitory  helptd  to  vivify  him  a  Httie 
morCc  The  door  opened , —  there  was  a  clattering  back  of  shutters, 
and  throwing  up  of  windows^  and  then  by  his  side  stood  the  unde* 
niable  Charles  Melville,  somewhat  stouter  and  darker  than  when 
they  had  last  met,  but  with  the  same  frank  hearty  tone  in  his  voice, 
the  same  warm,  strong  shake  of  the  hand,  the  same  merry  sparkle 
of  the  eye  as  ever. 

L    L  2 


A   CASE  OF   CONSCIENCE- 


"'Why,  P1iil»  you're  dropped  your  Cambridge  h^biu  of  earlj- 
nsng.  Yim  inosl  go  to  Genn^iny  for  a  few  months  to  learn  wm 
i^aiti  there,  my  boy.     What,  dissipatiDg^  late,  eh  ?^* 

**  Yet»  old  fellov,  I  was  at  a  hop.  But  go  and  plant  yourself  in 
the  arm-diair  in  the  room  ootstde,  and  divert  yourself  with  thf 
T^meg  for  teti  minute<,  and  I  '11  be  with  you  ;^>or  go  and  make  it* 
Cttfeg.     I  *U  hare  tome  benefit  from  your  German  education.' 

"•  Yes ;  and  1 11   leave  your  d*x»r  ajar,  so  that  we  can  talk  wh 
fom  dress.     But  look  alive ;  for  I  hare  limited  time,  and  an 
■Dted  appetite.** 

The  two  fneods  set  about  their  separate  tasks  In  the  sep«r«te 
apcrtment^ ;  but  the  coffee  was  ready  long  before  the  gf  nilemwi, 
aod  Melrille  cpu^  not  wait  for  the  nppearance  of  his  friend  before 
Ite  renewed  the  dialogue  in  the  Fyramus  and  Thisbe  fashion. 

**  Phil — I  ^ar,  Phil,  you  \e  read  my  note  ?** 

**  Oh,  ye*— Oh  I  the'deril  !  "  

•*  What's  the  matter?     What  is  there  in  my  note  to  tRTokef 
fe*/e(  about?" 

"Oh,  lioditi^:  bat  I  was  sbavvitg  as  you  spoke,  Mnd  yoo 
me  Stan  stud  cut  myself/' 

"Well,  Berer  mioit— ctl  and  come  again,  as  they  %*y  at  tin 
BQg4ioase.  Phil,  my  boy^  Lucy  's  in  town^ — What  f  hat^ti'  yoi 
yourself  s^in  ?** 

^  Ye-es — DO — ^yes.  Bo;  we  can  talk  when  I  come  out  I  shall 
be  raidy  directly." 

'*  Well,  be  sharp  in  arraying  your  loireltness.  It  was  beeautc  I 
was  not  sure  she  was  in  town  that  I  thought  I  might  have  to  «urt 
into  Kent  this  morning.  She  is  staying  in  Dorset  Square.  I  have 
sent  a  note  to  say  that  I  will  call  at  eleven.  I  couldn't  well  go  ear* 
Uer^  con  Id  I?" 

**  Of  course  not — decidedly  not — very  early,  very  early.** 

"  It  seems  to  me  very  late.     But  come,  make  haste.     Surge,  ai 
mate  deS,     Come  forth,  thou  learned  man  !  " 

Very  reluctantly  did  Emerson  obey  the  repealed  summons ; 
be  was  obliged  to  join  Melville,  and  bustled  aliout  with  unusual  ti 
amon^  gridirons,  pepper-cruet%  and  trivets,  and  whenever  3li?U" 
began  to  talk,  cut  him  short  by  expatriating  on  the  manner  in  whi^ 
men  lived  in   chambers,  its  points  of  similitude  and  dissimilitti 
with  a  Cambridge  life.     By  such  topics,  and  a  perpetual  siicce>s»t^ 
of  hot  chops,  he  strove  to  keep  him  from  reverting  to  the  dread 
subject  of  Lucy  Hillary.     However,   his  stratagems  did  not  at! 
him  long.     Melville,  who  had  been  very  silent  for  bo  me  minuO 
suddenly  now  in  turn  interrupted  him  in  the  middle  of  an  eloqus 
demonstration  of  the  superiority  of  the  neck  over  the  loin,  and  in  | 
earnest  tone  saiti, 

**  Ves,  ye^,  old  fellow,  the  breakfast  is  very  good;  but  I  want 
speak  seriously.     Are  you  offended  with  me?** 

•* Offended  with  you,  Charley?  Good  heavens!  no,  Why^ 
could  make  you  think  so?" 

'•Oh,  nothing;  but  I  half  fancied  that  you  were  displeased  st  i 

not  having  told  you  sooner  of  my  i- V  nded  marriage.     You  seen 

to  avoid  I  he  topic.     I  don't  want  to  bore  you  about  it ;  but  it  is  1 

myself  that  I   should  tell    you   why  it  hai  been  kept  a  se< 

long.     You  know  what  an  odd-tempered   man   ray  grandfather 


k  CASE   OF   CONSCIENCE. 


4ei 


was,  and  how  he  wrote  from  India  and  insisted  on  making  a  mer- 
chant of  me,  when  my  pnor  father's  death  left  me  dependent  on  him, 
id  how  he  desired  that  I  should  first  spend  a  year  in  the  northern 
"•ea-port  towns.  Some  points  of  detail  had,  however,  to  be  arranged 
before  I  started  ;  and  the  interchange  of  letters  between  my  grand-* 
father  in  Calcytta  and  myself  in  EfiglaiKl  caused,  of  course^  a  eonsi- 
derable  delay.  1  was  not  very  well  at  this  lime, — you  were  >n  y<mr 
tour  in  Greece.  I  was  very  dull  and  lonely  in  Loudon,  anvl  i  gladly 
accepted  an  invitation  from  Frank  Hanson,  oi  Corpus,  to  t^iine  and 
stay  with  him  at  his  living  in  Kent.  There  I  met  Lucy  Hillary. 
She  was  a  great  friend  of  Frank's  wire;  and  you  know  how  much 
people  in  a  country  place  are  thrown  together*  Hanson  had  some 
pupils  with  himj  whom  he  was  cramming  for  the  university  ;  as  you 
recollect  he  shone  more  as  a  mathematician  than  as  a  classic  ;  and  I 
was  able  to  be  of  some  use  to  him  in  the  latter  department  in  train- 
ing one  or  two  of  his  pups,  who  were  meant  for  Oxford.  J  stflyed 
with  him,  while  awaiting  my  grandfather's  final  sailing-orders, 
nearly  three  months  I  don't  mean  to  inflict  a  love»legend  on  you  ; 
but,  what  with  botanizing,  sketchingj  walking,  riding,  and  boating 
t€»gether,  Lucy  and  I  got  very  fond  of  each  other,  and  before  I  left 
Kent  we  were,  and,  thank  heaven,  are  engaged.  The  difficulty  was, 
what  would  my  grandfather  say  to  it,  I  knew  him  to  be  an  odil- 
tempered,  arbitrary  man  ;  he  had  sternly  cautioned  me,  in  a  general 
letter  of  advice  and  instruction,  against  what  he  called  the  miserable 
madness  of  hasty  wedlock.  1  was  entirely  dependent  on  him,  and  I 
felt  it  my  duty,  for  Lucy's  sake,  not  to  run  the  chance  of  exasper- 
ating him,  and  exposing  her  to  poverty  and  privations  by  marrying 
me,  instead  of  my  having  a  good  home  fur  her,  and  maintaining  her 
in  her  proper  station  of  society.  It  was  quite  certain  that  I  was  to 
go  abroad  for  a  year,  and  I  thought  that  I  should  have  a  better 
chance  of  propitiating  the  old  gentlemrm,  and  obtaining  his  consent 
to  our  union,  or,  at  least,  of  procuring  from  him  some  certain  per- 
manent provision,  if  for  the  present  I  said  nothing  about  the  subject 
of  matrimony  ;  but  went  abroad,  attended  to  commerce,  and  gained 
the  good  opinion  of  Pulley,  Brown,  and  Co.,  Ins  London  correspond- 
ents* We  therefore  determined  to  keep  our  engagement  a  secret. 
Of  course  Hanson  and  his  wife  were  aware  of  it,  but  we  could  trust 
them  ;  and  each  of  us  promised  the  other  not  to  mention  it  to  any 
one.  That  promise  is  the  reason,  Phil,  why  you  have  not  heard  of 
this  sooner;  for  a  promise  **  a  promise,  and  must  be  kept  all  the 
world  over," 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Emerson,  **a  promise  *>  a  promise*  and  must  be 
kept;  but  it  is  sometimes  rash  enough  to  make  them." 

**  I  went  abroad/'  continued  .Melvilk,  *^and  worked  hard  at  com- 
merce for  some  time, — much  harder  than  I  ever  could  have  done  at 
toil  BO  uncongenial  as  my  new  duties  at  first  appearetl,  had  it  not 
been  for  the  thought  of  Lucy,  and  Hie  reflection  that  I  was  working 
for  her  sake.  But  my  grandfather's  death  has  now  left  me  free  to 
do  what  I  like,  and  to  leave  undone  what  I  dislike,  and  his  will  has 
made  me  very  tolerably  independent  of  working  at  all  at  anything* 
I  don't  mean  to  say  that  1  am  glad  of  my  grandfather's  death  per  xe  ; 
but  it  would  be  mere  affectation  to  pretend  violent  grief  at  the  loss 
of  II  relation  whom  one  has  never  seen,  and  wlio  has  been  dead  and 
baried  three  thousand  jniles  away,  three  months  before  one  receives 


46:: 


OF    CONSCJENCE. 


tfce  kCter  umovndng  has  decease.  So  here  1  am  back  in  Englmd 
wA  and  mmnd^  and  sooa  to  be  bappT.  I  mean  to  settle  half  my 
Miyyetlj  on  Lucj  ;  and  of  ootirse  I  want  some  kind  and  judirioni 
frieiid  to  act  as  tmatee  of  the  settlement.  Phil,  I  'm  right  in  reckon. 
ing  opoo  jo«i,  am  I  not  ?" 

"  Mel«^e^  I  will  do  for  jroa  all  that  is  honourably  and  properly 
in  my  power." 

■*  Thai  *s  a  good  fellow  :  I  knew  you  would.  And  now  I  most  he 
off,  I  bare  some  boshiess  calls  to  make  in  the  city,  and  at  elerm  1 
sball  join  Locy.  Xow,  good-bye.  If  yon  do  not  see  me  this  i  " 
DOOQ,  1  will  send  jou  a  line,  and  we  will  meet  again  very  soon/ 

MelriUe  stepned  cheerfully  and  fleetly  down  the  stairs,  and  doi 
and  noodily  did  Emerson  return  to  his  arm-chair,  more  diftr 
and  more  embarrassed  than  ever.   The  sig:ht  of  Melville,  the  cordh 
trustful  hoirtiness  of  bis  manner,  had  made  the  old  friendship  thr 
still  more  strongly.     Emerson  felt  that  there  was  no  pain,  no  1 
no  peril  that  he  would  not  gladly  encounter  to  help  his  friend, 
heart  warmed  at  Melville's  opening  prospects  of  wealth  and  stada 
it  shuddered  at  the  abyss  of  domestic  misery  which  -was  j^awnia 
before  him.     And  such  a  generous  open  nature  as  MelviUe >,  hoi 
thoroughlr  did  be  evidently  confide  in  the  girl  of  bis  choice  l^^o^ 
noble^  ana  free  from   any  crafty  calculation,  any  narrow  su^pidf? 
precaution,  was  the  affection  which  he  bore  towards  her.    That  sud 
a  man  should  be  wronged  seemed  a  double  sin.     lie  had  evidently 
throughout  their  en^gement,  been  true  to  Lucy  ;  he  had  ihougH 
of  her,  hoped  for  her,  and  toiled  for  her.    And  how  had  she  behave 
towards  him  ? — how  had  she  sho^-n  the  ^delity  of  fondness^  the  dt^ 
licacy  of  affection  which  ought  to  characterise  a  woman's  hear  ~ 
No  doubt  the  instance  of  her  misbehaviour  which  he  had  heard  [ 
night  was  not  a  solitary  case;  but  even  if  it  waii,  what  a  shockii| 
want  of  sincerity,  propriety,  and  principle  did  it  show  in  her  ? 
course  the  fellow,  whoever  he  was,  would  reappear  when  she  ' 
married,  and  what  sort  of  a  home  was  poor  Charles's  likely  to 
Without   calculating  on  the  very  worst,  without  dwelling  on  the 
frightful  probabilities  that  crowded  upon  his  unwilling  imaginatioa 
Emerson  reflected  on  the  blighting  disappointment  that  must,  soon  ' 
or  later,  come  over  the   feelings  of  his  friend,  on  discovering 
true  character  of  her  whom  he  wedded.     Many  men  marry  aa| 
mere  matter  of  convenience,  because  matrimony  is  a  badge  of  i 
tpectabtlity  in  the  station  of  life  which  the\^  happen  to  fill,  or 
cause  ihey  want  their  domestic  comforts  looked  aiYer,  and  tliinkj 
wife  not   much  more  costly,  and  rather  more  trustworthy  than] 
housekeeper.     Such  men  neither  want  nor  deserve  true,  deep  alfal 
tion.    As  long  as  the  conventional  proprieties  of  connubial  attend^ 
are  preserved  they  are  perfectly  satisfied  ;  they  desire  no  more,  j 
they  do  not  appreciate  any  more  if  they  get  it.     Deep  ardent  love 
is  wasted  on  them :  it  runs  off*their  hearts  like  water  off  a  dockV 
back.     Any  woman  who   preserves   the  decorums  of  life   is  good 
enough^ — nay,  is  too  good  for  them.     But  IMelville  was  not  one  of 
these.     Emerson  remembered  how,  from  boyhood  upwards,  hts  at* 
tachments  had  always  been  of  the  most  earnest,  uncompromi^in 
nature.     What  be  liked  he  always  liked  with  all  his  heart  ant]  sou' 
he  was  sure  to  love  with  the  $%ame  fulness  and  enthui^iasm   of  feel^ 
* '»'»  ;  and  never  was  a  disposition  mora  frank  and  free  froi 


A   CASE    OF   CONSCIENCE. 


463 


doubts  and  selfish  reserves  than  his.  Emerson  recollected  also  how 
strong  the  domestic  affections  an  his  friend's  bosom  had  been  while 
he  had  a  home ;  he  knew  by  what  he  had  seen  and  heard  how  bit- 
terly Charles  had  felt  the  gradual  loss  of  home,  through  his  sisters' 
marrying  and  going  abroad  with  their  husbands ;  and,  finally, 
through  the  death  of  his  father.  To  the  new  home  which  he  was 
about  to  make  for  himself*  Charles  would  be  sure  to  trtiat  for  all  his 
pleasures  and  all  his  comforts  ;  and  what  sort  of  a  home  was  likely  to 
be  made  for  him  by  that  Scrubville  flirt,  that  mean,  deceitful,  cold- 
hearted  being,  to  speak  the  least  harshly  of  her  conduct? 

*' And  from  all  tins,"  thought  Emerson  again,  "and  probably  from 
worse, — from  the  public  ignominy  in  which  that  mo^t  false-hearted 
girl  is  likely  to  involve  his  name^ — from  all  this  I  have  it  in  my 
power  to  save  him  by  a  few  words,  by  a  few  lines  ;  and  yet  I,  his 
oldest  and  best  friend, — I,  on  whom  he  is  relying  more  than  on  any 
man  living, — I  stand  inactive, — I  am  to  see  him  ruin  himselfi — nay, 
I  am  to  assist  at  the  sacrifice  I  '* 

He  strode,  hour  after  hour,  up  and  down  the  chambers,  reflecting 
on  what  he  had  heard  and  on  what  he  had  promised,  and  the  more 
he  reflected  the  more  painful  did  his  own  position  seem  to  him,  and 
the  more  inextricable  the  labyrinth  in  which  he  had  suffered  himself 
to  become  involved-  His  own  pledge  was  branded  in  his  memory, 
-^*'  Not  to  repeat  what  he  had  heard,  or  in  any  way  to  show  that  he 
was  aware  of  anything  against  Lucy  Hillary."  To  this  he  had  as- 
sented,— to  this  he  had  let  himself  become  bound*  By  no  effort 
of  casuistical  refinement  could  he  bring  himself  to  believe  that 
his  pledge  was  not  binding  on  him^  or  that  he  could  honourably  for- 
feit his  honour ;  he  discarded  as  doubly  vile  all  Bpeculations  upon 
anonymous  letters,  and  similar  stratagems.  The  only  plan  that 
occurred  to  him,  was  to  seek  out  the  person  who  had  imposed  on 
him  the  pledge  of  secresy,  and  to  get  her  to  discharge  him  from  it* 
There  was,  however,  one  little  difficulty  in  the  way  of  this  saving 
scheme,  which  was,  that  he  had  not  the  least  idea  how  or  where  he 
was  to  find  Mrs,  Omber,  and  procure  the  necessary  conference  with 
her.  All  he  knew  of  her  locality  was,  that  she  came  from  some- 
where or  other  in  Lancashire,  and  that  he  had  met  her  the  night  be- 
fore at  Mrs.  Aslon's  for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  It  was  not  a  case 
for  delay ;  it  would  not  do  to  wait  for  the  chance  of  meeting  her 
somewhere  else  some  other  evening.  The  season  was  nearly  over  ; 
pefiple  were  leaving  town  :  and,  considering  what  hands  lAIelville 
had  fallen  into,  there  was  no  telling  how  soon  the  marriage  might 
not  be  hurrietl  on.  He  resolved,  therefore,  to  go  to  Mrs.  Aston,  and 
learn  from  her  the  means  of  finding  the  object  of  his  search.  Of 
course  he  could  not  say  what  he  wanted  with  Mrs.  Omber  ;  but  he 
was  a  very  old  friend  of  Mrs,  Aston's,  or  rather  an  old  young  friend, 
for  she  had  known  and  patronised  him  from  his  childhood.  He 
Ihought,  therefore,  that  he  might  venture  on  this  voyage  of  disco- 
very ;  but  judged  it  prudent  to  wait  till  the  usual  visiting  hours,  as 
most  likely  to  prove  the  **  juollia  tem^mra  (audi'* 

Mrs»  Aston  was  a  very  agreeable  old  lady,  very  fond  of  the  society 
of  young  people,  and  delighting  in  bringing  forward,  cuunselling, 
and  directing  the  promising  youth  of  both  sexes.  She  had  seen  a 
great  deal  of  the  world,  and  possessed  considerable  shrew*dnes8.  In- 
deed she  was,  like  other  shrewd  people,  sometimes  apt  to  err  on  the 


46i 


A    CASE    OF    CONSCIENCE, 


side  of  rar-sightedness,  and  to  detect  intrignes  and  mancFUirre^wS 
were  almost  or  wholly  itn aginary.  She  received  Emerson  with  h& 
usunl  familiar  kindness ;  but  tlitTe  were  other  visitors  present,  an 
of  course,  he  could  not  begin  the  topic  he  was  anxious  about  lyeft^ 
them.  They  went,  hut  others  caine,  and  call  succeeded  ctill,  Itf 
wave  upon  w*ave,  while  Emersion  sat  by  in  a  state  of  rapidly  i 
creasing  irritability,  playing  but  a  very  indifferent  part  in  the 
versation,  and  fancying  what  people  would  think  nf  hi»  thus  tumiil^ 
a  visit  into  a  visitatioti.  At  last  m11  the  callers  had  departed,  and 
J\Jrs,  Aston,  who  had  noticed  Philip'?*  uneasy,  constrained  manner, 
and  divined  that  there  was  some  motive  for  his  lingering,  sat  before 
him,  looking  quietly  and  fixedly  at  him,  and  evidently  expecting  him 
to  state  what  he  had  called  for. 

He  was  thoroughly  confused  ;  he  felt  obliged   to  say  somethiTi 
and  commenced  with  some  stumbling  commonplaces. 

**  You  gave  us  a  very  pleasant  party  last  night." 

*'  I  did  so/' 

*'  I — I  was  sorry  I  could  not  stay  it  out.     I  left  early/* 

"  You  did  so/* 

**  One  always  meets  such  very  pleasant  people  at  your  house." 

**  You  do  so/* 

Philip  was  reduced  to  silence^  fairly  stumped  for  a  fact  to  serve  i 
a  pet;  for  further  conversation.     Ulrs.  Aston  now  assumed  the  inter- 
rogative. 

*'  Pray,  Philip,  was  it  for  the  sake  of  making  these  venr  original 
observations  that  you  have  been  waiting  to  talk  to  me  ?  What  is  it 
that  you  want  to  know?" 

Fairly  driven  to  desperation,  Philip  bolted  out  his  leading  ques- 
tion,    *'  I  want  to  know  where  to  find  Mrs,  On>ber/* 

*'  You  want  to  know  where  to  find  Airs.  Omber?**  repeated  the 


"  And  pray,  Philip,  w  hat  do  yoo 
But  do  you  know  where  she  is  } 


old  lady,  pausing  on  every  word. 
want  with  Mrs,  Omber?*' 

*'  I — I  must  not — I  cannot  say. 
Pray,  pray  tell  me/* 

'*  Philip  Emerson,  are  you  mad  ?*' 

"Not  quite  at  present ;  but  I  believe  I  shall  be  soon  driven  so. 

**  Philip/'  said  the  old  lady  with  an  air  of  great  dignity,  **  I  mu 
tpeak  seriously  to  you  :  you  want  advice  and  warning.  Philip,  y 
fiirt  too  much,  I  have  noticed  it  in  you  for  some  time,  and  1  oug 
to  have  spoken  to  you  about  it  before.  Not  that  I  object  to  flirting 
in  moderation  among  young  people ;  it  anitrates  thero,  and  makes 
snciety  amusing  ;  but  it  must  not  be  carried  too  far.  An<f,  Philip, 
BIrs.  Omber  is  a  married  woman.  She  was  thought  pretty  some 
years  ago;  but  I  really  did  not  think  that  you  could  be  so  infatu- 
ated. Your  ttie-tj'lete  with  her  last  night  was  remarkable,  and  I 
assure  you  it  was  very  much  remarked.  There,  now,^don't  tell  me 
that  I  am  mistaken  ;  it  was  impossible  to  mistake  it.  My  eyes  are 
cild,  but  they  can  see  as  clearly  as  most  peoj>le*s.  However,  this 
Can  gi*  no  further,  that  is  one  comfort.  AH  I  shall  tell  you  about 
jUrs.  Omber  is,  that  1  know  she  and  her  husband  were  to  ^tart  to- 
day for  the  Continent ;  so  it  is  impossible  that  you  should  see  he? 
for  a  long  tiiue  to  come  ;  and  l  am  sure  tlinl  a  youitg  man  of  your 
sense  will  sliou  have  forgotten  all  about  licr  Now^  don't  pretend. 
Philip,  tliat  you  had  no  such  motives  in  asking  me  about  her.  What 


d 


A  CASE  OF  CONSCIENCE, 


465 


thers  coultl  you  have  ?  You  see  you  cannot  answer*  You  must 
not  turn  away  like  a  peevish  boy.  I  am  your  best  frien<l  and  ad- 
riser,  and  so  you  will  own,  on  a  very  little  reflection.  So  now  good 
"bye  ;  but  I  shall  hope  to  see  you  here  again  soon  as  merry  as  ever  ; 
and  you  will  always  find  in  this  house  the  truest  welcome  and  the 
truest  kiiulnes>C 

Philip  left  the  house  almost  sjivage  at  the  increase  of  his  embar- 
rassments, and  at  the  baffling  series  of  misconceplions  by  which  his 
efTorls  for  the  best  only  resulted  in  working  worse  confusion.  As  he 
walked  sullenly  along,  with  his  eyes  bent  on  the  tips  of  his  boots, 
in  turning  a  corner  he  oearly  ran  against  a  party  of  pedestrians, 
and,  on  looking  up  to  apologi&e,  saw  before  him  tharlts  iMelville, 
with  Lucy  Hillary  on  his  arm  ;  and  Mrs.  Traill,  Lucy's  aunt,  and  a 
covey  of  i^Iisses  Traill,  closely  tbllowing.  Lucy  recognized,  and 
bowed  to  him  w^ith  the  ntost  |ierfect  ease  and  self-p05Si  ssion,  only  a 
a  very,  very  slight  smile  of  some  significance  was  perceptible  for  an 
instant  round  tlie  corners  of  her  lip?,  Melville  eagerly  introduced 
him  to  the  Traills,  and  he  was  eagerly  pressed  to  return  with  them 
to  Dorset  vSquare,  from  which  they  were  not  very  far  distant,  and  to 
join  their  family  dinner- circle,  A  messenger  had  been  dispatched 
to  Furnivars  Ion  with  an  hwitntion  for  him  ;  there  was  nf>  need  of 
ceremony,  or  going  back  to  alter  his  dress  ;  they  dined  at  six  pre- 
cisely,  and  it  was  already  half- past  five.  Emerson  accepted  at  ran- 
dom. He  had  worked  his  ill- humour  up  into  a  fttiite  of  desperation, 
and  between  Afrs.  Traill  and  the  eldest  Miss  Traill  he  suffered  hhu- 
self  to  be  led  captive  along,  making  very  abrupt,  incoherent  answers 
to  the  elder  lady's  remarks,  and  not  volunteering  any  of  his  own  to 
the  younger  one.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  crown  of  Lucy's  bon- 
net, which  he  thought  covered  the  most  artful  hypocritical  head  that 
ever  w^ore  tortoiseshell  and  ringlets. 

During  part  of  the  interval  which  elapsed  between  their  reaching 
the  house  and  dinner-time^  Melville  and  Emerson  became  joint 
tenants  of  a  dressing- room »  and  of  course  an  opportunity  was  given 
for  conversation  between  the  two  friends,  which  Emerson,  if  he  had 
felt  less  thoroughly  wretched,  w^ould  probably  have  man  ceo  v  red  to 
avoid  ;  but  he  was  in  a  state  of  doggetl  moroeene^Sj  and  took  no 
trouble  to  avoid  anybody  or  anything, 

"  Why,  Phil/'^aid  Melville,  as  soon  as  no  third  person  was  within 

earshot,  "  I  find  tiiat  you  and  Lucy  Hilbiry  know  each  other.    When 

I  said  that  I  had  been  breakfasting  with  you,  ami  s^poke  of  you  as 

ly  oldest  and  best  friend,  Lucy  guessed  whom    I    mcnnt,  and  de- 

icribed  you   immediately.     She  says  she  has    repeatedly   met  you 

'  during  this  season,*' 

•*  Yes  1  believe  she  may  have." 

'*  Well,  it  *s  odd  that  you  did  not  say  this  morning  that  you  knew 
her.     Did  not  the  name  strike  you?" 

^^      *'  Whv,  one  meets  so   many  people  in   town,  after  the  Ispse  of  a 

^■little  time  names  are  quickly  forgotten/* 

^K     **  Yes  ;  but  Lucy  tells  me  that  she  met  you  last  night, — at  a  Mri, 

^jAston*8  I  think  the  place  was," 

^K-     **  Ay} — f/fii  Miss  Hillary  tell  you  that  she  met  me  last  night  at 

^^Mrs.  Aston*8  ?" 

The  peculiar  tone  in  which  this  was  spoken  arrested  Melville^s 
attention.  He  turned  and  looked  fixedly  at  his  friend  :  Emerson  was 


A  CASE  OF  CONSCIEKCE. 


4fi7 


now  and  then  he  caught  her  eye  on  his,  and  saw  the  same  quiet  sig- 
nificant era  lie  upon  her  lip  wliich  he  had  noticed  when  thej  met  in 
their  walk.  This  exa^iperated  him  more  and  more,  and  he  felt  more 
and  more  indignant  at  her  shamelessnesa  and  perfidy,  and  more  and 
more  commiserative  of  poor  Charles.  Meanwhile  **  poor  Charles" 
observed  aomething  of  the  way  in  which  Lucy  eyed  Emerson,  and 
began  to  get  a  little  jealous— only  a  very,  very  little,  byt  quite 
enough  to  sour  the  pleasantness  of  his  society. 

The  dinner  was  at  last  over ;  the  ladies  left  the  room,  nor  did  the 
gentlemen  linger  long  behind  tljem.  Melville  was,  of  course,  anxious 
to  rejoin  his  intended  ;  and  Traill,  who  had  fancied  from  Emerson's 
manner  that  he  was  a  conceited  coxcomb,  who  wanted  to  play  Cap- 
tain Grand  over  his  company,  for  chore  to  press  an  extra  bottle  with 
his  usoal  hospitable  zeal.  On  their  reunion  upstairs,  matters  lookeil 
at  first  as  black  as  they  had  done  down  below  ;  bwt  there  was  one 
among  the  parties  interested  who  had  a  keen  observation,  a  cool 
judgment^  a  resolute  will,  and  tact  and  perseverance  in  working  out 
that  will.  This  was  Lucy  Hillary,  Lucy  had  a  portfolio  of  prints 
before  her,  which  she  had  been  arranging  in  a  particular  order  ; 
Melville  was  sitting  near  her  ;  two  of  the  IVHsses  Traill  were  fulmi- 
nating on  the  piano,  and  creating  that  happy  mask  for  earnest  con- 
veraation  which  music  always  provides,  and  for  which  it  indeed  de- 
serves the  praise  of  all  ;  for  if  we  do  not  listen  to  it,  we  are  enabled 
Ay  it  to  listen  to  the  sounds  we  love  bcFt*  Emerson  was  leaning 
gloomily  against  the  wallj  in  the  true  Lara  fashion,  when  Miss  Hil- 
lary turned  to  him  and  said, 

**Mr.  Emerson,  I  remember  that  at  Lady  Vellum's,  last  week, 
you  were  praising  Turner's  paintings  :  here  are  some  very  beautiful 
engravings  from  them/' 

Of  course  Emerson  was  obliged  to  approach  the  portfolio^  Melville 
began  to  turn  over  the  prints,  and,  after  the  first  five  or  six  they 
came  to  some  prints  of  Scenes  on  the  Essex  Coast,  Emerson  looked 
at  Lucy  ;  Lucy  looked  first  at  him  and  then  at  Melville.  Melville 
and  Lucy  smiled. 

**  Is  this  mtteh  like  the  rocks  in  the  bay  below  Scrub ville,  Lucy  ?'' 
said  Melville.  Lucy  blushed  a  little^  but  still  smiled.  **  I  think, 
Lucy,"  said  Melville,  "that  those  rocks,  near  which  we  met  that 
odious  Mrs.  Omber  looked  more  boldly  upon  the  sea/' 

'*What,''  interposed  Emerson  eagerly,  **  whatj  Charley,  were  ^ou 
ever  at  Scrubville?" 

**  Yes/*  said  Melville,  '*  I  was  there  in  September,  for  a  day  or 
two.  I  knew  that  the  Hansons  were  there,  and  that  Lucy  was  with 
them  ;  so  I  played  truant  over  in  a  timber- ship,  but  was  obliged  to 
keep  very  much  out  of  the  way,  for  fear  some  of  Pulley  and  Brown's 
people  should  recognise  me,  and  report  me  to  my  grandfather/' 

**  You  need  hardly  have  feared  recognition,"  said  Lucy,  "  in  those 
absurd  mustachios  which  you  wore  thenj  and  which  made  the  wise 
folks  of  E^sex  take  you  for  a  si>ldier/' 

Emerson  drew  a  long  deep  breath, — a  load  was  taken  off  his 
heart,  and  he  felt  like  a  bottle  of  champagne  with  its  resin  and  wire 
knocked  off*  He  received  one  quiet  glance  of  intelligence  and  for- 
giveness  frfim  Lucy,  which  told  him  how  thoroughly  she  had  seen 
through  his  blunder,  and  made  him,  while  he  blamed  himself  for  hav- 
ing suspected  her  so  undeservedly,  feel  doubly  rejoiced  on  his  friend's 


^h 


THE  n»wFjt  CT  THE  r  :c&. 


;  Ed.  kcrac  ginarf  maA.  a  wide.     X«  1 

tfaac  th«viixt&>  iCie  hisneif  freci j  forxiie  E^stfsrKc  r'^r  iiek  axiduki^.  and 
Cor  hi:»  ir*^  itLj*:.*  ti:*yx;E^£A  resfKcriz^  Ziex.  persiipft  HcituIc^  if  he 
vere  miK5e  &vxre  o^  cen.  aiix^:  =<:c  i=ti  h  <qi,i"T  ts^-r  t<>  do  so, 
ami  ihe  sq^  b«  the  oaeac^  g^  decri^lux  '^Jtr  aubo^d  oc'tbe  Cricnd- 
ihfp  whica  4ce  k=ew  be  Taladd  n-i^ic  A  locL  aliierasfoc  Es  PhiHp'i 
■unzer  fnoa  relie^eci  CbfLTjes  cc'  :ze :  jea  i^uc  he  wa*  his  own  frieod's 
sacceMril  ri^al ;  or,  a£  >ajc.  he  thof^ht.  6^ci  tLe  vebetELent  dirta- 
tifxi  vhTch  Ecenoci  imsediiseiT  bezLi  viic.  riie  eLcfest  Hlss  Trazli. 
tiiaC  hz:i  1^'i^cd  i  heart  cxLd  ijoc  ha.Te  b«ea  ««rT  ferioa^j  woaodeJ. 
Hie  pretecce  oC'  t>je  Kxddea  departare  oc"  a  bid  toocriacbe,  and  an 
iwcant  dow  ot*  Livetr.  cLeerfal  ^ptritf.  scrred  vii::  ihe  rest  to  accoant 
ftx  paft  deficiencei,  izkI  to  p.ace  PLilip  h%ci  ::i  :A-our.  He  kmg 
rejoiced  in  the  happi3e»  of  MelrilLe  azxd  Luc\  :  jinJ  he  Dcrer  forj^oC 
the  lessMxi  which  he  had  learned, — coc  to  let  others  «<Janteer  their 
eanAiicntLal  cotnm  anxarincw,  not  to  pledge  his  h':'njur  withoat  le- 
flectioQ,  and  not  to  get  again  inToKed  in 

▲   CA«S   OF   CONSCIENCE. 


THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  FOLD. 


On  earth  t.j  wr.;ch  we  ciinz  ; 
Tli^r.?  :*,  t'».  v«ie  remeinJ-er'd  face. — 

BikK  ble»fx^«n  with  them  bring ! 
There  is  a  hupe  that  luuks  abwe, — 

The  reed  t«i  which  ve  h«>ld  ; 
And  i»  there  not  some  heart  «e  love. 

some  flower  of  the  fold  ? 

Joy,  joy  upon  the  breeze  doth  come. 

It  usliers  in  the  Urth 
Of  one  more  link  to  '*  home,   tweet 
home,'* 

Another  diiW  of  earth. 
Affection  swells  within  the  breast 

Of  kindred,  young  and  old. 
To  welcome  in  the  Uttle  guest, 

Tlie  flower  of  the  fold ! 

A  babe  is  on  iu  mother's  arm, 

In  quiet,  dreamless  sleep, 
With  infant  brow  as  still  and  calm 

K%  sunshine  on  the  deep  ! 
^1ld  mtrry  children  gather  round, 
Tith  steps  that  love  makes  bold, 
teh  In  that  sweet  trance  profound 
flower  of  the  fold! 


rith  rosy  mien, 

4  the  mom, 

the  Tillage 


She  »t«x>p«  to  pick  » -ooe  weed«  to  lifaid 

Within  her  locki  of  gold. 
And  laoghin.Hv  trips  nn  the  maid. 
The  flower  of  the  fold  * 

A  few  more  yean,  that  haippy  one 

Has  left  the  pleasant  fields,' 
And  to  a  distant  school  is  gone. 

Where  joy  to  study  yieidji. 
But  summer,  with  its  festal  train. 

Brings  home  acnMs  the  wold. 
With  spirits  gav,  and  well-known  strain. 

The  flower  of  the  fold  ! 

Two  graceful  forms  are  in  a  room  : 

A  youth  of  no!»le  air, — 
A  lovely  maiden  in  the  bloom 

Of  womanhood — most  fair  ! 
Their  hands  are  cla^pM  in  fond  embrace. 

Their  vows  have  just  been  told. 
And  who  in  that  new  guiite  can  trace 

Tlie  flower  of  the  fold  ? 

Alas!  how  beautiful  in  death 

That  marble  brow  appears  ! 
A  single  day — her  gentle  bn»th 

Is  borne  on  high  'midst  tears  ! 
A  holy  sleep  has  closed  her  eyes, 

Her  youthful  heart  is  cold. 
And  drooping  low  for  ever  lies 

The  flower  of  the  fold ! 


469 

THE  GAOL  CHAPLAIN; 
OR,  \  DARK  PAGK  FROM  LIFE'S  VOLnME. 

CBAPTBft    LXIX. 


A  TiLAlT  OP   fiTl»KEY   SJflTH. 

*^  ReGned  pcilicv  ever  has  been  tb<*  parent  of  canftLsinn,  and  ever  will  be  so  at 
lung  OS  (.h«  Wi>rlil  eiidunrs.  Plaifi  m:^^'^)  iat«;niton,  which  it  *»  eauily  discovered  at 
the  first  vi(*vr  ns  fraud  is  aurely  detcettrd  at  laxt,  is  of  ntj  mean  forcif  in  the  liforem- 
ment  of  m.itiktnd.  Oenuitie  simpltdtjf  of  heart  iia  healing  aad  cementing  prin* 
CI  pie," — Burke. 

While  penning  in  ray  humble  retreat  these  fleetiniir  reminiscences 
of  the  pnst.  tidings  of  the  dtght  of  a  generous  and  disinterested  spirit 
have  made  my  heart  heavy  within  me.  The  %it»  the  mirth,  the 
kindly  sympithy,  and  buoyant  gaiety  of  Sydney  Smith  are  extin- 
guished amongst  us. 

The  unsp^irin^  foe  of  cant,  and  humbu«f,  and  holloiv  pretension  in 
high  places^  Ims  been  struck  down.  Those  who  quailed  beneach  the 
truth  and  vigour  of  hi^  bold  remonstrance  may  rejoice.  The  fearless 
and  the  pi  a  in- spoken  is  laid  low. 

Death  has  marvellously  befriended  that  incomprehensible  body, 
the  Ecclesiastical  Commissioners.  Fearless  of  his  comments,  they 
can  now  expend  £di)0O  on  the  purchase  of  Danbury  Park  for  the 
Lord  Bishop  of  Rochester. 

Holding  only  the  see  of  Rochester,  the  deanery  of  Worcester,  the 
valuable  vicarage  of  Bromsgrove,  and  the  desirable  rectory  of  Bi- 
shopsbourne,  some  curates  there  were  who  were  silly  enough  to 
fancy  that  his  lordship  had  more  homes  than  one: — a  palpable 
error !  Poor  man  !  he  had  none ;  and  so  the  Ecclesiastical  Com<^ 
mi ssi oners  kindly  provided  one. 

Simple-minded  and  ignorant  men  imagined  that  the  Commission 
was  formed  for  the  belter  distribution  of  Church  revenues,  and  for 
the  encouragement  and  aid  of  the  working  clergy.  How  such  phan- 
tasies of  the  brain  can  be  entertained  by  sane  people  is  *'  wholly 
wonderful  I  " 

None  but  those  who  knew  the  man — ^I  am  not  now  speaking  oi 
the  brilliant  essayist  or  the  vigorous  reasoner — can  form  an  adequate 
idea  of  his  hatred  of  injustice,  of  his  ready  sympathy  with  the  suf- 
fering, of  the  promptitude  with  which  he  succoured  the  struggling 
and  the  de&ervmg,  and  nf  the  practical  manner  in  which  he  carried 
out  his  principles.  Take  the  point  of  patronage.  As  a  writer,  he 
always  field  thiit  patronage  was  a  trust  of  the  most  stringent  nature, 
and  to  be  exercised  by  churchmen  in  a  manner  the  most  di^iinte- 
restcd.  Now  it  by  no  means  followed  that  because  he,  as  a  writer, 
contended  for  these  opinions  that,  as  a  Church  dignitary,  he  should 
carry  them  out  into  practice.  Had  he  forgotten  his  creed  when  in- 
vested with  profess!  ►nal  rank  aud  authority,  there  were  those,  and 
not  a  few,  to  kc^p  him  in  countenance.     The  Whigs  came  into 


zitiir    -r^.   Tia-  lo-irsciai : 


'1^      ?s*;tn:L^ fr=:nmr    i    .!_*     J^«T'?Sfc-      }:  had 

~    It:     ~--Jl     — :.-^ir    —::•«-::  jt    -  "Zis  o:  Pticb- 

■_.:i     — -i      :    "L_-     '-r*:..-    -:^    t-  -  .  ^      Tie  m-rt- 


ILL--    ■     -~ ^^   -1.  T  1.  —  -  -  ^-.-.r  '--^ — :--iiiinsc  »is  ii_3.  li^s 

«■>— -11,     -s  m    .    i-.-.r.  -      :  .'     z  -i"    icic    .III-    ^-z-  Ti        ■   1  .'J. 

ITiii^iXi  :iri=^'     -   n^snz^  ^i-«=*fr-^x=..i:    ::r  :-  :*   :ia.-jc:*n<:c  .-•:  the 

if-iiin  iif  £•--"»  --  iii?  r-'-"?  :itir:oil  ^•.■.-rt specie:::  f-."  .  f»>- 
I  mil  ijumesjc  I-  -*  uctj^^.izi  v:  ihi?  wimir-i:: — ■  D.ii  i 
rr  «iiipc  aiT  5r:=irz^.  Tiej  a^-*  ilwij*  per:>js.  and  lo  a 
g^  cSic^SoiK  cTM   rjLi^rw^^     3I_T  pr.rejaiocil  success  i*  the 

aZ.34iid  td  i<  <7oe — bcACt:tul  and  apposite,  by  the 


THE   GAOL   CHAPLAIN. 


471 


P 


W 


ay,  in  no  common  decree — whicFi  rloses  tlie  most  forcible  of  Syd- 
ney Smith's  ocetisional  sermona.  His  clerical  correspondent  was 
anxioua  to  use  it  on  a  public  occasion  of  some  pressing  emergency. 
His  aim  was  to  render  it  subservient  to  those  feelings  of  tuleratjon, 
forbearance,  and  charity,  which  form  the  real  secret  of  ruling  well 
and  wisely,  and  which  the  Premier  is  quietly  adopting  into  his  sys- 
tem of  Irish  policy.  May  they  be  blessed  to  the  tranquillity  and 
prosperity  of  a  lovely  kndl 

*'  56,  Oreen  Street,  Gnwvenor  Squarp, 

"Sir, 
*'  The  story  of  Abraham  and  the  wayfaring  man  was  introduced 

by  me  into  a  sermon  I  preached  at  Bristol  many  years  ago.  It  was 
taken  from  Heber's  edition  of  the  works  of  Jeremy  Taylor, — I  be- 
lieve from  the  life  of  Taylor.  I  have  no  recollection  of  the  words  of 
the  narrative,  nor  any  copy  of  the  sermon^  or  else  I  would  send  it  to 
'  ou, 

*'  I  am  much  flattered  by  your  good  opinion  and  very  kind  ex- 
pressions ;  and  am,  Sir, 

*'  Your  very  obedient  servant,  Syi>nev  Suitu. 

*'lf  you  can  get  the  fable,  allow  me  to  exhort  you  to  thinJt  a  little 
before  you  introduce  it.  1  have  acted  with  uniform  temerity  through 
life;  but  it  may  not  suit  others  as  well  as  it  happens  to  have  suited 

\. 

^^f  «(  Each  heart  in  a  world  of  nutionji,  clHs&ea,  ftod  loidlmduak  :  full  of  frtendshipB, 
en  mi  ties,  indifferences;  ftill  of  being  and  dec'ayv  of  life  and  death  ;  the  past,  the 
prti8«Tit,  and  the  future  ;  the  apriiigA  of  health  aud  enginea  of  di^eaae :  liere  joy  and 
grief,  hope  und  fe^'ir,  hjve  nud  hat«  fluctuute  ;  und  toss  the  HuHen  and  the  gay,  the 
hero  and  the  ciiward,  the  giant  and  tho  dwarfj,  deformity  and  beauty,  on  over-rest- 
lew  varea/'— ^liAVATER, 

I  In  the  anomalous  siate  of  society  in  which  we  live,  again  and  again 

does  the  expression  recur — always  as  commendatory — *•  What  a  daring 
spirit  I"  But  may  not  this  feeling  be  carried  too  far  ?  May  not  occa- 
sions arise  in  which  self-reliance  will  pass — first  into  presumption,  and 
then  into  rebellion  ? 

Does  it  not,  if  indulged^  tempt  the  possessor  to  brave  and  defy  The 

ijtJ FINITE  AND  ThE  EtEKNAL? 

Near  a  village,  in  which  I  lived  when  a  boy,  there  was  a  toll-gate  kept 
\y  an  old  couple  ot*  the  name  of  Ewens,  It  was  placvd  on  a  high-road 
leading  to  a  thriving  market-town,  and  no  incou&iderahle  stream  of  pas- 
•engers  daily  went  through  il.  Mercy  Ewens  and  her  aged  partner 
Jasper — ^a  cross-looking,  alert,  fierce-eyed  man,  much  and  deservedly 
dreaded  by  the  neighbouring  urchins— had  the  reputation  of  being  a  pe- 
nurious couple,  and  rich  with  ah  Certainly  the  keenness  with  which 
they  carried  on  their  calling,  and  tlieir  sparing  participation  in  the  com- 
mon neccflsariea  of  life*  favoured  the  impression,  Mercy,  indeed,  niade 
lecret  of  her  provident  propensities. 


CHAPTER    LXX. 


THE    RJS8I6TLB65   FOB. 


K 


x:  irf-  rL^T^-w"- 


«."..  ».:::"  ii«:'*  -  .-"• '.  -■     -     .'•    "  -      .  -  -  -  j:  -.  _;  _  «:..-.-?:.  :-  .* 

u^-iZ*!  "   ^•''■-  1"  ■---=--1   •        :  :>■     ~.    ::.:>  .:   :r:-     >;r  v  .._  . -_!. 
s  lit  u  'i»t  u-i/::    -  ■-: :  :.  .   :...      :.:r-^:  ■:  -•   :     -,.>..  :  .-  :.,>;.» 

.ym»t  iatg  Tj^  IT.*-  Lll  l-t  "    J-.'--  V     :    »  :„    L  i^t    LZ  ^   ."  :*   :  _«;..:  .     ...•  . 

k  pcTtlti'j  ii^It.  ':  -:  -l-.i-  >;.rtl;  r_;.k'-.'i  :n  tic  I  .•v..>t 
tjci^Aic'i  tTi-Lis.  It  mould  hATe  been  tArefuI!y  *u^''>rt»- 


THE    GAOL    CHAPLAIN. 


473 


eiL  But  Providence,  in  mercy  to  some — in  vengtanm  to  i5/A^rf— veils  the 
future.  Months  rolled  away,  and  with  them,  apparently,  Mercy's  recol- 
lection of  Mr.  Rustwick^s  sarcasm,  //r^  was  a  eonvivialist ;  sang  well 
and  readily  ;  and  it  was  frequently  late  before  the  bachelor  parties,  at 
wbich  he  was  ao  desirable  a  guest,  dispersed.  It  was  his  habit  to  rtde 
Home  UDattended ;  occasionally  the  worse  for  his  potations,  but  inva- 
riably master  of  his  own  tBoveracnts,  and  fully  conscious  of  what  w^as 
passing  around  him.  On  a  piercing-  December  evening,  when  a  bitter 
east- wind  blow,  and  the  thormometer  had  fallen  some  degrees  below 
freezing-pointy  the  musical  party,  at  which  the  gay  bachelor  had  played 
and  sang  to  admiration,  broke  up  a  few  minutes  before  midnight.  Tbe 
aspect  of  affairs  withoyt  was  so  discouraging,  that  Mr.  Rustwick  was 
urged  by  his  host  to  forego  his  intention  of  returning  home,  and  to  re- 
main where  he  was  for  the  night.  He  dechned ;  remarking  that  hia 
people  would  expect  him,  and  that  he  made  a  point  invariably  of  *'  roost- 
ing at  home,  when  he  had  expressed  no  previous  intention  to  the  con- 
trary/* He  then  called  for  his  horse ^  mounted,  and  dashed  gaily  from 
the  door.  His  manner  struck  the  under- groom j  who  opened  for  him  the 
avenue^gate.  Me  was  observed  to  shudder  violently^  raise  his  hand 
quickly  to  his  bead,  and  swerve  in  his  saddle.  He  then  recovered  him- 
self, and  patting  the  favourite  mare  he  rode,  went  off  at  a  gallop.  At  a 
few  minntes  before  one  he  pulled  up  at  the  Five  Lanes  Gate,  and  called 
lustily  for  old  Ewens.  Mercy  made  her  appearance ;  and  her  he  cursed* 
and  paid.  At  two  his  ser^^ants  were  roused  by  hearing  his  mare  dash 
madly  into  the  slable-yard.  There  stood  **  Black  Bess"  with  starting 
eyeballs^  flanks  quivering  with  fright,  covered  with  foam,  and  without 
her  rider.  An  alarm  was  given ;  immediate  search  was  made  ;  and,  at 
four,  Mr,  Rustwick  was  found  lying  in  the  middle  of  the  high- road, 
within  thirty  yards  of  the  toll -house — dead  1 

The  consternation  caused  by  this  event  was  deep  and  general.  The 
suddenness  with  which  Death  had  grasped  liis  victim^ — the  manner  of  his 
approach  ^his  visit  so  unexpected ^-and,  in  the  world's  hollow  phrase- 
olo^,  ao  ill-timed — the  rapid  transition  from  the  gaiety,  and  mirths 
and  music  of  a  festive  party  to  the  death-throe,  untended  and  alone, 
at  the  midnight  hour  on  a  dreary  road, — stunned  for  a  passing  moment 
into  reflection  the  most  careless  and  thoughtless  of  Mr.  Itustwick's  as- 
sociates. 

Nor  was  the  idea  of  foul  play  wholly  rejected  by  many.  No  marks  of 
external  violence  were  visible.  The  body  seemed  to  lie  in  an  easy,  na- 
tural position*  The  clothes  were,  apparently,  undisturbed,  A  hunting- 
watch,  massive  mourning-ring,  and  a  gold  eye-glass  were  found  upon 
the  person,  A  card-case^  papers,  and  some  loose  memoranda  were  dis- 
covered in  the  pockets,  but  no  money. 

Now,  it  was  an  established  fact  that,  a  few  hours  before  his  death, 
Mr.  Rustwick  had  received  from  one  of  his  tenants  a  large  sum,  partly 
in  gold  and  partly  in  hank-notes,  which  sura  those  most  conversant  with 
his  habits  tnaint. lined  he  had  about  him  when  death  seized  him. 

**Into  whoso  hands  had  this  passed  ?— where  was  it  secreted? — could 
it  be  traced?"  were  questions  anxiously  put  by  Mr.  Rustwick's  relatives, 
and  vagiiely  answered.  Cine  there  was  none;  and  though  heavy  rewards 
were  oifered  for  information  on  this  particular  point,  none  was  foith- 
coming.  The  inquest — unavoidable  under  such  circumsijuices  — was 
protracted  and  tedious,  but  elicited  no  hjci  of  importance,     The  medical 

VOL.  XVIII,  AX    W 


474  THE  GAOL   CHAPLAIN. 

crideiice  giTcn,  tended  to  one  and  the  stme  coDdasion — that  Mr.  RaK- 
wick  had  lallen  from  his  horse  in  a  fit  of  apoplexy,  a  result  attribottble 
to  his  sodden  traiwition  from  the  heated  atmosphere  of  a  crowded  roo« 
to  a  temperature  some  degrees  below  freesing-point — to  the  vinoiis  ex- 
citement under  which  he  laboured — to  the  rapid  pace  at  which  he  rode 
— ^^  all  which  drcamstances  predisposed  the  frame,"  so  ran  their  jaigxai, 
to  attacks  of  this  nature. 

^  Berood  all  question,"  the  doctors  continued,  <<  the  cause  of  death 
was  apoplexy  ;**  and  the  conmer  suggested  a  verdict  to  that  effect;  but 
the  jorr  detained  adopting  his  conclusion,  and  insisted  on  this  being  re- 
corded as  the  result  of  their  deliberations — *'  Found  dead  :  but  whetlier 
the  deceased  came  to  his  end  by  hlr  or  foul  means,  the  jury  have  no 
means  of  deciding.* 

The  fiMuky  were  furious.  **Was  their  opinion,  founded  on  a  pott- 
wtori^m  examination,  to  go  for  nothing  ?  Did  the  jury  pretend  to  be 
better  jndges  of  the  results  of  disease  than  themseWes  ?  Was  their  ex- 
perience Talneiess  ?  Were  they,  or  were  they  not,  acquainted  with  tke 
maladies  to  which  humanity  is  subject?" 

^  TiMT  may  k<rr^'*  was  the  reply  of  a  rebellious  old  juryman,  who 
headed  the  oppositioo,  ^yow  may  herr — yow  have  htrred  aforetime  tnd 
may  agin  !  Whar's  the  blunt  Uie  did  man  had  about  'un  ?  Shaw  me 
that  agin,  and  1*11  retom  what  vordick  ye  loike.  They  that  took  his 
hhmt  know  best  whether  he  war  aloive  or  did  when  they  found  'on ! 
Wance  more — whar*s  the  bhmt  ?  ** 

It  was  the  pertinacity  of  this  viyacious  old  gentlonan  which  gave  sack 
iainite  trouble  to  Mrs.  M»cy  Ewens.  He  had  her  examined,  and  cross- 
examined,  and  re-examined,  for  three  mortal  hours,  to  the  amasemoit  of 
the  bystanders^  and  the  unbounded  indignation  of  the  party  herself. 
There  was  eTidently  a  suspicion  in  the  old  man's  mind  that  the  *^  pike  ** 
woman  knew  more  than  she  chose  to  tell :  and  he  repeatedly  begged 
the  '•crowner"  to  **«^'*  Morcy  Ewens,  who  was,  as  he  shrewdly 
obs>»Ted.  the  last  woman  who  saw  the  "  did**  man  *f  aloive !" 

Annoyance  at  her  loss  of  time  and  unavoidable  absence  fiom  her  law- 
ful calling,  seemed  to  exasp^ate  Mercy  far  more  than  the  suspicions  eo- 
tertained  of  her  with  r^rence  to  Mr.  Rustwick. 

^  Many's  the  shilling  I  shall  lose  this  day  I"  cried  she^  rocking  her 
body  to  and  fro.  and  glancing  furiously  at  the  fumbling  coroner,  whose 
shoct-hand  might  have  been  German  text  from  the  premeditation  with 
which  it  was  written;  "Jasper's  a  big  baby  at  the  pike.  He  mind 
a  gate  ?  Hout  I  Any  bully  can  daunt  him  with  a  few  braggart  words. 
Shillings,  said  I?  lt*s  well  if  it*s  not  a  sovereign.  And  all  for  yonder 
ranting,  tcarii^  scapegrace  I  What  the  plague  possessed  him  to  die  so 
neswr  my  door  ?  ** 

*^  You  say,  then,  Mrs.  Mercy  Ewens,**  said  the  drowsy  coroner,  rubbing 
his  eyes  and  walking  up  from  a  doie,  *'  you  say  that  you  saw  this— this 
— -uoibrtunate  gentleman  fall — fall — from  his  house  ?  " 

^'^  Auan  ?  **  said  Mercy,  thoroughly  bewildered. 

^*  From  his  Aorse,*  suggested  the  clerk,  slyly  and  cleverly  prompting 
hb  prindpaL 

^'  Oh  !  ah  I     Exactly.     You  saw  him  fall  from  his  horse,  you  say  ?  " 

'*  I  saw  nothing  of  the  kind,**  observed  Mercy  briskly,  «<*and  I  said 
nothii^  of  the  kind.** 

**  liien,  woman,  what  did  you  say  ?  ** 


THE  GAOL   CHAPLAIN. 


*n 


"  Nothing  like  that  I "  observed  she  of  the  pike^  loudly  aud  stoutly  ; 

••  and  111  plmster  my  words  to  please  no  one.     This  was  what  I  said: — 

That  mna|Tate  who  '»  dead  and  gone  passed  my  gate  in  the  '  sma'  hours** 

let  him  through^     His  greeting  wasn*t  over  creditable  for  a  justice ; 

ir  he  cussed  me  as  the  gate  fell  back.     Indeed^  his  language  was  never 

er  M// piemen tary  1 — I  must  hold  to  that  as  ^tis  truth.     But,  however, 

lis  dander  was  up.     P'raps  the  cold  had  touched  him.     P'raps  he  might 

have  waited  an  instant  moment  at  the  gale.     I  can't  say.     I  don't  Bnd 

my  shoes  in  the  dark  as  quickly  as  I  used  to  do.     However^  he  cussed 

me,  and  that  right  heartily,     I  made  him  no  reply *-I  disdained  it." 

'*  Did  you  oh  serve  anythiug  remarkable  in  his  appearance  ?  " 

"  An  an  ?  *' 

"  How  did  he  look  ?  " 

*'  Mad  and  bitter ;  sat  bolt  upright  in  his  saddle ;  fretting  and  chafing 
as  I  hobbled  up  to  the  gate.  Look,  say  you  ?  He  looked  as  if  he 
thought  old  women  dirt;  and  would  ride  at  em  and  over  *em  if  they 
dared  to  crawl  in  his  track.  He  was  aye  hard  and  scornful  I  So  he 
looked  th^i :  how  he  may  look  now  is  another  matter." 

There  was  frightful  exultation  in  the  emphasis  with  which  these  con* 
I     cladiog  words  were  uttered. 
^^  **  When  did  you  gee  him  again  ?*'  asked  the  old  juryman. 
^^P  **  Never — alivg" 

f  There  was  a  peculiarity  in  her  manner  as  she  replied  to  this  question, 

I      She  paused  slightly  over  it,  as  if  weighing  rapidly  in  her  own  mind  the 

bearing  her  reply  might  have  on  the  proceedings.     This  hesitation  was 

caught  by  the  professional  man  who  watched  the  case  on  behalf  of  Mr. 

Rustwick's  family.     He  instantly  put  the  query — 

"  Did  you  ever  see  him  (the  deceased)  again — alive  or  dead  ?  " 

The  response  was  immediately  and  resolutely  given — 

**  I  never  did  see  him  again,  alive  or  dead.*' 

Thi«  was  deemed  satisfactory,  and  she  was  told  she  might  withdraw. 

Before,  however,  she  could  fight  her  way  out  of  the  crowded  room,  the 
sacceeding  witness  made  a  statement  which  induced  the  coroner  to  order 
her  to  be  detained. 

Timothy  Blowt,  an  **  oul-Uer"  on  a  neighbouring  farm, — whose  hours 
were  very  irregular,  and  who  laboured  under  strong  suspicion  of  poach- 
ing propensities, — declared  on  oath  that "  near  two,  or  somewhere  there- 
abouts,''  on  that  eventful  morning,  he  saw  Mrs,  Ewens  come  out  of  the 
pike,  and  go  through  the  foot-passengers  gate  ;  how  far  down  the  ro«id 
she  went  he  didn*t  know  ;  she  wasn^t  gone  more  than  three  or  four  mi- 
nutes ;  saw  nothing  in  her  band  when  she  returned  ;  **  Couldn't  very 
well  •  it  wor  so  uncommon  dark  and  douly,** — dunuil  it  is  presumed  was 
ibe  young  gentleman^s  meaning. 

Mercy,  when  recalled  by  the  coroner,  admitted  at  once,  and  tn  the 
otost  off  hand  manner  the  correctness  of  Blowt's  testimony. 

She  had  heard  during  the  night,  she  said,  *' a  crooning  noise/*  for 
which  she  could  not  aceonntf  and  she  thought  some  one  was  trying  to 
force  the  gate,  and  '*get  through  raguishly."  She  was**  up  in  no  time:*' 
found  the  gate  all  right ;  and  then  bethought  her  that  the  villains  might 
be  robbing  her  polaloe-pie,  —  as  they  had  done  more  than  once  afore- 
time. She  stepped  into  her  garth  to  see.  All  was  quiet  and  orderly 
tbere ;  and  she  quickly  stepped  back,  glad  at  heart,  into  her  bed.  Had 
the  gentlemen  anything  more  to  say  to  her  ?     She  was  weary,  hungry, 

M   M  2 


476 


THE   GAOL   CHAFLAIX, 


and  very  dry,  and  wanted  to  be  by  ber  gate  again,  whore  **  all  woaldl 

NoaVs-ark  fasbian  by  that  time.'* 

From  this  statement  no  re- examination,  caoniogly  as  it  was  ni 
cottM  induce  her  to  vary.  She  was  proof  against  all  l^al  artific 
left  the  hall  as  self-possessed  as  she  had  entered  it. 


A  costly  tomb  received  the  deceased  magistrate.  Numbers  fol 
him  to  his  grave.  Gossips  prated  about  the  gorgeousness  of  the  ftioenl 
paraphernalia.  Ths  Count*/  Ilef^nld  maintained  the  loss  of  sticli  t 
man  irreparable  to  the  shire,  and  to  society  ;  and  in  six  weeks  he  wu 
forgotten. 

Mercy  still  ruled  at  the  pike*     It  was  observable,  however^  that  she 
now  never  ventured  abroad  after  twilight ;  and  obliged  Jasper,   mO' 
against  his  will,  to  mind  the  gate,  duly  and  truly,  at   all   hours  of 
night.     The  change  was  too  violent*     He  prophesied  that  it  would 
hi  in  ;  and  he  was  correct.     Me  was  attacked  by  an  in  fl  animate^  eold 
trifled  with  the  symptoms,  and  died.     To  the  amazement  of  those  who 
knew  her  attachment  to  money,  the  widow  immediately  announced  her 
intention  of  resigning  the  gate.     '*  It  had  been  let  by  the  trustees, 
she   reasoned,  *'  to  her  husband.     His  name,  not  her  s,  was  over  tbft 
bar,  and  in  the  parchments.    Hiis  death  voided  all  ^tjreemeiiU,  She  koev 
that  much  of  law,  if  she  knew  naught  else.     And  having  a  little  ioifo- 
pendency,  no  living  man,  because  he  'd  a  penny  to  pay,  should  stand 
by  the  gate,  and  cuss  her  more." 

But  what  was  that  *'  little  independency  ?" 

Its  amount  staggered  even  those  who  were  aware  of  Mercy**  thrifty 
habits,  and  the  diligence  with  which  she  had  plied  her  unenviable  call- 
ing. But,  in  reality*  she  possessed  double  the  sum  which  she  gave  the 
world  to  understand  was  hers.  Many  tried  to  counsel^  and  mcire  to 
cajole  her :  but  she  kept  her  own  secret,  and  carried  away  her  spoil  id 
triumph, 

"  None  of  your  banks  for  me  !*'  was  her  cry.  **  1 11  trust  none  on  *em 
after  the  smash  of  Morton  and  Rodick,  Bethink  ye  of  the  Welling* 
borough  bank  I  Because  oUl  Morton  was  a  born  miser,  and  seemed  to 
grudge  every  penny  he  spcnt^  folks  thought  his  bank  as  safe  as  the  Bank 
of  England^  and  that  nothing  could  move  him.  But  their  faith  was 
somewhat  shaken  when  he  shut  up  about  ten  o'clock  on  the  market-day 
raomiugj  and  never  opened  again.  Hal  ha!  ha!  I  *ve  heerd,  loo, 
afore  now,  of  bankers,  the  night  before  they  broke,  sitting  up  tiU  cock- 
crow, and  burning  all  their  books,^ —  ledger,  cash-book,  day-book, — all 
to  baulk  their  creditors.  1  Ve  known,  too,  a  clerk  who  managed  a 
savings-bank  run  oif  with  the  money ;  wearisome  enough  for  those  w; 
had,  bit  by  bit^  laid  it  by,  and  came  at  Christmas  to  claim  it.  And, 
to  money  lent  on  promissory  notes,  how  are  ye  to  know  whether  he  who 
borrows  it  is  a  man  or  a  mouse  ?  It  ^s  often  all  promise  and  no  pay* 
Now  1 11  not  be  fooled.  I  II  have  what  neither  man  nor  devil  can  take 
from  me,  —  1 11  have  that  which  will  neither  bum,  nor  waste,  nor  melt 
away, — 1 11  have  land  f* 

*  ♦  ♦  #  #  # 

On  the  eastern  coast,  not  far  from  the  aguish  but  aspiring  little  water* 
ing-place  of  Walton  on -the- Naxe,  stood  a  sunny  homestead,  built  in  the 
cumbrous  and  substantial  fashion  of  former  days;, — to  which  some  thirty 


.he 


Oil 


THE   GAOL   CHAPLAIN. 


477 


'  capital  land  were  annexed.  Its  owner  had  recently  deceased  ; 
and  in  his  will  had  subdivided  his  property  into  snch  minute  portions 
that  the  disposal  of  ihia  farm  was  indispen sable.  While  it  remained  en* 
tire,  to  carry  the  provisions  of  the  will  into  eflfecl  the  executors  found  to 
be  impracticable.  Mercy  bid  for  it.  She  had  previously  convinced 
herself,  by  actual  inspection,  of  the  value  of  the  farmstead,  of  its 
ample  accommodation,  and  excellent  state  of  repair.  Better  g^razing* 
land  than  that  around  it,  she  was  told  by  experieuced  judges,  Essex  did 
not  boast.  Tlie  only  drawback  on  its  value  ^as  its  proximity  to  the 
sea.  But  then  it  stood  in  a  bay,  sheltered  on  each  side  by  projecting 
crags, — ^was  screened  from  the  inroads  of  old  ocean  by  a  strong  sea-wall, 
and  was  deemed  by  those  who  lived  near  the  spot  thoroughly  secure. 
That  the  German  Ocean  gained  on  each  side  of  the  estate,  —  towards 
Harwich  on  the  one  hand,  and  St,  Osyth  on  the  other^^was  admitted  : 
but  Sunnyside  Farm,  it  was  averred,  the  tide  never  affected.  In  fifty 
years  not  five  feet  of  soil  had  the  waters  removed  from  it.  Still  Mercy 
hesitated  ;  pondered  in  silence  over  the  nearness  of  the  house  to  the 
cliff;  remembered  that  the  acres  she  was  about  to  buy  lay — none  of 
them  inlaudt  hut  skirted  dosei^  the  t^panse  of  ocean  ;  and  seemed,  on  se- 
cond thoughts,  to  shrink  from  completing  her  purchase.  While  hesi* 
tat  in  g  she  was  offered  a  premium  for  her  bargain.  This  decided  her* 
•*  If  it  was  a  good  spec  for  another,  it  was  a  good  spec  for  lier  !'*  She 
at  once  professed  herself  ready  to  sign  the  agreement ;  and  desired  the 
deeds  to  be  made  out  forthwith.  Tlie  purchase-money  was  paid :  Mrs, 
Ewens  took  possession  of  her  antique  home,  and  became  a  landed  pro- 
prietor. Nothing  could  look  more  promising  than  her  crops ;  or  in  a 
stale  of  better  culture  than  her  land;  and  the  smiling  suns  of  August 
shone  upon  her  a  thriving  and  a  prosperous  woman.  She  reaped ;  and 
she  laid  up,  and  **  gathered  into  barns ;"  and  in  the  excess  of  her  exult- 
ation declared  she  "dreaded  no  foe  who  on  t  A  in  ear  ill  could  molest  her  :" 
she  had  **  taken  good  care  none  htre  could  harm  her.''  The  boast  was 
premature.     She  was  about  to  combat  a  foe  who  was  resistless* 

September  drew  on,  rainy,  fitful,  and  tempestuous.  The  equinoctial 
gales  blew.  Strong  tides  set  in  ;  each  with  greater  vehemence  than  its 
predecessor  ;  and  one  morning  she  was  roused  from  sleep  by  a  tremend- 
ous crash,  ^—  speedily  explained  by  the  unwelcome  announcement  that 
forty  feet  of  cliff  had  given  way  in  front  of  the  farm-stead,  which  now 
stood  on  the  verj^  verge  of  the  ocean.  From  that  moment  the  current 
of  the  North  Sea — so  capricious  and  uncertain  are  the  operations  of  the 
mighty  element  I — seemed  changed.  It  ceased  to  tell  upon  the  project- 
ing crags  which  had  hitherto  sheltered  Sunny  side  :  but  seemed  bent  on 
enlarging  the  bay,  and  making  a  more  decided  sweep  inland*  The  an- 
tique farmstead  speedily  disappeared.  No  sea-wall  that  Mercy  had 
means  or  opportunity  to  raise  stayed  the  progress  of  the  advancing 
enemy ;  and  in  four  years  the  little  territory  of  the  boastful  woman  had, 
bit  by  bit,  crumbled  away. 

♦  ♦••♦♦ 

In  the  darkest  comer  of  the  day-room  in  the  women^s  ward  at  North- 
npton  workhouse  there  lingered  on,  not  many  years  since,  an  aged 
erson,  whom  her  companions  in  misery  all  more  or  less  feared,  and 

were  unanimous  in  describing  as  *' a  godless  old  body,  whose  thoughts 

and  ways  were  far  from  ca^nny/* 

She  was  irntable,  restless,  i>eevish,  nneasy, — sorely  burdened  by  d<i- 


478  THE  OLD  ELM-TREE. 

crepitude,  and  yet  ladly  averse  to  die.  All  allusion  to  the  fotm 
seemed  hateful.  What  remained  to  her  of  intellect  reverted  incessantlj 
to  the  past.  She  would  sit  the  livelong  day,  and  murmur  eagerly  to 
herself,  as  if  striving  to  silence  hy  self-vindication  some  compunctious 
feelings  which  arose  within  her. 

**  No  crime  to  roh  the  dead — none— ^one  I  False  oath  ? — ^no  I — no ! 
never  took  one  in  my  life  I  I  said  I  never  saw  him  again  alive  or  dead. 
'Twas  truth — truth  I  He  wasnt  dead ;  for  he  was  warm,  and  breathed. 
He  wasn't  alive  ;  for  he  «ould  neither  speak  nor  move*  Ha !  ha !  ha  I 
Good !  No  lie  ? — none  I — none  I  But  he  gprasped  his  note-case  tigfat 
— tight  I  Well,  there  was  one  beside  him  who  wanted  it  more,  ud 
grasped  it  tighter.  Ho  I  ho  I  'twas  a  lucky  chance.  But  where  is  it 
all  now  ? — ^Down— deep  down  in  the  sea,— the  cruel,  restless,  devour- 
mg  seal 

Whether  these  expressions  had  reference  to  any  previoos  period  of 
her  life ;  whether  they  explained  any  gloomy  mystery  connected  with 
the  past;  or  whether — as  the  workhouse  surgeon  contended  —  tbey 
simply  indicated  the  presence  of  mania  in  one  of  its  many  varied  forms, 
those  must  decide  who  are  enabled  by  previous  study  and  long  experi« 
enee  to  distinguish  accurately  between  Uie  workings  of  conscience  and 
the  visitations  of  disease. 


THE    OLD    ELM-TREE. 

A  soifo  for  the  noble  old  elm-tree. 

That  many  an  age  bath  seen. 
And  still  looks  forUi  from  its  thrune  of  earth. 

The  pride  of  the  village  green  ! 
A  host  might  bide  'neath  its  ample  shade, 

And  there  in  the  days  of  old 
Our  sires  would  rest,  and  merrily  jest. 
As  their  youthful  feau  they  told. 

Oh  the  old  elm -tree  I 
'Tis  pleasant  to  me 
To  list  to  the  sound  of  iu  minstrelsie  ! 

And  still,  when  the  sultry  day  is  past. 

The  Tillagers  cluster  round. 
And  trip  along  to  the  jocund  song. 

Till  the  tree  gives  back  the  sound  I 
The  feast  is  spread,  and  the  forester, 

With  a  heart  of  mirth  and  glee. 
Drinks  to  his  lass  in  a  brimming  glass, 
And  then  to  the  old  elm-tree  I 

The  old  elm-tree ! 
*Tis  pleasant  to  me 
To  list  to  the  sound  of  iu  minstrelsie  ( 


47*) 


BRIAN  O'LINN; 

OII> 

LUCK  IS  EVERYTHING. 

BY   THE    AUTHOR    OP    '*  WILD    SPORTS   OF   THE    WEST.*' 


CHAPTER    I. 

BaUfporeeo .-^Notice  of  myself ♦^Tlie  Velhjw  Gentleman, — Hi»  ftrrival,  conver&a* 
tion,  aQd  departure. 

'*  Barriko  Bannagher,-^  and  everybody  knows  Umt  Bannagljer 
bates  the  de^^l, — give  me  Bidlvporeeii !"  observed  an  fliTreeable  gen- 
tleman, wlio  had  roofed  the  royal  mail  in  my  comptmy  from  the  IriHh 
capital.  "  If  you  would  set;  the  town  in  all  its  j^lory,  choose  the 
market-day,  and  sin  mid  it  be  the  Murgymtire,*  why,  all  the  better. 
For  courting,  1 11  baek  Bully poreen  agaiubl  the  world  ,-  and  if  you 
have  a  fancy  to  try  the  temper  of  your  twjir  upon  a  skull j  and  ascer- 
tain whether  bone  or  blackthorn  ia  the  harder,  take  a  tender  steak  at 
the  *  Cut  and  Bugpipes/  with  a  couple  of  stiff  tumblers  afterwards  to 
assiiit  digestion,  and  then,  if  it  'a  the  heel  of  tlie  evening,  slip  fiur  and 
aisy  into  the  crowd.  You  II  not  he  long  there — if  yon  Imve  any  luck — 
until  ye  meet  some  pleasant  fiersonage  trailing  his  cofffmorct  after  him, 
and  requesting  anybody  and  everybody  to  tratnpupun  the  same.  Why, 
then,  all  you  have  to  clo  is  to  put  your  toe  delicately  upim  the  hem  of 
the  garment, — and  if  one  of  you  is  not  down  before  a  d*ig  could  ht-ar  a 
whistle,  why,  never  believe  myself,  Dan  Delany,  although  I  kissed 
calfiikiii  to  the  same.     And  now,  God  bless  you,  if  it 's  possible  l  *' 

Such  was  the  valedictory  observation  of  my  fellow  traveller,  as  on  a 
beautiful  morning  in  Junej  the  royal  mail,  at  seven  a.  m,,  rattled  into 
the  town  of  BuHyporeen,  through  a  street  composed  of  mud- walled 
cabins,  and  held  in  joint*tenancy  by  bipeds  and  quadrupeds, — men, 
women,  and  children, ^ — pigs,  ducks,  and  donkeys.  Fur  hours,  I  had 
been  amused  with  the  racy  and  natural  wit  then  indigenous  to  an  Irish 
ooaeh'box — and  occasionally  laughtd  htartily  at  guard,  driver,  and  out- 
sldea,  a»  they  tilted  good-humourfdly  with  each  i>ther  ;  and  certainlv 
the  contrast  forced  upon  me  between  *'  the  leathern  convenieiicy  "  1 
wasperchifcl  upon,  and  tiie  beltL^r*appointed  EItgli^h  stage,  was  awftilly 
against  the  latter.  I  bai^e,  in  my  wanderhi|Ts,  sat  beside  a  **  hucon-fed 
knave,'*  held,  in  road  parlance,  to  he  a  **  spicy  coachman/*  For  sixty 
miles  I  never  could  extract  from  htm  aiight  more  extensive  than  a 
monosyllable  ;  and  throughout  the  journey,  the  heer-swilling  btast  was 
niggard  of  speech,  as  if  he  had  been  a  prohationer  from  La  Trappe. 

Irish  drivers  art*  now  defunct — and  Pat  Daly  wiis  almost  an  nliimus 
Bomatmru7n,  He,  poor  fellow,  who  could  not  bear  a  go  l*t/  on  the  road 
of  life,  speedily  foHo wed  his  brethren,  and  "  tooled  "  his  last  stage. 
He  died  in  his  voc^ition  ;  for,  having  gnod-naturedly  consented  tii  the 
inside  passengers*  playing  a  game  of  blind- hookey  for  a  round  of  tum- 
blers, in  a  hurry  to  retrieve  lost  time,  and  huthcrcd  by  thirteen 
JohnniesX  and  a  ft«g^y  night,  pwr  Pat  slipped  olF  the  highway  into  a 
quarry,  made  mithtrcens  of  the  royal  mail,  and  broke  his  own  neck 
mio  the  bargain. 
*  The  large  market,  f  AngUioe^  great'COat,  X  ^niall  glasses  of  whiskey. 


BRIAN  O'UNN. 


The  entrance  to  Ballyporeen  is  steep— an d>  though  a  wheel  wv 
locked,  we  came  down  the  street  at  a  spanking  pace. 

"  Fat/*  said  I> ''  from  what  this  gentleman  tells  me,  the  Bailfprntm 
boya  must  be  a  pleasant  set.  Might  I  inquire^  are  the  fiiir  mt  m 
agreeable  ?*' 

'*  Ah  !  then,  npon  mj  conscience,"  returned  the  driver,  ^*  thm  \ 
some  good-looking  trouts  in  the  same  place.  Would  your  bonoiir  vuk 
to  fiee  a  trifle  of  them  ?" 

I  graciously  assented,  and  Mr.  Daly  continued, — 
" Aa  this  is  Sunday,  they'll  be  preparin'  to  go  to  mass.  Well— !» 
matter — ye  must  take  them  as  they  come-  Tbejr  '11  hardly  irttft  tfl 
finish  their  toilette,  as  the  ladies  call  it*  Corney,  jeirel,"  he  nil 
turning  to  the  guard,  **  give  us  a  tearin'  blast  of  that  ould  tin  trumpet'* 
The  guard  replied  instantly  by  a  '*  loud  alarum" — uhJIe  ilfr,  Daly  is 
a  voice  of  horror  exclaimed,  **  Ob  Jasus  I  the  child  .'   the  child  I" 

It  is  almost  unnecessary  to  observe  that,  in  taking  the  census  of  SB 
Irish  cabin,  the  '*  two-yiar-oulds  "  may  be  fairly  averaged  at  half 
score,  and,  consequently,  that  the  alarming  outcry  of  Air.  Daly  brou,  " 
the  whole  establishments  of  the  street  to  their  respective  doom, 
most  admired  disorder/'— eacb  and  every  offectionate  family  being  tmder! 
an  assurance,  that  some  **  young  Astyanax"  of  their  own  had  been  im* 
inolated  by  the  royal  mail,  as  eflvctually  as  a  faithful  devotee  is  crashed 
by  the  car  of  Juggernaut.  AH  tiocked  out  in  desperate  haste^-^i 
several  of  the  ladies  in  that  classic  costume,  which  painters  ussagn 
to  Di&na  and  her  nymphs,  when  the  rash  huntsman  interrupted  their 
ablutions*  One  unhappy  matron  trampled  on  a  clutch  of  duckling;^ 
then  reposing  on  her  threshold  in  false  security  ;  while  her  nexl 
neighbour  bounded  into  the  street  with  flushed  cheek  and  bloody 
razor,  to  raise,  as  terror  whispered,  the  mangled  remains  of  a  first 
pledge  of  love  and  heir*appjirent  to  his  property.  All  were  in  dir« 
commotion^ — and  yet  no  mutilated  babe  could  be  discovered,  while  a 
hon»e-laugh  from  the  coach  rendered  it  quite  evident,  that  Mr.  Dal/ 
had  turned  out  a  half-dressed  community  under  false  pretences. 

Before,  however,  the  irritated  ladies  could  obtain  a  supply  of  paving* 
stones,  Mr*  Daly  was  out  of  range,  while,  in  a  sort  of  hurried  duet, 
"Oh,  bloody  murder!  my  ducks!"  and  '*  Oh,  holy  Moses!  my  chinT 
ended  in  a  full  choral  burst  of  **  May  the  divil  smash  yeV  neck,  Pat 
Daly  I — oh  !  ye  rulhn  of  the  world  V*  But  on  rolled  the  coach,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  we  pulled  up  at  "  The  Cat  and  Bagpipes/* 

When  I  apprise  the  gracious  reader  that  I  am  an  Englishman  by 
birth,  and  neither  a  tourist  ni>r  a  bagman, — have  no  intention  of 
rying  a  railroad  through  Connemara, — am  not  a  member  of  the 
ciation,  nor  an  envoy  from  Exeter  HaJl, — care  not  a  brass  button 
Thresham  Gregg  seated  in  the  stocks,  and  Tom  Steel  taking  gentle 
exercise  upon  the  treadmill,^ — be  may  very  naturally  inquire,  what  the 
devil  brought  me  to  Ballyporeen?  A  shrewd  question,  by  the  mass! 
and  one  which  a  short  Ijiograpby  of  myself  will  best  resolve* 

I  was  born  on  the  English  side  of  the  border,  and  am  descended 
from  as  stout  a  family  as  ever  slipped  twenty  horsemen  across  the 
Tweed  by  nuKinlj^^lit,  and  transferred  a  Scottish  herd  to  the  paatures 
of  NorlhumberlauJ,  I  believe  that  half  my  forefathers  fell  in  raid  or 
brtttli? ;  and  1  aui  pretty  certain,  by  an  authenticated  record,  that  a 
couple  were  hanged  on  Harribee  Hill,  fur  a  trifling  infraction  of  metnm 
and  iuHtn.    In  a  word«  they  were  a  busy  and  a  thriving  race ;  and. 


f  car*       I 


A 


BRIAN  O'LINN. 


4di 


while  tliey  prudently  confined  tbeir  opcrationa  to  eattle^teulingj  they 
prospered  as  they  deserved — btit,  suadente  diabolo^  they  bi*gan,  for- 
sooth, to  duibble  in  politics.  In  "the  tifteeii"  they  joined,  unltickiJy, 
the  losing  side;  and  in  '*  the  forty-five"  they  sustained  a  lo8«  of  lialf 
adoasen  of  the  best  sheep-farms  from  Norham  to  Netherhy»  Gradually 
the  good  old  times  wore  away,  and  even  the  borderers,  fur  lack  of  en- 
couragement, became  honest,  and  exchanged  the  spear  for  the  sickle* 

I  was  bred  up,  half  sportsman  and  half  sheep-farmer — and  at  oiie* 
and-twenly  could  send  thirty  yards  of  silk  across  the  Tweed,  kill  a 
grouse  clean  at  fifty  paces,  ride  respectably  over  a  country,  and,  in 
«Iiort,  exhibited  general  accomplishments,  which  it  would  ill  become 
me  to  enlarge  upon. 

My  fatber  farmed  six  hundred  acres — the  land  was  bis  own — ^and, 
as  he  htid  no  rent  to  pay^  he  enjoyed  rural  comfort  in  its  fullest  extents 
The  succesision  being  confined  to  me,  my  sire  eschewed  a  lieutenancy 
in  the  Durham  Militia,  and,  like  the  elder  Norval, 

"  Kept  myself,  hia  oidy  son,  at  home/* 

It  was  late  in  October, — I  had  made  a  hmg  excursion  through  the 
moorland,  tilled  the  game-bag  amply^  and  reached  home  late  on  a  fine 
dear  frosty-feeling  evening,  when  I  was  informed  that  a  stranger  had 
arrived  a  couple  of  hours  before,  and  very  unceremoniously  had  invited 
himself  to  supper*  Had  he  been  young  and  well-favoured,  my  sisters^ 
two  blooming  borderers,  would  not  have  been  particularly  displeased  at 
the  intrusion ;  hut,  by  general  consent,  he  was  described  to  be  an  anti- 
quated dwarf,  '*  as  ugly  as  original  &in,  and  by  no  means  so  iigreeahle/* 
My  curiosity  was  raised — and,  when  I  had  exchanged  my  uet  garments 
for  dry  clothes,  I  hurried  to  the  supper-room,  and  there  found  the  in- 
truder seated  with  my  father,  and  perfectly  ut  home- 

On  a  hasty  examination,  I  decided  that  the  young  ladies'  picture  of 
the  stranger  was  by  no  means  over-coloured  ;  for  a  plainer  specimen  of 
the  lords  of  creation  I  never  looked  upon.  He  was  a  thin,  shrivelled, 
bald-pated  dwarf,  scajcely  five  feet  four,  his  diminutive  proportions 
being  encased  rather  in  parchment  thun  human  skin.  1 1  is  cheeks 
were  hollow,  his  complexion  yellow  as  a  kite's  claw  ;  bis  arms  singu- 
larly long,  tleshless,  and  sinewy  ;  his  face  was  nearly  beardless,  and 
his  eyebrows  turned  the  wrong  way.  In  short,  the  tmU-ensemhk  of  hia 
outer  man  was  so  extraordinary,  and  his  attitude  so  grotesque  as  he  s*it 
confronting  my  father,  with  one  long  lean  leg  crossed  upon  the  other 
knee,  thut  1  could  scarcely  restrain  a  burst  of  laughter.  There  was 
something  also  irresistibly  comic  in  the  perfect  ease  in  which  tlie  little 
fellow  seemed  to  feel  himself,  m,  turning  a  superficial  glance  on  me» 
he  carelessly  remarked, 

*'  A  son  of  yours,  eh  }" 

My  father  bowed. 

**  1  would  have  introduced  you  to  each  other,"  replied  the  owner  of 
the  mansion,  *^  did  I  but  know  by  what  name  I  should  designate  the 
gentleman  who  has  honoured  us  this  evening  with  his  company." 

'*  Oil  I  *'  returned  the  satFron-faced  stranger,  *^any  you  select  will  do. 
I  would  rather,  however,  it  were  not  Brown,  Smith,  or  Kobinson — 
they  're  common,  and  1  am  rather  particular/*  And,  taking  a  silver  box 
from  his  coat-pocket  as  large  as  a  traveller's  dressiug-case*  he  dipped 
his  lean  and  bony  fingers  in,  and  refreshed  himself  with  an  extensive 
pinch  of  that  pleas;int  and  pungent  preparation  of  the  weed,  to  senti- 


482 


BRIAN  O  LINN. 


mental  ears  described  as  ''bigb  toaat/'  and  by  the  Tolgu-  ini^lQfalri 
"  Irish  blackguajd/* 

I  lcM>ked  aside  at  my  father,  and  my  hther  looked  aside  at  me»  mi 
the  telegraphic  communication  on  both  sides  made  tbe  simple  imqiiif* 
'*  Who  the  deuce  can  the  little  fellow  be  ?"  Need  I  obsenre,  that  m 
Ikdlitf  with  which  a  question  is  asked  is  sometimes  in  coirrect  mil 
with  its  difficulty  of  solution — and  on  the  preaent  occaaion  %ke  itmtA 
held  goodi 

*'  The  evening  smacks  of  frost,"  observed  onr  agreeable  ▼isitort  mh 
inserted  the  poker  bet%veea  the  bars,  **  and  your  sea^coal  fire  ia  att 
amiss/'  Then  after  a  hasty  glance  at  an  antiquated  watcb,  be  modeiU 
ly  insinuated  a  hope  that  **  our  supper  hour  w^as  tolerably  early/* 

This  doubt  was  quickly  solved.  My  sister  Mary  opened  l^e  door* 
advanced  into  the  room,  and  announced  that  the  erenins;  meal  ra 
served.  Instantly  the  stranger  skipped  briskly  on  bis  legs,  and  preteotd 
one  of  his  long  lean  arms  to  the  young  lady.  Courtesy  obliged  berif 
accept  it — and  the  little  gentleman  moved  jauntily  from  the  apartmeot, 
with  the  prettiest  girl  on  the  border  by  his  sicfe^  taller  than  biouelf 
by  half  a  head,  and  her  peach-like  cheek  contrasting  awfully  with  i 
countenance  which  seemed  to  have  committed  larceny  upon  a  leaKai-p 
box. 

Touching  the  supper  which  our  farm-yard  and  my  gun  bad  afforded, 
the  stranger  was  graciously  pleased  to  express  his  approbation — and,  hit 
bodily  dimensions  taken  into  account^  his  performance  was  mo!^  re- 
spectable. The  doth  in  due  time  was  removed  ;  the  ladies  as  in  duty 
bound  retired  ;  hot  water  and  real  Glenlivet  which  had  managed  to  croai 
the  Tweed,  Border- fash  ion,  without  submitting  to  any  impertinence 
from  the  exciseman,  were  paraded — and  the  old  gentleman  brewed  s 
stoup  of  stiff  toddy  with  a  skill  and  dispatch  which  proved  at  once  that 
he  **  eschewed  thin  potations,"  and  was  utterly  unconnected  with 
Father  Mathew  and  the  '^  Temperance  Shop  over  the  way-** 

There  is  not  a  better  key  to  unlock  the  human  heart  than  a  tumbler 
of  hot  Glenlivet.  The  stranger  felt  and  owned  its  influence — and  after 
be  had  combined  a  second  glass,  and  discussed  the  same,  I  ^ncied  he 
did  not  loc^k  so  like  a  man  recently  recovering  from  an  attack  of  jaun- 
dice, as  be  did  when  we  sat  down  to  supper-  In  the  ensemble  uf  fais 
ugliness  a  redeeming  feature  had  been  overlooked.  His  eyes  were 
black,  piercing,  and  intelligent — and  I  never  saw  so  much  eatpressire 
power  as  their  searching  glances  occasionally  gave  to  the  little  gentle- 
man's remarks. 

'*  Elliott  is  an  old  name  in  these  parts/*  quoth  the  guest» 

**  Yes,"  returned  my  father ;  *'  and  an  honourable  one,  too," 

*'  Humph  ]'*  observed  the  little  man,  **  a  dt^finitton  of  honour  depends 
so  much  on  taste,  that  it  h  difficult  to  underjstand  the  meaning  of  tlic 
word*  The  lawyer,  who  saves  a  criminal  from  the  gallows  by  a  quibble, 
is  reputed  a  credit  to  the  profession.  An  Irishman)  who  levants  with  a 
friend's  wife,  and  shoots  any  kinsman  or  brother  w^ho  may  have  the  im- 
pertinence to  express  displeasure  at  the  same,  in  the  parlance  of  that 
peaceful  and  prosperous  country,  is  reputed  '  a  broth  of  a  boy/  Here, 
m  olden  time,  when  the  eighth  commandment  was  as  much  respected 
as  a  gautfer's  commission,  the  best  cattle-lifter  w^ns  consequently  the 
best  gentleman — and  1  presume,  at  that  trick,  the  Elliotts  were  pretty 
handy/' 

My  father  coloured.     To  question  the  respectability  of  a  lineage  on 


I 


BRIAN   O  LINN. 


483 


Iwliicb,  lik^  Tnost  Borderers,  he  prided  himself  io  iniich,  was  to  offer  a 
mortal  afTront ;  and  it  19  doubtful  whether  the  rights  of  hospitality 
would  have  shielded  the  unbidden  guest  from  an  indignant  outburst, 
had  not  the  host's  eye  made  a  hasty  survey  of  the  offender's  outer  man, 
and  led  to  a  conclusion  that  in  one  of  thews  and  sinews  like  his  own,  it 
I  would  be  infra  dignitatem,  to  quarrel  with  a  thing,  which  looked  liker 
^^  an  anatomical  preparation  than  iiubatautial  desh  and  blood. 
^B  "  It  may,  sir/'  he  said,  **be  your  good  pleasure  to  undervalue  the  fa- 
^Hmily  from  which  I  am  s^pruni^^-but  I  think  that  good  taste  might  have 
^Hliinted  that  any  place  should  have  been  selected  but  the  rooflree  of  an 
^H£lliott|  to  sneer  at  the  ancestors  he  regards  with  reverence  and  pride. 
^^K  Yes,  I  am  proud  of  the  Border-biood  that  flows  through  these  veins — 
^™  and  of  a  name  with  which  brave  deeds  and  true  faith  are  associated. 
When  did  an  Elliott  desert  a  friend  in  his  extremity?  or  when  prove 
false  to  hm  King's  summons,  wdiether  it  were  a  George  or  James  that 
demanded  his  good  services  ?     When  my  great-great-grandfather—" 

"  Never  mind  the  story  about  Black  Archibald,  1  know  all  the  par- 
ticulars* By  the  way,  after  *Hhe  fifteen  "  when  they  hanged  him  at 
Carlisle,  they  paid  him  a  handsome  compliment.  They  stuck  honest 
Archie's  head  over  the  Scotch  Gate — a  favour  seldom  conferred  on  any 
but  nobility." 

*'  Well,  »ir,"  returned  the  hosts  "  his  father's  fate  did  not  deter  his 
gallant  son  from  declaring  for  the  young  Chevalier/' 

**^Aiid  what  did  Dick  Elliott  gain  by  his  loyalty? — A  double  opera- 
tion upon  the  vertebra;  of  the  neck  by  hemp  and  steel.  After  tucking 
him  up  at  Tyburn,  hia  countenance  was  transferred  to  London  Bridge 
to  strike  terror  into  Jacobite  delinquents/* 

My  father  and  I  interchanged  looks.  The  yellow  dwarf  knew  as 
much  of  the  family  history  as  ourselves. 

'*  By  the  way,  I  take  it  that  Dick's  son  was  your  father  ?  "  and  the 
little  gentleman  coolly  extracted  his  box  from  its  pockety  and  refreshed 
iimself  with  a  pinch  of  blackguard. 
My  father  assented  by  a  nod. 

"  He  was  a  plainj  easy-going  personage>— ncTer  was  accused  of  set- 
ting fire  to  the  Tweed — and  the  amoitnt  of  his  ioformation  lay  in  the 
Sualities  of  stots  and  gimmers.  If  my  memory  be  correct,  his  sister 
anet  eloped  with  an  Irish  recruiting-sergeant^  who  passed  himself 
upon  her  for  a  captain  of  dragoons." 

Great  was  the  mutual  astonishment  of  my  sire  and  myself.  For  two 
centuries  the  devil  a  man  had  been  hanged  in  the  family  that  this 
lemon-faced  scoundrel  was  not  as  fully  acquainted  with  the  particulars 
as  if  he  had  attended  the  execution ;  and  the  only  female  escapade 
within  recollection^  was  so  perfectly  at  his  linger-enaa,  that  one  might 
have  supposed  he  had  been  a  subscribing  witness  to  the  marriage  certi- 
ficate. To  the  remarks  afient  Aunt  Janet  and  the  cursed  Irishman,  my 
liather  answered  by  a  broad  stare — ^while  the  little  fellow  made  a  deep 
dip  into  tumbler  number  ttvo,  commended  the  Gleniivet,  aiid  continued 
his  agreeable  remarks. 

*'If  my  recollection  holds,  you  had  a  couple  of  brothers  older  thait 
yourself.  The  elder,  who  was  a  roving  blade,  broke  his  neck  riding 
homej  Bacchi  fknns,  from  the  tryst  at  Dry  burgh.  He!  be!  he  T' 
and  tlie  dwarf  indul}j;ed  tn  an  unearthly  cacchi nation  ivhich  he  fancied 
was  a  lau^h,  *'  An  Elliott's  neck  appejurs  to  have  always  been  the 
most  sensitive  member  of  the  body  corporal." 


484 


BRIAN  O  LINN. 


My  futber  looltetl  nt  me — the  puq>nrt  of  tLe  Inquiry  was  D<it 
mistaken — that  look  requested  my  opitiion  touching  the  protiriftr  J 
ejectiDg  the  visitor  from  the  Av^ndow^  and  sending  him  to  iooge  wA 
the  Iftrka,  I  disapproved,  however,  of  summarj  proceediiigi^-«gid  tk 
yellow  rascal  thus  proceeded — 

"  If  I  may  safely  trust  to  memory — *' 

*'  Oh !  d — n  your  memory  ! "  murmtired  my  father.      1  overhc 
side-remark  distinctly^  but  our  pleasant  visitor  either  did  not  or  vmM 
not. 

"  They  called  him,  I  think,  Dick — no  doubt  out  of  compliment  to  ik 
gentleman  who  had  been  accommodated  with  a  Tyburn  tippet — ondbf 
uli  accounts,  had  Master  Richard  been  permitted  to  reach  maturfty«  k 
would  have  made  a  public  departure  from  the  world,  or  a  yojage  st  tk 
expeni^e  of  the  country*  The  simple  summary  of  his  history  ran  thus- 
correct  me  should  I  be  in  error — I  like  to  be  as  accurate  as  possible—* 

**  Curse  your  accuracy  !'*  was,  sotio  voce,  ejaculated  by  mj  unhappj 
father. 

<*WelI,  Dick  filled  the  parson's  pipe  with  gunpowder — grand  and 
uiiexpected  explosion — reverend  nose  damaged  by  the  same— perpetra- 
tor flogged — in  revenge,  set  fire  to  his  father's  stack-yard — ^^bcilted  froim 
home — embarked  at  Berwick  in  a  collier^ — vessel  cast  aii*ay,  and  the 
young  imp  drowned.     Part  of  the  story  is  incredible," 

*' And  pray  may  I  inquire,  as  you  seem  to  take  a  lively  interest  in 
the  fate  of  the  ill-conducted  and  unfortunate  youtb^  what  partioa  of 
the  story  do  you  consider  not  authentic?  " 

*'  lily  dear  sir/*  returned  the  dwarf,  **  the  youth  was  no  more  diowiK 
ed  than  1  was — my  faith  in  proverbs  is  unbounded — and  rest  a»are4  j 
that  one  predestined  to  pai^s  through  the  hangman's  hands,  could  not  b 
smothered  by  all  the  water  in  the  SoUvay.     But  it  grows  late,  and 
think  111  ttmdle  to  my  bedroom,     I  hope  you  breakf^t  early,     ^^f  J 
general  liour  is  eight — and  I  want  to  be  on  the  move  by  times 
morrow/* 

Au  attendant  and  a  light  were  summoned^the  little  gentlentn 
coolly  bade  us  a  good  night — ^but  when  he  reached  the  door-wty,  i 
sudden  thought  appeared  to  strike  him. 

*•  Young  Swankey" — he  said,  addressing  me,  ^'cold  grofuse  und  tur- 
key eggs  are  no  bad  preparations  for  a  journey — you  take  the  hint  ? 
Do  let  it  be  sharp  eight.  Hope  the  bed  has  been  regularly  slept  in- 
damp  would  be  the  death  of  me  f"  and  so  saying  he  disappeared. 

*'  1  wish  to  heaven  you  were  over  the  neck  in  water  I  *'  ejaculated  mj 
father  as  the  door  closed  ;  **  and  if  you  could  be  drowned — a  thing 
doubt — I  *11  give  you  choice  of  Till  or  Teviot.  Now,  Frank,  who  or 
what  do  you  fancy  this  fellow  is  ?  " 

**  Upon  my  soul,  my  dear  sir,  your  question  is  a  puzzler.  But  as  far 
as  I  can  hazard  a  conjecture,  he  comes  nearer  to  the  general  description 
of  the  devil,  than  any  gentleman  with  whom  I  ever  had  the  honour  of 
sitting  at  a  sup  per -table." 

**  I  wtjuld  na  exactly  say  that  he's  the  evil  one  himser,"  obserred 
our  Lowland  butler,  who  had  entered  the  rouni,  and  taken  part  in  the 
converKation,  "  1  took  a  peep  at  his  taes  as  he  sat  befure  tne  fire,  wi* 
one  spider  shatik  crooked  upon  the  tither  ane,  and  he  *s  no  clooted  tlmt 
1  could  ken.  But,  gin  he  be  na  Satan  himself,  be 's  like  enough  to  be 
the  foul  fiend*s  prime  minister/' 

"  If  he  want  hoofs,  1  can  answ^er  for  it  he  has  no  horns,  Archy/'  re- 


BRIAN   OLINN. 


485 


turned  my  ftither  ;  "  I  looked  sbarply  at  the  fellow's  forehead,  and  he 
has  not  hair  enough  to  conceal  them." 

While  we  were  etideavouring  to  identifv  the  stranger  with  the  arch 
enemy  of  man,  my  honoured  mother  ana  sisters  twain  increased  the 
number  of  ihe  inquest. 

*'  Dear  John,*'  inquired  the  dame,  ^*  do  you  really  consider  it  prndent 
to  retire  to  bed  with  such  a  being  in  the  house?" 

**  And,  as  to  thinking  of  idee  ping,"  continued  the  younger  of  my  sif- 
ters, "  U'ith  that  worricow  in  the  next  rciom,  I  would  aa  soon  expect  to 
cloee  my  eyes  in  the  kirkyard  of  Allenby^* 

"  He  *s  na  sauncie,"  observed  the  butler ;  **  and  I  would  na  feel 
much  surprised  after  midnight,  when  he  works  a  cantrip  or  two  to  gie 
murrian  to  the  kine  an*  foot-rot  to  the  sheep,  if  he  would  Hee  awu'  up 
the  chimley,  and  tak'  his  departure  to  the  place  from  which  he  cam'," 

*'I  rather  fancy,"  I  observed,  'Hhat  you're  pretty  certain  of  his 
company  in  the  morning.     He  has  ordered  breakfast  at  sharp  eight.*' 

'*  And  modestly  desired  that  there  should  be  turkey-eggs  and  moor- 
fowl,"  rejoined  my  father.  "  Curse  the  assurance  of  the  scoundrel !  He 
has  bad  the  insolence  to  insinuate  in  the  plainest  terms  that  our  fv^mxlj 
were  common  highwaymen,  and  treats  me,  in  my  own  house,  with  no 
more  respect  than  if  I  were  the  keeper  of  a  whiskey-shop.'* 

**  Dinna  thra  him  for  a'  that,"  observed  the  butler.  "  He  's  an  un- 
chancy cratur ;  and  just  let  him  get  easily  awa'  in  the  mornin%  The^e 
warlock  bodies  have  awfu*  power  to  do  mischief.  If  you  vex  them  they 
can  make  the  sheep  scabbet  in  one  night ;  and  I  knew  a  consin  of  my 
ain, — ay,  and  she  was  one  of  the  bonniest  lassies  in  Annandale,— that 
gie  some  sort  of  umbrage  to  a  deevil  like  him  that 's  np  the  <tain« — 
wha  kens  that  it  was  na  the  varra  same?  '  Ye  think, I  sopp<ne/aaja 
he,  'that  a'  the  lads  frae  the  laird  to  the  loon  are  dyin'  for  Jove  o'  je? 
Weel,  weel,  mind  my  words— the  deeil  a  bridal-rin^  will  ever  cra» 
your  third  knuckle,  lassie !'  Pare  thing  I  abe  only  mgEed  at  fini ; 
but  ere  a  twalmonth  passed  there  the  wi%  wT  •  basni  m  her  mxwth 
cockit  on  tlje  cuttie-stool !" 

"  Heaven  preserve  us,  Julia  !'*  exclaimed  one  of  the  jaoag  Udic** 
**  What  would  become  of  us  if  he  took  offeacef** 

**  Why  you  *re  sa^,  at  all  events,  from  the  mttir  0mi,  lliiii  Mflg 
no  accommodation  of  that  sort  for  atmier'a  ms  ea  tik»  iUc  tbe 
Tweed." 

*'  Fye,  Fninds !   don't  speak  lOi,'"  ohecrfied  mf  guibM  sMilben 
whose  most  decorous  ears  were  aboeked  eft  mmjiSkmmk  %m ! 
apparatus,  on  which,  in  the  good  old  tiiae%  Mittfaorta 
for  the  edification  of  the  body  polit]^  woA  lfc» 
morals. 

"  Forgive  me,  madam,*'  I  replied.    ''Boft,  itOl,  if  torkef-egp  are 
to  be  had  within  a  circuit  of  ten  milea,  I  wevU  recMBMcad  tlie  fwm 
ladies  to  have  a  supply  laid  is  fow  the  yeOeir 
"oheovedtbebayiftlM 


.udtahei 


"  Yellow,  or  while," 
my  chamber  until  he's  _ 
hia  h/G»  again.** 

The  worda  had  aearcely  pawei  ber Hpa,  when  tWdoiirofttoi 
RNmi  waa  softly  opened,  aad  m  glided  the  iffpt  liid  untit.    Mf  \ 
lamed  pale;  mv  younger    '-      *-  .  .     -  r  .    .     -     .   .    , 
have  been  nustaken  lor  a  ] 
Elliott  aa  any  of  the  aaaM 


I  ta  gmicMi  me  eieaeaa  jraait.     Mf  aMBnv 


484  BRIAN  o*LiN?r. 

,  had  idU  •  BmAamr'm  mntspmthj  to  tio^Ies.  55" 
e  of  ike  Mfiwt-fiMxd  vTftitor,  lie  dtrMel  i 
I  md  jndigaiftiqii  were  Ittilkroosir  bleai- 
dp  I  Iragbid  autngkt,  tiir  Uie  iMirror  of  tlie  old  ierrter 
■eto^  bcfae  looked  on  cndi  a  figvr«^ 

mdoidf  been  prcfMoii^  for  tlie  pillov^ 
to  hod  been  excbamged  for  a  ro&e  dt  €io«- 
I  bold  pote  encooed  in  o  Kllmoraock  olj^ 
OB  ike  oppooite  extremities  of  bis  pent^,  he 
•Mted  dliroen  whidi  opporentlj  nod  been  dred  in  brimstone.  In  kii 
nisJbt  Ihm  be  beld  o  bedroom  condlestidc ;  and  on  making  bia  Mcwi 
cBln^,  Iko  oddftiofi  wkich  the  companj  bod  received  since  be  kod  aldi* 
coied,  tt  all  bod  boped  and  ezfieeted  lor  tbe  nigbt^  did  ool  iu  tbt 
oligbtctt  degree  affect  bia  coinpoaitre.  Some  persona  look  better  wbeo 
cnticallf  dicooed  ;  others  eooaider  their  attractiacia  more  aedaetire  m  i 
hecendmg  diwka^Uit^  In  fdU  costume  the  dwarf  appeared  to  medir 
moit  e3tti»ardtnorf  opectineo  of  Natore'a  workmansbip  which  "  thi«  fiur 
round  dofae^eonlaliied;  bot,  to  see  him  to  advantage,  candJe-fiid^f^H 
Ike  Kimomodc  cap^  and  tartan  dressing-gown  were  absolotelT  iDiliw^H 
peoooble.  On  his  second  dibmt  my  mother,  bj  a  aide-atep,  0/)]pan<nl^H 
ocfaelf  upon  her  liege  lord's  (lank ;  my  sisters  retreated  behind  mc :  ^| 
while  Arch?,  under  the  cownrdJ?  pretext  that  the  fire  required  his  ser*  ^ 
▼ieea,  got  fairly  in  the  rear  of  all,  muttering  as  be  glided  paot  me* 

'*  Speak  him  fair — ipeak  him  fair,  for  the  love  of  God !     Ditmm  thx% 
him  !---Hiinna  thra  him  !  or  he  'U  bring  desolation  upon  us  t'." 

Like  another  Paul  Pry,  the  pleasant  stranger  modestly  expressed  s 
hope  that  he  should  not  be  considered  an  intruder.  There  was  smoke 
in  bis  apartment ;  and  he  opined  that  there  was  a  crow's  nest  in  tbe 
chimney.  He  was  unfortunately  asthmatic ',  and  he  might  as  well  tx* 
pect  to  sleep  over  a  lime-kiln.  He  dared  not  venture  to  open  a  win-  j 
dow  to  ventilate  tbe  chamber;  and  although^  as  a  horse-jockey  would' 
•ay,  his  **  bellows  were  bad/*  and  peat  reek  ineonvenieut  to  his  air* 
pipes,  it  appeared  that  the  little  man  dreaded  the  admission  of  the 
night- wind,— for  asthma  was  bad  enough,  but  sciatica  the  devil! 

*'  When  you  *re  clear  away  from  the  neighbourhood,  I  trust  you  may 
have  a  united  attack  of  the  two/'  muttered  my  father. 

To  brisk  up  the  tire,  and  free  the  room  of  smoke,  would  require  half 
an  hour  ;  ami,  after  delivering  himself  of  this  Jeremiade,  the  little  fel- 
low nTodehtly  concluded  by  venturing  his  opiiuou  that  a  tumbler  of  hot 
todtly  utMild  not  be  amiss^  and  expressed  a  hope  that  the  ladies  would  J 
hmuiur  tbe  symposium  with  their  presence.  Aly  mother  looked  to  mj 
fullier  for  advice;  my  sisters  silently  appealed  to  me. 

"*  Dinna  thru  him  !- — dinna  thra  him  !"  muttered  the  butler. 

In  »  low  whisper  I  alluded  obw^urely  to  the  cutty-stooL     ^Ij  sire  ' 
made  no  opposition.     The  guest's  request  was  complied  with*  and  wi 
wit  down   to  a  dock-an-JurrU,  —  while   through  A rchy>  orders   were 
transmitted  to  the  womankind  of  the  establishment,  to  repair  forthwith  , 
lo  tbe  stranger's  dormitory,  and  restore  the  atmospheric  purity  of 

The  little  gentleman  was  perfectly  at  his  ease ;  he  had  assumed 
fsunr^urr  .)ihi  etirner  iH^sdde  the  fire;  and  when  he  had  fabricated  a 
M  k  his  taste,  he  croicsed  his  spindle-shanks  for  greater  con 

Hi™  ^^,  ...vU  inclined  to  play  the  apreeable.  His  attitude  gratifieL 
ImHuo;  tbe  velluw  slippt*rs  were  clearly  visible  by  the  bright  !ire-lL 
Tke  giA««i's  feel  weri*  like  other  people's  feet ;  and,  if  he  genef 


4 


OUX5L 


«X 


vvj  littlie 

ia  the  iniMnfiifi  TicuitT  mi  mm  iceberg. 
1  m  oMBtrr  tmmhmiimrme  jcC* 
I  bdiete  ererr  w«vd  ke  ap** 


tnrcdtoi 

tcredMiprl 
but  little  sfl 

lie'stalmUji 
irmveir 
Myi 

gentlrviB         !< 

£UICT  1 

fer;  aadli 

"UpqQ«y( 
in  BT  artcr^s  c 

'^  Well,  BT  waaderii^  are  Deirij  < 

"  I  soppoK,  Julia,  he  had  whtf 'silitarj  Bca  call  *  ItATe  beta  tea 
reiaros,'  aad  mml  had  back  to  the  aid  tS^mp,  where  hell  iiad  m 
BcarcitT  of  eoaU.* 

"  And,  had  I  twa  vants  stpfdied — ^  he  paiwed. 

*'  A  coople  of  uxuntrm,  no  doabi,  to  ptcMsnt  to  Beelsebab  oa  his  le- 
ttirn.  Tell  him,  Jolia,  he  shall  hare  the  cook,  if  he  pleaae,— «Bd  that 
she  '%  at  liberty  to  repair  to  the  plaee  she  came  from.* 

The  little  gentleman  dipped  ooce  move  into  his  kigk  Umsiy  took  a  re- 
freshing pinch,— and  thos  proceeded  : 

**  And  jet,  when  I  explain  the  articles  I  reqoire,  toq  would  say  there 
can  be  no  difficnlty  in  providing  both  in  England  withont  tronble  or 
delay.  My  first  want  is  a  wife ;  my  aeoand  an  heir  I  **  and  the  little 
man  executed  a  singnlar  carchination,  at  the  supposed  fi^ility  with 
which  his  double  wants  would  be  obtained. 

*'  I  wonder  to  which  of  you  he  will  propoae,'*  I  whispered  to  my  sla- 
ters, while  my  fath€*r  stared  in  astonishment,  and  my  mother's  graTe 
countenance  plainly  indmated,  that  however  pardcmable  the  disdosure 
of  his  matrimonial  intentions  might  be,  the  second  object  of  the  little 
man's  anxiety  should  not  have  been  communicated  in  the  presence  of 
the  fair  sex. 

The  delicate  announcement  seemed  a  sienal  for  the  dame  and  her 
daughters  to  retire — the  dwarf  ceremoniously  conducted  them  to  the 
door,  and  doffed  his  blue  Kilmarnock  at  their  disappearance.  Present* 
\y,  one  of  our  domestic  spider-brushers  announced  that  the  sleeping 
room  was  free  from  smoke,  and  read?  for  his  occupation.  The  little 
gentleman  rose  and  resumed  his  candlestick ;  while  my  father,  dread* 
ing,  I  suppose,  a  third  Tisitation,  directed  me  to  accompany  him,  and 
see  that  everything  was  properly  arranged  for  the  accommodation  of  our 
distinguished  guest. 

If  ease  of  maimer  be  a  certain  test  of  good  breeding,  certainly  the 
stranger  bad  received  a  polite  education^  fur  never  was  a  gentleman  of 


4»  BUAM  0\JNN. 

L  kHM.     He  stnek  the  caiKJlfitifk 
>  to  fveeede  him  ;  and,  while  he  shniU 
dippm,  I  could  not  help  smiling  at  mj 
I  dsfr  bem^  pvmoUd  to  be  groom  of  the  dumlxT 
k  &  ivsaacace  v^  all  •^ailued  vmt  a  d wf  .  and  whom  others  aTored 
«»  W^ir  AmL  C^  iiiliiiai  hk  dwufi,  he  looked  about  as  if  be  feh 
^  ffiKNvcr  ii—  iVniL  to  iad  fiult  with  —  but  in  this  be  wu 
CBKriwoiffiaL  and  after  careMlj  depositing  his  person  in  as 
_ .  W  ^C  hack  apsn  paft  grieiauccs    ArchT,  it  appeared,  bad 
a  jic  «t  waad  x^i«  las  taes — and  the  diamiiermaid,  no  dooM, 
n£  jai£  exTvected  th«  he  fh—ld  hare  been  found  in  the  monuag 


W  a  1^21^  I  ahoBBznaie  above  another,"  condaded  the 

'«*  I  icxseeed  to  Brsdf,  *  b  a  audi'  jon  are  more  hr 

-^Ami  WW.  TWB  mar  W  «C*  wbaiiitd  the  little  gentleman.    ''At 
r  iW:!  Me  me  at  the  breakfiait-table." 
I  VKj£  W  hector  pfeaaed  to  see  jon  np  to  the  diin  in  a 


r  *  inqnired  tcUow  slippers,  who  bad 

*^  ^UecLT,  4ijaiLMi''ii£  a  wkb  vkich  I  ahould  hope  to  see  realised  in 
tWm«aic.'  •  ^ 

*  A:&i  vte  sk^  that  be.  yaa^ster  ?  * 

-^  TWb  n«r  has  wehi  W  omdartahle,  and  roar  slombcfs  most  re- 


-^  Hrs^ :  *  ietjjjwd  the  Httle  gentleman ;  '^  mere  words  of  ooorae. 
I  suoMe  wee  I  wauec  ia  the  Tweed,  it  would  be  to  too  a  matter  of 

^  F^  fm  h.  KT  «^  lad  !  ^  I  ejaculated  as  I  cKjsed  the  door,  "  I 
mKji  xiae  iftx  sijei^  to  see  too  in  an  element  too  Ye  not  mndi  used 
to.  ^  Ancij  mar  Ke  creched.^ 

TV  a^^  patmrd  a-ai.  cantzarr  to  general  expectation,  the  quiet  of 
KT  fsther's  wmtim  was  andistnrbcd.  If  the  dwarf  employed  himself 
in  STTssac  rhes^  he  cscrvetlj  dtspensed  with  thunder  axid  lightning  in 
lihe  iyeratwci :  aad  eiY*  the  housemaid  admined,  that  next  morning 
ske  cwsjC  in<  saoell  A^f^or  in  the  rnom.  Punctual  to  promise,  eigbt 
o'ciiKk  saw  his  leaa  >c»  under  the  aaahoganT  of  the  breakfiist-toble. 
At  mnew  a  ^Mt-^haiae.  preriouslT  ordered,  dnne  to  the  door — and  tbe 
dwarf  and  h»  traps  were  deposited  in  **  the  leathern  oonTeniencr." 
AcoM^i^  to  the  little  gentleman's  report,  his  destination  wm Carlisle. 
Anchr,  Wirerer,  held  a  diiierent  opinioo — and  intimated  a  belief  tbat, 
wheteier  he  aueht  drire  br  daj,  to  a  dead  ccrtaintr,  he  would  pull  np 
at  a^t  in  Fandemonium. 

Reader,  I  hare  Kwn  rather  particular  in  thus  introducing  a  nameless 
^entWaaaa  to  jour  anjuaintaDce.  When  a  pleasant  personi^  farours 
f^m  with  his  aato-bw^irraphT  in  a  norel,  his  great  object  is  to  keep  jou 
m  hrt  water  throogb  three  Tolumes,  and  mystify  matters  to  the  rery 
last :  but,  far  fram  following  this,  tbe  mo^  approred  plan  of  book- 
Basking,  I  will  let  you  into  the  secret  at  the  rery  start.  My  fortunes, 
and  ire  thousand  a-rear,  are  dependent  upon  the  lean  little  gentleman 
whose  identitr  and  destination  are  so  doubtful, — and  on  the  agency  of 
a  hair^brained  Irisbman,  whom  I  shall  present  to  you  in  tbe  next  chap- 
ter, if  you  will  but  take  the  trouble  to  read  tbe  same. 


489 


GAMMING,  GAMING-HOUSES,  AND  GAMESTERS: 

AN   ANECDOTAL   ACCOtTNT   OF   PLAY,   B0U3£9   OP   FLAY, 
ANO   PLAY-MBN, 

It  js  in  evidence  that  false  dice  have  been  used  by  gaming-house 
keepers,  for  the  infamous  purpose  of  more  certain  and  cxpeditioua 
plunder  of  their  victim  ;  but  this  is  conceived  to  be  an  exception 
to  the  general  principle  of  public  play,  and  practicable  only  on 
very  rare  occasions^  and  on  the  most  inexperienced  and  u protected 
persons ;  for  it  seems  clear,  almost  to  demonstration,  tliat  the 
more  correct  the  princi|>le  observed  by  the  bank  in  their  operations 
of  play,  the  more  certain  must  be  their  regular  advantage  resulting 
therefrom  ;  and,  on  the  contrary,  if  any  unfair  or  preponderating 
influence  were  observable  in  dice,  or  other  implements  of  play,  with 
a  view  to  effect  the  more  frequent  occurrence  of  any  particular 
event  in  the  bank*3  favour,  such  circumstance  might,  and  doubtless 
would,  be  taken  advantage  of  by  one  or  more  experienced  players, 
so  as  not  only  to  defeat  the  fraudulent  design,  but  to  effect  certain 
loss  to  the  bankers^ 

Under  supposition,  therefore,  of  a  fair  number  o^honajlde  players 
at  a  table,  the  only  safe  and  advantageous  course  to  be  observed  by 
a  bank  is  that  of  fair  and  honourable  proceeding,  and  to  depend  on 
the  ever- resulting  per  centage  of  the  game  ;  for  it  most  be  recol- 
lected that  every  real  player  (as  distinguished  from  the  decoy-duck, 
or  hireh*ng  animal  yclcped  a  *' bonnet")  is  interested  in,  and  alike  vi- 
gilant of,  the  operations  of  the  game,  and  of  the  events  decisive  of  re- 
spective loss  or  gain.  Interests  thus  opposed  afford  mutual  protecs* 
lion  ;  added  to  which,  every  player  at  a  public  table  has  the  means 
of  security  against  fraud  under  his  own  control,  which  is  by  con- 
fining his  speculations  to  his  own  operations  of  play,  and  to  those  of 
his  immediate  friend^i,  and  known  persons  of  respectability.  Such 
precaution,  with  minute  examination  of  the  dice,  or  instruments  of 
play,  under  any  doubt  of  their  accuracy,  cannot  fail  to  protect  from 
all  practical  imposition.  These  remarks  apply  only  to  f louses  where 
the  principle  of  the  game  is  allowed  to  operate  fairly  and  freely, 
and  can  have  no  reference  whatever  to  those  dens  of  plunder  termed 
*'  close  houses," — a  term  significant  of  their  purpose  to  admit  only 
the  unwary  and  inexperienced*  excepting  always  the  bonnets  and 
sharpers  attached  to  the  establishment,  by  whose  handiwork  the 
object  of  robbery  of  the  privileged  visitor  and  victim  is  speedily 
accomplished.  Such  dens  as  these  ought  to  attract  the  special  ob- 
servance of  the  police,  and  be  confiscated  to  the  state ;  while 
the  thieves  who  practise  therein  should,  upon  conviclion^^  suffer  the 
severest  penalties  the  law  can  inffict. 

Private  play  does  not,  in  many  respects,  appear  to  offer  the  same 
protection,  or  to  impose  the  same  wholesome  limit  or  restraint. 
Two  or  more  parties  may,  for  instance,  be  opposed,  and  unfair 
means  may  be  resorted  to  by  the  skilful,  experienced,  and  gentle- 
manly sharper  to  a  most  destructive  extent ;  for  if  amongst  persons 
moving  in  gentlemanly  society »  one  suspect  another  of  unfair  prac- 
tice in  his  play,  the  injured  party  is  frequently  restrained  by  aread 

VOL.    XVIII.  N  N 


480 


CAltfTN'G,    GAMING- nOUSES, 


oC  ciwiicqiic iif f  I  firom  durging  his  opponent  with  the  dUgmttd 
act.  ^kkt  oalj  prfwf  of  which  rests  on  the  bare  assertion  of  ibe  pfftr 
lliiig  his  moiiejy  whose  ireracity^  ander  such  circumstances,  oti 
not  be  always  taken  as  free  from  doubt.      The  gentleman  sharper  sf 
thus,  in  ahiiost  ererj  instance  secure  in  his  raguery.     But  no  mA 
OBiotts  silence  is  imposed  at  a  public  table.      Bare  suspscm 
[  there  rouse  the  ire  of  a  player  to  a  pretty  free  and  iodigntfit 
I  of  his  thoughts ;  while  absolute  d^ection  of  fraud  voeU 
pvobahiy  lead  to  summary  and  severe  chastisement  of  the  dilt^ 
qocnt,  if  not  to  the  more  serious  consequence  of  legal  proseconnL 
Xhere  is  a  limit  also  to  loss  at  a  public  table,  to  which  private  fihj 
ia  noa  restricted.     Gaming-house  keepers  of  the  present  day  ord^ 
navily  confine  their  buaness  to  ready^money  transactions,  or  to  a 
▼ary  narrow  detent  of  credit  or  aecommodatiom^  by  way  of  loan,  iml 
ihaa  only  to  persons  of  whose  means  of  repiayment  they  are  prett| 
correctly  inlormed.     They  consider  that  too  great  accommodaiian  ii 
impolitic,— that  *'loan  oh  loses  both  itself  and  friend," — and  ths£ 
borrowing  blunts  the  edge  of  appetite  for  play  ;  they  therefore  pru- 
dently limit  their  credit  and  advances  to  a  ni<>derate  amount,  giving 
lair  chance  of  its  return,  and  a  continuance  also  of  custom.     But  to 
what  sad  and  ruinous  extremes  is  the  system  of  credit  carried  in 
tiannctioos  of  private  plaj  f  in  reference  to  whi<:h  there  is  also  s 
more  strict  obaerrance  of  engagement  to  pay  on  the  one  side,  and  a 
move  rigid  enforcement  of  such  engagement  on  the  other     Tbe  po- 
■ition  and  character  of  a  gentleman  thus  circumstanced  impose  on 
him  the  honourable  discharge  of  his  losses,  or  subject  him  perhaM 
to  the  alternative  of  answering  a  more  imperative  and  fearful  call 
Many  are  the  instancea  of  such  results,  and  not  less  notorious  are  tbt 
examples  on  record  of  the  total  ruin  of  individuals  at  one  sitting  of 
private  play, — the  loser  rashly  persisting  in  his  ill  fortune,  and  hia 
more  fortunate,  and  frequently  more  skilful  adversary,  foLlovring  up 
his  success  vrith  cool  perseverance,  and  under  courteous  pretence^ 
perhaps,  of  affording  to  his  opponent  the  chance  of  recovery.    Under 
impartial  and  unprejudiced  views  of  the  question,  then,  there  does    { 
appear  some  reasonable  doubt  which  of  the  two  causes  is  productive 
of  the  greater  amount  of  social  evil ;  and  the  subject  is  not  un  wortbjr 
l^islative  consideration. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  of  the  canability  of  Parliament  to  pat 
down  the  nuisance  of  public  gaming-houses,  if  it  be  sincere  in  its 
desire  to  effect  such  an  object.  The  confiscatory  principle  of  enactment 
would  at  once  most  effectually  accomplish  the  end,  and  be  far  lets 
objectionable  in  its  course  of  proceeding  than  the  present  hotiae> 
breaking  method  resorted  to  by  the  police,  and  frequently  so  on  in- 
sut^cient  evidence  of  the  disqualified  character  of  the  house  attacked* 
The  principle  of  forfeiture,  while  it  would  remove  all  cause  of  com- 
plaint of  injustice,  would  give  a  death-blow  to  all  gaming-house  spe» 
culations  ;  for  who  on  earth  would  be  mad  enough  to  let  his  property  ^ 
for  the  illegal   purpose,  under  the  ruinous  consequence  attaching 
to  it  ?      Whether  the  result  of  such  successful  abolition  of  common  I 
gaming-houses  would  be  to  let  loose  a  colony  of  sharpers  to  work  I 
their  more  dangerous  system  of  fraudulent  play  in  private,  and  at] 
the  same  time  give  greater  iiupetus  to  private  play  in  general,  is  the 
fjuestion  to  be  decided.     AW  that  is  argued  in  reference  to  gaming 
is,  that  it  should  not  be  permitted,  much  less  countenanced,  in  ofie 


AND    GAMESTERS. 


4fn 


ckss  of  persons^  and  restricted  and  punished  in  another.  The  peer 
who  shakes  his  elbow  to  the  music  of  the  box  ar»d  dice  at  Crock- 
ford's  should  be  no  more  exempt  from  consequences  than  the  poorest 
punter  that  ever  risked  his  penny  at  a  copper  hell 

Passing  from  the  abij tract  consideration  of  gaming,  it  may  not  be 
uninteresting  to  take  a  glance  at  gaming  houses  as  they  have  existed 
under  sufferance  in  the  metropolis  during  the  last  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury. The  regal,  episcopal,  and  aristocratic  parish  of  St.  James's 
has  ever  been,  as  it  still  is,  the  favoured  locality  of  the  speculative 
and  enterprising  gaming-house  keeper.  His  Satanic  Majesty,  who 
is  considered  the  great  tutelary  deity  of  the  class,  appears  to  have 
conferred  marks  of  his  especial  preference  for  this  peculiar  district, 
having  from  time  to  time  peopled  it  with  importations  of  as  busy, 
enterprising,  and  mischievous  spirits  as  Mere  ever  let  loose  on  so- 
ciety, to  run  riot  and  work  destruction  amongst  the  children  of  men. 
Whether  the  site  was  originally  chosen  from  its  advantageous  proxi- 
mity to  the  palace,  its  immediate  contiguity  to  the  episcopal  mansion 
of  the  metropolitan  prelate,  or  for  its  being  the  spot  particularly 
favoured  by  the  countenance  of  the  aristocratic,  wealthy,  and  indo- 
lent of  the  land,  and  therefore  promising  more  favourable  result  to 
enterprise  and  industry,  and  the  force  of  higher  example  to  indul- 
gence in  vice  and  folly,  is  yet  matter  of  conjecture ;  but  it  may 
fairly  be  ascribed  to  one  or  other  of  such  influential  causes,  that  the 
parish  ot  St.  James's,  Westminster,  has  been  almost  exclusively 
the  great  gaming  district  of  the  meiropolig.  The  beings  who  have 
from  time  to  time  composed  this  satanic  colony,  though  of  one  and 
the  same  genus,  have  been  much  diversified  in  species,  and  of  late 
years  have  somewhat  degenerated  from  the  aboriginal  character  and 
principle  of  their  early  predecessors.  Within  the  last  ten  years  the 
tribe  has  been  composed  of  excommunicants,  as  it  were,  from  all 
classea,  grades,  distinctions,  and  occupations,  —  from  the  roan  of 
family  and  fortune,  who  has  squandered  his  patrimony,  and  become 
an  outcast  from  his  class,  to  ihefamilif  man  who  haa  fouTided  fame 
and  fortune  upon  his  dextrous  art,  and  successful  practice  of  public 
convet/aucing, — ci-devafil  colonels,  majorj*,  and  captains, — bankrupt 
merchants,  discarded  officials,  and  reduced  profea^ionab^ — broken- 
down  traders  of  all  kinds,— tailors,  butchers,  pawnbrokers,  fijli- 
mongers, — horse- chaunters,  bailiffs,  duffers,  brothel-keeper9,*^fTOasli- 
era,  or  receivers  of  stolen  goods,— bill-stadeni,  returned  tronsfKirta, 
and  such  like,  have  from  time  to  time,  wttliin  the  period  glBted« 
peopled,  and  done  enormous  business  within  the  Court  district  of  0C. 
James's,  in  their  peculiar  avocation  of  gaming-house  keepers.  The 
habits  of  the  particular  community  have  not  been  of  very  fYernianctii 
or  settled  character.  On  the  contrary,  their  energies  appear  to  haire 
been  directed,  without  scruple,  to  manifold  pursuits*  MaiHr  bave 
emigrated  from  the  colony,  under  the  kind  and  fostering  tM^hdtiide 
of  the  Government,  by  whom  they  have  been  provided  with  tMtart 
wholesome  occupation  in  distant  regions ;  some  have  dianged  the 
too  salubrious  air  of  St.  James's  for  the  more  constitutiotiaJ  almo* 
sphere  of  the  Old  Bailey:  while  the  physical  capacity  of  oliiert  htt 
been  occasionally  applied  to  give  impulse  and  revolutionary  msilioa 
to  the  ingenious  designs  of  Mr.  Cubitt,  in  his  patent  foallioil 
of  grinding  corn,  and  other  subsUnce»,  in  the  neighb^mrlloodt 
of  Brixton  and  Cold   Bath  Fields.     Very  many  of  the  tribe  ha^a 

n  T*  ^ 


dutntt  oTSL 

ftfleaBd  character.    TVrtr 

cv,  ss  oompared  wbb 

TWr  were  abo  Trry  superior  in 

"  '  "    (whaterer 

) 

r  I 

^  of  ^<ood  M  y  J  and  fit- 

Tboewv  an  afUMicut  libe- 

'  puiCTfrfing  fixM  a  principle 

^aadi 
4k  ■BoacTB  ^aMiiig-liou  le  keepers^  wiiaty  wi^  some  few 
k&Te  SBtm^adMtd  tfaeaaKiTes  as  a  race  of  die  most 
craspizter  asAeeSae:.  lad  issahxiif  bnlliesy  wlio  would  fiteraDj  win 
frssBK  a  aaan  ewrj  ftfthing  bhe  poesessesv  bat  afford  him  not  die  kien 
«f  a  ilApeuce  to  sare  hzm  froo  stanratioii — fools,  having  ezdosiTe 
and  KsscnspaloG^  n;$ud  to  their  own  sdfish  and  aTaridoiis  ends, 
witbiiGt  dfee  pnidcnce  or  fiires%ht  to  consider  and  measure  the  ooo- 
seqvcaces  akeij  to  result  from  snch  oondemnatorj  condoct. 

Hfeefint  hoa^  etaboshed  in  London  for  the  game  of  rot^efaoir, 
— then  newlj  introdaced  from  Pkris» — was  opened  about  the  yeir 
1815,  in  Pall  Mall,  onder  the  au^Nces  and  direction  of  a  person 
baown  as  Fuii  Roabel,  who  having  witnessed  the  operations  and 
■ncce  me  i  of  tht  game  in  the  French  capital,  determined  to  try  a 
saailar  specsktion  in  London ;  and  for  this  purpose,  in  oonjnnction 
with  a  ooosiderabte  omitalist,  took  a  capacious  mansion  in  the  situa- 
tion described,  which  he  opened  in  the  extraTagant  stjle  of  Parisian 
fiishion.  The  arrangements  of  the  establishment  were  of  the  most 
approved  and  attractive  kind.  Wines  and  refreshments  of  every 
lund  were  constandy  and  liberally  supplied,  and  evoy  possible 
study  and  attention  paid  to  the  convenience  of  the  visitors.  The 
times  were  favourable  to  the  speculadon :  the  cessation  <^  hostili- 
ties with  France  and  other  powers  had  brought  a  great  influx  of 
foreigners  to  the  British  capital ;  and  such  persons,  being  some- 
what accustomed  to  the  excitement  and  indulgence  of  play,  fruled 
not  to  avail  themselves  (it  the  opportunity,  and  became  great  patrons 
of,  and  contributors  to,  the  establishment.  The  game  soon  be- 
came pretty  generally  known  amongst  the  fashionables  and  idlers 
of  the  West  End,  and  great  play,  and  consequent  profits,  resulted  to 
the  proprietors. 
Old  Koubel  was  a  man  of  extraordinary  character,  doadngly  fond 


AND    GAMESTERS. 


493 


of  money,  but  most  obsequious  in  manner,  and  polite  in  his  personal 
attention  to  the  frequenters  of  his  table.  He  was  a  kind  of  5ir  Per* 
itnax  M*Si/copkan(,  who  would  bow  him  self  into  the  very  bowels  of 
a  rich  patron ;  and  he  even  carried  his  politeness  to  the  doubtful 
extreme  of  congratulating  such  visitors  on  the  event  of  their  having 
won  hia  money.  The  cunning  old  fellow  would  watch,  and  could 
tell  the  result  of  almost  every  man's  play  ;  and  he  would  invariably 
place  himself  in  the  way  of  a  fortunate  adventurer  about  to  make 
Iiis  exit  from  the  scene  of  action,  and,  in  the  most  aupercilioua  terms 
of  respect,  express  his  great  delight  that  his  visitor  had  been  so  suc- 
cessful ;  but  no  sooner  had  the  party  departed  from  within  hearing, 
than  the  avarice  of  the  man  changed  the  key-note  of  his  expression, 
and  he  would  emphatically  give  utterance  to  the  very  charitable 
wish  that  the  fortunate  party  had  broken  his  neck  ere  so  successful 
a  result  should  have  attended  him. 

This  establishment  was  very  extensive  in  its  arrangements,  and 
attended  with  a  heavy  outlay  and  expenditure*  It  embraced  the 
engagement  of  six  or  eight  persons  employed  in  the  operations  of 
the  game,  and  the  superintendence  and  inspection  of  the  table,  each 
of  whom  received  a  salary  of  five  or  six  pounds  per  week,  and  a 
per-centage  amongst  them  on  the  profits  resulting  to  the  proprietors. 
In  addition  to  such  officials,  there  were  several  w^ailers,  porters,  and 
other  servants.  Play  commenced  at  two  o'clock  in  the  afternooji, 
and  continued  (frequently  without  intermission)  until  two  or  three 
on  the  following  morning.  The  total  outlay  and  expenditure  of  the 
house  was  estimated  at  £150  per  week,  or  about  £6<MM)  per  annum^ 
over  and  above  which  a  very  large  profit  accrued  to  the  bankers. 

The  success  of  old  Roubel  and  his  party  soon  brought  other  ad- 
venturers into  the  field.  Several  establishments  were  simultaneously 
opened  in  the  immediate  vicinity,  each  contending  with  the  other  in 
the  costly  style  of  its  arrangements  and  accommodation,  and  with  its 
disphiy  of  tempting  amount  of  capital.  The  principal  houses  were 
Fielder's,  at  the  north-east  corner  of  Bennett  Street,  St.  James's  ; 
Taylor's,  No.  57,  Pall  Mall ;  two  establishments,  kept  by  Bennett  and 
Old  field  (of  which  one  was  situated  No.  28,  Bury  Street,  for  morn- 
ing, the  other  in  Pall  Mall,  tor  evening  play)  ;  Holds  worth's.  No,  5, 
King  Street,  St,  James's;  and  Davis's,  No,  10  in  the  same  street. 
There  were  two  or  three  others  also  of  inferior  grade. 

The  first  in  public  favour  w^as  Fielder's,  which  was  distinguished 
for  the  liberality  displayed  in  the  suppers,  wines,  and  refreshments 
nightly  provided,  and  which,  in  conjunction  with  the  handsome  and 
conmiodious  arrangements  of  the  place,  failed  not  to  attract  the  elite 
of  company.  Fielder  and  his  partners  were  men  of  liberal  policy  in 
their  pursuits,  and  never  backward  in  their  accommodations  of 
money  to  persons  under  loss  ;  nor  were  they  ever  importunate  in 
their  demands  for  repayment:  the  return  was  left  to  the  conve- 
nience of  the  borrower,  and  his  own  honourable  feeling,  under  more 
favourable  results.  Fielder  himself  was  a  plain-spoken,  but  ordi- 
narily well-behaved  man,  observant  of  all  due  respect  to  his  visitors  ; 
but  he  laboured  under  the  infirmity  of  a  most  irritable  mind  and 
hasty  temper,  which  frequently  led  him  into  warm  encounter  with 
some  one  or  other  unfortunate  player,  giving  sudden  a«'l  imnulsive 
expression  to  his  mortificaljon  under  loss,  and  v  re- 

spective cansideratiou  for  the  house  and  its  proj  dly- 


m* 


GAMING,   QAMING-HOUSBS, 


I  dkpMtkm  of  Fielder  wss  ever  readjr  to  OMMtrae  tktt : 
pfffi^*^  insult*     He  never  coald  be  reftsotied 


his 


Dey  was 


privile^ged  and  allowed  j 


tade  of  olweftMlun  under  ill  fortune  ;  and  his  mcm^ptibiMly  to  i 
Ittt  tctnpcr  oo  siidi  cM^asiciiis  often  brought  him  into  an 
pmilioii.  Onee  in  particular,  a  noble  Marquis  (who  haa  sinoe  M^ 
eeeded  to  bis  ancestral  dukedom,  and  whose  pride  of  birth  and  tmk 
never  at  any  tone  permitted  him  to  be  very  condescendini^  or  cob- 
plimenUry  to  a  person  in  Fielder's  position),  having  lost  hia  Dooej, 
vented  his  mortification  by  oaths  and  epithets  on  the  propirictaffii 
Fidder^s  iraM:ibility  was  not  to  be  controlled ;  be  broke  out  iot« 
pretty  free  terms  of  remonstrance  with  the  I^Iarquis,  who  therenpoa 
most  unceremoniously  knocked  him  down.  Recovering  his  positiaD* 
he  turned  to  at  the  noble,  and  fought  manfully,  but  in  %'ain.  Tbe 
Marquii  was  youngs  tall^  and  of  athletic  form  ;  bis  oppooeQi  gtettinf 
into  yeara,  too  fleshy  in  body»  and  much  too  violent  in  temper  for 
•oceraalnl  encounter.  As  msy  be  supposed,  therefore^  he  rec&red 
aome  pttnislunent ;  but  the  interpodtion  of  the  company  prevented 
any  very  serious  consequences. 

At  this  house  very  considerable  sums  of  money  were  oontinitally 
played  for^  the  stakes  being  from  a  crown  to  a  hundred  pMilNl^ 

Major  A y  was  one  of  the  most  constant  visitors,  and  his  specab- 

tions  were  of  magnitude  in  amount.     He  was  a  devotee  to  tbe  guat 
of  rtntge  el  noir,  and  usually  most  calm  and  collected  in  hk  mode  of 
play.     His  custom  was  to  take  his  seat  at  the  table,  and  in  the  6nl 
instance  to  take  from  a  small  silk  note-case  a  certain  number  of  ^te^ 
ten,  and  twenty-pound  notes,  amounting  to  two  or  three  hundred 
pounds.     With  these  he  would  coolly  commence  bis  operatioBS  of 
play,  seldom  making  an  observation,  or  addressing  himself  to  any  per- 
son at  the  table*    If  fortune  was  against  him,  and  he  lost  tbe  amount 
of  such  capital^  he  very  deliberaicl3%  and  free  from  all  excitement, 
had  recourse  to  his  pocket  for  a  secund  supply,  which  was  ususDy 
contained  in  a  larger  note-case  of  similar  make,  and  consisted  of  notes 
of  fifty  and  one  hundred  pounds  value.     This  second  capital  be 
would  risk  in  the  same  cool  and  collected  manner,  either  to  win  or 
lose  a  very  considerable  sum.     It  not  un frequently  happened  that 
good  fortune  attended  his  5rst  risk  ;  and^  on  the  other  hand,  it  as 
frequently  occurred  that  he  lost  the  whole  contents  of  his  two  note-  | 
cases, — from  £101)0  to  £1500.    Under  either  result,  and  independent 
of  the  consideration  of  loss  or  gain^  he  was  an  admirable  customer  to 
the  bank,  regard  being  had  to  the  fact  that»  in  the  course  of  every 
three  deals,  or  about  eighty-seven  coups,  it  is  calculated  that  two 
events  of  tnmte  ct  «n  apres  will  occur,  on  each  of  which  occa&ioDS 
the  player  forfeits  to  the  bank  one  half  of  his  stake,  as  the  conven- 
tional per-centage  or  advantage  of  the  game;  so  that  everj^  player 
absolutely  pays  to  the  bank  every  three  deals  a  certain  per-cenUige» 
equal  to  one  clear  stake  of  whatever  amount  he  may  be  playing, — a 
basis  on  which  may  be  formed  a  pretty  cle^r  estimate  of  the  amount 
nightly  paid  by  such  a  player  as  the  gentleman  alluded  to,  whose 
average  stake  could  not  be  le&s  than  twenty  pound s,  and  who  would 
frequently  continue  liis  speculations  for  hours  at  a  sitting. 

Another  remarkable  player  at  Fielder's  was  Sir  George  C , 

llart^  of  ample  fortune,,  and  at  that  time  an  oflficer  in  the  guards. 
He  usually  arrived  in  his  carriage,  on  alighting  from  which  hia  ser* 


AND   GAMESTERS, 


495 


vant  handed  to  him  a  very  hand  some  dressing-case,  which  he  took 

with  him  to  the  scene  of  play  ;  then  seating  himBelf  at  the  table,  he 

j  ^'ouki  place  it  beside  hinij  and  take  out  cash,  as  he  from  time  to  time 

required  it.     The  Baronet  was  by  no  means  a  rash  or  extravagant 

player,     lie  appeared  to  take  much  pleasure  in  the  game's  variety^ 

I  and  in  the  endeavour  to  bring  the  occurrence  of  events  within  the 

\  rule  of  calculation  ;  but,  like  many  hundreds  who  before  and  since 

^  have  wasted  time  and  talent  upon  the  delusive  problem,  he  conti- 

Itiually  arrived  at  the  opposite  proof,  and  paid  for  the  lesson.     His 

leccentric  and  systematic  habit  excited  for  a  time  some  attention  at 

[the  table  j  but  the  novelty  wore  off  in  time,  and  the  formality  of  the 

f  dressing-case  was  thought  no  more  of  than  the  appearance  of  a 

I  pocket-book, 

Moore  gives  eloquent  expression  to  the  tact,  that 

<*  One  clear  idea  waken 'd  in  the  breaiit 
By  memory's  magic,  leu  In  all  iLe  reit/* 

'  «o,  by  recurrence  to  one  or  two  examples  of  peculiar  character,  re* 
collection  is  awakened  to  many  strange  instances  and  acta  familiar 
[  to,  and  connected  with^  Fielder's  establishment.    Never  can  memory 
be  dead  to  the  extraordinary  manner  in  wdiich  the  gallant  Captain 
H ,  of  the  navy,  was  accustomed  to  give  vent  to  his  mortifica- 
tion under  his  losses.     He  would  deliberately,  and  under  little  or  no 
ippearance  of  angry  excitement,  rise  from  the  table,  and  walk  up  to 
I  the  fire-place,  over  the  handsome  marble  chimney-piece  of  which 
I  stood  a  magnificent   glass.     Opposite  to   this   he  would  very  fre- 
[quently  place  himself,  and  with  his  shadowed  portrait,  as  created  by 
the  reflective  powers  of  the  mirror,  would  he  hold  angry  and  em- 
^phatic  converse  and  remonstrance,  the  substance  reminding  the  sha- 
Ldow  of  the  resolutions  made  before  commencing  play  ;  and  so  excited 
]  would  he  often  become  in  such  conference  with  his  other  self,  that 
the  would  sometimes  assume  the  most  menacing  attitudes  of  pugilistic 
chastisement,  and  bestow^  on  himself  no  very  complimentary  epithets, 
I  due  to  his  folly  and  imprudence.     Strange  as  was  such  conduct, 
It  was  considered  but  as  one  of  the  many  infirmities  that  so  pecu* 
hiiarly  exhibit  themselves  in  individuals,  under  the  trials  and  excite- 
Itnents  of  play.     Ill-timed  mirth  would  on  such  occasions  lead  most 
probably  to  serious  results;  independently  of  which,  gentlemanly 
feeling  would  control  any  thoughtless  outbreak.     The  gentleman 
I  referred  to  is  of  high  standing  in  society,  of  amiable  disposition  and 
generous  heart,  and  universally  respected.     He  is  still  living,  as  the 
J  writer  of  this  inoffensive  anecdote  can  testify,  and  looking  almost  aa 
I  young,  certainly  as  well  in  health,  as  when,  twenty-six  years  ago, 
[fkis  corporeal  threatened  his  incorporeal,  before  the  mirror  in  Ben- 
I  nett  Street,  with  a  broken  head. 

Equally  vivid  in  recollection  is  the  eccentricity  of  the  gallant  but 

linfataated  Captain  P ,  oi'  the  navy,  a  relation  of  the  distinguished 

imiral  and  hero  of  his  nanie.  The  Captain  was  one  of  the  moat 
^Id  and  desperate  players  of  the  day,  and  as  frequently  operated  to 
be  destruction  of  banks  ag  the  banks  broke  him,  with  the  difference 
only  that  he  would  lose  his  w^hole  capital  at  one  silting,  w  ithout  any 
reserve  for  another  venture.  Such  was  his  imprudence,  that  hi-i 
resources  were  almost  invariably  risked  in  their  gross  amount,  and 
too  frequently  lost  as  soon  as  they  cainc  to  hand ;  and 


496         GAMING,    GAMING-HOUSES,    ANI>    GAMESTEM. 

would  cx:casionally^  and  not  unfrequently^  from  small  sums  run  into 
iMtgc  amounts  by  daring  and  successful   play,  jet,  lacking  all  pni 
dence,  he  would  recklessly  venture  the  whole   of  such  amount  oa  i 
subsequent   opportunity,   and  in    the    same    rash   and    intempentt 
manner.     One  anecdote  will  serve  at  once  to  illustrate  his  occasiood 
extraordinary  good  fortune,  and  his  habitual  imprudence  at  plaj :-« 
the  occurrence  took  place  also  at  Fielder's.      The  Captain  had  kat 
a  few  pounds  in  the  ordinary  course  of  the  game,  aiw!,  having  do 
further  supply  of  caah  at  command^  he   sat  for  some  time  a  mult 
observer  of  the  proceedings.     Having  remained   thus  inactive  fcr 
some  time,  he  suddenly  thrust  his  hands   into   the  recesses  of  In 
waistcoat  pockets,  and  drew  thereout  silver  amounting  to  four  ihS- 
lings  and  sixpence  (being  sixpence  only  short  of  a  crown),  whrdi  be 
hastily  staked  on  one  of  the  colours.     The  event  was  successful,  m 
were  many  succeeding  ones,  and  the  eallant  Captain  won  Tcry  con- 
siderably on  the  deal.     Finding  himself  thus  most   unexpectedly  is 
funds  again,  he  commenced  the  nest  deal  in   his  usual  bold  style, 
and   at   the  termination   of  it   his   capital    bad    miraculously  in- 
creased to  an  amount  exceeding  five  hundred  pounds.     Not  coDtenW 
however,  with  what  most  men  would  have  considered,  and  beta 
satis 6 ed  with,  as  a  most  bountiful  and  especial  mark  of  FortuntV 
favour^  the  Captain  continued  his  speculations,  and  ultimately,  from 
the  small  capital  of  four  shillings  and  sixpence,  absolutely  redtsfd 
between  eleven  and  twelve  hundred  pounds,  with  which  sum  bewM 
absolutely  compelled  to  retire,  the  bank  having  closed  its  operations 
for  the  night,  under  a  general  run  cf  ill  fortune.      The  Captain  was 
in  high  spirits;  and,  itfter  taking  supper,  with  the  accompaniment 
of  a  bottle  of  claret,  and  liberally  feeing  the  servants  of  the  esta- 
blishment, he  made  his  way  towards  home.     On  the  following  nifbt 
he  returned  to  the  attack,  and,  most  unwisely,  with  one  thouaatid 
pounds  of  the  money  he  had  won.     Luck  was   decidedly  agaiiist 
him,  and  he  speedily  lost  every  shilling.     lie  was  a   man  of  iikmI 
eccentric  and  impulsive  character,  and,  under  the  disappdntmeiit 
and  vexation  of  loss,  would  give  utterance  to  the  most  extraordinary 
oaths  and  ludicrous  observations  that  ever  dropped  on  the  ear  of 
man*     On  the  occasion  alluded  to,  under  the  niortiBcation  of  so  te- 
vere  a  reverse,  he,  on  the  disappearance  of  his  last  stake  of  dfij 
pounds,  let  fly  a  broadside  of  the  most  incoherent  nautical  impreca* 
tions,  and  making  one  spring,  jumped  through  the  cane-work  of  the 
chair  on  which  he  had  been   sitting.     There  he  stuck,  to  the  irre- 
pressible mirth  of  the  company,  who,  although  indisposed  to  laugh 
at  the  misfortunes  of  the  gallant  officer,  found  it  impossible  to  re- 
strain the  risible  impulse  occasioned  by  the  Captain's  ludicrous  po- 
sition.    Happily  a  gootl  effect  was  produced  by  the  event ;  for  the 
Captain,  finding  himself  in  so  droll  and  singular  a  state,  immediate* 
ly  gave  way  to  the  full  mirth  of  the  moment,  and  half  forgot  hit 
losses,  which,  it  must  be  remarked,  seldom  preyed  very  heavily  on 
his  elastic  spiriu.     He  was  indeed  a  noble,  brave,  and  generous* 
hearted  creature,  and,  but  for  his  unfortunate  and  excessive  love  rf 
plav»  would  doubtless  ere  this  have  arrived  at  the  highest  honours 
of  his  profession  ;  instead  of  which,  he  loit  connections,  friends,  and 
the  fairest  expectations  of  fortune.     The  Captain  was  related  to  the 

late  Mr.  A ,  of  St.  Jjimes's  Square,  a  gentleman  of  great  Health, 

and  who  is  said  to  have  been  most  generous  in  his  life-time  to  hi^ 


d 


THE  WITHERED    ROSE. 


497 


improvident  kinsman  ;  but,  knowing  his  fatal  passion  for  play,  and 
being  convinced  that  any  fortune  bequeathed  to  him  would  be 
wasted  in  such  fatal  indulgence,  he  is  said  to  have  confined  his  be- 
quest to  an  annuity  sufficient  to  provide  against  absolute  want. 
The  Captain's  errors  are  reported  to  have  worked  most  favourably 
to  the  fortunes  of  a  worthy  Baronet,  late  in  high  Commission  of 
the  Peace  (and  formerly  himself  a  little  addicted  to  the  aiousementa 
of  the  gaming-table),  who  stepped  into  a  much  larger  property  than 
he  might  have  done,  had  the  Captain  been  a  more  wise  and  prudent 
man. 


THE  WITHERED  ROSE. 


Thou  hapless  Bower,  that  bids  me  at&y, 
Atjii  ranurn  far  one  whose  summer'a  day 
Hndi  dos€ti  io  prenmuire  dccBv, 

And  drooping  Iciw^ — 
Invit««  to  thought  the  pensive  mind. 
That  Btrengtb  of  %vij$doin  fain  would  Jlind, 
Poor  victim  of  the  sulleu  wiad. 

From  out  thee  now  t 

J  mark'd  thee  as  my  footsteps  itrayM^ 
Bui  hi te  within  this  quiet  glade. 
And  deem'd  not  thou  so  soon  wouldst 
fade, 

Or  yield  to  blight, — 
1  left  thee  then  in  lovely  gn^iiae, 
And  spread  in  ji(  forth  thy  crimson  dyes. 
Exultant   neath  tli^  eloudltsa  skies, 
Enrobed  in  lj|jkt. 

But  now  the  »un  of  yester-morn, 
That  smilt'd  upon  thy  Idnshing  dawn^ 
Looks  down  upon  rhet%  nidely  torn, 

A  withered  HowV^ — 
A  voiceless  fhrouider  of  death, 
And  type,  :ilas  I  of  mttriol  breath, 
That  rise*  but  to  fall  heueutb 

The  s[KfiIer's  pow  Y  ! 

In  yenrs  bygnno  a  bud  I  knew, 
Afore  beautiful  than  was  thine  hue, 
Sweet  rose,  to  wboni  the  morning  dew 

Still  chng^  in  love  t 
It  was  a  Irlght  and  holy  gem. 
Though  |;rrafced  on  a  weidtly  stem. 
Fit  jewel  for  iii^bi*»  diudem. 

In  realms  above  ! 

I  wait'h'd  that  pinnt  with  tenderness, 
A  beifig  btts^*d,  and  born  to  ble.HH, 
No  shade  of  care  could  au^ht  distress 

Thiit  hjippy  child* 
fio  twilight  caniti„  and  sought  in  vuin^ 
The  BToile  tlu  t  TOfuning  woke  »K"^hi^ 
Nor  wafted  ni»t  the  pmy'rful  sirmu 

Of  vespers  mild  I 


That  gentle  creature  !  mnrvel  not 
Tjiat  age  its  loneliness  forgot. 
And  strove  to  R>bicld  her  after  lot 

From  earthly  ill  ; 
But  scarcely  did  ray  wordh  Ijegin, 
J  fnnnd  that  Heav'ii  had  graved  within 
Such  angel  purity  from  «in,-~ 

My  voice  was  still ! 

And  I  h«came  a  list*ner  meek, 

The  wimIoih  hoar  with  years  grew  weak 

Before  the  glory  that  would  break 

Frotn  out  her  mind  ; — 
The  grey  old  man  hath  bent  him  low, 
A»  tfioughtsi  sublime  with  truth  would 

flow^ 
And  worshipp'^d  in  that  infunt  hmw 
A  splint  enshrined  I 

Why  tell  the  rest  1  Sad  flower,  thou  hast 
A  lauginige  that  reveals  the  past ; 
I/ike  thee,  her  days  were  overcast 

In  life's  spring  tide. 
She  lingered  not  iti  slow  decay. 
But,  like  the  Hunset's  parting  ray. 
Her  spirit  pass'd  to  bliss  away^ 

AJid  thus  she  died  1 

]My  young  lost  love  I  tmnsplantfd  flo^-er* 

I  have  outlived  t.hy  little  hour  ; 

But  thou  art  where  no  cloud  L*m  lower. 

Or  sky  grow  dim. 
My  fond  heart,  still  endearing,  cHngs 
To  olden  scenes  thy  memory  brings,— 
1  hear  thy  voice  a|^in, —  it  sings 

Some  well -known  hymn  ! 

Thou  art  tiot  solitary,  rose  I 
The  first  to  flee  away  are  tluise, 
The  deiirest,  best,  who  seek  repose 

Within  the  tomb. 
And  better  ihu»  that  they  should  sleep, 
Than  drink  the  cu|i  of  s<irn»w  deep, 
Aiid  live— n  er  bhj^dited  holies  to  weCp, 

The  prey  of  gloom  ! 


498 


DICK  SPARROWS  EVENING  ''OUT." 

BT  CHA&LB8  WHITBHBAD^  AUTHOR  OF    ''RICfiAHD    SAVAGX,"  &C. 
WITH    AK    ILLUSTRATION    BT   JOHK     I.BRCB. 

It  was  with  a  perceptible  amount  of  nervoas  excitement  that  Mr. 
Richard  Sparrow  stood  in  superintendence,  while  an  old  fdlow— 
the  private  watchman  of  the  neighbourhood — put  up  the  shutters  d 
the  shop  in  which  his  father  during  so  many  years  had  carried  <■ 
the  business  of  a  button-maker.  This  job  done,  the  young  gentle- 
man hurriedly  retreated  to  his  own  chamber,  where  he  completed 
his  evening  toilet  with  as  much  expedition  as  is  compatible  with  the 
nicest  care,  and  whence  he  soon  descended  to  the  dining-room  t» 
receive  that  tribute  of  admiration  from  his  aunt  Reddish,  who  was 
arranging  the  "  tea-things/'  which  the  good  lady  never  failed  to  paj, 
when  a  new  vest  or  a  stock  of  novel  sprig  or  tie  exacted  it. 

Our  young  friend  Dick  accepted  this  homage  with  laudable  mo- 
deration, only  murmuring  a  few  words  to  the  effect,  that  an  "  air 
distingwy"  was  something  that  was  not  readily  attainable  by  afl 
classes  of  people ;  and  then,  changing  the  subject,  begged  his  aunt 
to  give  him  an  instant  cup  of  tea,  as  his  father  would  not  return  from 
the  «  Woolpack  "  for  half  an  hour  at  least,  whither  the  dd  gentle- 
man had  gone,  as  was  his  use,  to  smoke  his  pipe. 

'*And  so  you're  invited  out  to  supper  at  Garten's?"  remarked 
aunt  Reddish.     <'  Bless  me,  they  live  a  great  way  off,  don't  they  ?" 

"  Delta  Villas,  Bellevue  Road,  somewhere  between  Camden  Town 
and  Islington,"  answered  Dick.  «  I  shall  know  the  house  by  two 
great  stone  lions  on  each  side  of  the  door,  that  sit  flanking  the  steps. 
But  what  do  you  think  of  old  Garton  inviting  me  to  supper  ?  Ain't 
I  as  fit  as  any  one  else — I  believe  you  too,  to  drink  champagne,  and 
cry  '  Hip,  hip,  hurrah  !'  Yes,  and  return  thanks  in  a  neat  speech. 
I  think  I  ought  to  stand  a  little  higher  in  his  estimation  than  cold 
meat  and  a  glass  of  grog,  now  he 's  trying  to  hook  me  into  marrying 
his  daughter." 

"  True  ;  but  your  father  says  she  's  a  nice  girl,  and  has  a  bag  full 
of  money,"  suggested  IMrs.  Reddish. 

"  Yes  ;  but  mind  you,  aunt,  there  are  loU  of  nice  girls,  with  lots 
o'  tin,  that  go  a-begging  now-a-days,"  returned  Dick.  *«  Not  but 
what,"  he  added  after  a  moment,  *'  I  deeply  and  truly  love  Maria 
Wilcocks  Garton." 

**  Ah ! "  sighed  Mrs.  Reddish,  into  whose  sentimental  province 
Dick's  remark  had  seemed  to  threaten  an  invasion,  ''when  two 
young  hearts  are  tightly  and  sincerely  knit  together, — when  there 's 
a  harmony — " 

'*  That  reminds  me,"  interrupted  Dick,  ''  of  a  capital  thing  I  said 
yesterday.  Prater  looked  in,  and  told  me  he  was  going  to  dine  with 
Garton  to-day,  they  *re  such  old  friends.  '  But,'  says  he,  •  you  *re 
not  to  suppose  he  gives  this  party  because  he 's  got  into  his  new 
house.  It 's  his  wedding-day  that  he  means  to  keep.' — '  Now,  if  that 
ain't  fulsome.  Prater,'  said  I.  '  A  man  keep  his  wedding-day  who 's 
got  a  daughter  old  enough  to  be  escorted  up  to  the  hymeneal  altar ! ' 
— '  Ah,  but,'  says  he,  *  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Garton  have  been  a  very  happy 


DICK    SPARROWS  EYENING    **0UT; 


couple  all  tbeir  lives :  tbey  have,  so  help  me  Donmow  I '  And  he 
told  me  about  the  J>tititiiow  Dkch.  You  *ve  heard  of  it,  aant^^have 
you  ?  *  Well/  say»  1, — for  I  was  aggravated  Prater  should  be  a»ked 
to  dinner,  and  I  not,^'  well,  if  the  Durnnow  Hitch  waited  till  they 
claimed  it,  il  would  be  precious  rusty.  And/  1  says,  '  I  11  lay  a  side 
o*  Wiltshire  to  a  rasher  o'  streaky,  never  a  week  passes  but  they  're 
at  it,  hammer  and  tongs/  " 

*'  You  were  very  wrong  to  talk  in  that  manner  to  Mr.  Prater,  who 
is  so  particular  a  friend  of  the  Gartons/'  observed  Mrs,  Reddish, 
shaking  her  bead  admoni shingly,  **  especially  now  they  're  so  likely 
to  be  related  to  you/* 

**  D'ye  think  so  ?"  answered  Dick,  laying  down  his  tea-cup ;  ''  then 
1  won't  do  so  again/* 

Dick  now  drew  his  chair  to  the  side  of  his  aunt,  and  began  ex- 
pressively, but  in  haste,  to  stigmatize  his  father  as  an  old  screw, 
who  would  never  let  him  have  any  tin  ;  and  as  Mrs.  Reddish  o& 
dated  as  the  old  gentleman's  housekeeper,  the  topic  was  not  daaa- 
grceable  to  her, 

*•  Don't  you  think  he  's  a  most  desperate  and  aggravating  old 
dtizen?"  urged  Dick.     "Doesn't  he  try  to  keep  me  as  much  back 
he  can  ?     And  does  he  care  a  button  for  me,  although  he 's  lets 
[cause  to  set  a  value  on  buttons  than  most  men  ?" 

Having  obtained  satisfactory  replies  to  these  queries,  Dick  hinted 
I  St  the  phthisicy  state  of  his  exchequer,  and  in  his  most  insinuating 
linanner  besought  the  loan  of  four  sovereigns,  and  his  late  uncle 
ifieddish's  highly-admired  ring, — the  sovereigns  merely  to  have 
out  him,  lest  they  should  be  required  as  counters  if  he  sat  dow*n 
|to  cards,  and  the  ring  to  flash  conviction  upon  the  eyes  oi'  the  as* 
sembled  guests  that  the  wearer  was  an  eligible  partner  for  life  of 
J^Iiss  Maria  Wil cocks  Garton. 

Admiring  the  worldly  wisdom  of  the  youth,  and  perceiving  no- 
I  thing  very  unreasonable  in  his  request,  Mrs.  Reddish  su^ered  herself 
[to  be  prevailed  upon  to  accede  to  it.     The  boy  was  right.     It  was  m 
crying  shame  that  his  father — who,  by  the  bye,  had  recently  per- 
il itted  him  to  open  an  account  with  a  tailor — should  not  long  ago 
iJiave  suffered  him  to  make  a  better  appearance.     Accordingly,  she 
llianded  out  the  four  sovereigns,  with  awful  and  almost  terrifying 
injunctions  that  he  should  take  the  most  painful  care  of  them,  and 
placed  the  ring  on  his  finger  with  her  own  hands,  shedding  a  few 
tears,  as  she  did  so,  to  the  memory  of  its  original  wearer. 

Dick,  aifected  by  these  symptom s^  made  all  needful  promises  and 

protestations,  and  was  suffered  to  depart.     He  brightened  wonder- 

I  fully  as  he  descended   the  stairs,  and  was  all  himself  again  at  the 

f  itreet-door.     The  postman,  as  he  sallied  forth,  was  delivering  on  the 

I  opposite  side  of  the  way,  and  held  up  a  letter  to  his  nose,  intimating 

that  its  destination  was  Sparrow's  ;  but  Dick  waved  his  fingers  grace* 

r<iul]y,  and  directed  his   thumb  backwards  towards  the  first  flour, 

]  thereby  giving  the  public  functionary  to  understand  that  epistolary 

matters  would  be  duly  attended  to  within,  and  so  went  on  his  way 

rejoicing. 

Now,  we  have  seemed  to  intimate,  in  what  has  gone  before,  that 
Dick  Sparrow  w«s  in  a  hurry, — a  circumstance  likely  to  excite  the 
aurpri^c  of  the  acute  reader,  seeing  that  Dick  had  just  swallowed 
a  cup  of  tea,  and  was  invited  to  sup  with  a  friend  somewhere  nc 


500 


DICK    SPARROWS   EVENING     '"OUT, 


Islington*     But  the  fact  is,  he  had  another  and  a  previous  Bfipoa$r 
ment  to  keep.     If  the  truth  must  be  told,  Dick  Sparrow  wa%  in  thr 
moat  innocent  sense  in  which  so  discreditable  an  epithet  may  hen^ 
plied,  a  **gay  Lothario/*     However  profaund    the  depth,  and  how- 
ever sincere  the  truth  of  his  love  for  Maria  Wilcocks  Gartoi),  bii 
shallower  and  less  consuint  predilections  occasionally  took  ruidoa 
and  vagrant  rambles  after  other  younp:  ladies.     It  so  happened  tbtt, 
about  a  week  previoosly,  his  friend  Frank  Townsend  had  impaited 
to  Jiim  the  fact  of  his  having  made  the  acquaintance  of  two  "  i  " 
girls,**  sisters,  whose  love  of  sight-seeing  was   so  tremendous, 
whose  confidence  in  the  efficiency  of  his  protection  was  so  unboal 
ed,  that  they  absorbed  the  whole  of  his  spare  time,  du nog  whidi» 
each  arm  was  constantly  kept  at  right  angles.     He  had  mppmnM, 
therefore,  Dick  Sparrow  to   meet  him  this  very  evening  at  mtcb 
o'clock,   under  the  portico  of  the  Lyceum  Theatre,  that  he  roigk 
there  and  then  be  introduced,  and  be  thenceforth  duly  quaJi5ed  to 
take  one  of  them — which  of  the  two  he  pleased^-off  hh  hands,  at 
rather  hin  elbows;  his  friend  Frank  averring  that   they  were  the 
most  delightful  and  ethereal  beings  extant,  but  cautiously  withholding 
the  fact,  that  when  these  sylph-like  figures  glided  past  a  box-keeper, 
or  honoured  a  stool  in  a  pastry-cook's,  they  were,  to  all  intents  azid 
purposes,  a  source  of  as  grave  expense  as  though  they  were  the  xoost 
corporeal  couple  that  ever   trudged   into  a  theatre,  or   made  ice- 
creams vanishing  quantities, 

**  I  '11  just  go  and  make  my  bow  to  the  two  young  women,"  said 
Dick  musingly,  "because  1  promised  Frank  I  would.  If  they  want 
to  go  into  the  promenade  concert,  it  *s  only  two  bob  to  my  share* 
and  I  can  easily  get  away,  I  mustn't  do  these  things,  though,  i*hcn 
I'm  once  married.  I  wonder  what  I^Iaria  would  say  if  she  knew  it 
Wouldn't  she  go  on  at  me,  that  *h  all !  '* 

Thus  paltering  with  fearful  fancies,  he  turned  into  a  familiar  to- 
bacconist s  shop ;  for  he  suddenly  remembered  that  Garton  was  an 
inveterate  smoker,  and  that,  by  the  time  he  arrived  at  his  house,  the 
vapour  of  cigars  was  likely  to  be  in  the  ascendant. 

The  girl  behind  the  counter  did  not  at  first  know  our  yoaa 
friend,  so  splendid  was  his  appearance,  and  so  *'  distingwy  "  was  [ 
air.     When,  however,  she  did  recognise  him,  she  asked,  lifting 
old  accustomed  httle  mahogany  hd, 

*' A  penny  Pickwick,  sir?" 

Dick  returned  a  sort  of  deaf  look  from  a  kind  of  unintelligent 
which  made  the  girl  titter,  and,  quietly  raising  another  lid,  he 
lected  half  a  dozen  of  the  finest  woodvilles,  taking  good  care 
the  ring  should  flame  amazement  from  his  Hllle  finger  the  whili 
and,  throwing  di>wn  two  shillings  with  the  utmost  apparent  indif- 
ference, he  received  his  small  packet,  and  stalked  with  dignity  out 
of  the  shop. 

When  he  reached  the  portico  of  the  Lyceum,  behold  there  was  no 
Frank  Townsend  with  his  fair  charges  awaiting  him.  What,  then, 
was  to  be  done  but  to  place  himself  in  an  imposing  attitude,  one  arm 
akimbo,  the  other  outstretched,  and  sup])orted  gracefully  on  *  " " 
cane,  and  give  his  friend  the  benefit  of  the  diflerence  of  clocks  ? 
did  so;  and,  although  somewhat  molested  by  importunate  applica- 
tions that  he  should  take  a  programme  of  the  performances, 
his  reward  in  attracting  a  very  fair  share  of  attention,  consider 


Tocx  s-iOHtnvr^  :L.JSK&^^  "^  nm *  3H" 


thattke 
bent  «p 

the' 

himself  i»  W 
smher  of 
But 

girU,  and  I  ^bmL 
roancL     IT  ^si. 


unsophiitiriii' J  i 

TbefinCi 
and 

And  there,  : 
of  staid  t 
exoeediii^  itmt 

Maria 's  a  Cotik  to  her. 
in !     Maria  cairt  < 
With  this,  he] 
chance  to  looh  dsvn,  her 
uptomed  en— fmacce  of  her  adKzrer.    JImI  i 
expatiate  over  his  £iee.     If  the  rin^  eosid  hat  he  I 
were  as  good  as  an  introdoctioa,  azid  vooUL  ^ 

scratched  his  cfaeekwith  the  jewelled  faffcr;  he 

of  something,  and  his  hand  went  op  to 

hand  in  the  air,  intimating  that  what  he  hod  \ 

or  not  to  the  porpose ;  ami  afl  the  while  his  ^ue  i 

girl,  who,  hxAing  chmn,  at  length  met  the 

mirer,  and  soddienlj  arcrted  Ivr  head  with  a  haaiTof 

pleasure. 

'  Tbat'8thewajwith'emaU,'*thoaghtDick;  ^as 
one  doesn't  know  thej  like  it,  when  a  joanc  fellow 
at 'em!" 

And  so  he  plied  again  and  again,  and  the  girl  Unshed 


DIEIC 


*   fc.lE3mC^    -^  OCT- 


■nwnwf  Dttk.  voa  wa»  vcS.  nx^ 
■r  X  t»  soc  «£  oci  ^xrimia 

■neiaB'flCCiai    '  Tbe  jEcndoHB  II  be 
'  Hod  I  30aK  cos  KT  «kk.  d^^e  t^»k  s^ 


ao^-.  t» 


via.  hft^rrtinfr  cncner  ;  and,  Mxed  with  i 

tJic 

oftkepit. 

vte  hxgli  cferisTci  T  M  tke  tbioCs  of  Prince 

■id  kaov  of  vliat  staff  the  hmts  of  Britau  are  coo- 

been  a  ikgndiBe*  ej.  a  damning  aight,  to  bave  bchdd 

batc&i^  bn  brcatb.  bis  shoolden  op  to  bb  ean»  his 

facets  tvinkL'np  vitb  cioobie-qoick  aiertness*  fly  down 

s&ep»  of  the  Ljceom  Tbeatre,  and  diaembogoe  hims^ 


Dock 

the 


Wbeibcr  a  aectse  of  sbame  voold  bare  seized  Dick  bimself  had 
that  bis  friend  Frank  Townsend  with  bis  two  girls  were 
\  of  bis  retreat  and  of  its  cause,  which  apfieared  in  the  shape 
of  an  excted  fiarexgner,  shaking  bis  fist  on  the  stair-beady — whether, 
I  saj.  this  circiinistanoe  wooU  have  cansed  Dick  to  blash  for  him- 
aelf,  I  cannot  tell ;  bat  certain  it  is,  when  be  bad  mn  far  cnoogh  to 
■wff  bimself  he  was  safe,  and  had  recorered  his  breath,  he  re- 
marked, with  no  apparent  self-abasement, 

^  I  'm  precious  ^ad  I  cot  my  locky  in  time.  If  that  fdlow  bad 
cangfat  me,  I  should  have  napC  it,  and  no  mistake.  Wouldn't  he 
have  cooked  my  goose?** 

He  now  reminded  himsdf  that  it  was  almost  time  be  should  be  at 
Garton's,  if  he  meant  to  make  one  of  the  puty  at  sapper,  and  be 
bent  bis  steps  in  the  direction  of  the  New  Koad :  bat  he  suddenly 
bethooght  himsdf  that  it  would  be  ''  the  ticket "  to  be  drawn  up 
before  Garton's  very  eate  in  a  cab. 

"  It  11  bare  such  a  look  with  it,**  he  said  definitiTely,  as  he  came 
to  a  stand,  upon  which,  however,  only  a  solitary  hackney-coach  was 
plying. 

"  Coach,  sir ! — d'ye  want  a  coach  ?" 

"  No,  a  cab,  of  course.     Bother !  ** 

"  I  '11  take  you  for  the  same  money.  I  want  a  fare.  Get  in,  sir. 
Whereto?- 


DICK    SPARROW*S   EVE!fmo  **  OITf •' 


503 


No 


I  don't  know 
gammon,  now? 


that  I  shdl.  Master  Jarvey,     The  wme  nosej? 

Welt,  let  down  the  slept.     Delu  Vnia%  wamm- 
You  'II  see  two  great  stooe  lions  flttiii^ 


said  the  coachman,  drawing  down  tlie 


where  near  Camden  Town. 
outside  the  door." 

'*  I  knows  thero  lions,'' 
steps.     "  Now,  sir/* 

Now  it  so  happened  that  the  steps  were  old  and  craay,  the  wpnmgm 
of  the  coach  were  delusively  elastic^  and  the  faafcning  of  the  9ppt^ 
site  door  was  a  misnomer,  so  that  when  Dick,  emolooa  to  tmitate  m 
gentleman  getting  into  his  own  carriage,  made  a  boonding  plunge 
upon  the  middle  step,  threw  his  other  foot  inta  the  vehide,  and  was 
about  to  sink  gracefully  into  his  seat,  he  did  not  pcifiuim  thm  laft 
operation,  but  made  his  backward  exit  from  the  off  door,  aid  the 
moment  after  felt  that  be  lay  sprawling  in  the  road.  Ere  be  esold 
think  of  his  aunt  Reddish,  to  whom  his  thoughts  ever  tamed  in  litt 
tribulations^  and  before  he  could  shriek  for  assistance,  a  good  Sama- 
ritan pounced  upon  him,  and  lifted  him  to  his  feet, 

"  Much  hurt,  sir  ?  What  a  blessed  capsize  !  Ribs  not  its^ed  iiv 
sir  }  Haven't  wrenched  your  sides,  sir  f "  Such  were  the  harried 
questions  asked  by  the  benevolent  man,  as  he  tenderly  ap|>l3cd  Ilia 
hands  to  the  parts  of  Dick's  frame  indicated  by  his  inquinca.  **  Tbii 
^'&yt  sir,— lean  on  me.  Let  me  lead  you/*  And,  throwing  hit  noi 
round  the  waist  of  the  sufferer,  he  walked  him  into  a  ginger^beer 
shop,  and  sat  him  on  a  stool,  saying  to  the  woman  of  the  shop  with 
humane  emphasis,  '*  The  young  gentleman 's  had  a  blessed  tomb le 
out  of  a  coach,  marm," 

Dick  now  drew  a  prolonged  breath* 
Can  do  that,  sir^  without  itsi  hurting  yoa  f"  inquired  the  tender- 
bearted  stranger*     -'  Does  it  pain  you  much — gently,  though — here, 
ir, — just  here  ?" 

'  No,  it  don't,"  replied  Dick  with  sudden  animation,  who  was  rerj 

little  hurt,  but  hitherto  had  been  unable  to  speak.     "  So,  it  don't ; 

and  juft  please  to  leave  my  ribs  alone,  will  you  ?     That's  where  I 

keep  my  tin.     There  aint  moch^  but  what  there  is  I  want."     And 

ivith  this  he  made  an  outward  application  to  his  waistcoat  pocke^ 

nd  assured  himself  that  his  four  sovereigns  lay  snugly  there  im* 

Jded. 

*  Well,  no  offence,  mister.     I  meant  no  harm."     And  the  Samari- 
tan abruptly  withdrew,  with  the  air  of  a  man  to  whom  the  doing  of 
^  B  worthy  action  is  its  own  sufficient  reward. 

'*  What  did  that  fellow  mean  by  poking  and  pawing  me  about  so, 
I  mum  ?"  said  Dick  to  the  woman.  **  Can  you  give  a  guess  ?  Let  me 
[.liave  a  bottle  of  pop.  Why,  mum,"  he  added  presently,  setting 
I  down  the  glass,  "  he  was  a  prig,  and  thought  me  precious  green  ; 
[  but  I  'm  wide  awake." 

Having  uttered  these  words  smilingly,  but  with  a  dash  of  satire  in 
the  intonation,  he  laid  twopence  on  the  counter,  and  issued  into  the 
street,  where  he  confronted  the  coachman,  who  had  come  to  look 
after  him. 

*'  I  say.  Master  Jarvey,"  said  he,  "that  vehicle  o*  yours  ain't  a 
patent  safety  by  no  means*  It  aint  fit  for  two  horses'  tails  to  be 
turned  to  it     No — no— I  won't  get  into  it  again." 

**  That  be  blowed  i"  cried  the  other.  "  You  're  not  a-goin'  to  come 
that,  after  hirin'  on  me !     Pay  me  my  fare." 


504  DICK   SPARROWS  EVENING    "OUT. 

'*  I  sha'n't  do  no  such  a  thing!"  returned  Dick,  and  walked  brisk- 
ly away  ;  but,  looking  round,  and  seeing  a  detaining  hand  aboot  tt 
be  placed  upon  him,  he  took  to  his  heels  with  amazing  rapidity,  and 
was  soon  lost  in  the  distance. 

He  had  made  considerable  progress  towards  his  destination,  —  in- 
deed, he  was  not  very  far  from  Delta  Villas,  when  it  occurred  to  lua 
that  his  roll  into  the  road  might  have  tarnished  his  apparel.  An  in- 
spection of  his  gossamer  elicited  the  fact  that  the  brim  had  taken  m 
upward  direction  in  front ;  and,  on  applying  the  comer  of  his  aun- 
bric  handkerchief  to  his  face,  he  discovered  that  that  attractive  coo- 
bination  of  features  had  been  soiled  to  an  exigence  of  soap  and 
water. 

'<  1 11  go  into  that  little  public-house,"  said  he,  "and  set  myself  to 
rights.  It  won't  do  to  show  myself  at  Garton's  in  this  dishabiD. 
Cuss  it,  I  'm  precious  unlucky;  but  it'll  be  all  the  same  a  hundred 
years  hence.     Cut  along !" 

Cheered  bv  these  philosophical  stimulants,  he  entered  the  house, 
and  made  it  Kis  request  to  the  landlady  in  the  bar  that  she  would 
permit  him  to  set  himself  to  rights.  The  landlady  heard  this  reqnert 
with  little  apparent  sympathy  for  the  occasion  of  it,  for  it  seemed  to 
her  that  Dick  Sparrow  was  not  likely  to  approve  himself  an  absorb- 
ent. She,  however,  called  to  a  girl,  and  bade  her  take  the  young 
man  into  the  kitchen;  but  presently  recollecting  herself  added, 
**  No,  I  shall  want  to  come  there  myself.  Take  him  up  to  the  se- 
cond floor  back  ;"  —  and  Dick  followed  his  guide  uprtairSy  and  was 
ushered  into  a  room. 

And  here  he  found,  afler  an  inspection  of  himself  in  the  riass»  and 
a  diligent  scrutiny  of  his  garments,  that  he  had  a  longer  \o6  cut  out 
for  him  than  he  had  anticipated,  —  a  job  rendered  the  more  tedious 
from  the  untoward  circumstance  that  there  was  no  brush  in  the 
room. 

"  The  old  woman  looked  so  precious  sour,  and  was  so  busy  with 
the  mixed  liquors,  that  I  shouldn't  like  to  ask  her  for  a  brurii,'' 
mused  Dick.  '<  Never  mind ;  I  '11  rub  my  clothes  with  the  inside  of 
that  counterpane.     No  one  '11  be  the  wiser." 

He  now  set  to  work  in  right  earnest,  and,  his  labours  just  com- 

Eleted,  had  walked  into  the  corner  for  his  cane,  when  he  thought  he 
eard  a  light  step  at  the  door ;  and,  turning  round,  was  just  in  time 
to  see  a  female  head  withdrawn  before  the  door  was  closed  and  locked. 

'<  Here 's  a  blessed  move !"  said  Dick,  staring  about  him.  "  Dash'd 
if  they  haven't  fastened  me  in !  Thought  I  'd  bolted ;  and  I  sba'n't 
be  able  to  make  'cm  hear  in  a  month.     I  '11  try,  though.** 

He  was  just  about  to  liH;  up  his  voice,  and  to  propel  it  through 
the  keyhole,  when  a  sound  as  of  two  men  ascending  greeted  his  ears. 

"  They  're  coming  to  let  me  out,  to  be  sure.  Bother  that  fool  of 
a  girl  I" 

The  two  men  halted  close  to  the  door. 

"  Well,"  said  one, ''  what  I  've  brought  you  up  here  for,  and  want 
to  know  is,  D'ye  think  he  *ll  come  out }" 

"To  be  sure  he  will,"  answered  the  other, — "if  you  kick  him." 

<<  Well,  I  '11  give  him  a  little  time,  and  then  knock  him  down  for 
one/'  observed  the  first  speaker. 

'^  Good :  and  if  that  won't  do,  we  '11  stick  it  into  him,  and  no  mis- 
take." 


[T™^ 


I..  ,1 


DICK   sparrow's  evening   "OUT."  505 

With  this  the  two  men  went  down  stairs,  leaving  the  listener  at 
the  keyhole  more  dead  than  alive.  Here  were  terribly  intelligible 
words !  Here  was  a  frank  avowal  of  an  intention  to  *'  cook  his 
goose !"  Dick's  personal  courage,  a  small  and  subtle  essence,  dis- 
turbed by  the  foreign  gentleman  at  the  Lyceum,  tampered  with  by 
the  hackney-coachman,  now  evaporated  altogether.  Penny  romances 
had  quickened  his  sense  of  danger  by  revelations  of  roadside  public- 
houses,  where  bedsteads  descended  through  the  floors,  and  the  land- 
lords were  blood-boltered  assassins.  This  must  be  one  of  such  dens 
of  horror, — the  old  house  in  West  Street  moved  out  of  town,  and  set 
up  in  the  public  line. 

''  If  Aunt  Reddish  knew  what  they  're  going  to  do,  wouldn't  she 
go  on !  Oh  !  that  I  was  at  home,  and  father  jawing  at  me  as  he  does 
when  he's  half  sprung, — that's  all." 

Some  such  thoughts  as  these  passed  through  his  mind  as  he  hur- 
ried to  the  window.  It  was  no  great  height  from  the  ground.  There 
was  yet  a  chance  of  escape.  He  had  heard  of  such  ^ings  practised 
successfully.     He  'd  have  a  try. 

Clawing  off  the  counterpane,  therefore,  he  tied  the  two  sheets  to- 
gether, and  fastened  one  to  the  bed-post,  placing  his  foot  against  the 
bedstead  to  make  the  knot  secure.  This  done,  he  laid  hold  upon 
the  sheet  tightly  with  both  hands,  and  got  out  of  the  window.  But 
before  he  had  yet  made  any  effort  at  descent,  he  did  descend  with 
terribly  unexpected  quickness,  and,  looking  up  with  terrified  amaze- 
ment, there  was  a  bed-post  glimmering  at  the  window, — ^a  testimony 
that  the  piece  of  furniture  to  which  it  belonged  went  upon  castors. 
And  now  a  wild  burst  of  laughter  almost  deprived  him  of  his  wits ; 
and  glancing  whence  it  proceeded,  he  discovered  that  he  was  hang- 
ing suspended  immediately  in  front  of  the  first-floor  window,  through 
which  he  beheld  some  dozen  of  decent  Christians  seated  at  the  con- 
vivial board. 

"  Don't  go  to  chaff  me,  that 's  good  gentlemen,  or  I  shall  let  go, 
and  break  my  neck,"  said  Dick,  as  the  window  was  thrown  up,  and 
two  men  caught  him  under  the  arms.  ''Just  pull  me  in,  and  I  '11 
tell  you  alL  It  was  an  error  of  judgment,  and  there's  no  great  harm 
done." 

Dick  being  drawn  in,  and  seated  by  the  chairman,  received  a  glass 
of  rum  and  water,  and  explained  wherefore  he  had  entered  the 
house,  repeating  the  ominous  words  that  had  set  him  upon  this 
hazardous  method  of  escape. 

The  company  in  general  stared ;  but  their  perplexity  was  soon  re- 
lieved by  obstreperous  merriment  proceeding  from  the  chairman  and 
his  vice. 

"  After  that,  Perkins,  you  must  sing,"  cried  the  chairman,  when  he 
recovered  breath, — "  or  we  mill  stick  it  into  you  by  making  you 
stand  glasses  round.  Mr.  Vice  and  I  wanted  to  fix  you,  and  went 
out  of  the  room  here  to  ulk  about  it ;  but,  seeing  you  coming  up- 
stairs, we  moved  on  to  the  second-floor." 

Dick  was  well  laughed  at  by  "the  Goldfinches,"  —  for  so  they 
called  themselves;  but  that  he  little  cared  for.  He  ioined  in  the 
laugh,  dispensed  his  cigars,  reserving  one  for  himself,  had  some 
more  rum  and  water,  and  was  duly  elected  a  "  Goldfinch,"  and  pro- 
mised a  weekly  attendance.  This  sort  of  relaxation  was  so  new  and 
delightful  to  him  that  he  would  probably  have  forgotten  Garton's  al- 

VOL.  XVI 1 1.  o  o 


TiHi  ED.Tt   SaMMOWS   k.\  kSlSG    -*  OCX.' 

to  the  end  of  kxi 
^iDHoUbk.  Add- 

SL  11  "ms.  UK  ic  *=»  ja".«  iad  var  mmtt  cme  ps^  been  legndiug 
'lun  -v-^a  I  -aar  ic  iiuick  wad  xiKSC  CTes.  that  reminded  him  ttat- 
ixi4r7  '^  "^^  LyaeinT  AffiLmii^iii :  lod  ut  kBo«Tn|r  that  the  faicr 
-rt^  irwwrBrr  rsui-r^i  zpiin  ^liurlttg  k5i  frioidb  with  "^  The  Woii^" 
smi  ^lac  us  -rm  ^usaaane  rte  lowest  bus  notes  be  coald  deicaid 
:u.^-3iic.  nt  Tie  r-jnmrr  SLspeisia^  that  the  scr:nkger  had  an  evil 
nes]ri  xnun  nm.  le  wk  zaa  ztad  Si3  be  gone,  azid  took  hu  hutj 
jmi  nscjmjgi  jg£  iesarsre. 

*  r«jt  iidsr  It  mo.  IS  icj  ncz.^  laid  Dick  when  he  was  well  oi 
ram  rsmL  •*  2:  luuc  be  zrseuiu  late.  That  mm  and  water  «« 
TffTWf  icif  I  n  3iii[f  ^  uw  WttL  wiut  's  the  odds !  How  terrftij 
nescva  I  an.  zi  2e  for*  Az '.  2ere  's  Garton's.  There  are  tfte 
Imuk  iiil  aixwL ' 

A3IX  :3e<s  siET  w-s*  sore  emxich.  ftrnknig  the  street-door,  scolp- 
rmsi  jbTe!:s  jc  jmse  :c  jTsimeixt  and  cccrenaenee,— of  omament  to 
Z3e  jffiyn^  ^e.  ir  rm-nssLdsce  tii  the  batcher's  boj  and  the  baker, 
w^xiMe  73T  BUI  SK^jfc  3^  •ai^Bi  reposed  upon  their  backsL 

<"  123C  a»  Dtiat  lani  jooezi^iii  the  itep«.  and  was  h<ilding  forth  liu 
moii  3ir  3e  cnickfr.  lae  mx  cpeaai,  and  a  gentieman  hajCeniDg 
mc  7esr*>  mickg'i  izzn  aKkwird»  on  to  die  paTemect. 

*  7«si.  ^juii  3zipfL  P?aaer.    Gim2  bies»  joa !" 

*  yasanttu  ttt  3irr.  jrwii  zfxht.  I  'm  last,  as  usaaL  Xeier  spent 
M  iunoy  m  evisginic  is  bt  Izfe.** 

5^  nxs  rnK  se  rwv  x^stLexaen  had  recopused  Dick. 

*  ^rfixT^  ten  zj  3xe.*  aid  Garuo.  with  a  look  at  the  other.   *^ Good 

'  Gr/ini  -mm  "*  fnid  Prilo-.  md  with  a  glance  of  scorn  and  con- 

*  A-ni  ^'2^=  'rr-^  jzfL  bene.  srK  cried  Garton  fiercelj.     '*  You 

'    -X;.  I  i:;ip^'^     Wiis  wm  h  aboat?''  answered  Dick;  then,  to 
innsse-.f.  -  Oiii  Giruc  *  well  Ih  ap.  anjhow." 

y,Ti  3iiit  ii7>e  bad  h.'  said  Gazton,  •*  bj  the  six  o'clock  de- 

L\ck  rv!zesL>snni  use  poitznan  with  the  letter  at  his  nose,  just  be- 

-^eiL  Derer  ciad  the  letter.*  said  he.  ''Bother  the  letter! 
Y,-a  ««  r«t  ciF  the  portr.  X:mport.  What  d'je  look  so  for  at 
TTtf  -  la  TTtnr  jle ;  bat  I  il  tell  you  all  about  it.  Let  us  come  in. 
I  3Z  jo  pKkf&^>— «o  haxxgjj^  I  mean." 

-  H  i-r^TT''  -UY  T  jtt  r  '  cried  Girton  savagelj,  and  at  that  moment  a 
^rxxi:  viiaae  oat  of  the  pArloar  with  the  tantalising  remainder  of  a 
$i:Lcc:i.  with  which  she  walked  off  into  the  kitchen, — ^*  hungry,  are 
ycs^  ?  Perhjkfk^  jou  'd  like  a  rasher  of  Dnnmow  bacon  ?"  and  while 
th^  bcrrvr  ciused  bv  this  interrt^^atorr  was  wreaking  itself  upon 
I'hjk's  cvx:r.:e5iarce.  Garton  called  out,  "  Mrs.  G.,  just  step  this  way. 
H«;fe  s  thjit  impudent  rascal,  young  Sparrow,  come  to  pay  his  re- 
srecu  to  you." 

-  I  >e  heard  him."  said  the  lady,  making  her  appearance  from  the 
pirlonr.  with  a  tongue  in  one  hand  and  a  roast  fowl  in  the  other ; 
■*and  so  we're  always  at  it,  hammer  and  tongs,  are  we?"  and  so 
saying  she  wheeled  off  with  her  attractive  burthen  towards  tlie 
kitchen. 


DICK   sparrow's   evening    '"  OUT/ 


507 


"For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  go  !  Come  back,  Mrs,  Garton*  It's 
all  a  mistake.  That  Prater 's  one  of  the  cussedest  liars — "  But  his 
speech  was  cut  short  by  the  apparition  of  IMiss  Maria,  who,  walking 
up  to  him,  tossed  her  head,  grinned,  said  in  measured  cadence,  '*  Oh 
— you — pirppy  1" — and  tripped  away  with  one  of  the  most  soul-en- 
trancing pigeon  pies  that  ever  showed  upturned  claws  in  the  centre, 
— and  Dick  almost  went  into  hysterics* 

*'And  now  begone,  sir  f"  exclaimed  Gart on  and  he  gave  Dick  a 
good  shaking;  "we  Ve  done  with  you.  Don't  come  near  us  again, 
or  you  *11  repent  it*  Be  off*,  sir  1"  —  and  the  door  was  shut  in  his 
face. 

Might  this  be  a  dream  ?  Could  it  be  a  vision?  Was  it  a  joke? 
Dick  waited  for  the  chance  of  their  relentingi  till  lights  appeared  in 
the  bed-chambers  on  the  second-floor,  and  then  conscience  told  him 
he  deserved  no  lenity,  and  sitting  down  on  the  top  step^  cheek  by 
jowl  with  one  of  the  lions,  he  wept. 

*'  Well,"  said  he,  at  length,  rubbing  his  nose  with  his  kid>gloved 
hand,  "if  I  set  much  longer  on  this  cold  step,  I  shall  get  a  jolly 
cold.  If  I  don^t  give  it  that  Prater  ! — a  spy,  an  informer,  a  traitor  I 
Never  mind.  1 11  go  home  now,  Maria  and  me 's  cut — clean  cut. 
Well,  I  hope  she  '11  meet  a  more  deserving  objecL*' 

And  at  the  paternal  home  in  Cannon  Street,  weary  and  woe-be* 
gone,  did  Dick  Sparrow  at  length  find  himself.  His  Aunt  Reddish 
answered  the  door. 

**  Why,  you  're  very  late,  Richard,  —  very  late,"  said  the  old  lady 
somewhat  reproachfully. 

"  Yes  ;  but  never  you  mind,"  answered  Dick  sharply  ;  for  he  felt 
that  the  sufferings  he  had  undergone  might  justly  exempt  him  from 
idle  and  frivolous  Indications  of  displeasure,  —  "yea,  I  am  late ;  but 
that's  not  the  worst.     Is  father  a-bed?'* 

"  Yes," 

"  Anything  eatable  in  the  house,  for  I  'ra  jo  hungry.  Oh,  Aunt 
Reddish  !  you  may  look  ;  but  I  *ve  had  no  supper." 

'*  No  supper  1"  cried  his  aunt,  who  was  only  too  fond  of  her  hope* 
ful  nephew.     '*  Poor  fellow  1     There  's  a  bit  of  hock  o'  bacon," 

"  That'll  do,  if  it  ain't  Dunmow.  And,  I  say,  aunt,  if  I  bone  one 
of  father's  bottles  of  Guinness,  he  won't  miss  it?" 

These  needful  restoratives  being  placed  upon  a  small  tray,  were 
carried  silently  up  stairs,  and  Dick  fell  to,  while  his  aunt  looked 
upon  him  with  mingled  interest  and  curiosity. 

"  Oh,  aunt!"  said  he,  taking  another  draught  at  the  stout,  "  I've 

fone  through  such  things  to-night  as  a  book  might  be  written  about, 
*m  so  precious  done  up !  Why  do  people  pray  in  their  hats  when 
they  first  get  into  church  ?  That  they  may  always  have  somewhere 
to  put  their  heads  into,  I  suppose,"  (Dick  had  heard  this  before,) 
"  But  shan't  I  pray  In  my  night-cap  before  I  get  into  bed,  —  that  'i 

all  r 

Dick  now  recounted  his  adventures,  softening  down  such  details 
as  might  haply  tell  to  his  own  disadvantage,  and  suffering  his  aunt 
to  draw  off  Uncle  Reddish's  ring,  which  she  did  wliile  he  was  in  the 
middle  of  the  hackney-coach  scene. 

"And  you've  spi?nt  all  your  raoney,  have  you  ?"  asked  the  aunt 
when  h^  nad  concluded^ 

o  o  2 


508 


WOMAN. 


"Every  fraction.  Six  or  8€ven  bob,"  said  Dick^  to  whom  the 
stout  had  given  new  life, 

**  Ah  !  you  're  very  young  and  foolish,  my  boy.  You  'vc  Bufiered 
a  good  deal  to-night ;  but  if  you  *d  read  the  letter  (I've  broken  it 
open  —  here  it  is,)  you  'd  have  been  spared  the  last  trial.  I  was  in 
hopes  you  had  made  it  up  with  Mr.  Garten ;  and  have  been  sitting 
on  thorns  all  the  while  yoo  've  been  away.  But  now,  just  give  me 
back  those  four  sovereigns,  that  *s  a  good  lad  ;  for  you  *re  not  fit  to 
be  trusted  with  money, — indeed,  you  Ve  not." 

**  Ain't  I,  though?"  cried  Dick  with  animation,  and  he  drew  out 
with  a  flourish,  and  slapped  upon  the  table  four  bright  yellow  me- 
dals, bearing  the  date  of  1837,  ^i^d  commemorative  of  the  accessioii 
of  her  Majesty  to  the  throne  of  these  realms. 

At  this  miserable  spectacle  the  eyes  of  poor  Aunt  Reddish  assuror 
ed  the  orbicular  form,  with  a  kind  of  fiah-like  projection  ;  but  the 
direful  metamorphosis  of  her  nephew's  visage  causetl  her  to  bury  her 
particular  grief  in  silence,  and  to  bestow  her  best  care  upon  Dick, 
who,  shaking  his  shoulders,  and  kicking  out  his  legs,  went  forth- 
with into  hysterics. 

"  That  prig  it  was  that  boned  'em  V  said  he,  when  he  came  to 
himself;  but  it  was  long  'ere  he  would  be  comforted. 

At  length  an  idea  struck  him.  **  I  11  get  Prater  to  swear  it  was 
all  his  nonsense,  and  make  it  up  with  Maria.  Why,  I  meant  no 
harm,— ^id  I?  and  you  shall  have  your  money  back  as  soon  as  the 
nuptials  are  solomonized." 

'*  Solomonizetl!"  repeated  the  aunt  several  times  slowly,  lighting  a 
chamber  candlestick,  placing  it  in  his  liand,  and  giving  him  a  gentle  ^U 
thrust  at  the  skruff  of  the  neck  towards  the  door.     <'  Solomonized  l^M 
when  you  Ve  mfirried,  Richardj  there  '11  be  very  little  of  Solomon  in  ^* 
the  business." 

And  Dick  sneaked  up  to  bed,  wondering  what  on  earth  his  Aunt 
Reddish  could  mean  by  such  a  j^peecb  as  that. 


WOMAN. 


How  solvelc&s  is  womiiii  1 

WTiiat  limner  can  trace 
The  varied  emotiont 

That  gleam  on  her  face  ! 
And  wlnic  an  can  pnurtray 

The  feelinj^  that  lie 
In  the  heave  of  her  hosom. 

The  glance  of  her  eye  ! 

How  tender  h  woman  I 

Tlif  watcher  at  nighty 
Who  leav'Cii  not  tlie  blossom 

On  aocottnt  of  the  blight. 
An  angel  of  mercy, 

8he  »(>othes  ij>  in  pain, 
And  iiniilea^  in  her  gladness 

When  heaJth  cTomcJi  again. 

ilitw  lofty  i>  woman  ! 

Di.'*f»,  deep  is  her  ir<«, 
When  \lg)n  word*  enkindle 

The  »pnrk  on  liie  pyre  ; 


Af  Ajefttlc  fthe  towerft, 

Man  quaila  from  her  view. 
Till  her  wrath,  like  the  duiid, 

Soon  diftsolres  into  dew. 

How  loTing  is  woman  I 

How  fragile  ilie  dioga 
To  him  she  hath  oboeea. 

Whatever  he  bring* ; 
Though  all  he  can  utter 

Art'  wordft  to  deoare, 
ConHdingy— fthe  loret  hbn, 

Though  faUe,--wiU  belie 

How  childhke  is  woman  ! 

Hon'  winning  her  waya  I 
She  strirei  for  oar  pleaetira 

Through  long  weary  daya  i 
No  ill  can  affright  her^ 

No  ahade  can  annoy  ; 
She  aaekg  hut  to  lead  ua 

To  tunahiae  and  joy. 


509 


EARLY  YEARS  OP  A  VETERAN  OP  THE  ARMY  OF 
WESTPHALIA, 
BETWEEN  1805  AND  1814. 

my  tobac  

halt  before  Mojaisk,  Lieutenant-Colonel  Von  B  was  in  command, 

—a  great  original,  who  knew  how  to  gather  together  from  the  Russians 
whatever  he  took  a  haicy  to,  without  speaking  one  word  of  their  lan- 
guage. When  he  reached  a  quarter  in  the  evening,  he  summoned  the 
hostess*  and  demanded  from  her  all  sorts  of  provisions  by  their  German 
names,  affixing  to  each  the  syllable  *'  watsch,"  which  he  conceived  to 
be  perfectly  explanatory,  but  to  which  the  frightened  hostess  only  re- 
plied, '^Rosumi?  ni  rosami  pan!"  ''You  heard,"  said  he,  "how 
clearly  I  expressed  myself,  and  yet  this  savage  of  a  woman  cannot 
comprehend  me."  I  knew  this  officer  to  be  in  possession  of  a  capital 
herd  of  sheep,  and  would  willingly  have  had  some  of  them  for  my 
hungry  fellows,  and  spoke  to  him  upon  the  point.  My  Croesus  tomed 
a  deaf  ear  to  me;  but  I  had  a  bait  for  nim.  I  knew  his  pascioo 
for  tobacco,  and  let  him,  as  if  accidentally,  fill  his  pipe  witn  some 
of  mine  itom  Turkey.  Scarcely  had  he  exhaled  two  pofs  wben^ 
springing  up  in  a  transport,  and  holding  me  hat  by  the  am,  he  ex- 
claimed, ''Where  did  you  get  that  delicious  tobacco?" — ^^Ip  3fo«- 
cow,"  answered  I  coyly ^ — "  Could  you  not  let  me  have  a  little  of  it — a 
very  little  of  it,  my  dear  fellow  ?"  he  inquired  eagerlv. — **  Oh  !"  I  re- 
plied, "  that  is  intended  for  my  friends  at  3Iojaisk :  1  br«Pitglit  a  vbcJe 
cask  with  me." — "  Nay,  then,  but  I  hope  yoo  will  give  me  mom;  td 
it" — "  Undoubtedly,— in  exchange  for  sheep/'  And  inally  I  •Uabked 
two  of  the  best  sheep  for  a  moderate  portion  of  ibv  tfltacgsu 

At  Mojaisk  there  was  a  like  avidi^  for  my  u^bmeok,  I  tfgmstAnA  m 
much  of  it  as  I  could  spare,  and  among  others  UtamM  ten^oMUma/^, 
named  Altmann,  who,  in  erateful  remembnuee  of  tJm  ipR,  na^^  t*^, 
at  an  after  period,  from  dying  of  hunger ;  whidli  mditui,  ti^M»^  it 
occurred  much  k^r,  shall  be  noted  in  this  fxbee. 

During  one  of  the  dark,  cold,  and  fnf^ntiml  mf^ifU  ^i  tW  nutoA,  f 
was  separated  from  my  companions,  and  waademd  6iMtimm4iittr,  wnh 
a  sinking  spirit,  from  fire  to  fire,  witboot  Immf;  atVr  t^  <MMr  ntf^  wkfc 
them.  During  the  last  two  days  I  bad  cat«i  m^hmf;  uti^amtmm 
about  my  companions  deprived  me  of  all  power  ^4  trtr^UttiMm,  m$4  I  wm 
on  the  point  of  throwing  myself,  weary  and  halMjist§[^  %ym  th^  ^aatif, 
from  thence  probably  never  to  rise,  when  I  th^m^A  I  fftcr^rti4  A4^ 
mann  in  the  ooofased  mnltitude  which  tnynrmnkA  «o«v  WHi  a  last 
effort  of  my  remaining;  strength  I  called  his  sasM;  a^mA.  U*r  t/t^atd 
me,  fortunately,  and  £vided  with  me  a  1m^  ckke,  jwA  iMi^ihte  m$Mm, 
saying,  "  Here,  captain,  take  this :  my  bread  In  return  fw  j^mr  U^ 
be^cco." 

My  readers  may  surmise  how  qniddy  the  cake  was  <iwft»ljs>Mai ;  it 
restOTed  tome  pot  alone  my  physical,  bot  also  my  uim%\  t^tchpk ;  im4 
this  unhoped-for  aid  retired  in  me  a  new  lateot  ewiid^'SM*  m  a  |^m4 
Providence,  and  imparted  to  me  courage  for  a  frt^  ^^santih  aiUcr  mf 
comrades,  whom  I  was  turn  lucky  enough  U0  ^ttd. 


510 


EARLY    YEARS   OF    A    VETERAN 


1 

1 


I  must  noWf  after  tMa  digression,  go  back  to  Mojaisk^  where,  until 
the  25th  of  October,  we  led  on  undisturbed,  and  I,  through  General . 
Schulz's  friendship,  a  Tery  gay  and  agreeable  garrison -life,  in  whicli| 
tea-parties,  card-parties,  and  excursions  to  the  field  of  battle  succeeded! 
each  otlier*  ■ 

All  at  once  we  were  surprised,  as  by  lightning  out  of  a  bright  sky, 
by  tidings  of  the  ordained  retreat,  and  to  this  news  followed  so  cio^^Iy 
its  accomplishment,  that,  before  we  could  look  about  us,  the  general 
staflT  of  the  Emperor  entered,  and  called  out  in  front  of  our  hand&ame 
quarters,  **  Make  way  1  make  way  !  " 

We  were   obliged  to  forego  our  superb  dweHing  for  a  miserable 
bivouac ;    and    already  on  the   following  morning,   io  nil    imaginable 
haste,  the  retreat  commenced.     We  had  provided  ourselves  with 
much  food  as  possible ;  we  had  abundance  of  salted  meat  and  brandfJ 
and  I  had  plenty  of  both  in  uiy  carriage,  in  which  also  was  one  of  i 
comrades,  wounded  at  IMojaisk,  Lieutenant  Brand.     The  regiments 
that  is  to  say  the  remains  of  them,  marched  in  perfect  order.     Tkelr^ 
hopes  and  ours  pointed  to  Smolensko,  which  it  was  promised  should  be 
our  resting-place.     As  we  drew  near  on  the  26th  to  the  battle-field  of 
Mojaisk,  we  could  not  pass  along  by  the  usual  road,  but  were  obliged 
to  make  a  circuit,  in  order  to  avoid  the  sickening,  pestilential  stench 
which  the   wind  from   thence  wafted  to  us,— as  may   be  ei^sily  cre- 
dited, when  it   is  recollected  that  the  forty  thousand  victims  of  that 
bloody  day  (hesides  a  crowd  of  dead  horses)  lay  yet  uuburied.    On  the 
6eld  of  battle  remained  about  a  thousand  of  our  ammunition-carts,  for 
which  we  had  not  any  horses ;  and  thus  we   had  here  our  own  first 
terrific  and  grievous  spectacle,  yet  at  the  same  time  one  of  a  grandj 
species,  that  of  the  explosion  of  the  ammunition,  which  flew  into 
air  with  a  noise  of  thunder,  and  wrapt  the  whole  country  round  hiti 
long  interval  in  impenetrahle  vapour. 

We  were  not  aware  of  the  enemy  being  in  pursuit,  as  we  were  ta 
far  in  advance.     However,  we  had  soon  enough  to  suiFer  from  the  afl 
preaching  severity  of  the  winter  ;  and  the  provisions  taken  with  us  1 
meantime  also  much  diminished.  Our  hope  rested  on  Smolensko^   TlutQ^^ 
however,  was  not  confirmed ;  for,  alas  I  when  we  reached  it,  we  found 
the  gates  shut,  and  they  were  only  opened  to  those  corps  which  marched 
in  close  column,  which  was  no  longer  the  case  with  us.   Of  food,  which 
we  had  quite  depended   upon  obtaining,  there  was  none  for  us ;  the 
country  round  Smolensko  having  been  totally  laid  waste.     All  and 
everything  then  took  the  road  to  Orsza,  near  which  little  town  is  a 
passiige  over  the  Dnieper.     But  now  insubordination  increased  ia  ta 
alarm ing  manner  with  the   increasing  destitution.     All  ran  as  fmat  i 
they    could  to   escape   Kutusof's  artillery,  who    had    placed    hiroji 
near  the  road  for  the  purpose  of  surrounding  our  right  fiank,     Tb 
Emperor,  who  was  already  on  the  advance,  with  part  of  the  guard* 
turned  about,  led  his  old,  well-tried  soldiers,  under  Bes&ieres,  in  aid  of 
the  menaced  Davoust,  and  obliged  Kutusof  to  give  way,  so  as  to  leare 
a  space  free  for  the  regiments  coming  up;  nevertheless,  Ney  was  un*_^J 
fortunately,  with  the  rear-guard,  intercepted.     So  marched  we  on,  oiii^|| 
courage  declining  with  every  day ;  and  when  we  lay  down  at  night  ott^^i 
bivouac,  we  could  only  form  conjectures  how  long  it  might   yet  be 
before  our  complete  annihilation, — since  that  was  inevitable  we  in- 
ferred, from  tlie  entire  failure  of  provisiouK,  from   the  perfect  know- 
ledge we  hud  of  our  already  travelled  road,  and  from  a  thousand  oth^r 


st^^ 

tuiel^H 
TbPV 


OP   THE   ARMY    OF   WESTPHALIA,  511 

adjuncts^  to  which,  besides^  a  dark  nimoor  associated  itself  that  peace 
was  concluded  with  Turkey,  and  that  the  Rossians,  having  therefore  a 
strong  division  of  their  arm j  disposable,  might  cnt  off  onr  retreat  to- 
wards the  west.  The  residue  of  the  army  was  assembled  at  Orsxa  ; 
and  we  rested  a  day,  in  great  anxiety  as  to  the  fate  of  Marshal  Xey,  oJF 
whom,  since  the  last  engagement,  we  had  only  heard  that  he  had  been 
intercepted.  It  is  weU  known,  however,  that  this  prudent  general 
succeeaed  in  rejoining  the  main  army,  after  immense  efforts  and  al- 
most superhuman  perseverance.  At  the  end  of  two  days  the  acooont 
of  it  came  to  us,  and  all  received  it  with  equal  satisfiution,  crying  out 
one  to  the  other,  "  There  is  good  news  of  Ney ! " 

We  crossed  the  Dnieper  among  blocks  of  floating  ice  ;  and  then,  as 
we  were  wending  our  way  in  our  wretchedness,  indescribably  hungry 
and  weary,  all  at  once  there  was  a  loud  cry  of  ^  The  Cossacks !  the 
Cossacks  1 "  This  annunciation  always  produced  the  effect  of  bringing 
us  all  in  great  clusters  together,  and  I  soon  found  myself  in  the  very 
thickest  of  one  ;  when  suddenly  my  nostrils  inhaled  the  precious  odour 
of  long-forgotten  soup,  and  in  an  instant  I  observed  a  market-woman 
riding  upon  a  sorry  horse,  to  whose  side  was  suspended  a  still  warm 
camp-kettle,  out  of  which  was  steaming  that  transcendent  vapour.  I 
drew  as  near  to  her  as  possible,  until  I  was  lucky  enough  to  reach  the 
kettle,  and  drew  from  its  reeking  contents  with  my  fingers,  first  a 
piece  of  meat,  then  a  potato,  and  by  degrees  all  which  I  could  appro- 
priate by  this  means.  I  then  in  a  quiet  manner  made  off,  in  order  to 
avoid  the  wrath  ensuing  from  detection.  But  what  a  hce  the  poor 
woman  must  have  made  when  she  became  cognizant  of  the  emptiness 
of  her  precious  kettle !  Instead  of  at  that  time  being  disturbed  by 
the  whispers  of  my  conscience  or  the  pretensions  of  morality  on  ac- 
count of  this  piratical  refection,  I  felt  myself  infinitely  strengthened 
by  my  costly  repast,  or  restorative,  which  could  not  have  arrived  more 
opportunely,  since  none  other  was  to  be  looked  for  before  we  reached 
Barrisow.  That  town  being  in  a  perfectly  good  condition,  the  inha- 
bitants remained  in  it,  and  there  was  also  a  French  governor,  who 
kept  the  magazines  well  supplied,  so  that  we  hoped  to  find  it  a  good 
halting-place;  but,  as  usual,  our  hopes  were  again  deceived.  The 
guards,  who  marched  on  before  us,  had  already  taken  for  them- 
selves all  the  biscuit  and  other  victualling  laid  up  in  the  stores ;  and 
we  received  nothing  there  except  a  command  from  our  General  Alix 
to  follow  the  guards  as  quickly  as  possible,  who  were  then  on  bivouac 
upon  the  shores  of  the  Beresina.  My  servant,  a  trusty,  attentive  man, 
who  stedfastly  adhered  to  my  person,  procured  me  a  lc>af  from  among 
those  given  out  in  heaps  from  the  little  window  of  a  convent.  This 
was  the  sole  provision  I  carried  with  me,  and  this  hundreds  envied  me 
the  possession. 


Since  I  am  now  arrived  at  the  most  important  and  never-to-be-for- 
gotten section  of  these  reminiscences,  namely,  the  passage  over  the 
Beresina,  it  will  be  useful,  in  the  first  place,  to  describe  more  mi- 
nutely the  situation  of  myself  and  that  of  my  more  immediate  com- 
rades. Almost  all  of  these  were  now  completely  dismounted.  Neither 
General  Alix  nor  Lieutenant- General  Schulz  had  a  horse ;  whereas  I 
was  still  owner  of  some  saddle-horses,  a  small  open  carriage,  and  of 
my  great  Moscow  state-coach,  to  which  four  horses  were  iiamessed. 


EAKLY    YEARS   OP   A    VETERAN 


fed  with  half-mouldy  old  straw  from  the  roofs  of  Looses,  ud  ra 
now  rare  enough  to  be  met  with,     Iq  my  large  carriage  sat  the  fcr- 
merly-mentioned  Lieutenant  Brand,  with  live  of  my  other  woboU 
comrades ;  our  casb-hox  was  fastened  to  the  dickey,  and  tinder  tkf 
seats  were  put  all  the  articles  of  my  yery  valuable  uniform,  as  sWt 
great  number  of  the  handsomest  pieces  of  dress  in  various  kinds,  tad 
Bs  fursi  shawb>  &c.     Among  these  riches  1   made  later,  as  wtH  be 
seen,  a  motley,  undreamed-of  selection.     However,  even  the  httlr 
which  I  could  take  to  myself  did  not  long  continue  my  owj3,  and  its- 
ven  only  knows  who  came  into  possession  of  the   remainder  i     Ao^ 
thus  we  drew  near  in  disorderly  tlight  to  the  banks  €ff  the  BeresM 
along  %vhich,  as  is  well  known,  the  Emperor  had  drawn  up  a  part  d 
his  army  oppojsite  the  enemy,  for  the  purpose  of  deceiving  the  B»n 
sians  as  to  his  operations  lower  down  the  stream »  intending  to  aeoiuvi 
safe  passage  for  the  guards,  which  was  effected  in  quite  a  oj Merest  ipil 
from  that  where  opposition  was  designed.     Towards  evening  we  enw 
up  with  the  guards  on  the  strand  of  the  river,  where  they  made  their 
bivouac,  and  we  lay  down  by  their  fires.     The  bridges  were  got  » 
readiness  during  the  night,  and  we  obtained,  although  not  a  vei  j  l^ 
freshing  slumber,  yet  a  most  necessary  one,  not  dreaming  of  the  ap- 
palling incidents  which  the  coming  day  presented  to   our  eyes,  al- 
ready well  accustomed  to  horrors  of  many  a  kind.     When  the  next 
morning's  sun  diHTused  its  bi^ams  over  the  environs,  how  had  everyliun^ 
around  us  changed  since  it  left  its  last  light  upon  this  desolate  strand  1 
Thousands  and  thousands  of  camp-followers  and  fugitives,  of  men, 
women t  and  children  (among  the  former  oflicial  persons  and  towaa- 
people),  in  a  confused  mixture,  were  hurrying  about  uneasily,  or  eo* 
deavonring  to  secure  their  property,  while  their  appreheRsTons  aad 
anxieties  were  gi\*en  vent  to  in  almost  evety  language  of  Europe,    It 
was  a  fearful,  deplorable  picture  to  see  these  defenceless  men  tossed 
thus  against  each  other,  who,  however,  at  that  time  were  striving  ool 
to  save  their  bare  lives,  but  mostly  different  kinds  of  booty,  or  hoped 
to  conceal  some  dear  object  belonging  to  them,  inditferent  to  the  well- 
being  or  the  safety  of  their  fellow-men-     Not  from  hour  to  hour,  but 
from  minute  to  minute,  this  terrific  throng  and  tumult  increased,  and 
soon  it  was  to  attain  its  highest  point,  in  consequence  of  fresh  cauMS  id 
dismay. 

Those  divisions  of  troops  who  had  passed  the  bridge  threw  them- 
selves  immediately  upon  the  enemy,  in  order  to  dear  the  way  for  the 
regiments  succeeding  them ;  but  the  Kussians  from  the  other  bank» 
where  they  were  already  drawn  up,  shot,  as  did  also  Kutusof  in  the 
rear,  into  the  before* mentioned  knots  of  people,  now  so  crowded  toge- 
ther, that  they  seemed  to  form  only  one  mass,  JMy  comrades  and  1 
had  made  for  ourselves,  out  of  carts,  chests,  artillery-waggons,  and  a 
thousand  different  things,  a  kind  of  breast-work,  inclosing  a  small 
circle,  where  we  cowered  round  a  lire,  and  permitted  no  intruder  ;  for 
alas  I  our  misfortunes  had  brought  us  to  that  point  where  sympathy 
ceasee  with  our  fellow-creatures,  and  the  law  of  self-preservation  he- 
comes  the  ruler  of  our  actions.  The  most  lively  imagination  would  fail 
in  picturing  to  itself  the  calamities  and  sufferings  indicted  upon  this 
most  pitiable  multitude  of  persons  by  the  murderous  cannon-halls;  but 
to  us  at  that  moment,  companions  in  sorrow,  and  fellow- strugglers  for 
existence,  the  deep  groan,  the  loud  shriek,  the  execrations  of  the  dyin|c, 
of  the  deadly  wounded,  of  those  whose  limbs  were  ^ctured. 


^ 


I 


OF  THE  ABMY    OP    WESTPHALIA. 


513 


nounced  to  us  with  only  too  great  certainty  wliat  havoc  was  being 
made  around  ug. 

Meanlinie  the  passage  over  the  two  bridges  was  effected  with  all 
possible  celerity.  Over  the  second  bridge  passed  cannon  ojid  carriages 
of  every  kind^  and  also>  as  may  be  well  supposed,  great  numbers  of 
men.  Ours  was  exclusively  destined  to  foot-soJdiers  with  their  arms,  and 
such  only  were  allowed  to  pass,  all  others  being  turned  back  by  the 
gaisd'armerie ;  and  thus  the  most  strong-hearted  of  those  unfortunate 
beings  had  vainly  worked  their  way  through  those  opposing  masses  to 
reach  that  safety-mark. 

Matters  stood  thus,  when  all  at  once  the  crowd  thickened  round  ua 
in  an  alarming  manner>  and  despair  attained  its  highest  pitch.  The 
fearful  tidings  arrived  that  the  train-bridge  had  fallen  in!  And  now 
self-possession  or  consideration  of  any  kind  was  no  more  to  be  thought 
of.  The  thousands  who  saw  no  means  of  escape  threw  themselves  in 
raving  impetuosity  upon  us.  Each  man  propelled  his  precursor  with 
such  force,  that  many  ranks  of  the  foremost  were  pushed  into  the 
river.  With  few  exceptions,  these  wretched  people  lost  their  lives; 
for  if  any  of  them  did  escape  being  driven  and  crushed  by  the  blocks 
of  ice  as  by  the  wheel  of  a  miil^  and  by  dint  of  all  their  efforts 
reach  the  opposite  side,  they  sank  forthwith  into  its  slimy  marshy  sur- 
face. In  this  first  moment  of  terror  and  excitation  we  too  lost  our 
sang  froidf  and  resoh^ed  to  force  a  passage  across,  leaving  behind  us 
our  last  remaining  possession,  our  cash- box.  Lieutenant- General  Schulz 
took  upon  his  shoulders  the  wounded  Captain  VoUmarj  whose  leg  had 
been  amputated;  we  followed  this  example  with  the  other  invalids; 
and  thus  forming  a  compact  body,  we  strove  to  gain  the  bridge.  But 
hardly  had  we,  with  vast  efforts^  taken  twenty  steps,  ere  the  fluctuat- 
ing stream  of  human  beings  turned >  and  threatened  to  separate  us. 
It  was  our  unanimous  conviction  that  to  contend  against  it  was  impos* 
sible ;  and  we  therefore  endeavoured^  keeping  together  as  closely  as 
we  could»  to  push  out  of  it  in  a  lateral  direction :  but  this  was  only 
accomplished  by  passing  through  a  scene  of  horror. 

Not  in  a  smooth  path,  but  over  heaps  of  the  living  and  the  dead^  of 
men  and  horses  trampled  upon  in  the  mire,  we  returned  back  to  our 
forsaken  entrenchment^  climbing  step  by  step  with  our  wounded  com- 
panions, over  horses,  cannon,  property  of  all  sorts,  and  mounds  of 
rubbish.  We  here  reproached  ourselves  for  our  mad  underluking, 
renewed  the  promise  of  keeping  together,  and  awaiting  the  arrival 
of  night,  resolved  to  try  whether  a  second  experiment  might  not  be 
more  favourable,  as  by  that  time  a  multitude  of  men  must  have 
passed  over,  and  the  exhaustion  of  those  yet  remaining  on  this  side 
would  tend  to  decrease  the  impetnosity  of  their  efforts.  This  re- 
solution adopted,  we  were  seating  ourselves  around  our  fire,  tortured 
by  hunger,  when  we  observed,  through  an  opening  in  our  barricade, 
one  of  the  guards  carrying  in  his  hand  a  load  of  biscuits*  To  perceive 
them,  and  importune  the  man  to  leave  us  even  the  smallest  part  of 
them  for  gold,  was  the  work  of  an  instant ;  but  he  hurried  past  us, 
holding  his  treasure  high  in  his  hand,  and,  whilst  with  a  convulsive 
smile  he  shook  his  head,  struck  his  unencumbered  hand  upon  his 
clinking  pocket,  in  perhaps  unconscious  derision,  calling  aloud  t**  ti« 
**  Oh,  here  is  money,  gentlemen  I " 

As  we  were  mournfully  returning  back  to  our  fire,  Lieute' 
neral  Scbuiz  cried  out,  "  Take  <^re !  take  care  I  '*     But,  t 


5J4 


EARLY    YEARS   OF 


Wttming  was  well  utt^red^  a  grenade  burst  not  far  ofT^  covering  oi 
gravel,  earth,  and  pieces  of  flesh.  As  »oon  as  we  were  able  to 
about  VLSy  there  was  snnie  curiosdtv  mingled  irith  our  anxietj  to  ksanr 
who  among  us  had  been  touched  by  the  shot*  It  bad  entmd  tW 
empty  stomach  of  one  of  our  poor  horses,  had  burst  withiinldti  «d  i 
piece  of  it  shattered  the  leg  of  a  non-commi&sioaed  officer.  ALis!  \k 
story  was  told — ^no  help  was  there  1  Thus  Fate  had  oFertaken  aoei^ 
us,  and  how  soon  might  Death  summon  the  remainder  ! 

In  the  evening  the  enemy's  fire  ceased,  as  we  had  anticipttted ;  tW 
ferment  and  tumult  of  the  tormented  fugitives  was  aLLajed,  asis  ife 
ntgtng  of  the  angry  waves  when  the  winds  are  bushed  ;  oor  hopo  «f 
better  success  revived  again.  Accompanied  by  a  comrade  and  of 
servant^  I  left  our  retreat^  in  order  to  look  about  tne,  and  pha 
our  opexations.  We  did  not  venture  to  any  distance  ;  but  chanor  h- 
voured  us,  for,  after  some  zig-zag  manceuvres,  we  came  to  a  number 
of  carriages,  the  searching  of  which  was  promptly  executed.  Aloit  of 
the  seat-boxes  were  empty  ;  however,  at  last  we  found  two  laige  dned 
hams,  several  pounds  of  chocolate,  and  a  little  cask  of  red  wine.  Whxt 
a  prize  in  our  circumstances  I  Never  did  any  Crcesos  survey  Ilb 
hoards  with  a  more  charmed  eye  than  we  ours,  nor  waa  erer  any  diggff 
for  treasure  in  a  higher  degree  gratified  in  his  hopes!  All  the  money 
in  the  military  chests  around  us  competed  not  in  ralue  with  this  di»* 
covered  wealth  ! 

The  little  casks  were  struck  open,  and  disregarded,  except  whea  they 
contained  gold  ;  silver  was  left  carelessly  upon  the  ground,  as  a  thing 
of  no  worth.  And  thus  do  circumstances  decide  upon  the  value  of  this 
world's  goods ! 

Before,  however,  leaving  our  gold  mine,  following  the  example  of 
our  predecessors,  we  filled  up  our  pockets  with  the  noble  metal ;  anil 
if  avaricious  plunderers  did  at  a  later  period  take  to  themselves  nearly 
the  whole,  the  MttJe  of  it  I  could  secure  was  the  means  of  prolonging 
my  life  at  a  moment  when  distress  had  reached  its  highest  point 

Laden  with  our  treasure,  we  returned  to  our  expectant  compantciDB; 
who  met  us  with  a  loud  huzza,  and  could  not  suthciendy  pnise  our 
success  and  our  dexterity.  As  the  soldier,  in  the  joy  of  the  present  mo> 
ment,  only  too  ensily  forgets  the  cruel  past,  so  was  it  with  us.  Wtl 
filled  our  camp- kettles  with  the  bright  red  wine  with  as  much  joyful 
eagerness  as  tht>ugh  in  no  peril  whatever,  then  boiled  the  chocolate  in 
it  to  a  thick  porridge,  and  upon  this  repast  (fit  for  Olympus)  the  gc- 
nerul,  like  the  private,  renewed  his  exhausted  strength,  with  et^tial 
right  08  with  equal  appetite*  Of  the  ham,  however,  we  were  oitfc 
frugiU  ;  for,  after  eating  part  of  it,  the  rest  was  packed  up,  and  thnrwD 
across  one  of  my  saddle-horses, — for  we  resolved  to  have  recourse  to  it 
only  in  case  of  the  utmost  necessity.  In  n  calmer  spirit  and  w^th  re- 
nevved  strength  we  now,  after  this  fortifying  meal,  held  a  ooundl  oi 
war,  in  which  was  settled  the  mode  to  be  adopted  for  our  own  pasitfe 
and  that  of  our  wounded.  Then  we  began  to  make  our  toilet*  which  I 
will  bere  describe,  for  the  joke's  sake. 

Imprimu,  we  wore  two  pair  of  fine  nanauin  breeches*  then  the 
richly-embroidered  pantaloons  for  dress,  and  the  gold  embroiiiered 
acarlet  waislcoat;  over  that  again  our  green  riding-trousers,  buttoned 
down  the  side,  and  comrnc  up  very  high;  then  the  state-unii 
with  epaulettes  and  shoulder- braids,  a  surtout^  a  cloak,  and.  La 
all,  a  rich  Hussiuu  fur. 


4 


OF   THE  ARMY    OF    WESTPHALIA. 


515 


All  this  accomplisbed,  we  weot  a  few  paces  from  our  barricade  in 
'der  to  reconnoitre.  It  might  be  midnight,  and  deep  silence  reigned 
over  everything,  where,  hut  a  few  hours  preFiously,  hell  itaelf  had 
seemed  to  he  let  loose.  The  stillness  was  only  broken  by  the  plaint  of 
dying  or  trampled-dovim  men,  or  eJse  by  the  slilJ  more  lamentably- 
ikiunding  monn  of  mangled  horses.  General  Schiilz  was  at  a  little  dis-* 
tance  from  us,  when  we  all  at  once  heard  him  invoke  some  one  by 
name.  In  company  with  whom  he  soon  came  towards  us.  This  waa  a 
French  captain  of  artillery  named  Leroi,  whof  while  we  were  in  pos- 
session of  Moscow,  had  received,  on  his  march  through  IVIojaisk,  some 
friendly  services  from  General  Schu!z,  which  were  now  to  be  the 
ground- work  of  our  deliverance,  Leroi  told  us  that  "  he  had  remained 
behind  with  two  pieces  of  artillery,  and  had  been,  up  to  that  moment, 
expecting  farther  orders ;  but,  seeing  that  none  were  brought  bimj  be 
would  endeavour  at  bis  own  peril  to  get  them  across  the  river." 

He  offered  to  take  our  coach  with  the  wounded  between  the  two 
pieces  of  cannon.  Lieutenant  Brand,  who  had  the  small  carnage  to 
nimself,  we  now  placed  upon  the  coach-box  of  the  large  one;  my  ser- 
I'-ant,  an  active,  adroit  fellow,  placed  it,  with  two  of  my  best  horses, 
between  the  pieces  of  artillery,  and  thus  the  train  moved  forwards. 
What  hindrances  we  had  to  surmount  before  reaching  the  bridge,  and 
through  what  a  labyrinth  of  men,  horses,  and  ruins  we  had  to  work  our 
way,  may  be  conceived  by  the  time  we  employed  about  it;  for  it  was 
two  0  clock  when  we  arrived,  with  a  great  number  of  fugitives,  at  tKe 
bridge,  where,  since  the  cannon  were  still  fit  for  service,  we  were 
under  the  protection  of  the  gens  d'armes  on  duty*  Yet  a  little  longer 
and  we  should  have  been  lost ;  for  at  four  o'clock  the  bridge  was  on 
fire. 

With  what  feelings  did  we  tread  that  bridge,  the  theatre  of  so  many 
dire  scenes  on  the  day  just  departed  !  What  a  number  of  unlucky 
persons,  who  had  stepped  upon  it  in  fbll  hopes  of  safety  had  been 
hurled  from  its  narrow,  defenceless  space,  into  the  ice-bearing  waves 
of  the  Beresina  I  God  he  thanked,  we  were  spared  the  agony  of  being 
either  the  witnesses  or  the  occasion  of  such  miseries !  for  comparatively 
few  passed  over  with  us ;  and  allhough  some  did  press  on  before  our 
cannoQ,  and  some  behind  them,  still  the  number  of  such  was  mo- 
derate. 

We  ourselves  kept  near  our  coach,  silent,  but  animated  by  new 
bapes.  TMs  passage  seemed  to  us  that  of  one  into  a  new,  freshiy- 
bestowad  existence,  in  which  we  imagined  our  sufferings  to  diminish, 
and  an  improvement  in  our  circumstances  to  be  unquestionable, 
through  firmness  of  purpose,  and  deeds  of  daring.  And  how  fortu- 
nate it  was  that  such  hopes  at  that  time  fortified  us!  Our  phy- 
sical and  moral  strength  would  have  lost  all  their  tone,  could  we  Lave 
anticipated  the  unspeakable  distress,  privations,  and  sufTeriogs  whicb 
yet  awaited  us. 


Haying  been  a  fellow-sufferer  in  the  disastrous  paMige  ortr  t}i« 
Bere&ina,  unlike  the  leaders  and  observers  of  it,  I  am  und>le  to  gire 
more  than  a  few  sketches  of  its  general  features.  However,  m  many 
narratives  (and  alas  1  but  loo  true)  have  been  written  of  it,  that  to  mi 
more  thereon  were  but  a  repetition  of  well-known  fuct**  Bt^dm,  0 
aim  of  these  leaves  is  only  to  make  known  to  the  indalgtnt  rm 


516 


EARLY    YEARS    OF   A    VETERAN,   ETC, 


tbe  experiences  of  one  individual  in  the  great  drama  then  being  pet- 
formed* 

Fortune  had  certainly  smiled  upon  us  as  compared  with  so  many 
thousands,  and  we  perceived  assuredly  therein  a  favourable  presage  of 
our  future  fate,  which  we  now,  t!ie  passage  being  happily  tenninaled, 
l>egan  to  contemplate  more  closely.  Deluded  in  our  earlier  hope  of 
being  able  to  reach  Minsk,  where  we  might  have  expected  well-filled 
magazines  and  winter- quarters,  our  whole  efforts  were  now  directed 
towards  Wilna  ;  but  the  way  was  long,  no  less  than  forty  German 
miles,  and  we  asked  ourselves  whether  it  was  practicable  for  us,  in  oar 
complete  destitution  of  food.  But  courage  1  courage  !  We  were  still 
undivided,  due  to  our  faithful  promise  of  standing  by  one  another. — 
a  consolation  which  was  wanting  to  so  many  of  those  unfortunate  per- 
sons who  had  crossed  that  disastrous  hridge  the  day  before;  and  this 
we  learned  by  the  diticonisolate  looks  with  which  they  searched  among 
the  newly-arrived  persons,  or  endeavoured  to  ohtain  tidings  from  them 
of  their  missing  companions.  Here  many  a  child  was  vainly  crying 
out  for  its  fond  mother,  many  a  mother  for  her  beloved  child,  perhaps 
but  to  meet  again  beyond  the  grave  I 

The  fate  of  those  remaining;  behind »  who  after  the  burning  of  the 
bridge  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy*  was  very  lamentahle.  The 
Russian  army  itself  lacked  provisions  ;  and  it  follows  of  course  that,  in 
the  transit  of  such  large  bodies  of  men,  even  the  most  necessary  means 
of  subsistence  would  be  with  difficulty  procured.  Not  the  foortb  part 
of  those  prisoners,  amoug  whom  were  many  armed  regiments,  ever 
reached  their  destination,  but  perished  with  hunger,  or  under  the  in- 
fluence of  a  barbaric  climate. 

We  now  found  ourselves  upon  an  embankment  ninning  along  be- 
tween a  moor  and  a  heath,  so  densely  filled  with  fugitives,  that,  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach,  was  only  to  he  seen  one  continuous  chsoi. 
This  mass  advanced  step  hy  step,  and  made  occasionally  a  momentary 
hult,  that  probably  would  not  have  taken  place  had  we  been  pursued, 
which  was  impossible,  owing  to  the  destruction  of  the  bridge.  Thui 
pushed  we  on  in  the  general  thnmg.  But  now  a  new  ana  aJanniag 
enemy  fell  upon  us  in  the  cold,  which  came  on  towards  evening.  The 
wind  blew  sharp  and  cutting,  and  whole  clouds  of  fine  penetmling 
snow  fell  upon  us*  Vainly,  with  our  already  blood-shot  eyes,  we 
sought  for  some  house  in  this  inhospitable  place,  for  some  protection 
in  the  terrific  tempest  An  unfriendly  plain,  devoid  of  shelter,  lay 
stretched  before  us,  and  we  were  nearly  benumhed*  At  length,  afta' 
journeying  unceasingly  the  whole  day,  the  bank  widened  itself  into  s 
desert,  sandy  district,  on  which  a  few  pines  were  with  dithculty  grow- 
ing, and  we  arrived  at  a  small  hamlet^  where  the  houses  were  con- 
structed with  beams  of  wood  piled  one  upnu  another.  What  remained 
of  them  was  quickly  thrown  ilown^  and  with  great  efforts  our  stiffened 
hands  collected  the  wood,  and  added  it  to  the  6res  of  our  predecessors 
on  the  route,  in  which  manner  they  were  kept  up  at  every  halting- 
place,  sometimes  at  every  quarter  of  a  league,  being  surrounded  bf 
wretched  fugitives. 


I 


.SIS  GLDCPSES   AND    MTSTERIES. 

odker  eqnaDj  iiig«iioas  method,  he  of  course  continnallj  dreams  of  the 
ccrtaintT  of  his  coming  into  the  possession  of  vast  estates,  and  beips  d 
money,  under  similar  rasonahle  circumstances.  He  will  not  desert  \k 
friends,  hot  take  a  dash  at  the  stage,  which  he  strong-ly  feels  is  indigo- 
ons  to  his  geninsL  This  complaint  is  as  common  as  the  measles ;  but 
more  penloos.  fv  he  is  sare  to  argue  with  yoa  and  himself  that  erm- 
bodr  was  nobody  once,  and  —  as  the  Irishman  said  when  he  was  asked 
whiKher  he  could  play  on  the  fiddle,  —  that  ererjbody  must  try  before 
he  knows  what  he  could  do. 

Mothers  are  particularly  dangerous  at  this  period  of  a  young  gentle- 
man*? career,  for  they  —  like  the  owl  in  the  fable,  fancy  their  oirn  chil- 
dren much  distinguished  for  parts  and  beauty.  They  tremble  for  their 
duUdTs  futrit  in  the  world  with  as  much  terror  as  the  hen  who  had 
hatched  ducks,  and  saw  them  for  the  first  time  take  to  the  water.  But 
both  parents  are  the  last  to  open  their  eyes  as  to  when  it  is  proper  to 
leaTe  off  pinafores,  and  allow  their  darling  to  go  out  by  himself.  Gieit 
B  the  horror  of  the  worthy  couple  when  he  quietly  asks  for  the  key  !— 
the  key ! — the  first  bold  step  for  independence  !  the  **  tiying  it  on  "  sort 
of  interrogatory.  He  requires  it  only  that  he  may  not  keep  up  the  poor 
old  people.  Not  even  the  magic  name  of ''  Bramah  "  should  be  a  temp- 
tation to  force  it  from  them ;  better  to  gire  up  to  him  ererything  else 
than  surrender  the  key  of  joar  stieet-door.  It  is  your  domestic  sceptre  ; 
which  when  once  deUTered  op  your  rule  is  gone,  and  passed  away  for 
eTer.  But,  howerer,  the  mother  is  the  first  who  seems  inclined  to  give 
way.  She  stands  forward  as  the  boy*s  friend  and  mediator,  and  endea- 
Tours,  espedallj  if  he  be  an  only  boy,  to  melt  the  father  into  compliance, 
who,  of  course,  b  thought  to  be  **  much  too  severe  and  rigorous."  The 
day  the  hero  of  my  present  paper  was  bom,  —  if  be,  indeed,  who  never 
did  anything  can  be  termed  an  hero^ — his  father  (who  was  a  matter-of- 
fact  old-fashioned  clerk  in  a  government  office,  and  whose  wife  was  a 
simple-minded  daughter  of  the  senior  clerk  in  the  same  establishment), 
came  home  as  usual  at  four,  and  was  astonished  to  find  himself  but  No. 
2  in  his  own  domicile ;  the  quiet  knitting,  knotting,  pickle-making  wife, 
suddenly  became  of  consequence.  She  was  a  mother ;  she  had  a  sepa. 
rate  kingdom,  in  which,  of  course,  he  could  not  interfere.  There  was 
a  petty  state  hanging  on  the  skirts  of  his  hitherto  despotic  government. 
His  ^vourite  dahlia-roots  were  shaken  out  of  his  blue-bag  to  make 
room  for  tops  and  bottoms.  His  chums  were  banished  the  realms  by 
order  of  the  prime  minister,  the  nurse ;  and  his  home  was  swarmed  with 
nothing  but  caudle-drinking  old  maids,  wives,  and  widows,  who  declared 
that  he  ought  to  be  proud  of  the  child,  who  was  the  '<  finest  boy  they 
ever  saw.**  Time  callously  walked  on,  and  turned  the  chubby  babe  into 
a  cub  of  a  boy.  The  father,  of  course,  as  is  usual,  paid  for  his  first 
tooth,  and  would  have  been  much  pleased  if  all  the  rest  had  never  cost 
more.  The  boy  ate,  drank,  and  slept,  and  at  last  cut  the  petticoats. 
His  father  now  watched  with  some  anxiety  for  the  development  of  his 
peculiar  taste ;  but  he  was  much  puzzled,  finding  it  varied  immaterially 
between  pie  and  pudding,  and  roast  and  boiled  fish  or  flesh ;  he,  in  fact^ 
preferred  the  larder  to  the  library,  and  the  cook  to  the  schoolmaster. 
His  mother  thought  him  delicate,  and  protested  against  his  being  bored 
with  study.  If  the  father  attempted  to  argue  the  point,  both  mother  and 
son  were  immediately  very  ill ;  so  he  was  silent.  All  this  time  the  boy 
kept  continually  growing  out  of  his  clothes  and  his  prettiness,  and  at 


GLIMPSES   AND   MYSTERIES.  519 

length  became  that  particularly  disagreeable  aniiiialy  an  aieigiw  U. 
all  legs  and  wings,  and  a  doable  Yoice,  like  nothiiig  bid  hk  fmktr  wmL 
mother  quarrelling. 

The  old  gentleman  hinted  one  morning,  under  correcti0ii,  tko^  fe 
should  wish  to  know  to  what  trade  the  boy  voald  like  to  be  jpprencieeA. 
Trade  I  "  horrid  idea  T  —  a  sweet  genteel  child,  of  sodi  a  ^laf'iMimfy 
turn  and  bearing,  to  be  made  a  tradesman  of !  Forbid  is,  Hesvcs '.  X% 
indeed,  he  was  only  fit  for  the  army  or  nary  ;  but  sbe  eoaH  acvcr  brgi^ 
her  mind  to  part  with  him,  or  else  either  of  these  was  ki*  firt.  fW 
old  lady— for  she  was  now  getting  old, — however,  had  ao  teia 
either  of  the  army  or  nary  otherwise  than  thas  ]  ' 
were  noble  spirits,  who  were  dressed  in  a  hifUy-bccaBEBf 
and  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  stmt  aboot,  and  skew  \\t  mm  i  ■  f  i  tl  'j 
gallant  uniforms.  There  was  hot  one  drawbAck, — that  «f  scsv  in* 
for  the  convenience  of  goyemment ;  but,  the  rkk  beiac  bsc  snU  x 
not  in  the  slightest  degree  calculated  opoo.  The  poor  : 
the  melancholy  tendency  of  his  son's  pamits,  bm  £d  noc  jcck^  : 
fere  with  them  until  he  found  that  he  grew  beyood  ka  ■i'^^  ~'' 
ment  and  control,  and  that  he  had  got  aeqnaoiited  viih  \ 
young  men,  who  allowed  him  to  treat  tbem  and  knaoKf  as 
pleased.  His  father  then  deCemioed  **  that  ke  skoojd  do  i 
The  down  now  grew  npon  his  chin ;  and  ke  xmrmtd  kss 
to  the  cultivation  of  his  whiskcrB. 

There  is  another  interesting  point  in  a  i 
— shaving !  This  has  been  kiMwn  to  coMplefilr  irroiaSMua^  a  fam&w^ 
The  young  aspirant  himsdf  b  kalf  a^aavd  of  tke  rui  aet.  lan^  m 
apparent  cause  for  it ;  and  is  fearfol  lest  ke  sbot  tnrB  tke  «d|^  ^  kii 
father's  pet  razor.  But,  when  the  discorerr  of  has  maBg  iJut  'jmms  and 
brush  does  take  place, 

■^  A  diaoge  comef  o'er  tke  ^im  flf  ii«v  4 


the  mother  loses  her  smooth-dunned  pet,  tke  fas^tr  hu^JuM  Vt  zimk  ut 
had  better  look  about  to  find  him  ioik  em^kjmiemi, ;  abC  Sitr  msrvwc^ 
girl  no  longer  takes  up  his  warm  water  wick  ODcfidoBoe. 

Our  hero  was  now  approaching  to  eigkcem,  aud  kail  ^wmuza^  ^Lit 
above  serious  act,  when  the  &her  made  a  pnwiipy  sejoid,  as^ouc  wiuca.  jb 
was  in  vain  for  motheror  son  to  combat, — tke  key  sast  li^pB  ^  ov  MiB«t^ 
thing.  Even  the  mother  bendf  seemed  to  fed  tke  amnp— rj  it/r  uut .  ivr^ 
knowing  full  well  that  for  the  last  three  yean  ke  kad  uw»  ^wv  wim^TAuaif 
in  the  mysteries  of  grog,  dgars,  saloons,  ice.,  wkodb  kad  aS,  wka.  a  SMiai«r  a 
weakness,  been  hidden  from  the  fatkef^s  kmomMt^,  eke  ruuhr  licM/^ia 
it  judicious  that  something  shoold  now  be  done  Utr  kis  a^aMmuHUt  m 
life.  Being  pushed  into  a  comer  br  his  fioJur^i  6it^ummJauc^imf  m^  hm 
ally,  his  mother,  refusing  to  eome  to  ins  reieae,  ht  U0ifk  a  car  !<!■  ^xiijfar 
and  afier  mature  deliberation  found  that  nothing  is  iLt  vMk  ivuu^  nf 
professions  was  so  indefinite  or  easy  for  a  <kidger  as  tkat  ^4M  aniau^t^; 
his  choice  was  decided, — an  architect  was  his  yrUn^maum.  Xvv^  jg  u^^^ 
is  anything  in  which  a  man  may  be  very  bosy,  and  t^  MifHinitj^  <jf  ^'gj^ 
the  same  facility  delude  and  confound  hu  pare&ts  into  a  Ulkf  V  m  )t^ 
tense  study,  it  b  architecture ;  the  professional  liaet  nJi  ^m  nvum^,  1/ 
course,  be  hieroglyphics  to  most  pvents  ;  and  tke  4^Mm^  ^Ua  1^M«t« 
and  the  cunning  of  their  workings,  will  ynAaHAt  be  miZ  mi^tt  inirrJiM: 
to  them.  '  •    'I"-* 


OUMFSEa  4KD    HYSTERICS. 


TWi 


I  artieled,  ^^^  ^^  fm&ted 


,SJ 


'  all  laid  belbre,  he  did  not  Irooblc 


^' 


wlthti 


One 


iiDg^  his  iaiher  did  nolCQ u 


ym  ofioe;  Mkt  poittn  them  warn  asioimlted  I  the  psper  naaviia 
iwairnl  and  uuraad  I  m  aalnm Aing  qrenmstaa  ce  tn  a  Gorenyn^Bt  oftee. 
Is  &CI,  bttMiCis  W99  eQiB|ileleI]r  slopped  ;  his  junior  went  to  lib  rn- 
denoe  wilk  tike  gnalesi  anxiety  to  know  the  reason  o£  his  absence;  Ik 
old  mum  vas  dead,  and  he  had  lef^  him  the  key  of  hb  desk  and  ^f 
T***— '"'**  ffii  vidow  now  found  herself  with  a  small  anntirtr.  aoii  a  hff^ 
aott  wko  voRddialt  leafe  her  in  her  duln^s  and  ntelaocholjr;  so  he  thn« 
■n  Us  indenlwes  and  tacrificed  all  his  prospects  for  the  qttiet  enjo^raMi 
m  ■othmg  !•  do  1  He  was  idle  not  vicious ;  he  woald  walk  out  with  kii 
aallMr  heoMse  Bhedidii*t  walk  fa^t  or  far^  or  would  lean  orer  hit  mothtri 
id  talk  to  aoyhodj  whom  he  could  get  to  gossip  with  hm. 


!l1 


J 


^d  f  . 


^-1--==^' 


^.- 


The  means  for  the  mainteDance  of  ont?^  heing  spread  out  to  support 
two,  were  of  course  of  a  rery  thin  naliire,  and  called  for  the  stricter! 
eeoQomj.  This  did  not  much  harass  or  annoy  our  hero,  a  great  portion 
of  whose  life  was  consumed  in  sleep,  which  is  certainly  a  very  cheap 
luxury ;  or  he  would  take  his  rod  and  doze  over  a  stream  until  a  6sh 
caught  itself  on  the  book  and  pulled  very  hard  to  let  him  know  he  was 
there. 

He  sometimes  was  roused  Into  an  activity  which  called  for  a  strong 
effort,  such  as  tying  op  the  clothes-line  for  bis  mother's  servant^  or  the 
next  door  neighbour's ;  knocking  two  holes  in  a  washing-tuh  in  trying  to 


GLIMPSES   AND    MYSTERIES, 


SSI 


mend  one ;  washing  the  old  pamlle,  or  helping  on  aoapsud  days  to  wring 
thf*  heavy  things*  In  fact,  like  moat  idle  men,  he  became  a  raoUy 
coddle. 

Years  rolled  on  with  as  little  variety  in  his  life  as  in  a  donkey's  of 
sheep's,  which  dozes  away  upon  sorae  commoo  and  is  satisfied  with  the 
nlbhlings  which  he  obtains  around  him ;  as  ho  got  older  his  hair  became 
slightly  grizzled;  his  mother  having  become  very  aged  and  infirm,  and 
being  no  longer  able  to  walk  out  with,  or  in  any  way  amuse  him,  he 
sought  the  neighbouring  public-house  parlour,  where  he  was  looked  upon 
as  an  independent  gentlemen  who  never  had  occasion  to  do  anything,  and 
of  course  he  was  installed  in  the  comfortable  corner ;  the  waiter^  when  he 
had  entered  the  roomt  placed  his  accustomed  go  of  rum  and  pipe,  clean, 
hard,  and  dry,  with  the  spittoon,  at  a  particular  angle,  without  troubling 
hira  to  give  any  order.  The  parlour  gentlemen  who  frequented  the 
room,  bowed  the  evening  salutation  with  much  form  and  respect,  for  his 
figure  was  large,  and  his  face  of  the  Charles  Fox-like  cut,  which  gave 
him  the  app€*arance  of  being  profoundly  wise ;  the  whole  coterie  had  a 
great  respect  for  his  opinions,  which  were  gathered  by  his  nods  of  assent 
and  diss^ent.  He  listened  to  the  arguments  pro  and  con  upon  corn-laws, 
repeals  of  nnioni?,  Maynooth  grants,  or  any  other  political  question  of  the 
day,  with  his  head  slightly  on  one  side  and  his  eyes  half  closed,  in  the 
attitude  of  profound  attention ;  and  ever  and  anon,  as  his  pipe's  fleecy 
cloud  enveloped  his  stupid  head,  he  would  grunt  out  with  great  gravity 
an  **  Ah  V*  or  **  To  be  sure  V  It  was  believed  that  prudence  alone  kept 
him  from  speaking  out,  deeming  that  as  his  father  had  been  in  a  Govern- 
ment office,  he,  in  the  natural  course  of  things,  must  know  more  of  the 
secret  workings  of  Government  than  every-day  men  could  possibly  do : 
thus  did  he  sit  evening  afler  evening  indulging  in  his  passion  of  doing 
nothing,  with  all  the  appearance  of  doing  a  great  deal  more  than  any- 
body else. 

At  last  another  epoch  occurred  in  his  life.  His  mother  died  full  of 
years  and  left  him  to  the  care  of  her  old  faithful  servant,  who  had  look- 
ed upon  him  quite  as  a  partnership  child  between  her  mistress  and  her- 
self. His  income  became  more  contracted  at  his  mother's  death,  but 
still  his  handkerchief  and  shirt  were  as  white  as  ever — but  his  coat  and 
bat  were  certainly  more  worn,  yet  did  he  carry  the  same  appearance  of 
reafpectability,  and  took  his  accustomed  chair  nightly  and  his  usual  allow- 
ance of  stimulants  as  was  his  w*ont.  The  old  servant  felt  the  pride  of  the 
family  was  in  her  keeping,  and  would  have  "  worked  her  fingers  to  the 
bones**  rather  than  he  should  not  look  as  well  as  he  did  in  her  poor  old 
mistress's  time.  What  she  lived  on  was  a  perfect  rayftery,  for  the  chop 
he  left  at  dinner  was  in  the  safe  at  night ;  and  the  economical  slops  with 
which  she  deluded  away  her  appetite  so  as  to  appear  to  have  dinners  and 
teas,  were  amusing ;  the  dandelion  and  sage  teas  she  said,  were  as  good 
for  the  stomach  as  sloe -leaves  and  bits  of  birch -brooms  ;  and  meat  did 
not  agree  witli  her,  as  her  teeth  were  not  so  good  as  they  used  to  be,  and 
the  bits  of  things  were  very  nice  when  boiled  together  with  a  dish  of 
catchup  ;  and  what  some  people  shook  out  of  their  table-cloths  was  to  her 
a  week's  meal— and  that  wilful  waste  made  woeful  want.  She  had  per- 
fect dominion,  for  our  hero  surrendered  the  management  of  everything 
into  her  hands,  and  never  made  any  troublesome  inquiries  or  auditings 
of  accounts,  and  so  long  as  everything  was  ready  when  he  wanted  it  he 
never  asked  where  it  came  from.     Ho  never  of  course  kept  company  as 


VOL.  XVIII. 


p  r 


522 


GLIMP8B8  AND    MTSTERIES. 


k  woold  hsre  given  him  something'  to  do ;  bot  preferred  that 
aodetj  in  the  taTem  parloor  where  ererybody  paid  for  what  he  faad,igd 
had  what  he  liked,  and  never  gave  each  other  anything  but  a  ligfat.  If 
Ike  night  tnmed  oat  eold  or  rainy  while  he  was  enjoying*  himself  orer 
his  pipe  and  grog,  hb  hooadLeeper,  with  her  little  pinched-ap  bbek 
boanet,  came  with  his  great  coat  and  oamfbrter*  giving  many  dirediM 
to  the  waiter  as  to  not  forgetting  them,  as  she  still  looked  upon  ImB  n 
an  imprudent  and  thooghtkss  boy- 
Age  crept  OB  apace,  and  the  master  at  length  even  looked  oMer  tkn 
hb  £Hthfnl  M.  senrant-woman,  for  she  was  a  little  bosthng  anatoiif. 
She  fomd  he  was  perfocdy  dependent  on  her  for  his  ewery  comfort  Ske 
taddbd  with  hhn  to  his  erening  rendezronsy  then  retnmeid  as  regnkm 
clock-work  with  her  little  lantern  to  lead  him  safely  home  and  pot  Ua 
comfbfftaldT  to  bed.  Declining  age  brought  with  it,  as  is  the  fote  of  iH 
Ihooe  who  hsTe  nothing  to  do,  a  qnemloiis  and  fretful  disposition,  asdii 
last  he  Mt  the  exeftaon  of  going  to  his  erening  tayem  become  too  modi 
for  him.  She  woold  erery  ereniog  ligfat  his  pipe,  which  he  would  bst- 
leasly  pnl^  and  sit  herself  inmiediately  opposite  him  working  awaj  at 
aome  stocking  diagiam  whilst  he,  wiUi  his  cold,  inanimate  grey  ejei 
inating  ahoot  as  if  in  thought,  would  listen  by  the  boor  together  to  the 
baxzing  of  her  old  tales,  which  she  innocently  called  her  couTersatioo. 

He  doaed  himself  quietly  out  of  lifo  witlumt  marking  the  boundaiy  of 
see  state  to  the  other.  His  little  housekeeper  mourned  him  as  her  ova 
^ild.  He  left  her  the  httle  that  he  died  possessed  of,  which  was  raft- 
caent,  as  she  said,  to  carry  her  home ;  and  he  had  also  left  her  thekgaej 
of  nothiog  to  da 


J.*"  *^v 


523 


SAMUEL  RUSSELL, 


k 


Samuel  Russell,  btstier  known  as  "  Jerty  Sneal-"  from  his  suc- 
cessful personificatiou  of  that  generally-understood  character,  appear- 
ed to  be  one  of  the  most  single-hearted,  honest-minded  men  the 
world  ever  produced.  In  relating  the  minutest  circumstance,  he  wag 
never  known  to  falsify  a  fact,  or  exaggerate  an  incident.  This  some- 
times rendered  his  verbal  reminiscences  rather  tedious  in  detail.  Mr. 
Russell  looked  much  younger  than  he  was ;  he  dressed  with  scrupu- 

Iious  and  gentlemanly  neatness,  wore  false  teeth,  and  care  fully  stained 
Iflie  snowy  colour  of  his  hair  and  eyebrows  to  a  very  juvenile  brown  ; 
not  from  vanity,  but  with  the  idea  that  symbols  of  age  are  seldom  the 
most  available  credentials  for  those  who  are  obliged  to  seek  the 
world*8  service,  and  need  its  patronage*  It  is  lamentable  to  observe, 
that  with  the  astonishing  want  of  foresight  which  distinguished  the 
actors  of  past  years,  ^^  Jern/ ''  never  made  any  provision  for  futurity^ 
— belonged  to  no  theatrical  fund,  and  always  spent  the  whole  of  his 
income.  Latterly,  I  fear  he  suffered  many  privations^  though  he 
was  never  (it  is  to  be  hoped)  in  actual  want  of  the  bare  necessaries  of 
life;  yet  the  pangs  of  sickness,  and  the  infirmities  of  advancing  years 
urere  often  greatly  aggravated  for  liim  by  the  absence  of  many  a  com- 
fort which  **  age  doth  crave." 

It  is  consolatory  to  those  who  can  afford  the  tribute  of  a  sigh  to 
the  memory  of  Samuel  Russell  that  the  curtain  fell  on  the  old  actor's 
last  sceoe  at  the  house  of  his  affectionate  daughter,  Mrs.  Gillham. 
Mr,  Russell  unfortunately  lost  the  proceeds  of  his  last  benefit,  when 
he  appeared  as  Jern/  S'ueak,  at  Drury  Lane  theatre,  —  by  the  bank- 
ruptcy of  an  individual  with  whom  he  had  deposited  the  money.  This, 
with  otlier  pecuniary  disappointments,  weighed  heavily  on  his  mind, 
shattered  his  constitution,  and  doubtless  hastened  his  death.  Yet  he 
spoke  of  these  transactions  with  singular  forbearance,,  merely  ex- 
pressing surprise  that  Gibbs,  whom  he  had  supposed  his  friend^ 
should  have  thus  deprived  him  of  the  only  available  means  he  pos- 
sessed of  making  the  remnant  of  his  days  comfortable.  If,  in  allusion 
to  that,  or  a  similar  loss,  any  person  expressed  indignation,  or  re- 
marked he  had  trusted  unwisely,  he  would  observe  that  it  was  always 
'^better  to  be  cheated  than  to  cheat."  A  dissentient  smile,  a  nega- 
tive word,  would  bring  Jerry  out  in  a  most  favourable  light*  His 
declamations  on  honour  and  high  feeling,  at  such  moments,  evinced 
a  belief  in  goodness,  and  a  faith  in  humanity,  which  did  infinite  credit 
to  his  heart. 

An  endless  fund  of  anecdote,  and  theatrical  information^  —  an  un- 
usual share  of  general  knowledge,  —  a  keen  perception  of  the  ridicu- 
lous, with  an  aptitude  of  comic  expression^  always  rendered  him  a 
welcome  visitor,  and  an  agreeable  com[}anion.  At  the  advanced  age 
of  seventy-nine  his  lisped  witticisms  and  ''infinite  jests"  were  wont 
to  "  set  the  table  in  a  roar." 

Mr.  Russell  seemed  to  consider  every  grade  of  theatrical  life 
fraught  with  misery.  As  a  performer,  and  occasionally  as  stage- 
manager,  he  possessed  many  opportunities  of  forming  a  judgment, 


524 


SAMUEL    ttUSSEtL. 


for  he  knew  them  all,  from  the  half-starved  ballet-girl, 
thing !  ahtvers  in  her  gauze,  —  the  least-considered  harleqti 
jumps  Jim  Crow,  to  the  most  honoured  winners  of  fame  and  mooet 
He  had  seen  Mrs,  Jordan  **  crying  like  the  rain,"  after  she  h^d  «• 
chanted  the  house  with  her  assumed  vivacitj;  and  handed  her  bird- 
won  earnings  to  the  father  of  her  children,  when  he  had  waited  for 
the  poor  amount  with  ungracious  impatience.  The  old  actor  vwiid 
then  mournfully  describe  the  inevitable  destiny  of  over-escM 
nerves,  and  tell  wtth  what  stormy  bursts  ofgri^,  what  pmmMtm 
6oods  of  tears,  Mrs.  Siddons  occasionally  vrrung  her  tragic  baA<k 
**  atvd  wished  to  God  she  had  never  been  an  actress  I"  Having  kooi 
the  late  Duchess  of  St.  Albans  from  her  •♦  first  appearance  on  in* 
stager  Mr.  Russelfs  anecdotes  of  that  fair  lady's  generous  iropube^ 
and  frank  benevolence  of  character  were  exceedingly  good,  bm 
would  lose  part  of  their  point  in  recital,  for  Jerry  (as  hts  oldest  frieudi 
called  him)  was  a  first-rate  "story-teller." 

A  farm-house  lodging,  a  fish>pond,  or  a  river-side,  were  the  only 
localities  Mr.  Russell  pined  after  in  his  "weary  age."  Isaac  Walton 
never  sighed  forth  rural  aspirations  half  so  pathetically. 

He  used  to  tell  us  a  comic  story  of  a  performer  named  Du  Chana 
who,  half  a  century  ago,  took  a  farm  at  Finchley,  leaving  to  his  wiv 
the  sole  trust  and  charge  of  its,  to  her,  most  novel  and  unpleaoat 
duties.  As  it  may  be  supposed  the  lady  (who  had  been  used  beTore 
her  marriage  to  fare  sumptuously  every  day,  to  enjoy  her  own  ctf- 
riage,  and  rejoice  in  her  private  box  at  the  Opera,)  was  not  gr«itl7 
improved  in  health  or  temper  by  the  damp  of  the  cold  dairy,  or  Kiit 
harmony  of  the  hogsty.  While  Du  Champ  rioted  in  London,  lod 
trod  the  stage  in  inferior  characters,  she  grew  cross  and  crippled  with 
the  rheumatism,  and  half-distracted  by  the  woe^  of  her  position. 

The  actors  from  Drury  Lane  enjoyed  this  Finchley  fiirm  amasil^ 
ly  whenever  Du  Champ  dared  to  take  them  down  for  a  Sunday*! 
treat;  for  there, by  the  warm  fire-side, muffled  up  in  shawls,  and  wctr* 
ing  tall  clogs,  sat  the  ci-derant  lady,  scolding  her  bewildered  huibH^ 
in  the  shrillest  tones^  and  taking  small  account  of  his  visitors. 

**  You  are  a  most  horrid  farmer,  you  are.      There  *8  the  butte 
won't  come,  and  the  eggs  will  go  I     The  horses  have  been  in  the! 
corn, — they  'II  all  die !     The  sheep  are  strayed  away  f     The  pigij 
have  eated  the  chickens  !     The  sow  *s  rooted  up  the  asparagus-l 
You  won*t  stay  at  home  and  mind  'em,  though  you   know  youVel 
VERY  bad  actor." 

The  husband,  afraid  to  speak,  would  look  appealingly  at  his  visita 
•*  You  must  have  plenty  of  poultry/'  or  some  »uch  kindly  suggestiv 
remark,  would  only  serve  to  call  forth  a  fresh  list  of  grievances. 

"  La !  la  !  poultry  1  We  *ve  not  got  a  winged  thing  alive  here  bu 
die  sea-gull  I  brought  from  Margate,  and  fourteen  peacocks,  th 
scream  like  death-fetches.  The  higgler  stole  the  turkeys, — he  did,  I 
know.  The  gipsies  burnt  the  he<lges  ;  the  gleaners  took  the  apples  j 
the  thatch  is  blown  off  the  barn  ;  the  pigeons  are  flown,  God  know 
where  I  and  the  horrid  bees  have  swarmed  off  to  Hfghgate  HjII 
Everything 's  going  to  ruin  here.  He  won't  stay  at  home  and  mic 
*em,  and  ne  's  a  <?tfrv  bad  actor!  —  he  knows  he  *s  a  very 
actor  I" 


535 


A  LEAF  OUT  OF  MY  BOOK. 


BT   TBOTC08EY, 


If  you  have  a  day  to  spare,  or  even  half  a  dozen  hoars,  I  will  put 
you  in  the  way  of  disposing  of  them  to  the  best  advantage,  now  that  the 
autumn  has  set  in  in  good  earnest.  I  take  it  for  g:ranted  that  you  are  a 
hearty  lover  of  the  beautiful  in  nature  or  art, — that  you  have  not  out- 
lived your  emotions, — that  you  are  not  a  dull,  plethoric  sort  of  fellow, — 
and  then  I  don*t  care  a  bat^pn  whether  you  are  an  artist  or  a  stock- 
broker, a  man  of  g'enius  or  a  man  of  millions ;  provided  you  have  one 
pound  sterling  in  your  pocket  devoted  to  this  day*s  amusement,  I  take 
possession  of  you,  and  you  may  leave  care  behind  at  your  lodgings,  with 
your  carpet-bag  and  brown  silk  umbrella. 

Cast  your  eyes  on  to  the  centre  of  the  street  you  happen  to  be  walk- 
ing in.  If  it  be  a  large  thoroughfare,  1  engage  that  within  five  minutes 
you  shall  be  safe  on  the  roof  of  a  "  Great  Western  ^  *bus.  Take  a  day- 
ticket  at  Paddington  for  Slough* 

Arrived  at  Slough,  as  you  are  wholly  unencumbered  with  baggage* — 
inacintosh-and*umbrella-less,^^ — owning  nothing  but  a  stout  cane,  you 
push  through  the  narrow  outlet,  antithetically  guarded  by  a  very  stout 
HUperintendent,  get  a  comer  of  your  ticket  torn  or  snipped,  and  climb 
to  the  roof  of  an  omnibus.  Above  everything  have  your  place  on  the 
roof:  those  elastic  Windsor  omnibuses  1  I  once  went  inside  one,  and 
the  dismal  effect  of  eight  peaked  beards  ranged  opposite  to  me,  and  six- 
teen foolishly -fierce  small  grey  eyes  glaring  upon  me,  belonging  to  an 
itinerant  section  of  Jeane  France,  quite  overawed  roe  for  the  day.  I 
[  liad  nearly  omitted  to  state  that  eight  respectable  housekeepers  Uned 
'  the  vehicle  on  my  side  ;  stout,  after  the  fashion  of  their  class,  perspir- 
ing, and  very  anxious  for  the  safety  of  their  bandboxes.  "  And  these 
are  the  beUe^t  AmjlaiseSf*^  muttered  an  Alphonse  Eugene  opposite  me. 
Discriminating  Alphonse  I  you  are  not  a  whit  behind  the  generality  of 
your  countrymen  in  the  startling  truth  of  your  remarks  on  foreigners. 
Yes,  mon  c/ier  ;  these  are  specimens  of  **  Ics  belles  Anglaises  ;" — some- 
vrhat  run  to  seed,  perhaps  ;  but,  for  omnibus  belles^  not  so  bad  after  all. 
Don't  be  beguiled  into  stopping  at  Windsor,  when  you  get  there. 
The  fragment  of  the  Castle  now  "  open  to  ihe  public  "  is  certainly  not 
worth  the  time  spent  in  wailing  to  see  it ;  and,  though  it  has  been  pom- 
pously announced,  that  **for  the  future  no  money  will  be  taken  from 
visitors  to  the  Castle,  as  the  venerable  housekeeper  has  been  pensioned 
off,*'  there  has  been  an  unaccountable  omission  of  the  fact,  that  the  ve* 
nerahle  housekceper*s  duties  dwindled  down  to  nothing  before  she  was 
"  pensioned  off  '*  for  performing  them.  Imagine  a  few  good  pictures, 
plenty  of  carving  and  gilding,  and  then  start  for  the  Long  W^alk.  On 
-your  road  you  will  meet  two  or  three  young  guardsmen,  and  a  brace  of 
**  Lifes  **  or  **  Blues,'*  ais  the  case  may  be  i- — supercilious- looking  young 
fellows,  who  think  it  necessary  to  close  one  eye  entirely,  and  the  remain- 
ing eye  partially,  in  order,  I  suppose,  to  let  in  upon  their  mental  vision 
no  more  of  the  outer  world  than  they  have  intelligence  to  comprehend 
At  once. 


A   UEAF  OCT   or  MT   BOOK. 

r  WaOL  dkm  vkiek  I  kmam  not  a  more'bttatifid  raid 
I  5«L  arrrve  as  die  gate  whiA  btsccU  this  road,  km 
ni  afcr  t9  dbe  frm  ipracj  turf  to  joor  left.  Jiist« 
latt  imc  if  Souv  ffiL  soke  a  ¥w  wick  iwuVrif  that,  till  joa  arme  « 
ae  vg.  tphl  vol  senve  becaer  tkiB  htfts  vife^  md  n«r  look  beiiiiKi  jql 
E4«  svay  31  ywar  ^eft  si  Toa  iifi,  femiiug  Gcor;^  tbe  Foortk'i 
^a^trw  •KsoBBBKik  aBi  ¥«rT  vHlas  Hiii%i»  or  "wiaAmtt^  to  jobt  rigk; 
«K  wot  JKLi^e  as  ^  fhrnrnkket  of  die  ridgcw  oot  o£  brealk,  aad  job 

k^f s  IwftiiwiL     Mil  I  of  STRB  ■MiiH  kero  and  thoe  relieved  hf 

WmimmCamim.    At  :^  fat  rf  tke  C«tle  tke  old  iti^ylmg  tow 

a  fink  lo  eoaaect  tke  tvoL     ^^*^f^  tken^  ^gMB,  ait 

'socresadto««ffs"ofEtoB.    Nov  ton  joor  eyes  to 

tkeiickL  aaiy— wgbe  nfmkid  to  ttaee  kere  and  ihiiij  iiuTl  iwiitil 

niBHs  fftfiv  aawdi  iDoaidi  tke  kase  of  tkoee  distast  Wh,  whieb 
ace  B^  gcker  aai  vkjmt,  O  Higkgale  aad  niwpat  i  awl !  TkekmimdiilaliBg 

I  airae  laa  Mt  mTSamim  il  a  a  kaiTT,  bat  to  dt  dova  tkere  auder 
tkHe  tarn  <2aa  akick  farm  a  aataeal  arck  sane  tacnty  feet  over  joiir 
keaJL  aai  akae  ya  rert  aad  wmdkut,  I  viD  tell  joo  an  aneedate  of  tke 


;  iftr  lards  fraiabneToa  are  sittings  the  kigk  laad.  Wading  ta 
.  takesataza  ro^id  tke  paach  oftkeki!],  wda  akort  piece  of 
taM-^aad  fnihtrT  i  ■iiian  i  to  paoae,  and  tkeir  oeeopants  to  torn  rouiMi 
and  ox  oa:  -Lor!"  -Lawk  I'  '•Incvw!"  *«WeUr  aad  tke  like 
popolar  exdaaaifionf  of  woadenaent  aad  deligkt.  It  is  kefe  tkat  tke 
ro^  ciqiapage  ia  alwart  kaked  wbeo  aooie  iDastnoos  fbieigaer  is  re- 
yMud  to  admire  Wiadaor.  its  park  and  castle.  It  is  truly  a  rigkt  royal 
ipot,  wkere  tke  air  is  osoailT  porer,  and  whence  (it  is  tkoogkt)  tke  skj 
laoks  kiaer  and  tke  foliage  greener  than  from  any  other  ^Mt  whatever 
aa  tke  wkole  nage  of  tkis  magniicent  pkasure-groaiKL 

Alas !  life  is  as  full  of  startling  contrasts  as  a  coriositj  shop.  Tbe 
trae  and  the  terrible  jostle  ineritablT  against  the  aofi  and  glittering  pa- 
geants we  kive  to  look  opoa.  So  it  most  be  to  the  end  I  And  tf  the 
mnch-aka»d  Epknrean  meant  onlj  that,  with  the  full  potseption  of  thb 
fact,  it  was  wM  to  gather  roses  and  never  heed  their  ineritable  thorns, 
it  was  at  any  rate  a  cheerful  philoaopby,  and,  for  a  heathen,  a  desirable 
oae.  Tke  SloiCt  indeed, — ah !  talking  of  the  Stoics  reminds  me  I  kit 
yoQ  under  an  dm-tiee,  promising  to  giTe  you  an  anecdote  of  the  locality. 
Thus  it  runs* 

Do  you  mark  how  high  the  fern  is  some  thirty  yards  from  the  edge 
of  the  road  just  where  you  may  suppose,  if  you  like,  and  if  you  ait  long 
enough  you  will  probably  see,  the  Queen's  pony-chair  halted.  It  is 
now  about  six  weeks  ago  since  the  servant  of  a  neighbouring  gentleman 
walking  through  that  high  fern  struck  his  foot  against  some  obstruction. 
On  stooping  down  to  notice  the  cause,  I  leave  you  to  imagine  his  feel- 
ings when  he  found  his  foot  resting  cm  the  body  of  a  man,  evidently  in 
the  last  stage  of  life,  so  feeble  that  he  bad  not  strength  to  keep  off  the 


A  LEAF  OUT  OF   MY   BOOK. 


527 


Bies  which  Uterally  filled  hU  mouth.  The  m&a  was  starving ;  was  in- 
'itantly  raised  and  removed  to  the  ^orkhouse^  where  (in  spite  of  all  me- 
dical aid)  he  died  in  three  hours— ^farF<?rf.  A\%  on  the  margin  of  that 
royal  high-road,  and  within  sight  of  that  royal  prospect  I  Before  he  ac- 
tually died  he  uttered  just  this — **no  food,  three  days."  There  was 
found  on  him  no  paper,  nor  mark  whatever  to  identiiy  him,  and  so  he 
was  entered  in  the  parish  register  of  burials^  **  Man  unknown,*'  The 
next  entry  stands  thua^ — **John  Kamsbotloniy  the  member  for  the  bo- 
rough I"  Truly  the  rich  and  the  poor  lie  down  t4>gether :  and  truly, 
again,  do  we  live  among  strange  and  strong  contrasts  even  to  the  grave. 
Enough  of  this  :  as  you  are  rested,  and  possibly  satiated  with 
Nature's  prodigal  beauty,  we  will  be  off  to  Sand-pit  Gate«  Pass  by 
George  the  Fourth's  monum^tal  tribute  to  his  father  which  heads  the 
IjQng  Walk,  capping  Snow  HIIL  It  is  a  bold  equestrian  statue  of  the 
third  George  capering  on  an  insufficient  pedestal.  I  envy  the  laurel- 
crowned  monarch  his  view,  but,  considering  all  things,  not  his  classic 
petticoats.  Seen  through  a  young  chesnut-wood  beyond,  there  is  now 
and  then  a  startling  effect  produced  by  the  rigid  outline  and  upraised 
truncheon  of  the  King.  Let  us  walk  on,  passing  behind  the  statue,  and 
choosing  a  diagonal  green  ride  in  the  direction  of  Sand-pit  Gate. 

About  a  quarter  of  a  mile  forther  you  clear  the  woods  and  look  over 
a  fine  undulating  plain  towards  the  town  and  castle.  This  same  plain  is 
a  favourite  battle-field  for  the  bucks,  and  as  this  is  the  season  of  their 
pugnacity  if  you  will  call  a  halt  of  five  minutes,  we  shall  probably  wit- 
ness as  strange  a  combat  as  the  laws  of  chivalry  acknowledge. 

Do  you  see  that  pair  of  an  tiered  fellows,  one  of  a  dark  mouse-colour^ 
the  other  more  of  a  roan,  slowly  advancing  toward  us?  At  about 
fifty  paces  off  they  slop,  and  commence  scraping  the  turf  with  their  fore- 
feet, or  rather  with  one  fore-foot,  looking  round  them  in  every  direction 
ad  sustaining  irregularly  a  hoarse,  guttural  cry  or  growl,  as  unlike  the 
ad  you  would  ascribe  to  them  as  possible.  Now  the  point  of  honour 
[  this :  if  either  party  venture  within  the  limits  so  scraped  out  by  the 
r,  it  is  a  fair  challenge,  and  the  fight  begins.  I  dare  say  you  are 
ot  aware  that  our  proverb  of  "getting  into  a  scrape"  is  derived  from 
bis  same  practice)  of  belligerent  bucks.  Ah  I  there  are  the  does^ — the 
:  cauKB  belli — hovering  on  the  flank  of  either  scrape ;  and  now  the 
HouseHXiloured  champion,  taking  umbrage  at  some  fitrtation  of  the  roan 
rith  a  fair  friend,  steps  within  his  scrape,  head  down,  made  up  for  niiu- 
hief.  Of  course  his  challenge  is  accepted;  and  a  sort  of  pulley-haw  ley 
combat  commences.  Sometimes  these  fine  fellows,  but  more  especinlly 
^the  red  deer  who  haunt  towards  the  Sheet-street  Gate  of  the  park,  will 
'  ght  a  toutrafice^  that  is^  till  an  antler  is  twisted  off,  or  an  eye  poked  out. 
lut  as  these  combatants  seem  more  inclined  to  the  harmless  demonstra- 
lions  of  the  modern  prize-ring,  we  will  pursue  our  walk. 

Sand-pit  Gate  is  a  lodge  agreeably  placed  on  a  tolerable  eminence, 
whence,  for  a  wonder,  the  view  is  finer  in  any  direction  than  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Windsor.  But  passing  by  for  the  present  the  distant  blue  hills  of 
Surrey,  with  intervening  ridges  of  wood  interminable,  I  shall  place  you 
with  your  face  to  the  cast,  and  direct  your  attention  to  an  airy  structure 
which  appears  to  be  hanging  in  an  opening  of  the  trees  before  you. 
It  is  the  conservatory  once  attached  to  the  far-famed  cottage  of  George 
he  Fourth,  which,  with  some  trifling  exceptions,  forms  the  sole  remainB 
'  the  royal  Sybarite*8  retreat.    The  chapel  stands  also  at  some  little  d is- 


528  A  LEAF  OUT  OF  MY    BOOK. 

tance ;  but  of  the  actual  cottage,  one  large  room  besides  the  coofemlaij 
alone  testifies  <*  to  Wyatt's  skill,  and  George's  sumptnous  taste."  IW 
glass  structure  is  pretty  enough,  and  most  beautifully  placed:  tk 
cottage  must  have  been  damp  and  melancholy.  It  is  odd  enougk  l> 
wander  at  will  about  the  tristes  rdiquuB  of  this  nick-nack,  when  one  re- 
members how  jealously  its  very  whereabout  was  g^uarded  and  fenced  off 
from  profane  feet,  so  few  years  ago.  That  consenratory  might  td 
tales,  too,  if  it  chose ;  but  it  is  a  discreet-looking  building  of  its  loDd, 
and  keeps  its  secrets. 

Just  below  Cumberland  Lodge,  which  is  not  far  from  <<  Hie  Cottage,' 
her  present  Majesty  has  caused  some  excellent  schools  to  be  built  far 
the  children  of  the  people  employed  about  the  park,  and  there  not  maoj 
days  ago  might  she  be  seen  catechising^ie  childrrai,  examining  their 
needlework,  praising  and  encouraging.     The  moral  of  this  is  exoellest; 
for  now  surely  not  a  lady  in  the  Itmd  will  think  it  beneath  her  permmB&f 
to  attend  to  the  poor ;  and  so  parochial  work  stands  a  fair  chance  of 
becoming  the  fashion  in  the  place  of  worsted,  or  crochet^  or  any  other 
feminine  pas9tAemj»,     My  dear  fellow,  you  laugh  at  this,  and  then  ?oa 
mutter  about  higher  motives,  and  so  on.     My  good  sir,  we  must  take 
the  world  as  it  is,  not  as  it  ought  to  be.     They  who  do  good  on  h^ber 
motives  care  not  a  pin*s  point  whether  they  have  royal  example  or  not ; 
the  mass  care  for  little  else.     Who  knows,  if  they  can  be  thus  surpriwd 
out  of  their  monotonous  frivolity,  but  that  these  beflounced  sisters  of 
charity  may  take  to  the  good  work  heartily  ? 

I  am  prosing.  Admitted ;  but  as  you  have  meanwhile  digested  your 
Abemethy*s  biscuit,  we  will  be  off  to  Cranbom  Tower, — a  tall,  spinster- 
looking  roundtower,  once  forming  part  of  the  Lodge  where  the  unfortu- 
nate Princess  Charlotte  passed  her  honey-moon.  The  view  hence  can 
scarcely  be  exceeded,  and  is  considered  by  many  to  be  the  finest  in  the 
park.  At  the  foot  of  the  knoll  on  which  the  Lodge  stands,  remark,  and 
if  you  choose  admire,  those  long-necked  woolly  animals  grazing  or  lying 
down  on  the  short  sward.  They  are  the  ulpacas  which  have  been  pre- 
sented to  her  Majesty,  and  a  melancholy  troop  they  form.  Ragged, 
thin,  and  feeble,  they  read  us  the  usual  lesson  of  the  vanity  of  endea- 
vouring to  alter  the  immutable  laws  of  climate  and  soil.  I  doubt,  if  yoa 
return  to  Cranbom  this  time  next  year,  if  you  will  see  a  hoof  of  them. 

Now  homewards  across  the  park  at  your  feet.  At  about  the  dis* 
tance  of  half  a  mile  you  will  strike  into  Queen  Anne's  Ride, — a  re- 
gularly-planted avenue,  extending  from  the  suburbs  of  Windsor  to  the 
confines  of  Virginia  Water.  When  you  get  to  Windsor,  if  you  persist 
in  dining  there, — a  thing  I  don't  at  all  recommend, — I  commend  you  to 
the  coffee-room  of  the  Castle,  and  to  your  meditations  on  the  walk  yoa 
have  taken.  You  will  have  witnessed  scenery  of  its  kind  unsurpassable; 
and  if  you  are  not  better  and  happier  for  it,  may  God  forgive  you  I  I  'U 
ne?er  take  another  stroll  with  you,  if  I  live  a  thousand  years. 


529 


THE  MARCHIONESS  OF  BRINVILLIERS, 

THE     PmSONER     OF    THK     SKVENTKKNTH     CRMliRY. 

A     ROMANCE     OK    OLD     PARIS, 

BY    ALBERT   SMITH. 

[with    an    II.MrSTRATir^W    BY    J,    LEKCtn] 


ClIAPTKR    XXJCV. 

News  for  Lnui»e  (laiiithier  und  Benoit. 

Thk  outcry  raised  against  Louise  Gauthier  as  she  left  the  ghastly 
scene  in  the  Carrefour  du  Chatelet,  had  for  the  moment  well  nigh  de- 
prived her  of  her  senses.  She  saw  the  man  who  had  accused  her  of 
being  an  empoixoftncuxc  and  an  accomplice  of  Madame  de  Brinvilliers, 
thrown  down  by  one  of  the  crowd  ;  and  fearful  that  a  desperate  riot 
WAS  about  to  commence,  she  seized  the  opportimity  which  the  con- 
fusion afforded,  and  broke  througli  the  ring  of  the  infuriated  people 
who  had  surrounded  her,  whiUt  their  attention  was  diverted.  But 
the  person  who  had  come  to  her  assistance  followed  her  ;  and,  when 
a  turn  in  the  street  gave  them  an  opportunity  of  escaping  from  the 
resistless  current  of  the  mob,  she  thscovered  that  it  was  a  well-looking 
young  man  to  whom  she  had  been  indebted  for  her  safety. 

'*  Pardon  me.  Mademoiselle.*'  exclaimed  the  student,  for  such  by 
his  dress  he  appeared  to  be,  raising  hh  cap  ;  "  for  introducing  myself 
to  you  thus  hurriedly.     Is  your  name  Louise  Gauthier." 
*'  It  is.  Monsieur,"  replied  the  Languedocian  timidly. 
'*  And  mine  is  Philippe  Glazer,"  said  the  other.     "Now  we  know 
one  another.     I  was  sent  to  look  after  you  by  Benoit  Mouse!,  who  ia 
at  home  by  this  time.     They  lost  you  in  the  Rue  des  Lombards/* 
♦*  How  can  I  thank  you  for  your  interference?"  said  Louise. 
"Thank  our  Lady  rather,  for  the  lucky  chance  that  brought  me 
Ito  you  at  such  a  moment.     I  despaired  ot  seeing  you  in  such  a  vast 
fiDob,  although  Benoit  has  described  yon  pretty  closely.     But  come, 
we  win  find  our  way  to  the  quay/* 

"  You  know  Benoit  Mousel,  then/'  said  Louise,  as  they  moved  on 
together. 

•*  Passably  well,  Mademoiselle.     I  had  him  under  ray  care  for  a 

I  white,  after  he  had  been  somewhat  unceremoniously  pitched  out  of 

[window  at  the  Hotel  de  Cluny,  during  one  of  the  merry* makings 

that  M.  de  Lauzun  is  accustomed  to  hold  there  whenever  he  is  not 

in  the  Bastille/' 

Louise  Gauthier  recollected  the  evening  too  well,  and  shuddered 

as  she  recalled  to  mind  its  events.     She  did  not  speak  again,  but 

keeping  close  to  Philippe's  side,  as  if  she  feared  a  fresli  attack  from 

the  people  about,  kept  on  her  way  in  silence  towards  the  water- side. 

They  descended  to  one  of  the  landing  places  at  the  foot  of  the 

Font  Notre  Dame;  and  found  the  boat  lying  there,  into  which  the 

[Student  assisted  his  companion,  and  then  with  a  few  strokes  of  his 

[powerful  arm,  reached  the  boat-milL      There  was  a  light  in  the 

^ebainber;  and  the  instant  they  touched  the  lighter,  Benoit  and  his 

f^wifc  appeared  with  a  flambeau,  and  broke  forth  into  exclamations  of 

joy  at  the  return  of  Louise, 

In  two  minutes  more  the  party  were  assembled  in  the  room,  to 
VOL.  xvni.  Q  g 


530 


THE   MARCHIONESS  OF  BRINVTLLTERS. 


which  the  reader  has  been  already  introduced.  Bathtlde  bustled 
about,  with  her  usual  good-tempered  activity,  to  place  the  repast  on 
the  table  ;  ami  when  all  this  wa»  settled,  she  opened  the  door  of  the 
stove,  to  let  it^  warm  light  stream  out  over  the  room  j  and  they  then 
took  their  places. 

*'  I  need  not  make  a  secret  of  my  mission,  IVrademoiselle/'  said 
Philippe,  when  they  were  seated  ;  "  for  I  presume  there  h  nothing 
you  would  wish  to  conceal  from  our  friends." 

"  Because  if  there  is^  you  know,  Louise,"  said  Benoit  in  continual 
tion,  **  Bathilde  and  I  will — " 

'*  Pray  itop,  tnon  ami,"  interrupted  Louise ;  **  what  can  I  wish  to 
keep  from  you — you,  who  know  every thingj  and  have  been  so  kind 
to  me.    Well,  Monsieur?"  she  added  looking  anxiously  at  Philippe. 

''  You  know  this  writing/'  observed  Philippe,  as  he  handed  ber  a 
small  packet  sealed^  and  bearing  an  address. 

Louise  tremblingly  took  the  parcel  and  looked  at  the  superscrip- 
tion.   As  she  recognized  it,  she  uttered  a  low  cry  of  astonishment. 

"  It  is  indeed  his  !"  she  exclaimed,  aa  she  bowed  her  head  down. 
and  allowed  the  parcel  to  drop  in  her  lap>  The  next  minute  her 
tears  were  falling  quickly  after  one  another  upon  it. 

Bathilde  took  her  hand  kindly  and  pressed  it  as  they  watched  her 
grief  in  silence,  which  Philippe  Glazer  wa^  the  first  to  break, 

"  I  found  that  in  Monsieur  de  Sainte-Croix*s  escritoire,''*  he  saidy 
"one  of  the  few  things  that  Desgrais  did  not  seize  upon.     I  told  hin 
it   was  mine,  for   J   saw  what  they  had  discovered  made  mifchie 
enough,  and  I  did  not  care  to  have  it  extended.    It  was  only  to-nighli 
I  discovered  by  chance  that  you  were  with  Benoit  and  his  wife/' 

Tearfully,  and  with  hesitating  hands  Louise  opened  the  packet; 
and  produced  from  its  folds  a  document  drawn  up  evidently  in  IcgiT 
style,  and  a  small  note,  which  she  handed  to  Philippe. 

*'  Read  it.  Monsieur/'  she  said  ;  "  I  cannot.     How  long  it  h  since 
I  have  seen  that  writing.     I  used  to  wait  day  after  day  for  some 
message  from  him^  to  show  that  I  was  not  forgotten — if  it  had  beeo' 
but  one  line — ^until  ray  heart  was   sick   with  the  vain  expectatioQi^ 
And  now  it  has  come ;  and^ — he  is  dead/' 

The  student  took  the  note,  and  hastily  ran  his  eye  over  it,  before 
he  communicated  its  contents  to  the  little  party.  B^ithilde  and  Benoit 
watched  his  face  anxiously,  as  they  saw  it  brighten  whilst  he  scanned^ 
the  writings :  it  evidently  contained  no  bad  news.     "  Joy  ! "  he  ex 
claimed,  as  he  finished  it ;  "joy  to  all,   I  think  I  shall  give  up  medi^ 
cine,  and  take  to  farming." 

**Go  on,  Monsieur !"  exclaimed  Benoit  and  his  wife  ill  a  breath. 
"  What  is  it?" 

**  The  conveyance  of  a  terrain  on  the  Or  be,  in  Langnedoc/*  coo-j 
tinued  Philippe,  reading,  "  with  a  plantation  of  oHves  and  mulberrie 
to  Louise  Gauthier,  to  be  held  by  her  in  common  with  whomeve 
may  have  befriended  her  in  Paris,  and  of  which  the  necessary  papeff] 
are  in  the  hands  of  M.  Mace,  notary,  Rue  de  Provence,  Betters  T 

"  I  knew  it  V*  said  Benoit,  as  he  slapi>ed  the  table  with  a  vehe- 
mence that  sent  some  things  jumping  off  it,  after  a  few  secondi  of 
astonishment*  *'I  knew  some  day  fortune  would  turn,  Continuei 
Monsieur/' 

Philippe  Glazer  proceeded  to  read  the  note :  whilst  Louise  gaxed 
at  him,  almost  bewildered. 


THE  MARCHIONESS   OF   BEINYILLIERS. 


531 


**  '  When  you  receive  this/  *'  he  went  on,  "  *  I  shall  have  expiated 
every  crime.  I  feel  convinced  that  my  death,  come  when  it  may, 
will  be  violent  and  sudden:  and  whatever  may  have  been  my  faultj?!, 
I  shall  have  been  punished  for  them.  All  I  had  to  dispose  of,  I  have 
left  you :  m  possessing  it*  do  not  forget  any  that  have  assisted  you. 
It  has  been  kept  through  every  embarrassment  to  this  end  ;  but  cir- 
cumstances prevented  my  giving  it  to  you  in  my  life  time.  Beware 
of  the  Marchioness  of  Brinvilliers  :  forgive  me  for  the  misery  I 
caused  you,  which  has  been  repaid  one  hundred  fold  ;  and  forget,  if 
possible, 

"  '  GAimrN  DE  Saintb-Croix/" 

"  *  To  be  delivered  into  the  hands  of  Louise  Gaiithier,  or,  failing 
to  find  her^  of  Benoit  IVIouscl,  at  the  milUboat  below  the  Pont  Notre 
Dame,  in  trust  for  her/  " 

"  There,"  said  Philippe,  as  he  concluded,  and  put  the  papers  on 
the  table:  *'  my  task  is  accomplished." 

**  I  cannot  accept  it,"  said  Louise  after  a  short  pause. 

•'  Cannot!  Mademoiselle,'*  said  the  student:  "  you  must.  Better 
you  take  it,  than  it  fall  into  M.  Mace's  hands  for  want  of  a  claimant; 
and  from  him  to  a  stranger,  or  the  King,  or  any  of  his  favourites." 

"  It  would  only  be  on  one  condition/'  continued  the  Langue* 
docian.     "  That  Benoit  and  his  wife  shared  it  with  me/* 

"  Pardieti  f  Louise:  the  terms  are  not  harii/'  said  Benoit;  "  and 
our  hard  work  will  lighten  the  feeling  of  dependance.  SacrMe  !  a 
chance  of  seeing  Languetloc  again,  eh,  Bathilde  !" 

**  And  a  farm,"  said  his  wife;  •*  and  olives,  and  mulberries — 
perhaps  chesnuis/' 

"  And  no  more  living  by  my  wits,*'  continued  Benoit,  '^  which  are 
wearing  away  from  constant  nsse,  when  the  mill  is  out  of  work*  No 
more  mountebanking  nor  singing  songs,  nor  being  pitched  out  of  win- 
dows for  so  doing,  instead  of  being  paid.  Oh — you  will  go,  Louise  : 
we  will  all  go," 

*'  And  in  a  paiache"  said  Bathilde,  "  with  Jacquot  to  draw  us: 
six  leagues  a  day  at  least !     What  shall  be  our  first  stage  ?  " 

"  There  is  plenty  of  time  before  you  to  settle  that  point,"  said 
Philippei  smiling  at  the  eager  desire  of  Bathilde  to  leave  Paris, 
Then  turning  to  Louise,  he  added,  *^  You  can  have  no  scruples,  now, 
Mademoigelle,  about  this  bequest,  were  it  only  for  the  sake  of  these 
good  people.  Think  that  it  may  not  be  so  much  to  benefit  yourself, 
as  to  renaer  them  happy.     You  consent  ?" 

"  I  do,**  replied  Louise,  after  pausing  a  few  seconds,  "  I  cannot 
look  for  happiness  myeelf^at  least,  on  earth — ^but  through  me,  they 
may  attain  it*  I  care  not  bow  soon  we  quit  this  heartless  terrible 
city — never  to  return/' 

"  We  will  talk  of  that  to-morrow,"  said  Benoit,  '*  I  think  enough 
has  taken  place  for  this  day.  FenireMen  !  what  a  whirl  ray  head  is 
in :  the  river  may  rock  the  boat  like  a  cradle,  and  the  mill  click  all 
night,  before  it  sends  me  to  sleep.  You  two  women  get  to  bed  ; 
and  Monsieur  Olazer  and  myself  will  make  ourselves  comfortable 
here.  I  would  not  recommend  him  to  go  along  the  quays  so  late, 
for  the  city  is  in  a  troubled  state  to-night,  and  the  execution  has 
drawn  all  the  gallows-birds  abroad/' 

And  as  Louise  and  Bathilde  retired,  the  two  others  drew  t 

a  Q  « 


5U 


THE   MARCHIONESS    OF    liRINVILLIERS. 


dre^  and  lighted  mighty  piijes,  whose  capacious  bowls  iiidicateil  a 
lengthy  sitting. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

The  Journey, — Examination  of  the  Btarcluofien. 

HuEHiE0  oti  by  the  nniers  of  the  Exempt,  and  escorted  by  a  1 
of  archersi,  who  kept  at  toll  gallop  round  the  carriage,  the  postilions 
spurred  and  )a.shed  their  horses,  bringing  De^grai^  and  his  prisoner 
to  Din  ant  sooner  even  than  they  expected.  Bat»  beyond  the  advan- 
tage of  losing  as  little  time  as  possible  upon  the  roatl,  there  was  no 
absolute  necessity  for  this  speeti.  Theria  had  not  received  the  letter, 
aa  we  have  seen ;  and  if  he  had,  he  could  have  rendered  but  little 
aasistance  to  the  Marchione?is.  Still  Desgrais  knew  his  prii^^oner; 
and  uncertain  bb  to  what  trouble  she  might  cause  him  by  her  wonder- 
t\d  art  and  powers  of  inventing  stratagem!*,  he  determined  not  to 
reliix  hift  vigilance  until  Marie  was  safe  and  secure  within  the  walls 
of  the  Conciergeric* 

No  great  deal  occurred  upon  the  road  worthy  of  clironicling.  The 
ftlarchioness  threw  herself  in  the  corner  of  the  carriage,  and  covering 
lier  face  with  a  veil,  remained  so  throughout  the  journey.  From  the 
attempt  she  had  made  at  self- destruction,  Desgrais  kept  his  eye  upon 
her  ;  and  upon  their  arrival  at  Dinant,  he  ordere<l  all  the  knivejt  to 
be  removed  from  the  supper-table^  leaving  her  under  the  guard  oC 
Antoine  Barbier*  the  archer  who  liad  watched  her  at  Liege,  whilst 
he  went  to  arrange  with  a  courier  to  start  directly  for  Rocroy,  and 
inform  the  magistrates  of  that  place  that  the  JMarchioness  would  be 
there  on  the  morrow  ;  in  order  that  tht^  might  interrogate  her,  un- 
expecleiHy,  before  she  had  sufficient  time  to  plan  her  answers. 

As  soon  as  Marie  saw  that  she  was  left  with  the  satne  man  to 
whom  she  had  given  the  note  intended  for  Cam i lie  Tlieria,  she 
uttered  an  exclamalion  of  surpriise. 

*'  1  thought  you  wt-re  to  remain  at  Liege/*  she  said.  "  You  have 
come  with  ns,  and  the  letter  has  not  been  delivered  !  ** 

The  man  was  taken  rather  sudilenly  aback  by  the  Marchioness*! 
affirmation.  He  bpc^'uue  cont'osed,  and  turned  away  without  replying. 

'*  You  have  tleceived  me!"  she  continued  with  violence.  **ind  1 
am  utterly  lost.  Now  1  see  why  you  would  not  take  a  reward  Uroni 
nie.     Where  is  the  letter  ?" 

**  I  have  not  got  it,"  rephed  the  archer.  '*  I  can  answer  no  more 
questions,  or  I  shall  be  punished."     And  he  continued  his  march. 

8he  would,  in  spite  of  this,  have  spoken  to  him  again*  but  a  aer* 
vant  of  the  inn  entered  the  room  bearing  a  tray^  on  which  was  some 
refreshment.  Marie  refused  it.  as  the  man  placed  it  on  the  table; 
but  directly  afterwards  ctirrecting  herself,  told  him  to  leave  it  and 
retire.  The  archer  glanced  at  the  service,  to  see  that  there  was 
nothing  with  which  the  Marchioness  could  commit  suicide,  and  then 
dismissed  the  attendant,  as  he  continued  his  monotonous  patrol  before 
the  door.  Suddenly  Marie  seized  one  of  the  drinking-glasses»  «nd 
dashed  it  upon  the  ground,  l»reaking  it  into  several  pieces.  The 
noise  alarmed  the  sentinel,  and  as  the  Marchioness  sprang  forward 
to  seize  une  of  the  bits,  with  the  intention  of  swallowing  it,  he  alio 
rushed  from  hia  post  and  seized  it  from  her- 


TBE    MATICHIONESS  OF    BRlNVlLLlEliS. 


533 


'*  Again  foiled  J"  she  mutterefl  through  her  teeth  as  she  retreated 
back  to  the  table.     *'  Why  have  you  done  this?*' 

"My  orders  are  to  watch  you  ch>sely/' said  the  man;  **  and  at 
present  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  obey  the  directions  of  Monaieur 
Desgrais/' 

The  IVIarchioneBs  again  was  silent  for  some  time.  She  pushed  the 
cover  laid  for  supper  away  from  her,  and  remained  gazing  intently 
at  the  fire.     At  last  she  .spoke. 

*'  Aly  friend/"  she  said  to  the  archer.  "  I  believe  you  have  dox\e 
well.  The  moment  of  insanity  has  passed,  and  I  am  grateful  to 
you  ;  you  shall  see  that  I  will  not  forget  you,  in  consequence." 

The  man  roughly  inclined  his  head,  and  continued  hi*  promenade. 

**  Does  your  condition  of  life  please  you  ?"  ai»ked  iMarie. 

"Mass!"  replied  the  archer,  a?4  he  stopped  and  leant  npon  his 
pike.  **  There  might  be  better,  and  there  might  be  worse,  I  like 
it  well  enough:   there  is  no  choice  if  I  did  not." 

**  You  can  leave  it,  if  you  choose,"  said  the  Marchioness.  "  Listen. 
I  have  gold  enough  at  Offeniont  to  buy  land  in  Italy  that  would  sup- 
port you  and  yours  for  life.  Is  there  no  one  you  would  care  to 
share  it  with  ?" 

The  man  tiid  not  answer.  He  looked  at  Marie,  and  vainly  en- 
deavoured to  fathom  her  meaning* 

*'  You  are  my  only  sentinel,"  she  went  on,  '*  What  ia  to  prevent 
our  flying  together.  Once  at  my  rhatain,  I  will  load  you  with 
wealth,  and  you  can  pa^s  the  frontier  before  our  flight  has  been  di»» 
covered.     I  can  also  put  myself  beyond  the  reach  of — " 

"No  more,  Madame!"  replied  the  archer  sternly.  **  You  have 
mistaken  your  man.     Has  not  one  lesson  been  enough?" 

The  conversation  was  broken  by  the  entrance  of  the  servant  of  the 
hotel — -a,  powerful  coarse  Flemish  woman »  with  a  repulsive  manner 
and  countenance,  under  whose  charge  Marie  was  to  be  placed  for  the 
nitrht,  a  change  of  guard  being  posted  outside  her  chamber.  She 
shuddered  at  this  ill-favoured  creature,  as  she  followed  her  to  the 
sleeping  apartment,  wherein  six  hours  of  repose  Were  to  be  allowed 
to  her  before  they  again  started  on  their  journey. 

On  arriving  at  Rocroy  the  next  day,  she  was  taken  before  M.  de 
FatUian  as  they  had  previously  arranged,  and  subjected  to  a  severe 
examination.  But  unexpectedly  as  the  interview  was  brought  about, 
the  magistr«ite  could  elicit  nothing  from  her;  even  in  the  face  of  a 
confession  in  her  own  hand- writing,  which  a  courier  had  brought 
after  her  from  Liege,  having  found  it  amongst  some  more  of  her  effects 
in  her  chamber  at  the  convent.  She  met  every  question  with  a  firm 
denial  or  an  evasive  answer,  given  with  a  readiness  and  self-posses- 
sion that  aiitonished  her  interrogators,  who,  finding  that  nothirjg  had 
been  gained  by  this  course,  which  they  imagined  would  have  decidefl 
any  question  of  her  innocence,  however  flight,  that  existed,  broke  up 
their  court,  and  made  arrangements  for  proceeding  with  her  at  once 
to  the  Conciergerie — the  chief  prison  in  Paris." 

*  Th<«e  whii  may  ho  incliriieiJ  to  piiDsiiP  this  pi>rtinn  of  MRrie'»  career  stiU  fur- 
ilier.  «*«|>e<nuUy  an  rrf^rfb  the  cotife^Aion^  will  BihI  inuih  relHtiogti)  it  in  die  letters 
of  Mtidmna  Ue  Sevigny,  puiticubrly  No*.  26U  a»d  270. 


534 


THE    MARCHIONESS   OF    BRINVILLIERS. 


GUAPTKB    XXXVII. 

The  IsAt  interview. 

A  LONG  and  di&mjsl  interval  followed  the  arrest  of  the  IVIarcbioneu 
before  she  was  brought  to  irlaL     The  chain  of  circumstances,  con- 
nected with  the  charges  every  day  increasing  against  her,  was  so  in- 
tricate  that  it  required  the  utmost  attention  and  indefatigable  researcJil 
to  connect  and  arrange  its  links  ;  and  the  first  legal  authorities  werol 
engaged,  both  for  the  prosecution  and  the  defence.    Meanwhile  pub«l 
lie  excitement  was  raised  to  the  highest  pitch.     The  mysterious  cir*| 
cumstances  connected  with  the  deaths  of  M.  D'Aubray  and  his  two 
sons ;  the  station  of  society  in  which  Marie  moved  ;  her  reputatiou 
for  beauty  and  gallantry,  and,  more  than  all,  the  revelations  expectedl 
from  the  procex  upon  a  subject   of  &o  dark  a  nature — treating  of 
crime  from  the  action  of  which  no  one  felt  secure,  and  about  whiclll 
such  terror  prevailed,  as  the  mortality  by  poison  hitherto  attributed  U>| 
unknown  pathological  causes,  increased,  forming  so  fearful  an  episocU 
in  the  reign  of  Louis  Quartorze;  aW  these  things  together  invetti 
the  proceedings  w^ith  a  general  interest  never  equalled.    The  Provo 
of  Paris,  the  Procureur  du  Roi,  the  Lieutenant-Criminal  of  the  Chi 
telet,  and  other  dignitaries  arranged  a  terrible  array  of  facts,  fixin| 
the  guilt  upon  the  Marchioness  beyond  all  doubt ;  whilst  the  offidaltl 
€jf  a  lower  grade  built  up  Iresh  accusations  every  day,  by  their  inge 
nrous  connexion  of  circumstances  that  they  arrived  at  by  the  Strang 
methods  possible  to  conceive. 

But  of  all  the  pleadings  connected  with  this  interesting  aflfair,  1 
defence  set  up  by  M,  Nivelle,  the  advocate  of  the  Marchioness,  i 
most  remiirkable.     Marie  had  contented  herself  with  simply  denvin| 
every  fact  that  w^aa  brought  forward  against  her  ;  but  Nivelle  toolc  up 
the  charges  in  order,  one  after  the  other,  and  endeavoured  with  th 
most  consummate  skill  to  refute  the  whole  of  them,  even  down  to  th 
apparently  most  unimportant.     The  Haixon  between  Marie  and  Saint« 
Croix  he  allowed, — ^indeed  it  was  generally  received ;   and,  in  factpl 
avowed, as  the  subject  had  been,  it  would  have  been  ridiculous  to  hav« 
attempted  to  deny  it.    But  upon  Gaudio  he  threw  all  the  blame.    H« 
endeavoured  to  show  that^  being  a  gambler,  Marie^s  lover  had  not  onlyl 
thrown  away  his  own  property,  but  a  large  portion  of  hers  ;  and  bein| 
subsequently  thrown  into  the  bastille  by  M.  D'Aubray,  had  been  in 
fluenced  as  much  by  avarice  as  by  revenge,  and  had  made  the  unfor 
tunate  Marchioness  of  Brinviliiers  his  diqje  and  instrument.      H| 
proved  that  Marie,  with   her  husband,  enjoyed  a  fortune  of  mot\ 
than   eight  hundred  thousand  livres;  that  every  advantage  of  posi* 
tion,  w^ealth,  and  coimections  had  fallen  to  her  lot;  and  that  it 
folly  to  think,  for  one  instant,  she  would  have  thus  far  placed  hefil 
self  in  the  fearful  position  which  she   was  assumed  to  have  take 
when  there  was  nothing  to  gain,  but  everything,  both  in  this  world 
and  beyond  it,  to  lose.      "  Andj  moreover,**  he  added,   '*  the  Blar* 
ehioness  of  Brinviliiers  is  persuaded  that  the  too  common,  but  fatal] 
mistake  of  trusting  to  popular  prejudication,  can   never  have  anjf 
effect  upon  the  minds  of  judges  so  eminent  for  impartiality,  nor  givi 
rise  to  any  suspicions  of  the  candour  of  their  decision.     She  knowi 
that  they  would  never  condemn  upon  ap|>earances  alone,   nor  iif 
common  rumour.     On  the  contrary,  the  more  atrocious  the  crimes 


THE    MARCHIONESS 


BRINVILLIERS, 


were  said  to  be  by  the  papular  tongue,  judging  from  the  mere  form 
of  the  accusation,  the  more  care  would  be  required  to  examine 
dosely  all  the  evidence  brought  forward,  and  iinly  to  allow  those 
allegations  to  be  received  which  were  consistent  \^  ith  the  common 
course  of  justice.  She  hopes,  also,"  he  went  on,  "  that  the  sacred 
laws  of  religion  are  held  in  too  much  veneration  by  her  judges,  to 
allow  thera  to  give  their  countenance  to  any  violation  of  a  confession 
— one  of  the  most  important  mysteries  of  our  religion:  and  that 
since  the  present  accusation  brings  forward  an  array  of  charges — the 
most  frightful  and  infamous — against  a  woman  of  birth  and  quality, 
she  trusts  her  judges  will  not  place  the  least  reliance  upon  the  im- 
perfect attestations  brought  forward,  when  the  clearest  and  most 
convincing  are  necessary  to  enable  them  to  form  a  just  opinion.  She 
has  been  deceived  by  the  arts  of  Sainte-Croix, — the  only  author  of 
all  the  crimes  laitl  to  her  charge, — and,  for  the  unfortunate  con- 
aection  which  placed  her  in  the  position  to  be  thus  deceived,  she 
khti»  already  been  sutficiently  punished  by  the  misery  she  has  since 
I  lindergone,  and  a  series  of  wretched  inflictions  and  trials,  which  are 
in  themselves  sufficient  to  excite  the  compassion,  not  only  of  those 
l^'ho  still  think  well  of  her,  but  of  her  bitterest  enemies." 

The  original  impression  of  the  document  is  now  lying  before  us  ; 
ind  it  is  impossible  to  avoid  being  struck  with  the  wondrous  inge- 
luity  with  which  the  whole  paper  is  drawn  up. 

But  cleverly  as  M.  Nivelle  advocated  her  cause,  the  collection  of 
acts  was  too  strong  to  allow  her  defence  to  make  the  favourable  im- 
l|»ression  he  desired.     The  prosecutors,  aware  of  the  importance  with 
I  which  the  trial  was  invested  by  the  entire  population  of  Paris^com- 
lprihing  both  those  who  were   for  and  those  who  were  against  her, 
were  equally  as  keen  in  their  search  for  condematory  testimony,  as 
[Nivelle  had  been  for  any  that  might  exculpate  her.     Amongst  the 
evidence  brought  forward  was  that  of  her  servant  Fran^oise  ftoussel^ 
Lwho  deposed  to  having  been  made  sick,  almost  to  death,  by  sub- 
[stances  which  the  Marchioness  had  administered  to  her  in  cakes  and 
l^onfections.  The  archer.  Antoine  Barbier,  related  all  that  had  passed 
Ipon  the  road  from  Liege;  Desgrais  himself  spoke  of  the  papers 
found   in   her  chamber  after   she  had  been  carried  from  that  town  ; 
[lind  even    Glazer's  assisUnt,  the  miserable    Panurge,  proved  that 
rhilst  Sainte-Croix   occupied  the  rooms  io  his   master's  house,  the 
I^Jarchioness  was  in  the  habit  of  coming  there,  and  preparing  com- 
f pounds  with  him,  which  were  afterwards  ascertained   to  be  deadly 
poisons.     There  could  not  be  the  slightest  doubt  of  her  guilL 

The  behaviour  of  Marie  during  this  trying  ordeal  excited  the 
strangest  feelings  amongst  the  official  dignitaries.  Although  the 
most  acute  and  experienced  legal  men  in  Paris  were  engaged  upon 
the  aide  of  the  Crown,  they  found  it  impossible  to  elicit  from  her 
anything  that  tended  to  prove,  from  her  own  actions,  that  she  was 
guilty,  as  long  as  the  trial  continued  ; — ^but  when  it  was  brought  to 
a  close,  and  the  decision  of  the  Chambers  was  finally  given  against 
her,  her  stubbornness  appeared  to  give  way,  and  the  court,  with 
some  respect  for  her  rank,  then  requested  the  docteur  Pirot»  of  the 
Sorbonne,  to  attend  constantly  upon  her.  There  were  always  two 
priests  regularly  attached  to  the  Conciergerie ;  but  constant  comrau- 
niuii  with  the  luwc&t  of  criminals  had  made  them — so  the  opinion  of 
the  court  went  —  unlit  to  aihiiinister  to  the  J^Iarchioness ;  and  the 


536 


THK    MARCHIONESS   OP    BRINVILLIERS* 


goocl  father,  who  i^m  esteemed  highly  in  Paris  for  his  gentle  pietf, 

was  accordingly  chosen  as  her  last  religious  adviser. 

He  attended  at  the  prison  every  day,  and  every  day  he  made  an 
impression  upon  his  charge.  He  has  described  her  as  a  woman  iia- 
tuTfiUy  intrepid,  and  rising  above  all  difficulties,  expressing  herself 
in  but  few  words,  yet  always  to  the  purpose,  and  finding,  with  the 
most  asto tin  ding  readiness,  expedients  to  free  herself  from  any 
charges  that  might  be  brought  against  her.  She  appeare<l,  in  any 
position  of  difficulty,  at  once  to  decide  upon  what  line  of  argument 
or  conduct  she  meant  to  pursue,  even  when  she  was  in  the  most  em- 
barrassing situations.  Her  physiognomy  and  conversation  offered 
no  grounds  for  supposing  that  she  was  any  other  than  a  persecuted, 
gent!e»  and  confiding  woman  ;  and  her  beauty,  which  had  become  a 
proverb,  was  of  that  class  which  appears  inseparable  from  an  equal*  J 
iy  perfect  morale.  True  it  hhs,  that  the  harassing  trials  she  had  < 
lately  undergone  had  marked  her  face  with  a  few  lines,  but  '^  Ut 
t^eitjc  hfeus,  dortj"  et  parfaitvtent  bratiXj  ei  la  pcatt  cxiraordinairemcnt 
bhfwh€j"  *  still  remained  ;  and  these  attributes,  with  her  other  sin- 
gularly fascinalin|T^  qualities,  were  more  than  enough  to  enlist  many 
sympathies  in  her  favour.  I 

Day  after  d^y  did  Pirot  seek  the  Conciergerie  with  the   earliest  j 
dawn,  never  leaving   his  charge    but  at  night;    and  gradually  he  I 
found,  to  his  gratification,  that  her  proyd  spirit  was  yielding  to  his  I 
unremitting  and  earnest  attention*      To  him  the  task  was  allotted  of  I 
breaking  to  her  the  verdict  of  the  assembled  Chambers;  and  to  his  I 
gentleness  was  she  indebted  for  the  state  of  mind  that  enabled  herj 
to  receive  the  terrible  tidings  with  comparative  serenity-     And  *o  I 
things  went  on  untd  the  eve  of  the  fearful  day  named  by  the  court 
for  the  expiation  of  her  crimes,  Marie  never  feeling  at  rest  but  when  j 
he  was  with  her;  and  Pirot  taking  ao  deep  an  interest  in  his  charge, I 
that  although   his  meek  disposition   and   retiring  habits  almost  dia-l 
qualified  him  for  the  task  imposed  upon  him  by  the  chambers,  hel 
resolved  never  to  leave  her  until  the  final  partiiig  should  take  plact] 
in  the  Place  de  Greve  ;  and  as  that  time  drew  nigh,  the  closer  did] 
Marie  cling  to  him  for  consolation  and  support.      She  watched  the 
time  of  his  arrival,  and  regretted   his  departure,  as  earnestly  as  she 
would  once  liave  done  with   less   holv  motives,  when   others  were 
concerned,  until  the  period  above  albcled  to  drew  nigh. 

It  was,  then,  the  night  before  the  execution.  Pirot  had  business, 
which  had  taken  him  from  the  Conciergerie  during  the  day  ;  but  at 
nightfall  he  was  once  more  at  the  prison,  for  the  Marchioness  had 
promised  to  make  a  full  confession  of  all  the  events  of  her  life.  In 
the  mornhig»  durbig  a  brief  interview  of  an  hour,  he  had  been  grati- 
fied to  find  that  his  unafFecte<i  simplicity,  his  piety,  and  gentle  man- 
ners, had  in  part  elicited  from  Slarie  a  circumstantial  avowal  of 
many  of  the  deeds  with  the  commission  of  which  she  w^as  charged  ; 
and  thus  far  he  had  accomplished  more  than  her  judges  batl  done,  or 
the  fear  of  the  torture  had  led  her  to  confess.  As  he  entered  the 
cell  in  which  she  was  confined^  she  rose  to  receive  him  with  an  ear- 
nestness that  shewed  how  welcome  his  presence  was  to  her;  bull 
started  back  upon  perceiving  that  the  good  old  man  was  pale,  and! 
evidently  shaken. 


•  PirOL 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OF  BRINVULIRRS. 


537 


■n 


ac 


You  are  ill,  "'««  p?rr,*'  she  mk\, — *'  yoii  are  8o  good — so  charita- 
ble tints  to  bestow  yoiir  time  on  me,  that  I  fear  your  health  is  suf- 
fering/' 

*'Il  is  not  that,  Madame,*'  he  maid,  as  he  advanced;  ''but  they 
have  been  telling  me  news  in  the  porter's  lodge  that  has  thus  affect- 
ed me.     You  have  heard  the  sentence?" 

The  p'efllier  hns  told  it  to  me,  but  not  formally,'*  she  said.  *'  I 
prepared  for  everything.  See — take  my  hand  ;  is  it  trembling?" 
Pirot  seiaeil  the  small  hand  presented  to  him:  Mane  had  power 
over  every  muscle  to  keep  it  immoveable  ;  but  her  akin  was  hot  and 
fevered. 

**  You  have  heard  that  they  were  going  to  cut  this  hand  off,"  she 
said. 

'*  So  they   have  told   me,"  repliefl  Pirot,   in  a  low  tone,  almost 
oked  with  emotion* 

'*  It  is/'  she  said,  **  but  an  idle  story  of  the  people  about  the 
rison.  On  that  point  you  can  be  calm.  And,  see,  — they  are 
ringing  in  my  supper.  You  must  take  some  with  nie  ;  it  is  the 
St,  you  know.'* 

Pirot  gazed  at  her,  as  he  listened  to  the  calm  manner  in  which 
the  spoke,  with  unfeigned  astonishment;  and  ere  he  could  reply,  some 
f  the  attendants  had  brought  in  a  tray,  and  placed  it  on  the  table; 
t^whilst  Marie  almost  led  the  doctor  to  one  of  the  rude  settles,  and 
laced  herself  opposite  to  him. 
There  was  something  terrible  in  her  unconcern.  His  face  pre- 
served its  usual  unfathomable  expression  ;  and  at  times  she  smiled, 
ibut  an  unwonted  brightness  sparkled  in  her  eyes,  and  she  spoke  in 
loud  and  rapid  tones,  somewhat  resembling  a  person  under  the  first 
influence  of  opium.  .As  she  took  her  place  at  the  table,  she  did  the 
honours  of  the  homely  repast  as  though  she  ha<l  been  at  the  head  of  a 
[party  in  her  own  house;  she  even  partook  of  some  of  the  dishes ; 
^Dut  Pirot  was  too  much  overcome  to  swallow  a  morsel* 

You  will  let  me  drink  to  your  health,"  she  said  ;  '*  it  is  a  cona- 
liment  you  need  not  return/*  And  with  her  own  hands  she  filled 
irot's  glass,  continuing  as  he  bowed  to  her,  **  To-morrow  is  a  fast- 
llay.  I  will  keep  it  so, — at  least,  as  much  of  it  as  I  shall  enjoy.  And 
yet  I  have  much  to  undergo.  Then  altering  her  voice,  she  added, 
*'  I  would  pay  you  more  attention,  my  father,  and  serve  you  myself; 
"  ut  yon  §ee  they  have  left  me  neither  knife  nor  fork/* 

And  in  this  singular  manner  did  she  continue  to  talk  until  the 
meal  was  over,  when  she  appeared  anxious  that  Pirot  should  take 
her  confession.  He  had  writing  things  with  him,  and  at  her  request 
produced  them,  as  slie  said, 

'Alas!  I  have  committed  so  many  sins,  that  I  cannot  trust  to  the 
accuracy  of  a  verbal  catalogue.     But  you  shall  know  all/* 

This  document,  for  obvious  reasons,  remained  a  secret;  nor  has  it 
nee  been  found.  It  occupied  more  than  two  hours  in  being 
rawn  up ;  and  just  as  it  was  finished  the  gaoler  announced  that  a 
male  wished  to  see  the  Marchioness.  It  was  the  first  request  of 
the  kind  that  had  been  made  since  her  imprisonment ;  but  she  gave 
orders  that  the  stranger  should  be  admitted;  whilst  Pirot,  remain- 
ing at  her  own  request,  retired  into  a  corner  of  the  chamber,  and 
occupied  himself  at  prayer.  The  man  of  the  prison  ui^here<l  in  a 
woman,  with  her  face  carefully  concealed.     Marie  advanced  to  re* 


538 


THE    MARCHIONESS    OF   BRINVILLIERS. 


ceive  her:  when  the  other  threw  back  her  vdl  and  discovered  the 
features  of  Louise Oauthier. 

The  JMarchioiiPSs  recoiled  a  step  or  two  aa  she  recognised  the 
stranger  ;  and  her  face  underwent  a  rapid  and  fearfyl  change. 

"  You  have  done  well/'  she  said  in  irony,  **  to  let  me  see  you 
enjoy  this  la^t  triumph.  A  sight  of  me  to-morrow,  in  the  stredit 
was  not  enough  ;  you  must  come  to  gloat  upon  me  here/' 

*'  By  your  hopes  of  Heaven,  speak  not  thus  !"  cried  Louise  earn- 
estly, as  she  advanced  towards  her.  *'  You  are  mistaken.  I  have 
come  in  all  good  feeling — if  you  will  but  receive  me." 

"  What  would  you  do?"  asked  Marie;  "  am  I  to  believe  you?** 

'*  By  all  that  one  who  is  not  utterly  lost  can  call  to  strengthen  her 
asseverations,  you  may,"  replied  tlie  Languetlocian.  '^  By  the  me- 
mory of  him  whom  we  both  loved  —  in  ihe  name  of  Gaudm  de 
Sainte-Croix,  do  not  believe  my  nature  to  be  so  base  " 

The  Marchioness  gazed  at  the  girl  for  a  minute  with  a  glance  of 
most  intense  scrutiny.  Then  she  said  coldly,  once  more  gaining  a 
command  over  her  temper : — 

**  Wellj  Mademoiselle,  you  can  continue/' 

*•  At  this  terrible  moment "  said  Louise,  in  a  low  impressive  ac- 
cent, *'  when  your  life  is  reckoned  in  the  past,  and  the  future  is  as 
nothing  on  this  side  of  the  grave,  you  will  perhaps  listen  to  me,  and 
believe  that  I  have  come  to  you  in  charity  and  peace,  1  forget  all  that 
has  been  ;  I  have  thought  only  that  Gaudin  loved  you— and  though, 
— Heaven  knows  —  you  crushed  my  heart  for  ever,  in  encouraging 
his  attachment,  1  have  come  at  this  fearful  hour  to  seek  you,  and 
let  you  know  that  there  is  one  of  your  own  sex  who,  for  his  sake, 
will  undertake  any  mission  or  pilgrimage  that  will  serve  you/' 

]\Iarie  made  no  answer :  her  pride  was  struggling  with  het  nvill, 
and  she  could  not  speak. 

"  You  have  seen  no  female  during  your  dismal  imprisonment/' 
sa'd  Louise;  *'  let  me  therefore  be  your  confidant,  if  there  is  aught 
you  will  stoop  to  trust  me  with.  Remember,  that  we  shall  meet  no 
more.  O  Madame  I  for  your  own  sake  !  as  you  valued  Gaudin'i 
love  I  do  not  go  forth  to-morrow  in  enmity  against  one  who,  if  she 
wronged  you,  did  it  innocently.     What  can  I  do  to  serve  you  ?" 

She  uttered  the  last  words  with  auch  truthful  earnestness,  that 
Marie's  pride  relaxed,  and  Pirot  at  the  same  instant  rose  from  his 
prie-dieji  and  came  towards  them.  As  Louise  extended  her  hand 
the  Marchioness  took  it,  and  he  saw,  for  the  first  time  since  he  hat! 
been  with  her,  that  she  was  weeping.     He  led  them  to  one  of  the 

Erison  seats,  and  in  a  few  minutes  iVIarie  was  confiding  a  message  to 
ouise,  at  his  request,  for  her  children. 

The  interview  lasted  half  an  hour  ;  and  when  it  finished,  the 
Marchioness  was  perfectly  exhausted.  She  had  scarcely  force  suffi- 
cient to  tell  Pirot  that  she  wished  him  with  her  at  daylight,  when 
she  fell  back,  unable  to  keep  up  any  longer,  against  the  damp  wall 
of  the  prison.  The  good  doctor  summoned  the  females  who  had 
attended  upon  her  since  her  capture,  and  then,  when  he  saw  she 
was  recovering,  he  took  his  leave,  accompanied  by  Louise,  who  left 
him  in  the  Hue  de  Calandre   to  return  to  her  friends 


I 


TIJE   MAECaiONESS   OF   BRINVILUERS. 


oS9 


CSAFTER    XXXVIll. 


The  Wnter  Question,— Exili,— The  Place  de  Oreve. 

Thk  early  morning  of  the  terrible  day  arrived.     With  itA  first 

I'dawn,  the  good  Pirot,  according  to  his  promise,  was  at  the  gates  of 

[the  Conciergerie  ;   and  being  immediately  conducted  to  tlie   cell  in 

i'hich  Marie  was  confined,  discovered  that  she  had  not  been  to  bed 

that  night,  but  since  the  departure  of  Louise  Oatithier  had  been  oo 

Dupied  in  writing  to  various  branches  of  her  family. 

She  rose  to  receive  hira  as  he  entered  ;  and  at  a  sign*  the  person 
rho  had  been  in  attendance  took  her  departure.     Pi  rot  observed 
bat  her  eyelida  were  red  with  watching,  not  from  tears:  but  a  fire 
iras  burning  in  her  eyes  with   almost  unearthly   brilliancy.     Her 
pheek  was  flushed  with  hectic  patches,  and  her  whole  frame  was 
rerabling  with  nervous  excitement.     As  the  magistrate  saluted  her 
^%vith  the  conventional  words  of  greeting,  she  smiled,  and  replied, 
**  You  forget,  monsieur,  that  i  shall  scarcely  witness  the  noon  of 
-day.     A  few  hours — only  h  few  hours  more  1     I  have  often  tried 
imagine  the  feelings  of  those  who  were  condemned:  and  now  that 
H  am  almost  upon  the  scaffold  it  appears  like  some  troubled  dream;'* 
'We  will  not  waste  this  brief  interval  in   speculations,"  replied 
I'irot.     '*  The  officers  of  the  prison  will  soon  interrupt  us.     Have 
fou  nothing  to  confide  to  me  before  they  arrive  ?'* 
**  They  will  take  charge  of  these  letters  I  have  written,  and  will 
\  them  before  they  send  them  forth,"  replied  Marie.     *'  But  here 
IS  one,"  she  continued,  as  her  voice  hesitated  and  fell,  "that  I  could 
v\sh  you  yourself  w^oyld  deliver.     It  is  to  M.  de  Brinvilliers,  my 
Ills  band  ;  it  relates  only  to  hrm,  and — my  children  f  " 

Pi  rot  looked  at  her  as  she  spoke:  and  her  face  betrayed  the  vio- 
ent  emotion  that  the  mention  of  her  children  had  given  rise  to.  She 
truggled  with  her  pride  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then  broke  <lown 
[ito  a  natural  and  violent  burst  of  tears.  Her  sympathies  bad  been 
scarcely  touched  whilst  merely  thinking  of  her  two  little  daughters; 
^>ut  the  instant  she  named  them  to  another,  her  wonderful  self-pos- 
ession  gave  way.  She  leant  upon  the  rude  table,  and  covering  her 
ace  with  her  mantle,  wept  aloud. 
Pi  rot  took  the  letter  from  her  hand,  and  read  as  fullowg^  —  thiuk- 
ing  it  best  to  allow  the  violence  of  Marie's  grief  to  have  full  play, 
Bther  than  to  attempt  to  check  it  by  any  reasoning  of  his  own: — 
**  For  the  last  time,  Antoine,  and  on  the  point  of  delivering  up  ray 
l^ioul  to  God,  I  write  to  you,  wishing  to  assure  you  of  ray  friendship, 
trhich  will  continue  until  the  latest  moment  of  my  life.  I  am  about 
suffer  the  degrading  punishment  my  enemies  have  condemned  ine 
'  to.  Forgive  them,  1  beseech  you,  as  I  have  done:  and  forgive  me 
also,  for  the  shame  which,  through  my  actions,  will  fall  upon  your 
Ipmne,  Remember  that  we  are  hot  on  earth  for  a  short  period  :  and 
bat,  before  long,  you  yourself  may  have  to  render  a  just  account  to 
God  of  all  your  actions,  even  the  most  insignificant,  us  I  shall  have 
to  do  in  a  few  hours.  Instruct  and  watch  over  our  poor  children  : 
Madame  M  aril  lac  and  JMadame  Couste  will  inform  yoy  of  all  they 
will  reqyij'e.  Let  your  prayers  be  continually  offered  up  for  my  re- 
po»e,  aud  believe  that  1  die  thinking  of  you  only,  Mabib  *' 


r>40 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OP  BBIXVILLIEB8. 


He  had  scarcely  concluded  the  epistle  when  the  Alarchioness  re- 
covered from  the  acce&s  of  emotion,  and  raised  her  face  towards  him, 
as  she  hyiriedly  wiped  her  eyes: 

**  This  is  cliildish/'  she  exclaimed*  **  What  must  you  think  of  me, 
lilonsieur?  And  yet  I  would  sooner  you  should  have  witnessed  iKii 
weak  ebullitian  than  others  in  the  prison.  Come,  sir,  we  will  priy 
for  the  forgivenesa  of  those  under  whose  directions  and  hands  lam 
about  to  suffer,  and  for  the  salvation  of  my  own  soul/' 

8 he  threw  open  the  leaves  of  a  religious  book  that  wa»  lying  on 
the  benchj  and  prayed  lon^  and  earnestly.  Pirot  joined  her:  and 
thus  they  continued  for  more  than  an  hour,  until  their  devoiiant 
w^ere  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  the  concierge  and  one  or  two  officert, 
who  came  to  announce  to  her  that  the  chief  ^re^t-r  waa  waiting;  in 
the  lower  room  to  read  the  sentence  of  the  court  to  her.  Upon  this 
she  arose,  without  betokening  any  fresh  emotion,  atul  wrapping  a 
cloak  about  her,  accompauied  by  Pirot,  preceded  and  followed  by 
the  people  of  the  prison,  she  quitted  her  cell. 

They  descended  some  steps,  and  led  her  into  a  low  arched  room, 
but  dimly  lighted  by  a  few  glimmering  lamps  suspended  in  iron 
framefi  from  the  ceiling.  The  walls  were  damp  and  rugged  ;  and  all 
old  and  half-cib^cure  paiuting  of  a  holy  family  was  suspended  at  the 
end  of  the  room.  Umler  this  was  a  common  wooden  prie-ilieu^  such 
as  we  now  see  in  the  foreign  churches  :  and  near  it  some  rode  chairs 
and  a  table,  on  which  were  materials  for  writing;  and  around  it 
three  or  four  of  the  judicial  functionaries  were  sitting,  being  now 
joined  by  Pirot.  Opposite  to  this,  agaiust  the  wall,  was  a  low  pile 
of  what  was  apparently  furniture,  covered  entirely  with  a  black  tar^ 
paulin  r  and  on  the  ground,  near  that,  some  brass  and  earthen  ves- 
sels full  of  water.  The  things  here  enumerated  comprised  all  that 
was  movealile  in  the  dungeon. 

As  Wnrie  entere^l,  one  of  the  magistrates  made  a  sign  to  the  con- 
cierge, wlio  placed  a  seat  for  her  near  the  table;  and  when  she  hud 
taken  it,  the  examination  conimenced.  It  was  conducted  by  the 
officials  in  turn,  many  questions  being  suggisted  by  Pirot,  and  to  all 
of  them  the  Marchioness  replied  with  the  most  extraordinary  cool- 
ness and  self-possession,  although  with  a  caution  which  astoundwl 
her  interrogators, -^avowing  the  fact  of  having  administered  certain 
drugs  to  her  father  and  other?*,  but  denying  all  knowledge  of  their 
composition  or  antidotes — und  also  vehemenlly  declaring  that  *hc 
had  no  accomplices  in  the  crimes  with  which  she  was  charged.  But 
beyond  this  they  could  extract  nothing  from  her;  and  although  the 
combined  ingenuity  of  her  examiners,  deeply  versetl  as  they  were  in 
every  kind  of  method  by  which  any  confession  might  be  educeii, 
waj^  exerted  ag*ainst  her  during  a  protracted  silting,  she  mrt  every 
(piestion  with  an  exculpatory  reply,  and  nothing  more  could  be  ob- 
tained from  her.* 

*  Th«  author  hns  cndenrtmrHl  ns  much  as  pnoiiiblt}  in  the  cmir»e  of  tliii  hk 
mance  to  render  it  hptih' thing  more  thnn  n  tn*?re  ex  tension  of  the  fuctJi  aJmdy 
known  resprrtinff  tho  frireer  of  the  Mfirchioness  of  IlrinviUiem;  nnd  m<ire  Mpedal* 
ly  Willi  rcjjiinl  to  the  lulniiixilile  narrative  of  Dumiiit,  in  ihe  Crimes  LiUhres^  Bill, 
Mticc!  it  wmiUi  he  utterly  fiiiihi  to  attempt  nriy  4rM*iiption  of  her  )iu»t  hours  more 
^mpkiv  t^r  interesting  than  ihe  inaiiUM  ript  nuiraitve  of  M.  rinit,  he  h«S 
in  |Hii'tionM  of  ihi-i!^e  I'hnptera,  ai^'ailetl  hinrmelf  largely  of  the  cirnimKt^nce^  thertJll 
hituecl.  BeAittea  this^  ho  huA  taken  the  senteiHe  from  the  original  fwirlijimenury 
itoeiiDieal  in  hia  own  poAsesaion,  before  alludeil  to,  laejuly  dire*ltng  icof  Icmgtacljor 


I 


I 


I 


THE    MARCITTONESS   OF   BRtNVILLlERS. 


541 


Seeing  this,  the  examination  was  at  length  brought  to  a  conclu- 

lioii,  and  one  of  the  interrogators  f^ave  orders  tliat  the  chief  pp*effier 
liouW  rertd  the  arrest.  The  functionary  hereon  rose  from  his  seat 
with  the  paper  in  his  hand,  and  commenced  reading  it  in  a  hwrned 
voice,  a.^  if  it  were  a  ta.sk  he  was  anxious  to  brin^  to  a  speedy  con- 
clusion* The  **  arrvM  "  waj*  to  the  effect  that  the  court  of  the  chain- 
bers  assembled  having  found  Marie- IVIari^uerite  D'Aubray,  the  wife 
oS  the  MiirquiB  of  BrinvilUers,  i^uilty  of  the  crimes  attributed  to  her, 
condemned  her  to  do  penance  bttbre  the  principal  door  of  Notre* 
Dame,  with  a  lighted  torch  in  her  hand  weighing  two  pounds  ;  and 
there,  whilst  on  her  knees,  to  confess  that  she  had  w  ilfully  poisoned 
her  father  and  brothers,  and  to  demand  pardon  of  Goil.  And  having 
been  brought  hither  on  a  tumbril,  with  her  feet  naked,  and  a  cord 
about  her  neck,  she  should  be  carried  on  to  the  Place  de  Grcve,  to 
have  her  head  cut  off  upon  a  scaffold  erected  for  that  purpose;  after 
which  her  body  should  be  burned,  and  the  ashes  scattered  to  the 
wind:  the  question — both  ordinary  and  extraordinary— firs^t  bein^ 
applied.  The  document  went  on  to  speak  of  the  confiscation  of  her 
property,  which  was  to  go  partly  to  the  King,  partly  to  defray  the 
expenses  of  the  prosecutions  connected  with  the  affair,  including 
that  of  Lachausi^ee :  and  the  residue  for  masst-H  to  bo  said  in  the 
chapel  of  the  Conciergerie,  f(ir  the  repose  of  the  souls  of  her  victims. 

During  the  reading  of  this  paper  Marie  continued  to  preserve  the 
same  self- possession,  even  interrogating  the  greftier  %vith  a  calm,  un- 
shaken voice,  upon  certain  points  connected  with  it.  As  the  func- 
tionary concluded  the  magistrates  rose,  and  another  man  advanced, 
of  whose  presence  Marie  hatl  not  been  before  aware.  He  w^as  tall 
«nd  pale ;  and  he  wore  a  tight  shape  dress  of  unrelieved  black* 
Marie  perceived  by  the  cords  in  his  hands  that  he  w*aB  the  execu- 
tioner ;  and  to  him  alone  she  now  belonged. 

As  the  magistrates  quitted  the  chamber  they  drew  away  the  black 
cloth  that  covered  the  apparatus  of  torture,  and  revealetl  the  ghastly 
paraphernalia.  Pi  rot  whispered  a  few  words  of  encouragement  in 
her  ear,  and  then  followed  the  others,  leaving  Marie  alone  with 
the  executioner  aud  the  greffier,  w*ho  remained  at  the  table  to  lake 
down  the  answers  of  their  prisoner.  Marie  glanced  at  the  vessels  of 
water  which  stood  upon  the  ground.  She  knew  the  nature  of  the 
terrible  ordeal  she  was  about  to  undergo,  but  her  courage  failed  her 
not. 

"  You  surely  do  not  mean  me  to  swallow  all  that  water,  Monsieur  ?'* 
she  said  to  the  greffier  ;  '*  small  as  I  am,  there  is  more  than  enough 
to  drown  me." 

The  officer  returned  no  answer,  but  looked  significantly  at  the 
executioner.  The  man  approached  the  Marchioness,  and  began  to 
unfasten  her  attire:  removing  one  of  her  clothes  after  another,  until 
nothing  was  left  her  but  an  under-garraent,  in  which  she  now  stood 
before  the  greffier,  her  limbs  as  white  as  the  linen  that  scarcely 
shrouded  them,  but  exhibiting  not  the  slightest  signs  of  tremor. 
Again  the  interrogator  questioned  her  respecting  her  accomplices; 
and  again  Marie  firmly  denied  the  existence  of  any.     All  his  efforts 

calities.  and  the  rept'Liticmii  of  the  aanit!*  of  die  pritidpalpHrttvs  c<mcer«eil  in  tbeaf^ 
fiiir.  The  jttilhority  for  Jti^ittrrs  re^fiiniiiifc  ihe  **  Qut'Xtinn  "  wiiJ  Iw  fwunfl  in  n 
notfi!  to  tile  Tableau  Monti  uf  tlie  reign  of  Lkduih  QimtunM?,  in  iJiilniirvV  Hlsuir 


542 


THE  MAROnONESS   OF   BRTNVItLIERS. 


vere  vmn,  a*  hat!  been  those  of  the  magistrates^     The  sentence  was 

orJererl  to  be  carried  oat. 

The  "  water  question,"  as  it  was  termed,  was  one  of  the  moat  te» 
voltin^  punislmients  w  hich  the  barbarous  tisages  of  the  period  allow- 
ed in  its  criminal  proceedings;  the  Marchioness  of  Brinvillieri  wat^ 
nearly  one  of  its  last  victims,  as  it  was  then  practised  in  all  its  i 
mitigated  severity.  The  sufferer  was  compelled  to  swallow  a  la  ^ 
quantity  of  water,  forced  into  the  mouth  by  a  horn;  tlie  body  beii 
at  the  same  t»me  secured  to  a  bench,  in  a  most  painful  posit 
whilst  the  hands  and  feet  were  attached  to  rings  of  iron  in  the  wtH 
and  floor  of  the  chamber.  For  the  "  ordinary  question,"  as  it  was 
termed,  the  bench  was  two  feet  high,  and  the  quantity  of  water  to 
be  swallowed  nearly  twelve  pints  ;  for  the  "  extraordinary  '*  ordeal  a 
trestle  three  feet  high  was  substituted  for  the  other,  the  hands  and 
feet  still  remaining  fixed  to  the  ringa,  and  an  addilional  quantity  i 
water,  equal  to  the  first,  was  forced  down  the  auffVrer's  throat. 
the  event  of  the  prisoner's  obstinacy,  and  a  refusal  to  open  the  mouti 
the  executioner  closed  the  nostrils  with  his  thumb  and  finger,  until 
the  unfortunate  person  wag  obliged  to  part  his  lips  to  breathe,  wb«i 
advantage  was  immediately  taken  of  this  to  force  the  end  of  the  hocn 
down  his  throat.  The  consequence  of  this  barbarous  practice  wis, 
the  distenj^ion  of  the  chest  by  the  introduction  of  the  water  causing 
such  agonizing  pain  that  very  few  were  able  to  resist  it. 

The  executioner  approached  Marie  again  ;  and  leadinjjf  her  tol 
bench,  rudely  tied  her  feet  to  the  rings  in  the  floor.     Then  fore 
her  back  with  brutal  violence,  he  fastened  her  wrists  to  the  links  i 
the  wall,  pulling  the  cords  as  tightly  as  they  would  come.      Finallj 
he  fastened  the  edge  of  her  garment  round  her  knees  with  one  oft 
bands  of  her  dress ;  and  then   announced  that  all  was  in  readineM 
for  the  torture- 

The  greffier  gave  the  word,  and  the  terrible  operation  conrnienced 
in  silence,  broken  only  by  an  occasional  ejaculation  of  Marie,  &s  mea- 
sure after  measure  of  the  fluid  disappeared.  But  beyond  tfaif  she 
spoke  not  a  word  :  a  low  wail  was  her  only  reply  to  the  questions  oC 
the  examiner,  whilst  she  shook  her  head,  as  much  as  the  hold  of  her 
tormentor  permitted  her  to  do,  in  answer  to  all  his  energetic  and  im- 
pressive requests  that  she  would  disclose  all  she  knew.  And  in  these 
he  was  influenced  as  much  by  compassion  as  by  the  wish  th«t  the 
ends  of  justice  should  be  answered. 

The  limits  of  the  ordinary  torture  had  been  reached  without  any 
admission  on  her  part,  and  the  executioner  stopped  until  he  reoeivtd 
fresh  directions  from  the  grefSer  to  proceed  lo  the  second  fitfi|^  ( 
the  question.  The  bench  upon  which  Marie  w*as  tied  down  wa«  i 
moved,  and  one  more  than  a  foot  higher  was  substituted  for  it 
wedged  under  her  by  the  power  of  the  torturer,  without  rck 
her  hands  and  feet,  now  so  tightly  wrung  by  the  cords  that 
blood  started  from  the  parts  where  they  cut  into  the  flesh.  Still  I 
cry  escaped  her  lips;  with  superhuman  endurance  she  went  tbrouJ 
the  continuation  of  the  <!readful  ordeal,  betraying  scarcely  any  sii 
of  life,  except  the  quivering  of  her  limbs,  and  an  occasional  yy 
contraction  of  the  muscles  as  she  turned  herself  round  unoo  tht 
trestle  as  far  as  the  cords  woultl  allow  of  her  doing.  At  last  C 
cried  out,  with  a  violence  that  for  the  instant  startled  the  ofHcialil 
attendance,  *^  Mon  Dicu  !  won  Dieu !  they  have  killed   mc !  * 


THE  MARCHIONESS  OF   BRINVILLIERS.  543 

this  was  followed  by  a  piercing  cry  of  agony  ;  after  which  all  was 
still. 

The  greifier  rose  from  his  seat,  and  once  more  asked  her  respect- 
ing her  accomplices.  But  she  returned  no  answer,  nor  indeed  gave 
the  least  sign  of  consciousness :  upon  which,  fearing  that  the  punish- 
ment had  been  carried  too  far,  he  gave  orders  that  she  should  be  un- 
bound. The  executioner  obeyed ;  and  then^  calling  in  his  fellows 
to  his  assistance,  they  untied  the  cords  from  the  rings  and  staples, 
and  bore  the  unhappy  woman  into  an  adjoining  chamber,  placing  her 
on  a  mattress  before  a  large  fire  that  was  burning  in  the  huge  open 
chimney-place. 

It  was  some  time  before  her  senses  returned.  When  she  came  to 
herself  she  found  the  good  Pirot  supporting  her  head ;  whilst  the 
greffier  was  communing  with  the  magistrates  respecting  the  pro- 
ceedings of  the  ordeal.  They  quitted  the  chamber  soon  after  she 
recovered :  and  then  she  was  left  alone  with  the  Docteur,  who  had 
thrown  his  cloak  around  her  thinly  clad  and  shivering  form :  and 
was  now  only  waiting  until  she  should  be  sufficiently  brought  roaod 
to  join  him  in  assisting  at  the  last  offices  of  religion. 

At  last  he  half  led,  half  carried  her  to  a  prie-dieu,  and  there 
prayed  with  her  until  the  cold  and  dismal  light  of  moming,  over- 
coming the  red  glare  of  the  fire,  stole  cheerlessly  through  the  wmuB 
and  heavy-barred  loopholes  of  the  chamber.  And  with  it  eaoie 
something  of  terrible  import — the  low  murmur  of  the  vast  crowd  al- 
ready assembled  without  the  gates,  and  in  the  Coor  des  Mirades^* 
— ^the  audible  passing  and  re-pasaii^  of  the  Royal  Guard,  as  bodm 
of  them  paraded  the  streets  in  the  immediate  Hne  from  the  Palais  de 
Justice  to  Notre  Dame^  and  thence  to  the  Place  de  Grtre, — afid  mm 
unwonted  stir  in  the  Conciergerie,  as  those  friends  t^  the  oftem  aad 
other  functionaries,  who  had  procured  the  emir^e  to  the  pnjtam,  ar- 
rived. Not  a  sound  escaped  llarie's  ear,  allhovgh  Krot  slr<»ve  m 
some  measure  to  drown  the  distant  hum  by  his  voice.  Every  nerve 
appeared  intensely  sensitive ;  and  the  reaction  t4  a  terrdMe  ^nutO^t^ 
ment  had  brought  the  blood  back  to  the  surface  (4  her  ieth.  Her 
eyes  were  again  biasing  with  fevered  briDiaacy;  her  cheek  wae 
flushed,  and  a  rapid  shuddering  movement  kept  every  les cilia  eim^ 
vulsive  action. 

Her  prayers  were  only  intermpled  by  the  arrival  ^  the  mtme 
magistrates  who  had  before  left  her,  fiollowed  by  the  ezeeotMMT  ssmI 
his  assistants ;  and  the  Marchioness  directly  knew  that  the  terriMe 
hour  had  arriv^  Without  a  word,  she  nekl  oat  her  wru4J¥^  WfW 
discoloured  and  swollen  by  the  question,  to  the  headsanuw  ;  enA  %f0i 
an  expression  of  pain  escaped  her  lips  mik  he  rooghly  \9uvnA  them  U^ 
gether.  The  cloak  which  Pirot  had  lent  her  wa«  then  tkr^^fi  mt 
one  side  ;  when,  as  she  found  her  boson  exposed^  *he  rt4ft$0B^A  the 
man  to  fiuten  the  lappeU  of  her  garment  together  with  a  f^A.  ffe^ 
however,  threw  a  Urge  scarf  o%er  her  shcmiders,  and  yen  f4  i$m 
formed  a  cowl,  which  she  nulled  down  over  her  Uee  m  mtil  ee  Mr 
imprisoned  hands  enabled  her  to  do.     And  when  this  had  hetm  sr* 

•  Thb  Cpwr  <fef  Jf trtfd^— the  prindpd  oT  th«««  w  aJW- SMt^  ^ 
the  rintor  to  Paris  at  the  prtMat  4»y-     It  wfymm  ike  Imttem  ^ihe  Vfele^A^*^  ^ 
which  he  goes  to  hare  his  passport  xktUd  ynvUfm  ie  Uetfime  4ie  ^,    TU  m^ 
sance  of  tramping  backwaids  mxA  fawanSi  iwem  tW  gfigMi  gsiilaity  »» lUi  f«^S»S^ 
is  too  well  known. 


544 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OF   BRINVILLIERS. 


ranged,  she  left  the  chapel,  preceded  and  followed  by  the  officers  of 
the  prjson. 

Beyond  the  wicket,  some  people  had  assembled  in  the  court.  Am 
gihe  emertred  from  the  building,  a  man  pressed  rudely  forward  from 
the  litlle  knot  of  gazers,  and  came  clo!>e  to  her  side,  as  he  thrust* 
small  note  almost  in  her  face,  Pirol  took  it  from  him,  at  Marie*i 
request,  and  inquired  what  it  was, 

*'  An  account  of  money  due  to  me/'  staid  the  man,  •*  for  a  tumbrel 
and  a  horse,  both  ruined  on  the  road  from  La  Villette  to  Le  Bourget." 

*'  1  know  not  what  he  means/'  said  Marie. 

*Youdo' — you  do,  madame,"  answ^ered  the  intruder.  •*  It  wii 
taken  from  your  hotel  in  the  Rue  St.  Paul  for  your  6ight  to  Li<%e,** 

*"  Another  time  will  do  to  settle  this/'  observed  Pirot- 

*' Another  time  will  not  do/"  answered  the  man.  *' Where  will  be 
ray  chance  o^  payment  five  minutes  after  Madame  reaches  the 
Greve?" 

As  he  spoke,  the  man  was  pulled  forcibly  away,  and  thrust  on  one 
si«[e,  by  one  of  the  bystanders,  Marie  looked  up  to  see  who  had 
thus  interfered,  and  her  eyes  met  those  of  Philippe  Glazer.  Clawing 
his  hands  together,  he  gazed  at  her  with  a  look  of  intense  AgtNij. 
Even  in  the  horror  of  the  moment  Marie  perceived  that  he  had  pTaeed 
in  his  hat  the  clasp  she  gave  him  at  Corapiegne.  She  bowed  her 
head  in  recognition,  and  then  passed  on.  Philippe  never  &aw  h^^ 
again. 

They  moved  forward  through  the  courts  of  the  Conciergerie,  Pfrot 
never  ceasing  his  reli^^ioua  consolations  until  they  came  to  the  lodge 
of  the  prison.  Here  the  cortege  halted,  and  then  the  executioner  ap* 
proached  her  with  along  white  garment  hanging  over  his  arm.  The 
ghastly  loiletiv  of  the  scaffohl  was  to  be  made  at  this  place.  She  was 
about  to  surrender  herself  to  the  operation,  when  a  door  at  the  other 
side  of  the  lodge  was  opened,  and  a  large  concourse  of  people-— ^itt 
many  that  they  nearly  filled  the  apartment — entered  eagerly.  They 
were  chiefly  females  —  women  holding  high  rank  in  Paris,  who  had 
met  the  JVIfU-chioness  frequently  in  society.  Amongst  them  were 
the  Comtesse  de  Soissons  and  JMademoiselle  de  Scudery. 

The  shock  given  to  Marie  by  this  unexi>ectetl  sight  was  too  grotl, 
and  she  would  have  fallen  but  for  the  support  of  Pirol,  He  •«§- 
tained  her  whilst  the  executioner  once  more  released  her  hands,  itul 
drew  the  long  white  dress  over  that  she  was  wearing,  tying  it  up 
closely  round  her  neck^  and  knotting  a  large  cord  round  her  waiai 
in  lieu  of  a  girdle. 

*'  She  has  a  neat  foot,"  whispered  the  Countess  of  Soissons  to  M. 
de  Roquelaure,  as  s<he  looked  at  l^Iarie's  amall  naked  foot,  not  cover- 
ed by  the  garment,  planted  upon  the  chill  pavement  of  the  lodge. 

**  You  told  me  she  squeezed  it  into  a  shoe  always  too  imAll  wlm 
we  saw  her  at  Versailles,"  replied  the  other.  '*  O  the  jealousjf  of 
women  !" 

*'  You  have  smarted  yourself,  J^Ionsieur^  when  she  hss  refiBSid 
you  for  a  dance/'  returned  the  Countess  j  **  she  did  not  think  yov 
equal  to  the  gay  Sainte- Croix/' 

"And  yet  he  dazzled  and  went  out  like  a  fire*work,**  said  Roque- 
laure ;  '*  I  hope  such  will  not  be  my  fate/'. 

He  smiled  affectedly  as  he  spoke.  Marie  heard  the  import  of  tlicir 
heartless  conversation,  and  gazed  at  them  with  an  expresAioa  of 


THE   MARCHIONESS    OF    BRlKVILLfERS, 


545 


withering  contempt.     They  fell  back  abashed^  and  retreated  amidst 
the  crowd. 

'*  In  God's  name,  Monsieur/'  she  said,  "  offer  me  some  consolation. 
Is  there  not  something  terrible  and  unnatural  in  such  barbarous 
curiosity  on  the  part  of  these  people  ?" 

"Madame,"  replied  Pirot,  in  whose  eyes  the  tears  were  standing, 
from  pity  for  the  ordeal  she  was  then  undergoing,  and  that  which  he 
knew  was  to  come ;  '*  regard  this  curiosity  rather  as  an  additional 
misery  imposed  upon  you  as  a  further  expiation,  than  as  a  wish  on 
the  part  of  these  ill-judging  people  to  cause  you  further  pain.  Lean 
on  me^  if  you  need  support.  I  will  aid  you  as  far  as  is  in  my  power^ 
and  the  law  permits." 

As  he  spoke  the  executioner  approached,  carrying  a  heavy  lighted 
torch,  which  he  placed  in  her  handa^  according  to  the  sentence  of 
the  arrest ;  but  her  strained  and  swollen  wrists  refused  to  sustain  it, 
and  it  would  have  fallen  to  the  ground  had  not  Pirot  held  it  up  with 
his  handj  as  Marie  was  leaning  heavily  upon  his  arm*  The  grefher 
then  read  the  paper  a  second  time,  and  the  dreary  procession  moved 
on  to  the  point  that  required  all  the  nerve  of  Pirot,  no  less  than 
of  the  ^farchioneas,  to  encounter — the  gate  of  the  lodge  that  open- 
ed into  the  thoroughfare  before  the  Palais  de  Justice,  which  was 
now  nearly  blocked  up,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach^  in  every  direc- 
tion, by  a  vast  and  expectant  crowd. 

As  the  officers  of  the  prison,  with  their  wands,  came  forth  on  the 
top  of  the  ffight  of  steps,  the  mass  of  people  became  suddenly  agi- 
tated»  and  their  noise  increased ;  but  the  moment  Marie  appeared, 
prominent  amidst  them  all,  by  reason  of  her  white  dress  and  the 
torch  which  she  was  carrying,  a  loud  and  savige  roar — a  wild  con- 
tinuous cry  of  ferocious  triumph  and  execration — burst  as  by  one 
impulse  from  the  entire  crowd ;  and  this  was  caught  up  by  those 
who  were  not  even  visible  from  the  Palais,  and  echoed  along  the 
quays  and  places  adjoining,  until  the  whole  of  Paris  appeared  to  be 
speaking  with  one  voice,  and  rejoicing  at  the  ghastly  ceremony 
about  to  take  place.  Marie  fell  back,  as  though  the  uproar  had 
been  endowed  with  material  power  to  strike  her ;  but  the  expression 
of  her  features  was  not  that  which  Pirot  had  expected*  She  was  not 
terrilied  ;  on  the  contrary,  the  demon  appeared  to  be  again  reigning 
in  her  soul ;  every  line  in  her  face  gave  indication  of  the  most  in- 
tense rage ;  her  forehead  contracted  ;  her  eyes  appeared  actually 
scintillating  with  passion  j  her  under  lip  was  compressed  until  her 
teeth  almost  bit  through  it,  and  she  clenched  Pirot's  arm  with  a 
grasp  of  iron, 

"  Speak  not  to  me  at  present,  my  friend,"  she  said  to  him,  as, 
noticing  her  emotion,  he  addressed  to  her  a  few  words  of  intended 
consolation,     ^'  This  is  terrible  !*' 

She  remained  for  some  minutes  as  if  fixed  to  the  ground,  gazing 
at  the  sea  of  heads  before  her,  and  apparently  without  the  power  of 
moving.  Every  eye  was  fixed  upon  her,  for  her  now  fiendisn  beauty 
fascinated  all  who  were  near  her,  and  no  one  more  than  the  great 
painter  Lebrun,  who  was  on  the  steps  of  the  Palais.      To  the  im- 

£reasion  made  upon  him  at  this  fearful  moment,  and  which  haunted 
im  long  afterwards,  we  owe  the  fine  painting  in  the  Louvre. 
A  few  minutes  elapsed,  and  then  Pirot,  obeying  the  orders  of  the 
officers,  drew  Marie  towards  the  steps,  the  executioner  assistii 


VOL.  XVJIK 


a  u. 


54-6 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OF    BRINTILLTERS* 


the  other  side.     The  archers  in  the  street  cleared  a  space  with  some 

difficulty,  almost  riding  the  people  down,  who  crowded  about  the 
entrance  to  the  court ;  and  then  they  saw  more  plainly,  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  semicircle  thus  opened,  a  small  tumbrel,  with  a  hone 
attached  to  it, — a  wretched  animal,  in  as  bad  condition  as  the  rode 
dirty  vehicle  he  dragged  after  him.  There  was  no  awning,  nor 
were  there  any  seats ;  some  straw  was  all  for  them  to  travel  on. 
The  back-board  of  the  cart  taken  out,  with  one  end  laid  on  the 
stepsj  and  the  other  on  the  cart  now  backed  against  them,  made  a 
rude  platform,  along  which  Marie  hurriedly  stepped,  and  then 
crouched  down  in  the  corner,  averting  her  face  from  the  greater  part 
of  the  crowd.  Pirot  next  eutered,  and  took  his  place  at  her  side ; 
and  then  the  executioner  followed  them,  replacing  the  board,  upon 
the  ed^e  of  which  he  seated  himself;  one  of  his  assistants  cHmtied 
up  in  front,  and  the  other  >valked  at  the  head  of  the  horse,  to  guide  J 
the  animal  alonjj  the  narrow  opening  made  by  the  crowd,  which  the 
archers  with  difficulty  forced. 

Trifling  jis  was  the  distance,  a  long  space  of  time  was  taken  up  in 
passing  from  the  Falaiii*  de  Justice  to  the  Parvia  Notre  Dame,  The 
Rue  de  Calami  re  was  blocked  up  with  people,  and  it  waa  only  bj 
forcing  the  crowd  to  part  right  and  left  into  the  Rue  anx  Feve«,  tfiat 
sufficient  room  could  be  gained  for  the  tumbrel  to  pas& ;  and  when 
it  halted^  as  it  did  every  minnte,  the  more  ruffianly  of  the  popula- 
tion, who  nested  in  this  vile  quarter  of  the  city,*  came  close  up  to 
the  vehicle,  slipping  between  the  horses  of  the  troops  who  surround- 
ed it,  and  launched  some  brutal  remark  at  JMarie,  with  terrible  dis- 
tinctness and  meaning  ;  but  she  never  gave  the  least  mark  of  having 
heard  theoi,  only  keeping  her  eyes  intently  fixed  upon  the  crucifis 
which  Pirot  heltl  up  before  her,  until  the  tumbrel  crossed  the 
square,  and  at  length  iiiopped  before  the  door  of  Notre  Dame. 

Here  she  was  orderetl  to  descend  ;  and  as  she  apj>eared  upon  the 
steps  of  the  gate  a  fresh  cry  broke  from  the  multitude,  more  appall- 
ing than  any  she  had  before  heard,  for  the  area  was  large^  and  every 
available  position,  even  to  the  very  housetops,  was  occupied.  So 
also  were  the  towers  and  porticos  of  the  church,  as  well  as  the  inte- 
rior, for  all  the  doors  were  open,  and  the  sanctity  of  the  place  wa« 
so  far  forgotten  that  those  who  were  in  the  body  of  the  cathedral 
joined  alike  in  the  ringing  maledictions  of  thousands  of  voices.  But 
the  most  overwhelming  yell  of  execration  came  from  the  Hotel  Dieu, 
where  the  students  had,  one  and  all,  assembled  to  insult  the  un- 
happy criminal.  Their  hate  was  the  deeper,  for  they  had  known 
her  at  the  hospital*  and  had  all  been  deceived  by  her  wondrous  hy- 
pocrisy ;  whilst  the  late  revelations  at  the  trial  liad  shown  up  the 
destroying  hand  that,  under  the  guise  of  charity,  administered  the 
poisons  to  the  inmates,  and  filled  the  dead-house  with  the  haplcM 
and  unoffending  victims. 

The  *^  amvude'*  was  the  work  of  a  few  minutes.    The  paper,  which  I 
contained  a  simple  avowal  of  her  crimes,  was  handed  to  her  by  the 
executioner  ;  and  the  Marchioness  read  it,  firmly  and  with  strange 
emphasis — albeit  the  uproar  of  the  people  prevented  everybody  from 
hearing  it,  except  in  close  approximation.     As  soon  as  it  waa  eocu 

•  The  Rue  aux  Feres,  stilt  in  existence,  hm  latterly  gained  some  notoriety  frasi 
hiring  tieeri  ihe  street  in  which  M.  Eugene  bue  has  placed  the  /apji  franc' oi  tlM 

White  RAbbiL 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OF   BRINVILLIER8.  547 

eluded,  the  torch  which  she  carried  was  extinguished ;  the  execu- 
tionersy  with  Pirot  and  Marie^  remounted  the  tumbrel,  and  the 
cortege  once  more  moved  on,  towards  the  fearful  Place  de  Or^ve^ 
the  crowd  making  an  awful  rush  after  it,  as  they  pushed  on^  in  their 
anxiety  to  witness  the  last  scene  of  the  tragedy. 

They  were  approaching  the  foot  of  the  Pont  Notre  Dame,  when 
Pirot  observed  a  sudden  change  in  Marie's  countenance.  Her  features, 
which,  notwithstanding  all  the  insults  and  maledictions  of  the 
crowd,  had  put  on  an  expression  almost  of  resignation,  became  vio- 
lently convulsed,  and  the  whole  of  her  attention  was  in  an  instant 
abstracted  from  the  urgent  exhortations  of  her  faithful  companion. 
He  saw  that  a  violent  revulsion  of  feeling  had  taken  place,  and  he 
directly  conjured  her  to  tell  him  the  cause  of  her  excitement. 

**  Do  you  see  that  man  ?"  she  asked  him,  in  hurried  and  almost 
breathless  words,  pointing  along  the  bridge.  "  I  was  in  hopes  this 
last  trial  would  have  been  spared  me." 

Pirot  looked  in  the  direction  indicated.  A  mounted  exempt  was 
coming  across  the  bridge,  meeting  them,  as  it  were,  at  the  head  of  a 
body  of  archers,  closely  surrounding  a  small  party  who  were  walk- 
ing. The  two  escorts  with  difficulty  came  nearer  to  each  other,  until 
they  met  at  the  foot  of  the  Pont  Notre  Dame. 

"  It  is  a  party  proceeding  from  the  Hotel  de  Ville  to  the  Con- 
ciergerie  with  a  prisoner,"  said  Pirot.  "  Heed  them  not,  Madame. 
Remember  that  a  few  minutes  only  are  now  left  to  yoo  for  prayer 
in  this  world." 

**  I  cannot  pray,"  she  answered  wildly  ;  ''it  is  to  that  man  I  owe 
all  this  misery.  He  hunted  me  to  Li^e,  and,  by  a  mean  dcceptMi, 
gave  me  up  into  the  hands  of  the  officers.    It  is  Deagrais  r 

'*  Turn  your  eyes  from  him,  Madame,"  said  Pirot ;  ''and  do  not 
at  such  a  moment  give  way  to  this  feeling.  He  acted  mder  asthdu 
rity ;  and  is  a  trustworthy  officer." 

"  He  trapped  me  like  a  reptile,"  replied  Marie  wicli  bftteme^ia ; 
"  and  my  dying  curses — " 

"Madame !  Madame!"  cried  Pirot,  as  Marie  rased  Wneif  in  tkt 
tumbril,  and  looked  towards  the  Exempt,  **  do  not  peril  rffor  ^^mk 
by  this  ill-timed  passion.  As  yon  value  a  chanee  of  sotvjtMD,  EfCe« 
to  me." 

He  drew  her  towards  him,  and  earnestly  conweoetd  a  yri^^»  ^ 
he  endeavoured  to  turn  her  attention  from  the  Exempt  wt  iAtf^ 
was  no  longer  mistress  of  her  feelings.  The  siflii  ^  Ue^^l^M  ap* 
peared  to  have  lighted  up  a  fire  in  her  mind :  wnA  the  tmOhnUfA 
gazing  at  him,  though  without  speaking  tuM^her  wt^d,  as  H  tmf^ 
tent  rage  had  deprived  her  of  the  power  of  otterance. 

But  there  was  soon  a  diversion  to  the  fedtMS  ^  Marie  and  Imt 
companion,  as  well  as  to  the  uproar  of  the  crowd.  The  ettef^t  wimk 
Desgrais  was  conducting  had  arrived  at  the  side  of  the  tumbrel ;  and^ 
what  with  the  pressure  of  the  molt'tude,  and  the  wurrow  ihm^mi^ 
fare,  the  vehicle  containing  the  Mardiioness  stopped  to  allow  tlie 
others  to  pass,  who  were,  as  Pirot  had  observed,  condtfctinip  a  pri-" 
soner  to  the  Palais  de  Justice.  Marie  had  kept  Y%ei  eyes  riiftiUd 
upon  the  Exempt  since  she  first  caught  sight  of  him ;  btfi  SiNJdenljr 
a  voice  called  her  by  her  name  in  an  accent  of  thrilling  Csasiliariu^ 
She  looked  hurriedlv  round,  and  perpeived  Exiii  at  the  mdt  *4  Vh€ 
tumbril,  surrounded  by  a  party  otthe  Oiiet  BoyaL 

a  a  ^ 


548 


THE    MARCHIONESS    OF    BEINV1LLIERB* 


*'  HrfarchioneBs  of  Brmvilliers  I"  he  cned,  "  we  have  met  agdn ; 
and  the  rencontre  is  one  of  triiiraph  for  me.  Murderess  of  Gaudin 
tie  Sainte  Croix, — of  iny  son — soul  and  body — you  shall  quit  ihii 
world  with  my  anathema  ringing  in  your  ears*     Soyez  tnaudtte  !'* 

"Forward!"  cried  DeagraiBi  as  he  rode  by  the  side  of  Exih,  be- 
tween hini  and  the  cart,  touching  the  Marchioness  as  he  paased,  who 
shrunk  from  him  shuddering  with  disgust 

Tlie  crowd  had  thronged  round  the  escort  so  densely  that  now 
neither  party  could  move.  The  delay  to  Marie  was  fearful,  and  the 
terror  of  the  moment  was  wrought  to  its  extreme  pitch  by  the  curses 
and  horrible  salutations  of  the  people,  some  of  whom  w^ere  close  to 
the  tumbrel* 

*'  Ho  1  ho  I  the  capital  meeting  V*  cried  a  fellow  on  the  bridge,  ap* 
plauding  with  his  hands  for  joy.  '*  Two  poisoners  at  a  time;  Ma- 
dame de  Brinvilliers  and  the  Physician  Exili,  What  a  pity  they  arc 
not  going  to  keep  company  out  of  the  world."  ! 

'*  Down  with  the  Italian  I"  shouted  another  man^  who  waa  leaning 
from  one  of  the  windows. 

The  entire  mass  of  people  swayed  towards  the  point  where  Exili 
was  standing  at  the  last  speaker's  words,  forcing  the  guards  against 
tlie  houses, 

**  Down  with  the  Italian  I"  said  the  fellow  who  had  first  cried  oot  I 

**  Hang  him  to  Maltre  Cluet's  sign  V  said  another,  *'  Who  knows 
but  he  and  La  Voisin  together  may  bewitch  M.  de  la  Reynic,  and 
get  clear  from  the  Chambre  Ardenie." 

"  Throw  him  into  the  river  I"  shouted  a  third ;  '*  tied  neck  to  neck 
with  Madame  la  Marquise  there." 

There  was  a  movement  towards  the  tumbrel.  Marie  started,  and 
clung  to  Pi  rot,  as  well  as  her  pinioned  arms  allowed;  whilst  Des- 
grais,  forcing  himself  in  front  of  her,  presented  a  heavy  snap-hauncc 
at  the  ruffian  who  had  just  spoken. 

*^I>own  with  the  Exempt  I"  cried  several  voices.  **  He  would 
murder  the  people," 

''  Let  him  be  ]"  exclaimed  the  man  at  the  window.  "  He  is  only 
keeping  her  to  make  better  sport  on  the  Place  de  Greve.  Settle  the 
Italian,  if  you  please." 

There  was  a  fresh  rush,  against  which  the  guards  could  make  no 
opposition,  fixed  as  their  arms  were  to  their  sides  by  the  pressure  of 
the  mob  ;  and  this  was  increased  by  the  plunging  of  some  of  the 
horses  on  which  the  archers  were  mountecf,  causing  additional  con- 
fusion and  crushing.  Determined  to  say  a  few  words  to  the  rabble, 
Exili  contrived  to  get  upon  a  round  block  of  stone  at  the  base  of  one 
of  the  houses,  placed,  in  common  with  many  others,  to  afford  a  pro- 
tection to  foot-pAssengers  from  the  wheels  of  vehicles.  But  he  had 
scarcely  mounted,  even  heft) re  his  guards  were  aware  of  his  inten- 
tion, when  one  of  the  mob  hurled  a  wooden  sabot  with  great  force  at 
his  head.  It  struck  him  in  the  face,  and  he  was  in  an  instant  cover- 
ed with  blood.  Stunned  by  the  blow,  he  fell  forwards,  and  the  mul- 
titude, excited  like  brutes  at  the  sight  of  gore,  rushed  on  through  I 
the  ring  which  the  Guet  Royal  in  vain  endeavoured  to  forra^  and 
seized  him*  A  furious  contest  now  commenced  between  the  people 
and  the  archers ;  but  the  disparity  of  numbers  was  too  great  for  them^ 
They  were  borne  down  by  the  mere  pressure  of  the  mass,  the  ring- 
leaders of  whom  hurried  Exili,  almost  insensible, — his  limbs  torn  and 


THB  MABCHIONESS   OF  BRINYILLIEBS.  649 

bleeding  fh>ni  their  rough  handling,  in  addition  to  the  blow  he  had 
receiyed, — ^towards  the  parapet  of  die  bridge. 

"  Into  the  river !  into  the  river  I"  cried  a  hundred  voices.  ^^  Away 
with  the  poisoner  !     Death  to  the  sorcerer !" 

**  He  can  swim  like  a  fish/'  said  the  fellow  at  the  window.  "  I  re- 
collect him  long  ago^  when  they  took  him  at  the  boat-milL" 

**  This  shall  stop  him  from  doing  so  again !"  shouted  a  ruffian.  *'  I 
will  take  the  law  out  of  M.  de  la  Reynie's  hands.  My  brother 
in  the  Guet  Royal  was  poisoned  that  night.  Now  see  if  he  will 
swim." 

As  he  spoke  he  raised  a  butcher's  bill  above  the  crowd,  and  it  de- 
scended upon  the  head  of  the  miserable  Italian,  crushing  his  skull 
before  it  An  awful  yell  of  triumph  broke  from  the  crowd  as  the 
body  was  raised  high  above  them  by  a  dozen  swart  arms,  and  hurl- 
ed with  savage  force  over  the  bridge  into  the  chafing  river  below* 
Thus  terribly  died  the  Physician. 

During  this  bloody  and  rapid  scene  Desgrais  took  advantage  of 
the  rush  made  by  the  mob  in  another  direction  to  ride  before  the 
tumbrel,  clearing  the  way  as  he  best  could  for  the  corUge  of  die 
Marchioness  to  proceed,  expecting  that  she  would  next  faila  victim 
to  the  fury  of  the  populace.  Directly  they  got  from  the  bridge  to  the 
quay  adjoining  the  Port  au  Foin,  he  found  the  way  cleared  by  the 
troops,  who  lined  the  footway  on  either  side,  and  liad  been  on  doty 
since  the  early  morning.  But  the  crowd  was  sdll  very  great  outside 
the  line ;  and  their  cries  never  ceased,  albeit  Marie  psiid  no  attention 
to  them  now  that  the  danger  which  had  a  minute  before  threatcoed 
her  was  averted ;  but  never  moved  her  eyes  from  the  crucifix,  which 
Pirot  had  held  before  her  throughout  the  scene,  until  the  procfiwoo 
turned  from  the  Port  to  the  PU^  de  Or^ve. 

The  sight  here  presented  was  sufficient  at  once  to  draw  Marie's  at- 
tention from  the  exhortations  of  her  companion.  The  entire  Place 
was  filled  with  spectators,  the  troops  keeping  but  a  little  space  dear 
immediately  around  the  scaffold,  which  rose  in  the  centre  some  tea 
feet  from  the  ground.  Far  along  the  quay  and  the  streets  leadnig 
from  the  Or^ve  did  the  sea  of  heaids  extend  All  the  hooseiops  were 
crowded  with  gaxers,  swarming  like  bees  upon  the  parapeu  and 
chimneys,  and  on  the  ledges  over  the  shops ;  and  every  window* 
place  in  the  Hotel  de  Ville  had  iu  dozen  occupants. 

Pirot  had  expected  a  terrible  outburst  of  malfdiftion  when  the 
cortege  arrived  here,  and  feared  also  that  the  courage  of  the  Mar* 
chioness  would  entirely  fail  her  upon  getting  the  first  sight  of  the 
scaffold.  But  on  both  points  he  was  mistaken*  As  the  tumbrel  ad- 
vanced, after  the  first  murmur  of  recognition  a  dead  silence  reigned ; 
amidst  this  vast  mass  of  many  thousands  not  a  sound  was  audible 
but  the  bell  of  the  Tour  d'Horloge,  which  kept  tolling  hoarsely  at 
protracted  intervals.  Marie  herself  betrayed  but  little  emotion.  A 
rapid  shiver  passed  over  her  frame  as  she  first  saw  thepreparationa 
for  her  execution :  and  then  she  bent  her  eyes  npon  Pnrot,  and  so 
kept  them  stedfastly  until  the  assistant  headsman  guided  the  horse 
to  the  foot  of  the  scaffold. 

At  this  fearful  moment  M.  Drooet  approached  the  tumbrel^  and 
taking  off*  his  hat,  with  a  show  of  courtesy,  that  appeared  a  mockmy 
at  such  a  moment,  said, 

<'  Madame,  I  have  orders  to  inform  you  that  if  yoa  have  any  fiir- 


550 


THE    MARCHIONESS    OF    DRIN'VILUERS. 


ther  declarationfl  to  make^  the  magistrates  are  ready  to  receive  theni 
at  the  Hotel  de  Ville." 

"  Monsieur,"  replied  the  Marchioness,  "how  much  ofVener  am  I  to 
tell  you  that  yoii  know  all*  For  pity'a  sake  do  not  further  persectite 
me*     I  have  confessed  everything." 

Drouet  turned  his  horse  away,  and  rode  up  to  the  scaffold  to  ex- 
change a  few  words  with  some  of  the  officials  who  were  standing 
near  it.  At  the  same  momertt  the  executioner  descended  from  the 
cart,  and  with  his  man  went  up  the  steps  of  the  scaffold. 

"Do  you  leave  me  ?"  gasped  Marie  hurriedly,  as  she  seized  Pirot's 
hand,  ''Be  with  me  on  the  scaffold,  even  when — ,  He  is  coming. 
It  will  Boon  be  over." 

'*  I  will  not  leave  you/' said  Pirot,  rising,  "until you  are  no  more/* 

**  Stop  r' cried  Marie.  "One  word  more.  I  may  not  speak  to 
you  again.  I^t  me  tell  you  how  deeply  I  feel  your  patient  kindne«s 
throughout  this  fearful  trial.  They  are  ready  —  keep  by  niy  side : 
and  when  w^e  are  on  the  scaffold,  at  the  moment  of  my  death,  lay  a 
De  Proftindis,     You  promise  this/' 

Pirot  bent  his  head,  and  squeezed  her  hand  in  token  of  compliancet 
He  tried  to  speak,  but  his  voice  failed  him.  His  whole  frame  ap- 
pear ef  I  convulsed,  and  he  offered  a  strange  contrast  to  the  strange 
calm  of  his  companion. 

The  executioner  came  down  from  the  scaffold,  and  assisted  the 
JMarchioness  to  descend ;  whilst  Pirot  also  got  out,  and  ^e  went 
with  him  up  the  ladder,  —  hurriedly,  as  though  she  was  anxious  to 
bring  the  scene  to  a  conclusion.  As  she  reached  the  platforni,  her 
beauty  evidently  made  an  impression  on  the  crowd.  They  turned 
one  to  the  other,  and  murmured ;  but  this  soon  died  away  into  the 
same  deep,  awful  silence  - —  so  perfect,  that  the  voices  of  the  execu- 
tioner and  Pirot  could  be  plainly  heard.  Throwing  herself  upon 
her  knees,  BJarie  submitted  to  the  second  dreary  toilet  she  had  been 
obliged  to  undergo.  The  assistant  cut  oflTthe  whole  of  her  beautifi|L 
hair,  throwing  the  long  ringlets  carelessly  about  on  the  scaffold  ;  i 
next,  tearing  down  the  collfir  of  her  dress,  rudely  turned  it  back, 
as  to  leave  bare  her  neck  and  shoulders.  Then  bandaging  her  eyei 
with  a  small  scarf,  he  retired. 

The  sun  was  shining  brightly  ;  and  at  this  moment  its  raya  fdl 
upon  the  glittering  blade  o\^  a  long  sword  which  the  headsman  had 
hitherto  kept  concealed  under  his  garment,  Pirf>t  saw  it,  and  hii 
heart  sank  within  him^^^so  much  so,  that  his  utterance  was  choked, 
and  Maricj  by  whose  s*ide  he  was  kneeling,  demanded  why  he  hid 
thus  finished  his  pray  en  And  then,  as  if  aware  of  the  causey  ahe  ex- 
claimed rapidly, 

*'  Holy  Virgin,  pray  for  nie,  and  forgive  me!  I  abandon  my  body, 
which  iH  but  dust,  to  the  earth*     Do  thou  receive  my  soul !" 

The  executioner  drew  neiir,  and  the  good  Pirot  closed  his  eyet^  as 
with  the  greatest  difTiculty,  in  broken  and  quivering  words.  He  com- 
menced the  De  Prqfufidis,  But  in  a  few^  seconds  his  voice  was  again 
checked  by  the  noise  of  a  dull  heavy  blow  at  his  side,  and  a  slranfi 
and  sudden  sound  from  the  crowd, — not  a  cry  of  alarm,  or  triumpS^ 
but  a  rapid  expiration  of  the  breath,  almost  like  a  hiccough,  terriblj 
audible.  The  next  instant  a  hand  was  laid  t>n  his  shoulder.  He 
started,  and  looking  round  with  an  effort,  perceived  tlie  headsmaii 
standing  over  him. 


THE  MARCHIONESS   OF  BBINVILLIERS.  55V 

"  It  was  weU  done,  monsieur,"  said  the  man ;  "  and  I  hope  Ma- 
dame has  left  me  a  trifle,  for  I  deserve  it." 

Almost  mechanically  following  the  direction  of  the  man's  finger  as 
he  pointed  to  the  platform,  Pirot's  eyes  fell  upon  a  ghastly  head 
lying  in  a  pool  of  blood.  He  saw  no  more ;  but  fell  insensible  on  the 
scaffold. 

This  was  scarcely  noticed  in  the  terrible  excitement  of  the  mmute. 
The  executioner  calmly  took  a  bottle  from  his  pocket,  and  refreshed 
himself  with  its  contents ;  and  at  the  same  time  a  cloud  of  smoke 
rose  from  the  back  of  the  scaffold,  which  was  the  part  furthest  from 
the  river.  He  raised  the  head,  and,  pulling  the  gory  scarf  away, 
shewed  it  to  the  people ;  then  taking  up  the  body  as  he  would  have 
done  a  sack,  he  threw  them  both  down  upon  the  pile  of  faggots 
which  his  assistant  had  just  lighted.  The  wood  was  dry,  and  the 
flames  were  further  fed  by  resinous  matter  sprinkled  amongst  them ; 
and  in  twenty  minutes  some  charred  ashes  alone  remained,  which 
the  crowd  nearest  the  scaffold  struggled  violently  to  collect,  as  the 
Garde  kicked  and  dispersed  them  as  well  as  they  were  able  about 
the  Place  de  Greve. 

And  in  this  manner  terminated  the  dark  career  of  the  Marchioness 
of  Brinvilliers. 


CHAPTEB  XXXIX.  AND  LAST. 
Louise  Oauthier. — The  Condunon. 

It  frequently  occurs  that  after  a  day  of  stormy  darkness — when 
the  elements  appear  to  have  combined  the  whole  of  their  power 
against  the  earth,  splitting  the  tossed  and  dismantled  branches  of  the 
trees  from  their  parent  trunk,  beating  down  the  produce  of  the 
fields,  and  deluging  the  valleys  with  a  sudden  and  rapid  inundation, 
whilst  the  fire-laden  clouds  obscure  the  sun,  lighting  up  the  heavens 
in  his  stead  by  lurid  flashes — the  wind  subsides,  the  clouds  disperse, 
and  the  calm  sunset  beams  over  the  now  tranquil  landscape. 

True  it  is,  the  vestiges  of  the  mischief  wrought  remain ;  but  their 
importance  is  diminished  by  the  general  Quietude  that  reigns  around. 
The  foliage  is  fresh  and  green ;  the  cleared  air  is  breathed  gratefully, 
and  imparts  its  lightness  to  the  spirits ;  feeding  hope,  and  kindness^ 
and  all  good  aspirations.  The  odours  of  the  flowers  are  more  fra- 
grant, and  the  colours  of  their  petals  brighter ;  and  the  torrent  which 
rushed  darkly  in  its  overcharged  course,  reflecting  only  the  glooming 
heavens  above,  now  once  more  murmurs  over  its  bed  of  bright  peb- 
bles, sparkling  in  the  warm  rays  of  eventide. 

Our  scene  changes,  and  now  for  the  last  time,  from  the  fearful 
Place  de  Greve  to  the  most  charming  district  of  the  teeming  and 
sunny  Languedoc.  It  is  noon  ;  and  the  stillness  of  a  summer  mid- 
day reigns  around.  But  everything  is  not  hushed.  Birds  are  ting- 
ing,  and  the  hum  of  bees  blends  pleasantly  with  their  minstrelsy, 
coming  in  soft  murmurs  from  the  floating  aviaries  lying  upon  tne 
surface  of  a  glassy  river,  which  would  seem  at  perfect  rest  bat  for 
the  quivering  of  the  buds  and  lilies  that  struggle  with  it*  gentle 
stream,  or  the  hanging  flowers  that  droop  from  the  batik  to  km  up 
the  clear  water.    The  sky  is  deep-blue,  and  cloudlesf ;  and  tb&  i 


552 


THE   MARCHIONESS   OF  BRINVILUERS. 


iner  foliage  of  the  trees  waves  in  pleasant  relief  against  iu  light, 
causing  the  dancing  shadows  to  quiver  on  the  spangled  turf  below^ 
tLS  though  even  the  sunbeams  were  sporting  for  very  gladnees. 

And  now  and  then  sounds  of  kughter,  and  snatches  of  old  Pro- 
ventral  melodies  are  heard  near  a  cottage  which  forms  part  of  a  small 
homestead  on  the  banks  of  the  river.  On  a  table  at  the  door,  and 
beneath  the  shadow  of  a  huge  chesnut-tree  —  of  which  many  more 
are  visible  on  the  land, — ^13  spread  a  repast  of  honey,  bread,  cheeae, 
and  wine;  and  seated  at  this  Ubie  we  have  little  difficulty  in  recog* 
nising  Benoit,   Bathilde,  and   Lnjuise  Gauthier.     The  two  6r«t  are 

Elump  and  merry  as  ever — perhaps  more  so:  and  Louise  appears  to 
ave  lost  some  of  her  sadness,  Iier  cheek  is  scarcely  so  pale  a«  it 
was  in  Parid  when  Benoit  first  knew  her,  and  now  and  then  a  fiuol 
smile  may  be  detected  on  her  lips^  which  it  appears  ti)  be  Benoil't 
ceaseless  endeavour  to  call  up« 

"  Ah  V  exclaimed  the  honest  ex-keeper  of  the  boat-mill,  with  the 
expression  of  one  whose  stomach  is  comfortably  filled  ;  "  this  it  better 
than  the  great  cities,  after  all.  To  think  after  sUying  in  Paris  io 
long  we  should  come  back  with  less  than  we  vrenU'* 

"You  forget  Louise,"  replies  Bathilde,  as  she  takes  their  friend 
kindly  by  the  hand, 

"  Not  at  all,"  continues  Benoit,  as  he  rises  and  kisses  the  Langue- 
docian  with  a  smack  that  quite  echoes  again.  "  There,  majemm^, 
you  may  be  jealous  of  that  ]f  you  like,  and  1  don't  care;  nor  more 
does  Louise^  aa  I  would  wager  my  life.     Eh  I  Louise  ?" 

''  You  would  find  it  a  difficult  task  to  ofiend  me,"  replies  liouiae, 
"  for  I  owe  you  too  much  kindness^  —  even  if  you  kiaa  me  before 
Bathilde/* 

**  You  owe  us  nothing*  I  think  the  debt  is  on  our  aide.  Whose 
are  these  things  ?  Whose  is  this  bit  of  ground  ?  —  yours,  mil  yours  I 
and  you  shall  turn  us  out  when  you  like/' 

'*  I  do  not  think  I  shall  do  that,"  is  Louise's  answer;  "now, we 
must  never  part  again.  I  know  I  am  at  times  but  a  sad  companion 
for  such  kind  hearts  as  yours;  but  if  you  will  bear  with  roe,  al- 
though I  cannot  forget  the  past,  yet  your  goodness  shall  do  more 
than  aught  else  in  the  world  to  alleviate  the  memory  of  what  haa 
been/' 


Reader,  our  story  is  over  ;  and  for  the  third  time  we  come  forward 
to  bid  you  farewell.  We  lay  aside  the  fearful  chronicles  of  the  r<>- 
mance ;  and  advance,  alone,  and  in  our  own  proper  character,  to  lay 
good-bye. 

For  a  certain  recess  our  interviews  will  be  less  regular  than  her9> 
tofore  ;  we  shall  not  so  continuously  intrude  upon  you.  But  we  tItU 
trust  that  you  will  allow  us  to  pay  you  a  visit  often — ^very  often ; 
that  you  will  give  us  a  general  invitation  to  drop  in  upon  you  when 
we  like ;  which,  unlike  most  general  invitations  of  that  clasa*  ww 
shall  decidedly  avrtil  ourselves  of.  And  this,  we  hope,  will  keep  up 
our  acciuaiiitanee  until  present  ailkirs  will  permit  us  to  renew  m  more 
lengthened  intimacy.  Believe  us  that  wc  shall  be  too  happy  to  avail 
ourselves  of  the  opportunity. 


553 


HOW  MR,  STUBBY  BID  NOT  DANCE  WITH  THE  QUEEN 

AT   THE   OPBKINO   OP    LINCOLN'S    INN   HALL. 
BY   A    LAW-STUOBNT. 

*'  It  's  worth  the  sacrifice,"  said  L 

"Who  are  you,  and  what  is  the  sacriiice?  and  what  is  worth  tiie 
sacrifice?"  say  you. 

A  very  few  words  will  answer  these  questions^  as  far  as  the  pre- 
sent narrative  requires  them  to  be  answered. 

I  am  Alfred  Stubby,  kw  student,  and  member  of  the  Honourable 
Society  of  Lincoln's  Inn,  The  sacrifice  is  that  of  at  least  four  days* 
enjoyment  of  a  society  quite  as  honourable,  as  far  as  any  intentions 
of  mine  are  concerned,  as  that  I  have  just  mentioned^  and  far  more 
agreeable, — namely,  walking,  riding*  polking,  waltzing,  chattering, 
laughing,  and  charading,  with  some  of  the  prettiest  women  in  Brigh- 
ton (not  a  Jewess  among  them),  and  especially  w*ith  Lucy  Jones,  the 
prettiest  of  tbem  all ,-  and  that  which  was  worth  so  great  a  sacrifice 
w^as  the  glorious  event  of  my  having  been  chosen  one  of  the  depu^ 
tation  of  students  who  were  to  hold  one  corner  of  the  address  to 
be  presented  to  her  Majesty  at  the  opening  of  the  new  Hall 

For  this  piece  of  luck  I  was  indebted  to  no  greater  a  person 
than  my  laundress,  a  tolerably  honest  old  woman,  who  had  clean- 
liness enough  not  to  wipe  up  my  tea-things  with  my  pocket  handker- 
chiefs, and  was  honest  enough  not  to  carry  away  mv  coals  in  my  best 
tablecloths.  This  rara  avis  was  also  the  fair  spirit  who  ministered 
to  a  certain  old  Bencher,  by  name  Fusty,  and  hence  my  good  for- 
tune ;  for  the  old  Bencher,  having  neither  kith  nor  km,  had  yet 
refused  to  give  up  one  iota  of  his  privileges  in  the  way  of  places^ 
admission  tickets,  etc.,  but  having  secured  his  full  proportion,  in  the 
teeth  of  many  of  his  unfortunate  brethren,  who  were  torn  to  pieces 
by  applications  from  all  whom  they  did,  and  many  whom  they  did 
not  know,  had  made  over  his  rights  to  Mrs.Tibbs  for  her  especial 
use  and  advantage.  Now  Mrs.  Tibbs,  however  eligible  she  might 
have  been  as  an  old  woman,  was  clearly  ineligible  as  a  student,  and 
was  therefore  pleased  to  make  out  a  patent  in  my  favour  within  ^y€ 
minutes  of  her  presenting  Mr,  Todes,  the  greengrocer  in  Bell  Yard, 
and  Mr.  Chump,  the  butcher  in  Clare  IMarket,  with  tickets  of  ad- 
mis6ioD  to  the  Inn  for  themselves  and  a  little  army  of  sprouts  and 
cutlets,  upon  the  eventful  morning. 

*'  It 's  worth  the  sacrifice,"  said  I,  taking  my  cigar  from  my  mouth 
and  slowly  emitting  a  long  spiral  puff  of  smoke,  '  ■  I  may  not  have 
such  another  chance  of  winning  the  smiles  of  Royalty  till  I  am 
Solicitor- General,  and,  after  all,  I  must  have  come  to  town  for 
the  ^beginning  of  *  terra.*  '* 

It  wiis  now  about  ten  o'clock  on  the  night  of  the  29th  inst.  I 
had  only  the  same  morning  received  the  good  news  in  a  communi- 
cation, which  I  iubjoin. 

"SiRB,  —  Aving  bin  aloud  By  Mr,  Fusty  wich  i  does  For  To 
mak  yewse  Of  his  likkets  wich  He  says  They  is  onley  a  Bother  If 
yew  wud  lik  to  adres  The  Chare  wen  the  all  Is  opunned  i  Sends 
yew  the  admishun  wich  he  as  filed  it  Up  with  yewre  name  Hand  i 
opes  yew  may  Like  It,  "  From  yewre  respektabbul 

"  P.S.  yewre  SheU  ifl  haired/'  *'  Maby  Ti bbs/' 


554 


HOW   MR.    STUBBY 


Aa  soon  as  I  had  succeeded  in  deciphering  and  translating  thig,  I 
\ei\  Brighton,  reached  town  In  time  for  dinner,  and  had  now  pretty 

nearly  finished  my  second  cigar  thereafter  in  the  solitary  comfort  of 
my  own  chambers.     I  was  in  a  happy  enough  state  of  mind,  upon  a 
calm  review  of  my  personal  and  mental  qualifications.     I  felt  that  I 
had  a  right  to  expect  some  important  consequence  would  follow  thia, 
the  first  opportunity  I  had  ever  had  of  distinguishing  myself.     The 
reader  shall  judge  for  himself.     I  am  nearly  six  feet  two  inches  in 
height,  upright,  and  excessively  slim,  with  a  waist  like  a  wasp's,  and 
without   that  drayraan-like  breadth  of  shoulder  which    sometimet, 
deteriorates  from  these  advantages ;  my  hair,  which  I  part   in  thtj 
middle,  is  abundant,  and  of  a  light  sunny  auburn  ;  my  complexioQj 
in  which  there  is  no  vulgar  red  and  white,  an  artist  might  give  by 
wash  of  the  same  colour,  but  of  course  many  degrees  lighter,  witkj 
which  he  w^ould  paint  my  hair ;  my  nose  is  prominent,  extremel; 
prominent,  but  in  no  degree  aquiline  ;  my  eyes  blue, — yes,  certainl 
blue,  but  not  of  so  intense  a  colour  as  to  interfere  with  the  harroon; 
of  my  tout  ensemble^     I  can  dance  against  any  one,  played  the  comeu] 
a-piston  till  1  found  it  was  likely  to  injure  my  lungs,  sing,  and  ae- 
company  myself  on  the  instrument,  and  write  verses,  —  as  to  which 
I  may  some  day  allow  the  public  to  form  their  own  opinion, 

Vague  anticipations  of  coming  greatness,  of  the  distinguished  p; 
I  should  play  in  the  next  day*s  festival — (pageant  will  be  the  w 
thought  I,  when,  three  centuries  hence^  some  future  Scc^t  selectx 
as  the  opening  scene  of  his  "^romance  of  the  olden  time,"  and,  who 
knows?  perhaps  myself  as  the  hero)  —  presented  themselves  to  my 
mind,  as,  watching  the  thin  smoke  of  my  cigar  curling  upwards,  \^M 
sat  there,  the  lord  paramount  of  that  snug  room,  with  its  quaint  old^H 
mantelpiece  and  wainscoted  walls,  hung  round  with — no!— I'l  was^i 
nearly  getting  into  the  romancing  vein  myself —  not  with  grim  por- 
traits  of  old    ancestors,  but   with   one    mezzotint   of  JLord  Kldoi 
bought  the  thiy  I  entered  myself  at  Lincoln's  Inn  ;  a  partie  carre(  ^ 
consisting  of  two  Derby  winners  and  two  opera  dancers,  transferred 
from  my  rooms  at  Oxford ;  and  Chalon's  Pa^  dc  quaire,  newly  in- 
stalled in  the  place  of  honour  over  the  fire,  for,  as  I  am  not  to  be 
called  to  the  Bar  for  two  years,  there  is  no  reason  why  my  chambers 
should  not  be  the  abodeof elegance  as  well  as  learning  in  the  mean  timi 

It  was,  indeed,  something  to  be  proud  of,  that  duty  of  mine, 
which  I  was  to  be  associated  with   so  many  legal  worthies. 

It  seemed  to  take  one   back,   to  those    good    old  days  of  yore 
when  it  was  something  to  be  a  law-student,  when  the  brisk  Tero- 
)ilar  was  one,  and   not  the   least,   of  the  component  parts  of  that 
charmed  circle,  the  Town  ;  was  recognised    by   the  w^its    of  Will' 
and  Button's,  who  clustered  round  Addison  or  Steele,  as  a  licem 
associate,  and   by  the  women    as   a   pretty  fellow  ;  or,  earlier  eti] 
when  at  Childermas  the  King  of  the  Cockneys  was  entlironed 
Lincoln's  Inn,  with  many  a  Jest  and  peeling    laugh  ;   or  when,  in 
1002,  the  students  at  the  Middle  Temple  acted  at  their  feast  at  Can^^j 
dlemu  '*aplay  called  *  Twelve  Night,  or  What  you  will/  much  li' 
the  'Comedy  of  Errors  *  or  '  Menaclimis  in  Plautus,*  but  most  liJl( 
and  neere  to  thatte  in  Italian  called  Inganni/'  * 

And  for  myself, —  what  prospects  might  it  not  open  to  me?     Rjt- 
*  Dtory  or  JuiiJi  Maaiuiigbatu,  a  Htudcxit  of  the  MMla  Ttsniple,  froiMi  the  UafL 


DID   NOT   DANCE  WITH   THE   QUEEN. 


555 


leigh,  a  Middle  Templar,  made  himself  a  name  to  endure  through 

all  ages,  at  the  expense  of  a  new  plush  cloak,     Hatton  obtained  the 

&eals  by  turning  his  toes  out.     True^  plush  cloaks  are  no  longer  in 

fashion,  but  my  student's  gown   might  answer  the  same  purpose; 

and  if  we  could  but  get  up  a  polka  or  a  vaUe  d  deux  terns  at\er  din- 

rmer^  I  bad  as  little  doubt  of  astonishing  her  jVIajesty  as  I  had  of  my 

Fown  personal  identity.     The  difficulty  was,  upon  what  round  of  the 

ladJer  of  advancement  I  should  stop:   1  would  be  a  courtier^   an 

orator,  a  soldier  !     I  might  start,  perhaps,   as  an  equerry  or  groom 

Fof  the  chamber^  and  in  a  few  years  I  should  be  in  the  cabinet,  or 

[leading  the  armies  of  my  royal  ]Mistres9. 

I  was  only  roused  from  these  sweet  fancies  by  the  arrival  q{  the 
Itailor  with  a  very  necessary  part  of  ray  costume,  namely,  the 
(^breeches.  I  had,  luckily,  avoided  the  necessity  of  ordering  a  new 
j>air,  which,  however,  for  such  an  occasion  I  should  have  scarcely 
Iprudged,  by  contriving  to  have  them  rashes  from  a  pair  of  panta- 
lloons,  in  which  I  had  enacted  Falkiand  to  my  Lucy's  Julia,  at  some 
Iprivate  theatricals,  and  which  again  had  been  cut  down  from  an  old 
[pair  of  evening  trousers.  This  had  saved  lime  too,  which,  as  I  had 
ronly  called  in  the  tailor  at  5  o'clock,  and  had  insisted  on  having 
[them  at  ten  the  same  night,  in  order  to  try  on,  was  of  some  import- 
I  mnce.  They  fitted  me  admirably,  and,  with  the  addition  of  a  pair  of 
[paste  buckles,  hired  from  Obbard's  masquerade  warehouse^  kxrked 
I  wonderfully  well.  Having  dismissed  the  Schneider,  I  established 
rmyself  in  my  old  position,  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  having  lighted  my 
Ithird  cigar,  and  mixed  myself  a  tumbler  of  prime  whiskey  and 
I  water,  again  abandoned  myself  to  most  delicious  anticipations. 

The  next  morning  I  was  up  betimes, — that  is,  about  eleven  ;  and 

\  having  merely  wrapped  my  dressing-gown  round  me,  sat  down  to 

breakfast,  intending  to  defer  the  grand  operation  of  arraying  myself 

for  conquest  till  afterwards.    31  y  brain  was  still  ringing  the  changes 

[upon  the  fancies   of  the  preceding  night,  and  I  doubt  if  Dominie 

^  Sampson  himself  was  ever  more  thoroughly  absent  than  I  was  dur- 

t  ing  that   short  meaU       I  poured  the  boiling  water  from  tlie  tea- 

r kettle  into  my  sugar-basin,  and  of  course  it  went  to  pieces  under 

I  the  operation;  I  scalded  myself  with   my  first  cup  of  tea,  and  ki 

I  my    second  grow  cold,  and   fini«shed  by  buttering  my    own   IuhmI 

I  instead  of  the  crust  of  a  French  roll.     When  I  had  finished  brcA- 

fast  I  proceeded  to  make  roy  toilet,  and  within   a  couple  of  booflT 

time  I  felt  that  I  gave  "  the  world  assurance  of  a  man," 

I  was  dressed  in  quasi -academic  costume,  and,  according  l#  As 
regulations  issued  for  the  occasion  by  the  Beneberi,  eolifclv  fe 
black,  with  the  exception  of  my  white  neckcloth,  mnd  a  §kf^tm 
aatin  under- waistcoat,  which  I  imagined  woukl  ha?e  ki  ifcMi  Im 
producing  the  efiect  I  contemplated. 

Warned  by  the  increasing  noise  of  the  erovd  t 
in  New  Square,  that  it  was  time  fbr  oie  %tt  mtk  Wff  i 
\  In  the  Hall,  I  descended  from  my  cteobcrs,  mmA  dhfwii  aff  ^^f^ 
I  not  without  a  certain  iMthMSiiMe  mom  «f  wmnma/^/trnm  mmtm^  wm 
I  collected  sight-seera.     Thmf  %m  Mrfiid  i# 
thing  which  waa  not  of  the  €ammMm  hm4, 
readily.      This  toiiciied  mm;  §m  Mmmn^ 
pally  composed  oC|icr«oi»  «W  Vkm  ^tmi 
obtained  adauMps  hf  ikr  i 


556 


HOW  MR.    STUBBY 


very  inferiority  in  the  aocial  icale,  they  were  less  accustomed  to 
disguise  their  feelings,  and  several  expressions  reached  roe,  stich 
as,  **Ohl  my  eyes  f  what  a  swell  I'*  or,  *' There's  a  sight  for  a 
father !"  I  could  not  but  picture  to  myself  the  sensation  which  roy 
passing  before  the  Queen  would  produce  among  a  more  polished 
assembly^  when  even  here  the  gross  and  vulgar  crowd  could  not 
repress  their  admiration. 

Upon  reaching  the  stone  steps  leading  to  the  great  entrance  of  the 
Hall,  I  found  that  1  was  indeed  later  than  I  had  imagined,  or  in* 
tended  to  be.  The  Guards  had  already  taken  up  their  station  imme- 
diately in  front  of  the  tower.  The  Duke's  carnage  had  just  driven 
up;  we — ^not  the  Duke's  carriage  and  I  —  but  the  Duke  and  I, 
ascended  the  steps  together,  loudly  cheered  by  the  mob.  In  any 
other  situation  I  should  not  have  dreamed  for  a  moment  that  I  wa« 
the  object  of  any  part  of  thi.^  enthusiasm  ;  but  now,  filling  as  I  did  to 
important  a  post  in  the  day's  ceremony,  and  standing,  if  I  may  be 
allowed  the  expression^  upon  my  own  dunghill,  I  felt  that  the  caae 
was  different.  There  was  no  vanity  in  this  conclusion,  for  at  the 
same  time  I  thought  it  very  possible  that  all  who  were  to  present 
the  address  had  been  recognised  in  the  same  manner ;  and  therefore 
when  we  reached  the  summit,  taking  off  ray  hat,  I  bowed  low  in 
acknowledgment  of  the  huzzas,  which  were  redoubled  as  I  ad- 
vanced through  the  lofty  entrance^  with  a  spirit^  1  trust,  elevated  to 
a  fitting  sense  of  my  position. 

Af\er  pausing  for  a  moment  in  the  hall  to  admire  the  arrange- 
ments for  the  banquet,  I  passed  on  to  the  Library, — the  destined 
scene  of  an  epoch  in  my  career.  That  spacious  room  was  crowded 
with  the  professors  of  the  law,  on  that  day  to  be  the  hospitable  en- 
tertaineTBi  as  w^ell  as  the  devoted  subjects,  of  their  Queen :  the  cr- 
mined  judge,  the  coifed  serjeant,  the  briefless  junior,  emancipated 
for  one  short  while  from  the  moral  treadmill  of  their  daily  life, 
might  now  feel  —  but  what  they  might  have  felt  I  had  no  time  to 
determine^  for  the  shouts  of  the  populace  and  the  clang  of  trumpets 
announced  the  near  approach  of  our  royal  guests,  andj  with  a  ffush- 
ed  brow  and  beating  heart,  I  hastened  to  my  place  at  the  upper  end 
of  the  Library. 

Soon  the  folding-doors  were  thrown  open,  and  slowly  and  graces 
fully  did  the  glittering  throng,  headed  by  her  upon  whose  euipirr 
the  sun  sets  not,  advance  between  the  sombre  ranks  formed  on  each 
side  of  the  chamber  ;  and  when  at  length  the  Queen  had  taken  her 
seat,  there  burst  out  an  irrepressible  shout  of  welcome,  which  only 
ceased  when  the  signal  was  given  to  read  the  address,  and  we  who 
were  to  present  it  formed  around  the  chair  of  state.  While  it  w«i 
being  read  1  could  see  that  her  Majesty's  eye  ran  round  the  circle, 
and  at  last  dwelt  upon  my  face,  as  if  relieved  by  the  contrast  it  pre- 
sented to  the  furrowed  and  bewigged  countenances  of  my  elders.  Re^ 
turning  the  look  for  one  moment,  with  a  glance  into  which  I  ooo- 
trived  to  throw  a  world  of  admiring  devotion,  I  suffered  my  eyes  to 
seek  the  ground,  as  if  blinded  by  an  excess  of  light ;  that  I  had  made 
some  impression,  I  felt ;  but,  judge  of  my  delight  when  her  Majesty, 
turning  to  her  Royal  Consort,  was  graciously  pleased  to  say,  *'  Whet 
a  pity  those  waving  curls  should  ever  be  imprisoned  under  a  wig.** 
For  some  monietits  surprise — nay,  rapture,  almost  deprived  me  of  my 
senses^  and  I  was  only  recalled  to  them  by  hearing  the  same  aJtwery 


< 


DID  NOT  DANCE  WITH  THE  QUEEN. 


557 


voice  say,  addreBsing  the  Chancellor,  ''  liyndhurat^  the  students  who 
have  presented  the  address  will   take  their  mutton  at  our  table/' 
\VTio  could  douht»  then,  that  it  would  be  my  own  fault  if  my  waving 
curU  were  imprisoned  by  a  wig,  if  they  did  not  rather  cluster  be- 
neath the  plumes  of  a  general  or  the  coronet  of  a  peer  i^     My  task 
was  only  by  some  bold  yet  delicate  way  of  showing  the  loyalty  which 
animated  my  breast  to  increase  the  impression  yooth  and  good  looks 
had  created,  and  the  thing  was  done-     While,  therefore,  the  illustri- 
ous visitors  were  signing  their  names  in  the  admiasion.book,  I  se- 
cured a  place  close  to  the  folding-doors  through  which  they  were  to 
repass  Into  the  hall,  in  order  that  I  might  throw  my  gown  at  her 
feet,  and  prevent  them>  as  far  as  in  me  lay,  from  coming  in  contact 
with  the  cold  hard  oak  of  which  the  flooring  is  composed.     When, 
however,  the  cortege  was  approaching,  and  I  endeavoured  to  take  off 
my  gown,  I  found  that  somehow  my  arms  had  got  entangled  in  it, — 
it  is  constantly  the  case  with  those  confounded  gowns  at  Lincoln's 
Inn, — and  the  more  1  attempted  to  free  myself,  the  more  closely  my 
[ftrms  seemed  pinioned  to  my  sides.     The  moments  were  precious; 
I  they  were  already  within  a  few  yards  of  me,  and  I  was  trying  almost 
[iranticaliy  to  rid  myself  of  the  treacherous  garment  which  thus  im- 
peded my  arms  and  aspirations,  alas  1  how  vainly  !  when  at  the  very 
moment  they  were  passing  a  great  thought  came  into  ray  head,  — .  I 
contrived,  hampered  as  I  was,  to  throw  my  pocket-handkerchief  (a 
bandana,  and  almost  clean, — indeed,  it  had  been  clean  that  morning) 
so  as  to  make  it  fall  before  her  Majesty's  feeL     Surprised,  and  evi~ 
Edently  gratified  at  this  touching  proof  of  my  loyalty,  her  Alajesty 
(passed  on  with  a  gracious  smile,  and  regaining  the  silken  trophy  of  my 
■readiness  and  tact,  I  fell  into  the  train,  and  followed  to  the  banquet* 
A  seat  had  been  assigned  to  me  next  to  one  of  the  ladies  of  the 
suite,    a   charming  creature,    with    whom    I  certainly  made   great 
L  progress  during  the  repast.     I  felt  that  an  advantageous  alliance 
linight  help  my  schemes.     Poor  Lucv  Jones,  of  course,  was  out  of 
[the  question*     I  had  ever  considered  Raleigh's  match  with  Mistress 
[Throckmorton  as  the  silliest  act  of  his  career.     Accordingly  I  talk- 
Iwd  graceful  nonsense  to  my  fair  companion,  mingling  with  it  many 
\m  delicate  compliment  to  her  loveliness ;    I   should  have  been  in- 
I  deed  dull  if  all  my  faculties  had  not  been  heightened  during  that 
I  brief  hour ;  basking  in  the  smiles  of  royalty  (I  forgot  to  mention 
I  that  I  had  had  the  honour  of  drinking  wine  with  her  Mnjesty  at  an 
nearly  period  of  the  repast,  when  I  spilt  the  greater  part  of  the  wine 
^ver  my  waistcoat,  thanks  to  the  clumsiness  of  a  waiter),  with  beauty 
ftt  my  side,  and  a  vol  au  vent  des  Canards  Russes  elonff'^es  au  poll  dc 
cheval  before   me.      But  such  happiness  is  in   its  nature  fleeting. 
After  a  variety  o£  toasts,  followed  by  appropriate  songs  from  the 
[ibenchers,  the  Queen  arose,  and  having  in  a  neat  speech  proposed 
" Success  to  Lincoln's  Inn,  with  nine  times  nine  and  one  morel" 
turned  to  Sir  Lancelot,  and  said  with  a  winning  smile^  "And  now, 
Mr.  Vice,  1  vote  for  a  dance." 

Everything,  then,  w^  as  conspiring  in  my  favour;  the  adroitness  of 
one  of  my  prototypes  I  had  already  emulated,  and  I  had  now  a 
chance  of  eclipsing  the  elegance  of  the  other.  I  secured  the  hand, 
or,  rather,  the  waist  of  my  fair  neighbour  for  the  polka  ;  and  after 
her  Alajesty  had  taken  one  tour  with  the  Lord  Chancellor,  we  began. 
With  my  body  slightly  bent,  my  head  thrown  back^  and  wearing  an 


558 


HOW    BfK.    STUBBY 


easy  amilc  upon  my  lips,   I  guided  my  partner  hither  and  thither 
amid  the  mazy  throng  ;  but  just  as  wx  had  approached  her  Majesty,* 

who  I  fancied  was  already  watching  niy  performance  with  a  tho-j 
rough  appreciation  of  its  excellence,  my  heels  became  enungled  in  J 
the  spurs  of  a  tall  hfe-guardsman,  who  was  dancing  with  one  of  the| 
mttids  of  honour  ;  and  down  we  went  together,  my  head  striking  the 
steps  of  the  dais  with  a  force  that  deprived  me  of  all  consciousneM. 

When  I  came  to  myself  I  was  Ij^ing  on  the  sofa  in  my  own  cham* 
hers,  alone,  and  weak  from  loss  of  blood,  which  the  prei^encc  of  •! 
basin^  with  sponges,  bandages,  iS:c.,  betokened  to  have  been  taken'] 
from  me  by  a  surgeon.    I  had  evidently  passed  some  hours  in  a  state 7 
of  insensibility, — for  it  was  now  dark,  and  candles  were  burning  ial 
the  room.    I  was  endeavouring  to  recall  my  senses  more  completely^ 
when  I  was  roused  by  a  loud  and   long- continued  knocking  at 
the  door  of  my  chambers.     Judge  of  my   surprise,  when   I  found 
that  the  visitor   was  a   page  of  honour,  the    bearer   of  the  royali 
commands  that  I  should  dine  at  the  palace  that  evening.     I  couli 
almost,  at  the  moment,  have  wished  that  it  had  been  otherwise,  c 
at  all  events,  that  the  honour  had  been  deferred  till  1  was  better  ah 
to  profit  by  it ;  but  what  could  1  do  ?     It  might  be  the  very  flood  ial 
the  tide  of  my  affairs  ;  and  should  I  let  it  pass,  when  all  things  w« 
so  visibly  working  in  my  favour?     Never.     Having  dismissed  the] 
page,  I  proceeded  at  once,  with  every  pulse  in  my  body  bounding ' 
with  excitement,  to  make  my  preparations  for  the  toiJet.     I  knew 
that  there  was  no  chance  of  my  laundress  making  her  appearance,! 
and  that  1  should  have  to  do  everything,  even  adl  a  cab,  for  myself  jl 
and  I  own  that  the  novelty  of  my  position,  the  excitement  of  the 
whole  day,  the  weakness  consequent  upon  my  fall,  all  contributed 
depress  my  spirits,  while  my  brain  was  in  a  whirl  which  preventedl 
me  from  thinking  on  any  one  subject  likely  to  tell  at  table,  and  nirl 
hands  trembled  so  that  1  could  scarcely  hold  the  candle  that  I  toosj 
up  to  light  me  to  my  bedroom.     Considering  the  state  that  I  was  iUpl 
it  is  not  surprising  that  the  first  thing  I  did  was  to  make  a  ^ 
gash  in  my  chin,  and  the  next^  to  look  every  where  but  in  thel 
place,  wherever  that  was,    for  the  court-plaister,     I  then  w 

myself  into  a  slate  of  delirium  tremens  which  involved  me  in  3   ^^ 

sonal  quarrel  with  my  boots;  and  when  at  length  1  had  succeeded  ifl 
drawing  them  on,  I  was  obliged  from  sheer  exhaustion  to  sit  don  I 
for  a  time  to  recover  myself.  Nothing  but  the  most  painful  an- 
ticipations of  failure  presented  themselves  to  my  fancy.  1  felt 
that  ray  luck  had  turned,  that  I  had  indeed  missed  the  flood, 
and  that  some  ludicrous  mishap  would  render  me  the  laughing- 
stock of  the  whole  court.  I  pictured  myself  spilling  the  soup  over 
the  Mistress  of  the  Robes,  or  treading  on  the  toes  of  the  Ladj 
of  the  Bedchamber,  or,  even  worse,  offending  seriously  against  the 
etiquette  of  the  royal  manage,  of  which  I  could  not  but  acknowlcdgi. 
myself  profoundly  ignorant.  I  did  not  even  know  the  proper  obei? 
ance  to  be  made  on  entering  the  presence,  there  might  be  twenty  re*j 
quired,  foraughl  that  I  could  tell ;  nay,  I  was  afraid  that  this'  uti 
usual  fit  of  shyness  might  even  deprive  me  of  the  power  of  bowing 
like  a  well-bred  gentleman,  and  I  started  up  to  practise  the  propefl 
degree  of  inclination,  and  study  a  few  graceful  attitudes  to  fall  inW 
as  occasion  might  require.  After  advancing  from  one  comer  oftbt 
room  to  the  other,  making  all  the  while  a  series  of  profound  sabtei^ 


DID    NOT    DANCE   WITH    THE    QUEEN. 


559 


I  was  stooping  to  pick  up  an  imaginary  handkercliief,  when,  horror 
of  horrors !  a  treacherous  seam  gave  way,  and  my  (unhintables)  fairly 
burst  d  t'arriere. 

This  was  too  much.  I  had  no  one  to  send  for  a  tailor.  If  I  put 
my  head  out  of  window,  and  screamed  for  assistance,  I  knew  that  it 
would  be  perfectly  useless,  for  every  porter  belonging  to  the  inn  was 
at  that  moment  getting  drunk  in  the  hall ;  and  1  threw  myself  upon 
the  bed,  helpless,  hopeless,  and  crying  like  a  child.  In  a  moment, 
however,  I  was  startled  by  another  loud  and  reiterated  knocking  at 
my  door.  I  rushed  to  open  it,  and  when  I  recognised  one  of  the 
equerries  whom  I  had  seen  at  the  banquet,  how  I  hoped  that  the 
royal  cook  had  given  warning,  or  that  the  royal  soot  had  fallen  down 
the  chim^ney,  or  that  anything  else  had  happened,  which  it  would 
not  be  treason  to  hope,  to  render  it  impossible  that  the  royal  hospi* 
talily  should  be  extended  to  me.  Not  so,  however  ;  entering  with 
every  appearance  of  extreme  haste,  the  equerry  said,  **  I  have  been 
sent  to  conduct  you  to  the  palace.  We  must  be  quick^  for  we  have 
not  a  moment  to  lose." 

*'Eut,  my  dear  sir,"  said  I,  "  look  at  me.  I  have  jtist  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  split  my  continuations*  They  are  my  only  pair,  and  I 
have  no  one  to  send  for  a  tailor.  Would  you/'  continued  I,  in  the  ex- 
tremity of  my  despair, — "  would  you  have  the  kindness  to  run  round 
the  corner  into  Carey  Street  >  In  the  first  court  on  the  right  you  will 
find  a  small  tailor's  shop,  and  bring  him  up  here  immediately.  You 
see  how  I  am  situated/* 

"  Do  I  understand  you,  sir?"  replied  Lord  Plantagenet  Fitz-Fud- 
dlecombe,  '*  to  ask  me  to  go  to  the  first  court  on  the  right  in  Carey 
Street  to  find  you  a  tailor?" 

"  Yes — yes  ;  the  first  court  on  the  right.  It  won't  take  you  a  se- 
cond— that's  it" 

*'  Then,  sir/'  said  he,  advancing  towards  me,  his  face  growing 
livid,  and  his  form  absolutely  expanding  with  rage,  **  you  are  an  in- 
solent, under-bred,  conceited,  impertinent — ** 

And  with  these  words  he  took  me  by  the  collar,  and  began  to 
shake  the  very  breath  out  of  my  body.  I  tried  to  resist,  but  in  vain. 
At  every  effort  I  made  his  grasp  tightened,  till  at  length  he  hurled 
me  from  him  with  an  exertion  of  strength  that  sent  me  spinning 
across  the  room  into  the  arms  of  Bob  Mangles,  my  old  Oxford  chum, 
and  now  the  fellow. occupant  of  my  chambers,  who  came  in  just  in 
time  to  save  me  from  falling  into  the  fire, 

*'  Come,  get  up,  old  fellow  i"  said  he,  **  Why,  what  on  earth  have 
you  been  dreaming  about?  I  knocked  twice  before  I  recollected  I 
had  the  latch-key.  It's  past  two;  and  —  why  you  don't  mean  to 
say  you  've  floored  half  a  bottle  of  whiskey  ?" 

It  was  indeed  a  dream.  The  glorious  beginning  and  the  inglorious 
end  were  alike  baseless  and  unsubstantial.  When  the  address  was 
really  presented,  and  the  name  of  Stubby  was  pronounced  before 
her  Majesty,  I  fancied  indeed  that  a  faint  smile  played  over  her  fea- 
tures; but  no  brilliant  consequences  followed:  and  when  I  threw 
down  my  handkerchief  for  her  to  step  upon  (for  that  1  did  do),  a 
great  hole  in  the  middle  rendered  the  act  of  loyalty  rather  ridiculous 
than  sublime. 

P.S. — Lucy  Jones  has  just  bolted  with  Captain  Crambambulee  of 
the ,  and  I  am  a  miserable  man* 


460 


THE  GAOL  CHAPLAIN; 
|t»n,  A  DARK  PAGE  FROM  LIFE'S  VOLUME. 


CSAPTEB   IiXXI. 
'^TCK>  MUCH   doctor" 

**  It  la  alwap  oonsidered  as  a  piece  of  impertinence  in  EngUnd,  if  a  man  of  V 
tkan  two  or  three  tliousand  a  year  has  any  opinions  at  all  uj>on  important  lul 
jects." — Peter  Plymlet, 

For  some  inscrutable  reasons,  ^aol -surgeons  muxt  be  men  niui 
given  to  change :  it  cannot  be  otherwise.  Dr.  Todrigg  now  tali 
of  sending  in  his  resignation.  He  cannot  submit,  he  observes,  at  the 
age  of  sixty-five  to  re-learn  his  profession.  Old  for  a  schoolboy,  ctt^ 
tainlyf — ^but  this  by  the  way.  He  is  said  to  flag  in  his  duties; 
make  marvellously  brief  visits  to  sick  prisoners  in  their  cells  ;  to 
sert  singularly  curt  entries  in  his  journal  respecting  their  ailmenl 
"  Gracious  heavens  1"  cries  Old  Scratchj  *^  what  have  I  to  be  diffw 
about?  Do  ray  masters  expect  from  me  a  minute  record  of  every 
symptom  which  these  felons  complain  of?"  The  masters  contend 
contra,  that  a  sick  prisoner  **  cannot  have  too  much  doctor  .**'  Toflrigg 
— worthy  man  ! — asserts  stoutly  that  they  can.  He  alleges,  in  sup* 
port  of  his  view  of  the  question,  that  in  a  borough  town,  situated 
somewhere  among  the  eastern  counties,  there  was  a  gaol  in  the 
surgeoncy  to  which  a  vacancy  having  occurred,  the  Town  Council 
and  the  magistrates  both  claimed  the  right  of  appointment,  and  bath 
exercised  it.  Patronage,  it  appeared,  was  a  point  not  to  be  hghllj 
waived  by  either  body.  Each  resolved  to  maintain  '*  the  privily 
of  his  order,"  The  magistrates*  choice  fell  on  one  medical  geni 
man,  that  of  the  Town  Council  on  another.  Both  stood  boldly  by 
their  man,  and  averred  him  to  be  the  gaol -surgeon.  Presently  a  pri- 
soner fell  10,  Both  surgeons  attended, — both  prescribed, — ^both  sent 
medicine,  which  latter  they  ordered  to  be  taken  forthwith.  Affairt 
wore  this  droll  appearance  when  the  Mayor  interposed,  suspended 
the  medical  func  ons  of  each  party,  and  requested  a  physician  to 
attend  the  prisoners,  until  it  could  be  ascertained  witn  whom 
right  of  appointing  a  surgeon  rested.  The  chief  magistrate 
cantly  observed,  that  he  thought  "  considerable  inconvenience 
result*'  from  the  attendance  of  two  medical  gentlemen  on  a  aii 
soner ;  each  prescribing  independently  and  separately  for  his  sl- 
tnents,  and  each  requiring  his  medicine  to  be  taken  ! 

"No  doubt  of  ihe  inconvenience  of  such  a  course,"  said  I  with  i 
laugh.  IVIy  companion  frowned.  In  a  stem  tone,  evidently  desigmd 
to  repress  my  merriment,  he  resumed, 

'*  At  this  juncture  Mr.  Mayor  interposed,  put  an  extinguisher  pf9 
tempore  on  both  surgeons,  and  called  in  a  physician." 

"A  very  proper  man  to  have  power,"  said  I,  with  a  vigorous  but 
vain  effort  to  keep  my  coyntenance ;  **  he  had  evidently  boweU  <^ 
mercy  for  his  feOow  creatures.'* 


i 


htw 

V  b^i 


THE  GAOL   CHAPLAIX.  561 

"  True !"  reioiiied  the  Doctor,  with  decpenmg  grxvitj,  and  iHw 
could  evidently  see  no  joke  mt  aD  in  the  aCur ;  "  bet  ubaeite  wefl 
this  feature  in  the  transacticin :  the  gaoler,  when  asked  how  he  had 
intended  to  deal  with  the  conflicting  claims  of  these  medical  gentle- 
men, replied,  *  Oh,  I  ctnildnt  deckle — ^"twasn't  Ukd  j — ^which  doctor 
had  law  on  his  side ;  I  should  have  attended  to  the  orders  ofboth  ; 
and  have  seen  that  the  medicine  sent  bj  both  was  dnl j  taken  f 
Now^  imagine  a  sick  prisoner  to  have  undergone  separate  treatment 
from  each  medical  gentleman,  the  remedies  to  have  been  whoU  j  dis- 
similar, to  have  clashed,  and  death  to  have  ensued,  what  verdict 
would  a  jury  have  returned  ?* 

I  shook  my  head,  and  by  gesture  signified  my  utter  inability  to 
guess  what  conclusion  that  unmanageable  body,  a  eoroner's  jury, 
might,  under  any  circumstances,  however  simple,  arrive  at. 

My  companion  frowned  horribly,  and  replied, 

**  This,  sir,  would  have  been  their  return :  '  Died  of  ioo  mmch 
doctob/  " 

**  I  wish,"  added  he,  after  a  pause,  and  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
has  been  deeply  injured,  '*  I  wish  that  my  masters  who  complain  of 
the  brevity  of  my  prescriptions,  and  of  the  dispaffh  with  which  I 
get  through  my  medical  visits  to  the  gaol  inmates,  could  hear  and 
ponder  over  Uie  moral  of  this  Darradve." 


CHAFTBB   I«XXII. 
MBS.  FBT. 


*^  Mrs.  Fry  is  an  amiable  ezccUent  woman,  and  tea  fWwnH  croMi  Wttcr  tkn 
the  infamoiu  neglect  that  preceded  her ;  bat  heri  if  not  the  method  to  tlfl^  criaea. 
In  prisons  which  are  really  meant  to  keep  the  nmltitode  in  order,  and  to  be  a  ter* 
ror  to  evil  doers,  there  most  be  no  sharing  of  profits  —  no  risiting  td  friendM  —  no 
education  but  religious  education — no  freedom  of  diet — no  vearcr's  iaoakk.  or  car* 
penter*s  bendies.  There  most  be  a  great  deal  of  aolitode ;  eoene  load  :  a  dress  of 
shame ;  hard,  incessant,  irksome,  eternal  laboar ;  a  pisnngd,  and  r«i;;iilated^  aad 
unrelenting  exdusion  of  happiness  and  eoadon.**  —  EdhUmrgh  Hrrinr,  mrtide  0m 
"  Prisons,^*  1822. 

If  the  diary  and  correspondence  of  this  celebrated  woman  should 
ever  be  given  to  the  world,  it  would  be  seen  how  much  and  largely 
she  has  been  consulted  on  the  subject  of  prison  discipline  by  those 
who  have  been  singularly  slow  in  acknowledging  their  obligations 
to  her  hints  and  suggestions.  For  prisoners  before  trial  her  system 
is  perfect ;  but  in  cases  where  imprisonment  is  intended  for  punish- 
ment, and  not  for  detention,  it  misses  the  desired  aim.  The  life- 
long devotion  which  this  female  Howard  has  bestowed  on  her  bene- 
volent enterprise,  those  only  can  appreciate  who  have  been  cogni- 
zant of  her  untiring  exertions.  Irksome  and  oppressive  as  was  the 
task,  she  never  flagged ;  sorrow,  reverses,  declining  health,  each  and 
all  failed  to  withdraw  her  from  her  work.  The  reformation  of  the 
daring,  ignorant,  obdurate  prisoner  was  her  mission,  and  unshrink- 
ingly she  fulfilled  it.  The  alpha  and  omega  of  her  creed  —  how 
beautiful  and  comprehensive  is  its  charity !  —  was  this :  that  no 
ofiender  is  irreclaimable.  She  held  that  a  delinquent's  restoration 
to  society,  and  to  the  restraints  and  influence  of  religious  principle, 
was  in  no  instance  to  be  pronounced  impossible.  This  conviction 
animated  her ;  upon  it  she  exhorted,  ana  reasoned*  and  expostu- 

VOL.  xviii.  s  8 


THE   GAOL   CIlAPLAm. 


lated,  and  persuaded ,  with  a  quiet  earnestness  of  manner,  and  an 
evident  sincerity  o^  purpose^  which  told  in  many  instances  upon 
those  for  whom  she  wai  wearing  life  away.  Often,  doubtle<^s»  was 
she  bitterly  disappointed,  often  deceived ;  often,  by  aome  unex- 
pected relapse  into  vice,  sadly  disheartened;  often  grieved  by  broken 
promises  and  forgotten  vows ;  but  never  driven  to  despair,  and  never 
diverted  from  her  purpose.  She  merited  aiiccesa.  Nothing  could 
be  more  simple,  calm,  gentle,  and  prepossesaiiig  than  her  manner  of 
conveving  religious  instruction  to  female  felons,  or  more  winning 
\  than  her  patient  endurance  of  the  scoff,  and  the  sneer,  and  the  rude 
laugh,  and  insolent  exclamation  which  occasionally  rose  around  her 
ir  the  object  of  these  interruptions  was  to  ruffle  her,  it  signally 
failed.  She  was  not  unmoved  by  them.  You  saw  by  the  deepen- 
ing colour, — a  rare  visitant  to  her  pallid  cheek, — that  the  feelings  of 
the  M^oman,  and  the  courtesy  of  the  kdy,  were  severely  tried. 
Twas  but  a  momentary  emotion ;  the  high  aims  of  the  philanthro- 
pist asserted  their  holy  sway  :  and  the  enterprise  to  which  life  wa* 
devotetl  was  resumed  with  redoubled  earnestness. 

But   her   system    had   its   imperfections.      It  was   too 
I  gentle,  and  indulgent.     It  presupposed  all  prisoners  to  be 
jof  the  past,  and  resolved   upon  amendment.      For  the  k 
[daring,    desperate,    and   determinedly   vicious   it   bad   no  terron 
Them  her  plan  did  not  reach. 

And  yet,  high-principled,  earnest,  and  self-devoted   as    she  was, 

there  was  a  leaven  of  pride  in   her  character — the  pride  of  a  sect, 

^This  was  curiously  exemplified  during  one  of  the  royal  visits  to  thel 

[City.     It  was  her  fortune  on  that  occasion  to  be  seated  near  Princ 

Albert,  and  to  be  handed  by  him  into  the  banqueting-roora.     Th 

[King  of  Prussia  was,  if  I  mistiike   not,  one  of  the    Lord  Mayoral 

'nests.  Tlie  health  of  his  Royal  Highness  was  drunk  as  a  matter  i 
course;  the  whole  of  the  company,  M^ith  one  exception,  rising  to  ( 
him  honour,  Tliat  exception  was  Mrs.  Fry.  In  a  letter^  wrili 
by  the  fair  recusant,  giving  a  detailed  account  of  the  ceremonial- 
the  remarks  of  royalty »  and  her  replies-  of  the  compliments  paid, 
and  of  the  smiles  with  which  they  were  received,  she  said  she  foundj 
this  the  greatest  trial  of  the  day ;  but  she  remembered  the  testi- 
mony which,  as  a  member  of  **  The  Friends'  Society,'*  it  was  he 
duty  to  bear  against  such  senseless  customs,  and  consequently  fh 
remained  silent  and  unmoved.  In  what  country  but  our  own  woullfl 
such  an  act  of  discourtesy  from  a  subject  to  the  husband  of  the" 
reigning  queen  have  been  tolerated  >  The  lady  proceeds  to  say^ 
that  the  Prince  looked  at  her  with  some  surprise;  and  that  upon 
resuming  his  seat  after  his  speech  of  thanks,  she  felt  it  "  judicious'* 
to  explain  to  li.  R.  H.  that  the  tenets  of  the  b  Kly  to  which  she  be- 
longed prevented  her  joining  in  this  act  of  worldly  courtesy.  The 
Prince,  ehe  adds,  looked  more  surprised  than  before,  but  receifed 
her  explanation  with  an  affability  and  kindness  which  explained,  to 
a  certain  extent,  his  universal  popularity. 

Wouldn't   drink  the  Prince's  health  !     Couldn't  from  consdenti* 
ous  scruples  !     **  Ah  I  there  *»  a  pound  of  pride,"  as  John  Ck>oke  of, 
Exeter  used  to  ssty,  "  hid  under  every  Quaker's  broad*brim,  anil 
eighteen  ounces  under  every  female  Friend's  coquettish  bonnet," 

But,    peace   to    her   honoured    ashes  I       Hers    was    no     inddent  j 
career  ;  and  the  life  of  self-sacnfice  which  her  object  involved,  pre* 


THE   GAOL   CHAPLAIN.  563 

sented  a  rare  spectacle  in  this  selfish  and  laxurioas  age.  Her  m- 
cerity  none  can  question.  The  amount  of  her  sucoew  must  be  tested 
by  the  dread  awards  of  a  future  day.  But  in  a  world  where  the 
still  voice  of  charity  is  so  seldom  heard,  and  where  the  storm  of 
calumny  and  censoriousness  rages  so  pitilessly,  her  memory  deaores 
to  be  hallowed,  whose  bearing  towards  the  fallen  was  summed  up  m 
this  single  sentence,  "  oip  nonb  dmbvaol" 


CHAPTBB  Lxxin. 

TRB   AVBNGBR's   WITNESS   AGAINST  MUBDBK. 

^  Death  is  not  an  aoddent,  Imt  a  panuhmeiit ;  not  the  wo  wiry  ooo£tioB  of  am 
axistenoe  inch  at  our\  but  a  judicial  infliction— the  cooaeqaenee  of  daaobedienee.'* 

J.  B.  If  AESDKjr. 

Oftbn  when  ruminating  on  days  gone  by — and  the  more  active 
and  chequered  a  man's  past  career  has  been,  the  more  natural  is  tlds 
exercise— have  I  reflected  on  the  sanctity  with  which  the  Sapreaie 
has  invested  the  boon  of  life,  and  the  various  safeguards  widi  whick 
he  has,  to  human  eye,  securetd  it  from  wilful  waste  and  injury.  S^, 
may  not  these  be  considered  as  so  many  tests  of  the  value  wluch  Hb 
attaches  to  existence?  If  this  be  a  correct  inference,  then  are  we  at 
no  loss  to  comprehend  the  witness  which  Hb,  as  Avenger,  has  caused 
in  more  than  one  dark  tragedy  the  dumb  creation  to  oiSer  agaiosl 
murder. 

Near  one  of  the  breezy  downs  in  Devonshire  there  lived,  aamt 
thirty  years  since,  an  old  man,  who  Rumour  ssid  had  sailed  in  Ibr- 
mer  days  under  a  privateer's  fLttg,  and  had  made  money  by  scheita 
and  deeds  which  would  not  bear  daylight.  It  was  assoted  bj  tlioBe 
who  professed  to  speak  from  individual  observation,  that  the  old 
man  had  much  gold  by  him,  and  many  curious  coins  carieut  in  dis- 
tant countries,  whither  his  adventurous  course  had  led  him.  And 
on  a  winter's  evening  he  had  more  than  once  been  surprised  by  an 
unexpected  visitant  absorbed  in  the  employment  of  counting,  ar- 
ranging, and  classing  his  glittering  treasures,— and  that  with  so  gay 
and  cheerful  a  mien,  as  if  with  them  were  associated  pleasant  memo- 
ries of  the  past,  and  deeds  on  which  it  was  grateful  to  him  to  dwelL 
To  his  manhood — if  that  in  truth  had  been  marked  by  turbulence 
and  strife,  and  stained  in  more  than  one  instance  by  blood — his  old 
age  afforded  marked  contrast.  His  habits,  employments,  and  recre- 
ations were  all  peaoefuL  And  as  he  stepped  along  his  miniature  but 
most  productive  corn-field,  or  stood  among  his  flowers — what  a  clus- 
ter of  gay  colours^  snd  what  a  feast  of  sweet  odours  did  that  little 
patch  of  ground  present  in  bright  sunny  June.^  — it  was  impossible 
to  connect  crime  with  his  happy,  trustful,  contented  look ;  or,  to 
imagine  as  he  gazed  up  at  you  with  his  clear,  calm  eye,  unwrinkled 
brow,  cheerful  smile,  and  silvery  hair,  that  his  habits  could  at  any 
period  of  his  life  have  been  other  than  peaceful  industrious,  and  in* 
offensive.  Perhaps  the  seclusion  in  which  he  lived  lent  strength  to 
the  reports  which  were  rife  with  reference  to  his  past  career.  He 
had  an  aversion  to  all  companionship  with  his  kind  ;  never  took  his 
seat  at  the  market-table ;  and  resolutely  shunned  the  road-side  inn. 
If  seen  at  the  village  fair,  it  was  simply  on  a  matter  of  business. 
Either  he  had  grain-to  sell,  or  stock  to  buy.    He  made  his  bargaia  in 

s  s  « 


-64 


TTIE   OAOL    rTTA?LAIN\ 


few  words,  fint!  quitted  the  concourse*     When  rallied  on  hi«  babits, 
he  was  accustomed  to  reply ^^ 

*' Company  1  1  Ve  had  my  share  of  it ;  and  little  ^ood  I  ever  got 
from  it,  I  like  to  be  alone,  —  alone  with  my  own  thoughts.  I'm 
close  upon  threescore  years  and  ten,  and  have  much  to  look  over; 
and  long  reckonings  are  best  gone  through  alone." 

"You  should  marry,  IVIr,  Rolluck/'  suggested  an  old  match- 
making gossip;  "ytJ"^  must  be  lonesome  in  the  long  winter's  even- 
ing.    Marry, — and  at  once/* 

**  Whom  ?  A  yoimg  girl  who  would  sell  herself  for  a  home,  would 
find  me  a  dull  companion,  and  daily  wish  me  under  the  sod,  that  she 
might  pair  with  a  sprightlier  mate!  No:  that  move  would  bring 
no  comfort  to  my  cottage.  Suppose  I  wed  an  old  woman  ?  Worsie 
still  !  Two  failing,  decrepld  beings  struggling  towards  the  grave 
together, — neither  able  to  help  the  other;  and  both  crabbed  and 
heart-heavy  with  aches,  and  pains,  and  weariness.  No^ — be^t  as  I 
am.  Neighbour  Duimett — Joe*s  wife  — will  look  after  me  a  while 
longer.  She  knows  my  ways  ;  and  tella  me  the  trouble  I  give  is 
light,  and  welt  paid  for.  I  shall  remain  as  1  am,"  said  the  old  man 
firmly,  after  a  short  pause. 

**  But  have  some  protection,'*  persisted  the  female metldlcr ;  "your 
cottage  is  nearly  a  mile  from  the  village ;  and  a  ilog — " 

**  Would  worry  IMopsie  in  an  hour.  Dogs  I"  cried  the  old  man 
bitterly  ;  '♦  I  hate  the  snarling  curs ! — and,  as  for  protection,  I  have 
a  tattler  upstairs  that  never  speaks  but  to  the  purpose.  He  hms 
brought  down  his  man  afore  now.  Dogs  !  Woe  betide  the  dog  that 
conjes  here  to  worry  Mopsiel" 

"  Ugh  V  cried  the  gossip  as  she  turned  indignantly  away.  **  Out 
upon  such  folly  !  The  old  man  tenders  Mopsie  as  if  she  were  a 
human  !*' 

*' She  deserves  tendering  more  than  some  humans  I  have  met 
with,'*  was  Rulluck's  sly  response, — '*  is  quieter,  better  behaved,  and 
nowfiys  envious." 

A  high  eulogium  certiiinly  upon  Mopsie;  but  whether  the  favour- 
ite deserved  it  may  be  doubted.  If*'  no  ways  envious,"  she  was  un- 
deniably of  **  a  jealous  turn,"  Iler  attachment  to  Rolluck  was  ex- 
traordinary, She  would  follow  him,  and  crouch  ut  his  feet  like  a 
dog  ;  would  sUition  herself  near  hiin  while  he  worked  in  the  garden, 
and  leave  her  post  of  observation  only  when  he  ceased  from  toil ; 
would  guard  his  cotit,  liis  hat,  his  mittens,  from  all  marauders ; 
knew  his  step,  and  would  bound  to  meet  him  after  a  short  Jibsence: 
in  a  word,  Mopsie  was  attachetl  to  her  master,  and  was  prized  and 
petted  proportitmably.  But,  like  other  favourites,  Mopsie  had  her 
infirmitiee.  She  was  outrageously  jealous  ;  could  **  bear  no  rival 
near  the  throne;"  and  where  her  suspicions  were  excited,  adopted 
extreme  measures. 

Jessie  Dtjnnett,  the  youngest  child  of  Ralluck's  neighbour  — « 
pretty  blue-eyed  little  girl  of  three  years  old  —  frequently  accompa- 
nied her  mother  in  her  houselu>lil  expeilititins  to  the  cottage,  much 
to  the  old  Bcamftu  «  deliglit,  who  libteued  eagerly  to  her  prattle,  and 
would  hoist  her  on  liis  shouklers,  and  race  witli  her  round  and  round 
tJie  garden.  Mojisics  annoyance  at  these  gambols  was  ludicrous* 
She  showed  by  every  means  at  her  commaml — by  every  iniUcatiaii 
which  her  dumb  nature  would  permit  her  togive>— her  extreme  dis- 


4 


4 


THE  GACH.  CHAPLAIN.  565 

satisfiEiction  with  her  rosy-dieeked  riYwl,  snd  her  indigiMlioii  at  the 
caresses  so  lavishly  heaped  on  her.  She  set  up  her  hack  when  R<^ 
luck  with  his  lau^iing  hurden  drew  nigh ;  and-^alas !  that  sadi 
breaches  of  complaisance  should  have  to  be  recorded  of  any  female 
favourite, — spat  at  them  both  furiously.  Finding  that  her  anger 
was  disr^arded,  she  followed  her  master  with  flashing  eye ;  seised 
and  shook  violently  the  hem  of  his  garment,  as  if  she  would  tear 
him  by  main  force  from  his  detested  companion.  Well  would  it 
have  been  if  Mopsie's  ire  had  been  limited  to  this  outbreak  !  But, 
watching  her  opportunity  when  the  little  girl,  exhausted  by  her 
gambols,  had  laid  herself  down  to  rest  on  the  old  man's  bed,  and 
was  locked  in  slumber,  the  vindictive  animal  crept  stealthily  into 
the  chamber^  leapt  upon  the  defenceless  sleeper^  and  fixing  her  talons 
deeply  into  her  face^  lacerated  her  features  to  a  most  frightful  ex- 
tent. The  anguish  of  the  mother  was  great,  and  her  indignation  vehe- 
ment. She  insisted  upon  Mopsie's  immediate  destruction.  "  Hanged 
or  drowned  she  should  be  forthwith  !"  So  ran  neighbour  Dunnett's 
earnest  and  not  unreasonable  demand.  '*  Such  a  spiteful  beast," 
contended  she,  "  did  not  deserve  to  live :  and  see  her  die  she  would 
then  and  there." 

RoUuck  demurred.  The  cat's  cruelty  to  little  Jessie  he  did  not 
attempt  to  justify.  But — so  prone  is  the  heart  to  deceive  itself,  and 
so  closely  is  self-love  bound  up  with  all  our  feelings,  and  so  stroMly 
does  it  strive  for  mastery, — he  could  not  consent  to  her  death.  "  Her 
fondness  for  her  master  had  misled  the  poor  dumb  creature !  He 
was  himself  in  fault.  He  had  given  her  too  much  liberty — too  modi 
encouragement.  For  years  she  had  been  his  companion :  and  now 
she  couldn't  bear  being  slighted.     The  fault  was  bis  I" 

How  readily  does  the  lip  clothe  in  words  the  excnsea  which  rmrnij 
suggests ! 

To  pacify  the  angry  mother,  and  to  prevail  on  her  tttll  to  waldb 
over  his  household  comforts,  he  promised  '*  by  way  c^  anbenrl^  ^  Up 
leave  the  little  Jessie  all  he  "  died  worth — be  it  litlh:  m  mtu^  T 
But  Mopsie  must  "remain  where  she  was«  They  cr/uii'l  t^A  ynx 
company.     Drown  her !     He  would  as  soon  drown  hmumfr 

Some  eight  or  nine  weeks  after  this  incident  tfie  nhmU^n  fA  the 
old  man's  cottage  were  observed  to  be  closed^  and  thi*  ^^*%  after  hk 
usual  hour  of  rising.  His  neighboors  finding  no  answer  mm  tiAufn^ 
ed  from  within  to  their  loud  and  reiterated  vomtatm^f  hetrnmealmrm^ 
ed,  and  at  length  forced  the  door.  To  their  hfmrtfr  they  diseoirered 
the  object  of  their  search  murdered  on  the  fUfffr  f4  hi*  dwtllmf^ 

Whoever  had  been  the  assaihmt  had  met  with  lUnermined  ftmt4^ 
ance:  abundant  evidence  was  there  of  a  desperate  confikt.  HiA^ 
luck's  right  arm  was  broken^  and  a  stoat  hedge^stoke  with  whiefi  he 
had  evidently  defended  himself  Uy  snapped  in  two  by  W«  ddn. 
His  clothing  hung  about  him  in  shreds,  and  locks  of  hk  wbke  ktiir, 
dabbled  in  blood,  were  strewed  here  and  there  opon  the  fcor.  If 
the  assassin's  object  had  been  plunder,  he  had  been  diiapp<fol«d^ 
for  Rolluck's  hoard  was  found  entire;  nor,  strange  to  mf,  did  % 
appear  that  violence  had  been  used  to  gain  admittance  on  the  pre- 
mises. No  door  was  broken ;  no  window  was  shivered ;  no  loefc 
was  forced ;  not  a  plant  or  shrub  had,  to  all  appearance,  been  d\§^ 
turbed.  The  question,  then,  aroae, ''  How  had  the  hamiade  made 
good  his  entrance  and  his  exit?"  ibUowed  by  enother  atill  more  im» 


5(?tf 


>'  -"-dT^'-^  «o "K;*«'^  "^i^^''  i:r1,"^^^^ 


THE    (iAriL    CHAPLAIN. 


567 


(Lydia  Duimett)  knew  it  to  be  just.  Rolluck  had  lent  money  to 
Owsley  more  than  once/' 

Mr.  Tyerman  paused  over  this  reply  ;  and  then  said  kindly  and 
cheeringiy,  ''All  will  yet  be  well*  Put  your  trufit  in  him  who  spe- 
cially protects  the  innocent.  You  have  no  real  cause  For  fear  ;  your 
husband  is  guiltleas/' 

*'  Blessings  on  you  for  that  word  !"  cried  hisagitatetl  hearer  :  *'  the 
only  word  of  comfort  I  have  heard  this  day/' 

"  Be  silent,  and  be  trustful/*  repeated  the  old  gentleman  impres- 
sively, and  then  softly  strode  away. 

Absorbed  in  reverie  the  justice  walked  slowly  homewards,  un- 
conscious that  he  was  followed  by  a  pnrty  most  desirous  to  arrest  his 
attentionj  and  who  now  for  the  iburth  time  repeated  in  shrill  ac- 
cents, 

"One  moment,  sir,— one  moment,— I  will  not  detain  you  longer, 
— my  errand  will  be  quickly  sped/' 

'*  What  may  be  its  nature  ?"  said  the  other,  turning  towards  his 
questioner, 

"  I  have  heard,  sir,  that  you  purpose  selling  Elm-tree  Meadow, 
and  the  little  cottage  which  stands  upon  it?  If  so,  I  should  like  to 
treat  for  them/' 

"I  put  a  high  price  upon  both,"  returned  the  elder  gentleman 
gravely ;  '*  more  than,  Mr.  Owsley,  I  imagine  you  would  be  dis- 
posed to  give." 

^*  No,  sir, — no,"  remarked  the  other  briskly,  *'  I  am  prepared  to 
make  a  fancy  bid.  They  adjoin  my  mill;  and  are  more  valuable  to 
me  than  to  another  party/' 

"  Perhaps  so/'  responded  the  old  gentleman,  drily  ;  and  as  he 
spoke  he  dextrously  shifted  his  position  so  that  the  bright  sunlight 
of  a  summer's  evening  fell  full  upon  those  sinister  features  he  was 
so  eagerly  scanning ;  "  I  had,  in  fact,"  continued  he,  with  admirably- 
feigned  carelessness,  **  anticipated  some  overture  on  the  subject  from 
you,  but  have  not  seen  you  for  some  days  past :  absent  from  home, 
I  presume  ? — on  a  journey — ^taking  orders  ?" 

*'  No,  sir  ;  I  have  been  ilL  1  had  an  ugly  fall  from  my  cart ;  and 
was  much  shaken," 

"  Indeed  1  Ah  t  I  observe,  now  that  I  look  at  you,  more  than  one 
formidable  bruise.  A  scar,  too,  below  each  eye.  A  cut,  moreover, 
across  the  forehead-  You  must  have  fallen  heavily.  Who  was  your 
doctor?" 

<rPatience  and  water- gruel,"  and  Owsley  affected  a  laugh:  but  it 
was  a  miserable  attempt  at  gaiety  ;  and  the  justice  noted  it» 

*' And  now,  sir,"  resumed  the  miller,  "'be  pleased  to  tell  me  what 
price  you  fix  on  this  little  property  ?" 

^  One  hundred  and  seventy  guineas*" 

*' A  large  sum  for  that  small  tjuantity  of  meadow  land  and  dis- 
mantled cottage  :  more — far  more  than  the  pro|ierty  is  worth  t" 

**  Possibly :  but  that  is  the  amount  I  intend  to  accept,  and  no 
other  J' 

**  You  shall  have  it,  sir/*  observed  the  miller  after  a  few  moment's 
thought:  **to  collect  it  together  will  be  a  matter  of  some  little  diffi- 
culty,— more  so  now  than  before." 

'*  I  catch  your  meaning,"  said  Mr.  Tyerman  quietly  ;  "  poor  Rol- 


1 


5G6 


THE    GAOL    CHAPLAIN. 


I 

EneV 


portant  *•  fV/to  h  he  ?"  The  party  on  whom  suspicion  first  fell^^ 
Joe  Dimnctl,  Jessie's  father*  He  was  known  to  be  thoroughly  c< 
versant  with  the  deceased's  pecuniary  affairs^  and  the  amount  of  bi( 
gavings.  Furthermore,  as  a  malignant  bystander  adroitly  ind 
uated,  Dutmett  had  an  object  in  getting  rid  of  the  old  sailor:  hi 
will  was  made  in  favour  of  Dunnett's  child  ;  Jessie  was  sole  legatee/ 
and  therefore  the  sooner  Blue  Jacket  slipped  his  wind  the  better  for 
the  labourer's  little  daughter.  Add  to  this,  Joe  himself  could  ^i"e 
but  a  confused  account  of  his  "  whereabouts  "  on  the  fatal  night  in 
(juestion*  He  had  been  at  a  fair  a  few  miles  off,  had  *'  fallen  into 
company  with  two  remiurkabiy  funny  gentlemen,"  one  of  whom  sang 
a  comic  song,  while  the  other  picked  his  pocket.  Joe*8  partner 
pulled  an  awful  wry  face  when  this  episode  in  her  husband's  evei 
ing's  amusement  was  detailed  before  her  in  public.  At  this  poii 
the  victimLsed  Joe's  recollection  failed  him.  He  said  he  got  out 
the  house  as  quickly  as  he  could  when  he  found  his  money  gone 
but  then  the  air  look  *'  a  surprising  effect"  upon  him.  He  fofg( 
wholly  where  he  was,  wandered  about  sadly,  thought  he  got  some' 
sleep  under  a  hedge,  and  only  reached  home  at  daybreak.  Couldn't 
give  any  better  account  of  himself  if  the  twelve  judges  were  to 
him/' 

**  The  twelve  judges  are  more,  probably,  than  will  trouble  fou^ 
was  the  kind  reply  of  the  same  considerate  party :   '^  but  you  wil 
have  to  make  your  appearance  before  one,  and  that  for  no  light 
crime/' 

**  Crime  I  Why  should  I  desire  to  injure  Rolluck  ?"  was  the  re- 
sponse of  the  suspected  party,  half  choaked  with  a  heavy  sob:  "be 
was  the  best^ — yes,  the  very  best  friend  1  had  V 

** Ah!"  was  the  comment  of  the  same  compassionate  flpectHor 
— "  Ah  I'- 
ll 's  astonishing  of  how  much  meaning  this  little  vicious  mono. 
syllable  is  capable.  Pity,  scorn,  regret,  distrust,  all  may  be  embo- 
died in  **  Ah  r*  And  when  it  falls  from  contemptuous  lips,  what  a 
volume  of  sarcastic  unbelief  will  it  convey. 

Some  twenty- four  hours  after  Dunnett  had  been  remanded  for 
further  examination,  a  thoughtful,  venerable,  hoary-headed  magis- 
trate came  down  to  the  murdered  man's  cottage,  and  made  a  per- 
sonal examination  of  the  premises.  He  listened  carefully  and  e.srn- 
estly  to  the  various  statements  made  to  him,  pencilled  a  few*  meiun- 
randa  in  his  tablets  as  to  the  size  and  shape  of  the  old  man*s  sleep- 
ing room,  and  the  massive  and  substantial  furniture  which  it  cod- 
tained  ;  and  then  cursorily  inquired  what  had  become  of  ib«  poor 
fellow's  cat  ? 

The  favourite,  he  was  told,  had  escaped  by  some   means   on 
night  of  her  master's  murder,  and  had  made  her  appearance,  once 
twice,  at  Dunnett's  cottage;  that  she  was  restless  and  *'  seared/ 
fused  her  food,  wandered  hour  after   hour  to  and  fro,  and   seem^ 
evidently  to  miss  the  kind  hand  which  hud  so  often  fed  her, 
Dunnett's  <lwelling  JVJr,  Tyerman  next  made  his  way  :  and   amoi 
other  qiiestions  which  he  asked  the  unhappy  Lydia  with   refei 
to  the  dead  man's  habits  was  this  :   *'  Had  KoUuck  ever^   to   hi 
knowledge,  lent  money  to  any  party?** 

*^  Yes,'*  was  the  reply,  **  to  Owsley  the  miller.  Owsley,  nom 
that  his  friend  and  bencJactor  was  gone,  denied  the  debt ;  bit  tbi 


THE  GAOL   CKAPL&rC 


rLydia  Duimett)  kncv  ii  «•  W 
Owsley  more  than  anee.*" 

dieeringlj,  '<  All  wiD  Tct  be 
cially  proCeeU  the  lUMnet. 
husband  is  gofltleas.' 

''  Bletdngp  oo  job  frrthal 
only  word  of  cooifott  I  hove 

''  Be  silent,  and  be  tratffk:,' 
sively,  and  then  soIUt  Mrode  swsr.       ^ 

Absorbed  in  levme  the  jmitw  wm^ed 
oonadoos  that  he  was  SuSkgmtd  hr  a  partj 
attention,  and  who  now  for  the  £omr^ 
cents, 

—my  errand  will  be  qaickiT  iped." 

'' What  nu7  be  its  ntne  ~ 
questioner. 

''  I  have  heard,  ar,  that  y 
and  the  little  cottage  which 
treat  for  them.'* 

''I  put  a  high  price  vpoo  Dotn,'  n 
gravely  ;  •*  more  than,  Mr.  Owder,  I 
posed  to  give." 

''No,  air,— no,' icnarfccd  the  other  bnsklr,  ''I  wm 
make  a  fancy  hid.     Thej  adfoin  my  aaili:  and 
me  than  to  another  par^.~ 


''  Perhaps  ao^"  responded  the  old  gentleman,  drilj ;  and  as  he 
ly  shilUd  1 


apoke  he  deztroosly  shilUd  his  position  »  that  the  bright  eanlight 
of  a  summei^s  evening  fieO  luD  apon  thooe  snistcr  lieatsrei  he  was 
so  eagerly  scannmg  ;  '^  I  hnd,  m  ftct^'continMd  he,  with  jdmiiahit^ 
feigned  careleasneas,  "  antidpatied  some  oreitme  on  thesshfect  finom 

Jou,  but  have  not  seen  jau  lor  some  d^s  past:  Assent  from  home, 
presume  ?— en  a  journey — taking  orders  r^ 

''No,  sir ;  I  have  been  iU.  I  haid  an  ugly  laD  from  my  cart ;  and 
was  much  shaken." 

"Indeed!  Ah!  I  observe,  now  that  I  kiok  at  yon,  more  than  one 
formidable  bruise.  A  scar,  too,  below  eadi  eye.  A  cot,  moreover, 
across  the  forehead.  You  must  have  £dlen  heavilv.  Who  was  yoor 
doctor?" 

"  Padenoe  and  water-gruel,"  and  Owsley  affected  a  laugh :  but  it 
was  a  miserable  attempt  at  gaie^  ;  and  the  justice  noted  it. 

"  And  now,  sir,"  resumed  the  miller,  "  be  pleased  to  tell  me  what 
price  you  fix  on  this  little  property  ?" 

''  One  hundred  and  seventy  guineas." 

"A  large  sum  for  that  sm^l  quantity  of  meadow  land  and  dis- 
mantled cottage :  more — ^far  more  than  the  property  is  worth !" 

"  Possibly :  but  that  is  the  amount  I  intend  to  accept,  amd  no 
other." 

'*  You  shall  have  it.  sir,"  observed  the  miller  after  a  few  moment's 
thought :  "  to  collect  it  together  will  be  a  matter  of  some  little  diffi- 
culty,— more  so  now  than  before." 

'*  I  catch  your  meaning,"  said  Mr.  Tyerman  quietly ;  "  poor  RoL. 


568 


THE   GAOL   CHAPLAIN. 


Itick  being  gone,  who  so  often  assisted  you  with  a  loan  on  an  emer- 
gency ;  his  triendly  aid  will  now  be  missed." 

The  miller's  brow  grew  dark. 

"  He  never  assisted  me/'  cried  he  pettishly,  "  never  in  his  life.  I 
never  borrowed  a  shilling  from  him.  Who  dares  assert  the  con- 
trary ?*' 

''It  is  asserted, — and  more,  it  is  believed,"  remarked  the  justice  in 
the  same  unconcerned  tone,  watching  intently  the  while  the  eye 
and  bearing  of  his  companion. 

"  By  w  hom  ?" 

*'  By  the  wife  of  the  cottager^  Dunnett,  below  the  hill  ;  she  main-  ' 
tains  resolutely  that  not  once,  but  repeatedly,  you  have  been  Rol- 
luck's  debtor.*' 

*•  Let  me  see  whether  she  will  venture  to  say  that  when  I  *in  by," 
growled  Owsley  in  tones  hoarse  with  passion  ;  '*  and  do  yoUj  «ir, 
listen.     I  wish  ;  I  inlreat  you  to  be  present." 

]VIr.  Tyerman  mutely  acquiesced,     lie  had  h\s  reasons  for  assent- i 
ing  to  the  interview,  ill  as  he  could  define  those  reasons  to  himself. 

The  door  of  Dunnett's  cottage  was  ajar;  and  Owsley,  who  was 
some  paces  in  advance  of  his  aged  and  more  feeble  companion^  strode 
quickly  over  the  threshold.     Lydia  was  seated  at  work  before  the  J 
embers  of  an  expiring  fire  ;  and  at  her  feet  lay  Mopsie — no  longer  %i 
sleek   and   well-fed  favourite;    but  the   image  of  starvation   and] 
misery, 

*'  I  want  to  know,"  roared  the  miller,  *'  your  authority  for  saying 
that  I  borrowed  money  of  Rolluck  when  you  are  sure — " 

What  further  he  intended  adding,  is  a  matter  of  guess-work  ;  for 
the  cat,  roused  by  the  sound  of  his  voice,  started  up,  and  ran  furi- 
ously towards  him.  Then  checking  herself,  as  if  natural  instinct  ap- 
prized her  that  she  could  improve  her  mode  of  attack,  she  took  a 
leap  to  the  chair  from  which  Dunnett  had  risen,  and  then  another 
from  the  chair  to  the  table,  and  thence  sprang  at  Owsley,  with  f)afh-j 
ing  eye  and  extended  talons.  She  missed  him.  His  face  was  ev 
dently  the  object  she  aimed  at.  No  one  spoke.  The  spectator 
stood  stupefied  w  ith  astonishment ;  and  Owsley,  deadly  pale,  seeme 
paralysed  for  the  moment  by  the  sudden  onset  of  the  animal.  Pro- 
fiting by  his  condition,  Mopsie  ran  madly  round  the  room,  repeated 
her  manceuvre,  and  this  time  with  effect-  She  laid  bare  her  foe** 
right  cheek,  and  frightfully  lacerated  one  eye.  Blood  gushed  freely 
from  the  wound.  Lydia  screamed  for  help  ;  and  the  justice,  armed 
with  a  sword-stick,  endeavoured  to  eject  Mopsie  from  the  room. 
It  was  a  result  more  desirable  than  feasible.  The  vengeance  of  the 
infuriated  animal  was  yet  unappeased.  She  glared  furiously  at 
Owsley  ;  and  seemed  to  watch  for  another  opportunity  of  burying 
her  talons  in  his  body.  But  while  vigorou&Jy  interposing  in  thf 
wounded  man's  defence,  the  magistrate's  practised  ear  caught  these 
memorable  words,  uttered  by  the  sufferer  with  a  yell  of  agony, — 

"  Curses  on  you  !  you  mad  devil  I  This  is  the  second  time  yoo 
have  served  me  thus  V  


569 


YOUNG  LADIES  AND  THEIR  IDIOSYNCRASIES. 

BY    BYBRARO  CLIITB. 

NO.  I.— MISS  DORA  HOBBS,  THE  YOUNG  LADY  THAT  WAS 
FOND  OF  DOGS. 

Pbachey  R^nbs  was  the  only  man  I  ever  knew  who  owed  his 
happiness  to  a  taste  for  dogs.  I  have  known  several  whom  this 
sporting  branch  of  the  Cynic  philosophy  has  helped  to  send  to  the 
dogs  ;  but  my  friend  Peachey  was  conducted  by  it  to  the  hand  of 
Miss  Dora  Hobbs  and  six  hundred  a-year.  The  fact  is.  Miss  Dora 
loved  dogs  even  better  than  he  did.  Indeed,  his  unsuccessful  rivals 
said,  that  it  was  no  great  compliment  to  be  selected  by  a  yoong 
lady,  who  was  sure  to  give  the  preference  to  the  most  perfect 
puppy.  But,  "  he  who  wins  may  laugh,"  and  Peachey  takes  such 
jokes  merrily  enough,  saying,  that  if  he  is  a  puppy  he  has  gcA  coo- 
pled  in  a  golden  collar,  which  the  growlers  would  be  glad  enough 
to  wear. 

Had  Peachey  Haines,  Esq.,  been  a  man  of  property,  or  an  old 
friend  of  the  Hobbs  family,  Uie  fact  that  he  and  the  ladv  coindded 
in  a  taste  for  the  canine,  might  have  been  thought  a  slight  ingre- 
dient among  the  causes  of  their  union.  But  inasmuch  as  he  suc- 
ceeded in  winning  Miss  Dora  at  very  short  notice,  at  a  time  when 
his  waistcoat-pocket  was  his  only  banker,  and  twenty  shares  in  a 
rejected  railway  his  only  property,  the  dog  whidi  was  the  sole  ori- 
ginator of  the  match,  and  the  drcumstances  under  which  the  lady's 
love  for  Pompey  expanded  into  a  love  for  Peachey,  deserve  a  little 
attention. 

Certain  financial  reasons  had  led  Mr.  Baines  to  absent  himself 
from  his  usual  London  haunts  before  the  summer  of  1844  was  quite 
concluded.  The  aquatic  districts  of  Moulsey  and  Hampton  were 
patronised  by  him  for  a  short  period ;  but  he  soon  deterndned  on 
transferring  himself  to  the  livelier  shores  of  Southampton,  bearing 
in  mind  the  very  desirable  facility  of  communication  between  that 
port  and  the  Channel  islands.  With  this  view  he  compressed  his 
worldly  effects  into  the  compass  of  a  carpet-bag,  and  deposited  them 
and  himself  in  an  onmibus  which  was  starting  for  the  Kingston 
station.  In  that  omnibus  he  encountered  3Iiss  Dora  Hobbs,  our 
heroine,  whom  I  ought  to  have  described  before  I  spoke  of  the  gen* 
tleman,  a  piece  of  gallantry  in  which  I  should  not  have  failed,  had 
not  my  mind  been  embarrassed  by  the  dog's  conflicting  claims  to 
priority  of  notice. 

Miss  Dora  Hobbs  was  a  fair-faced,  languid-looking,  blue-eved 
girl  of  two  or  three  and  twenty,  rather  flat-footed  and  large-handed, 
with  good  teeth,  invisible  eyebrows,  and  fawn-coloured  liir,  which 
hung  copiously  down  under  her  pink  bonnet  on  each  side  of  her 
face  and  neck,  as  if  too  lazy  to  keep  itself  in  curl.  By  her  sat  a 
morose,  burly,  blue-coated  Elder,  and  a  little  dingy  old  woman  in  a 
sunset-coloured  silk  dress,  with  a  face  as  wrinkly  as  the  back  of  an 
oyster-shell.  These  were  the  young  lady's  uncle  and  aunt^  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Jupp.  On  Miss  Dora's  own  lap,  careiuUy  sh«wl«d  Around, 
lay  a  little  King  Charles  spaniel,  which,  on  Peachey  Bflf' 


670 


YOUNG    LADIES    AND    TIIEIB    IDIOSYNCRASIES. 


the  opposite  corner  of  the  omnibus^  opened  its  lustrous  optics  upon 

that  gentleman,  and  commenced  that  series  of  little  snifls,  uhimpen 
wa^s,  and  wngg!es,  hy  which   smM  quadrupeds  of  that  genus  u^u-^l 
ally  acknowledge   the   approiich    of   some    one  whom    they  take  t 
fancy  to, 

*'  Down,  Pompey — down  V  softly  euid  Miss  Dora,  as  the  Utile 
animal  tried  to  migrate  from  her  lap  towards  Peachey's, 

Peachey  smiled  affably  on  Pompey,  and  gently  snapped  his  fingers, 
Pompey  struggled  again,  and  succeeded  in  placing  his  fore-paws  oii 
Peachey 's  knee. 

**  There,  Dora/*  growled  Mr*  Jupp,  '•  I  told  you  how|it  would  be| 
I  told  yon  the  dog  would  be  a  nuisance  to  the  public." 

*'  Oh  dear,  sir !"  interposed  Peachey,  "  no  nuisance  at  all.  I  aa 
devoted  to  dogs — to  spaniels  in  particular." 

"  Ay/'  muttered  the  old  gentlenian,  **  birds  of  a  feather — ." 

But  Peachey  heeded  not;  his  sentiments  of  devotion  had  just 
been  rewarded  by  one  of  Miss  Dora's  most  gracious  smiles. 

**  Beautiful  being !"  ejaculated  Peachey,  leaving  it  in  the  ladyl^ 
discretion  whether  she  would  appropriate  the  compliment  to  her» ' 
ur  apply  it  to  her  spaniel-  Miss  Dora  smiled  again,  and  Pompejj 
wai^ged  his  tail  hard  enough  to  make  his  little  back-bone  ache  i 
a  fortnight,  Baines  took  him  up  tenderly  and  affectionately,  _ 
Isaac  Walton  did  the  frog ;  he  critically  examined  the  blackness  of 
the  roof  of  his  mouth,  and  eulogized  the  rich  tan  of  his  paws.  **  J 
never/'  said  he,  **  had  the  good  fortune  before  to  see  such  a  pictu- 
resque little  animal ;  he  has  such  a  fine  autumnal  tint  about  bis  ex- 
tremities.    Does  he  enjoy  good  health?'' 

*■  No"  sighed  IVIiss  Dora,    **  Poor  little  thing,  he  is  very delicalc.** 

**  Delicate*  indeed  V*  growled  old  Jupp  ;  **  that 's  more  than  people 
can  be  who  fondle  nasty  fleaey  little  curs  about  like  babbies.  1  haU 
to  see  it ;  it 's  not  christian -like." 

•*  Oh,  sir,"  remonstrated  Peachey,  with  a  look  of  holy  bornr,, 
"you  forget  T obit's  dog." 

"  No,  I  don't,  sir.     Tobit  was  a  Jew/' 

"  Well,  but  that  gives  me  the  authority  of  the  Patriarchs." 

**  Sir,"  says  Jupp,  *'  you  're  a  Puseyite/' 

Here  Miss  Hobbs  began  to  weep.  Pompey  looked  up  at  his  ad- 
vocate and  licked  his  ungloved  hand. 

*•  W^hflt  an  intelligent  little  creature  I"  said  Mr.  Baines.  **  I  ofteo 
think/'  continued  he,  as  Pompey  resumed  his  lambent  occupations^ 
*' I  often  think  there  is  something  xery  touching  in  this  homage  of 
our  mute  little  four-footed  servitors.  Their  tongues  are  like  Tittle 
living  towels." 

A  terrific  gruff  murmur  instantly  resounded  from   tlic  interior  i 
the  blue   coat;  but  before   Mr.  Jupp's  wrath  could  clothe  itself  ifl_ 
articulate  words,  the  omnibus  had    stopped,  and  tlie  party  found 
themselves  at  the  station, 

*•  I  fear,"  said  Peachey  to  the  fair  proprietress  of 

'^  The  mixture  inu^  of  the  Ukck  juid  laa.^* 

*'  I  fear  your  spaniel  will  not  like  being  cooped  up  in  the  basket  ^ 
the  top  of  the  train,  and  they  will  not  let  yuu  take  him  inside/' 
*^  What !"  exclaimed  i^iliss   Dora,    **  must  I  part  from  Pompey  1 


YOUNG   LADIES   AND   THEIR   IDIOSYNCRASIES.         571 

Oh^  poor  little  dear,  what  will  become  of  him  !     He  will  have  fits ; 
he  will  be  delirious  !" 

"  Perhaps,"  modestly  suggested  Peachey ,  "  perhaps  if  I  were  to 
wrap  him  in  my  cloak  we  might  smuggle  him  into  the  train  unob- 
served ;  he  is  very  small,  and  I  am  sure  that  I  shall  find  him  Tery 
pleasant." 

Miss  Dora  was  all  smiles  and  gratitude  at  the  ofier ;  old  Jupp 
vainly  remonstrated,  but  consoled  himself  by  the  reflection,  whi^ 
he  audibly  fainted,  that  Baines  would  be  sure  to  be  found  out,  and 
fined  for  a  breach  of  the  bye-laws,  and  probably  would  be  summa- 
rily imprisoned  as  a  defaulter,  and  that  he  and  Pompey  would  find 
themselves  on  the  treadmill  together.  He  loudly  expressed  his 
approval  of  the  regulations  made  by  the  railroad  people  in  exclud- 
ing dogs.  Peachey  said,  it  merely  proved  the  natural  dislike  which 
all  Stags  feel  towards  the  dog-tribe.  But  while  they  were  arguing, 
the  train  appeared.  Pompey  was  muffled  up  under  Mr.  Baines's 
arm,  and,  despite  a  desperate  series  of  kidis  and  writhings,  and  a 
few  smothered  efforts  at  whining,  was  safely  conveyed  by  that  enter- 
prising youth  into  the  carriage,  which,  very  fortunately,  he  and  the 
dog,  the  Jupps,  and  Miss  Hobbs,  had  to  themselves  sll  the  way  to 
Southampton. 

Of  course  Peachey  during  the  joumey  incratiated  himself  still 
more  with  the  dark-haired  pet  and  the  iair-haired  belle.  He  con- 
veyed  Pompey  out  of  the  train  with  the  same  dexterity  and  good 
luck  with  which  he  had  brought  him  in,  and,  under  the  pretence 
that  some  of  the  railway  myrmidons  might  be  following  them,  he 
carried  his  dusky  charge  to  the  door  of  their  lodginga.  Miss  Dora 
thanked  him  most  tenderly ;  Mr.  Jupp  carefully  remembered  to 
forget  to  ask  him  to  call;  but  Peachey  soon  managed  to  find  out  all 
about  them,  and  determined  not  to  lose  the  benefit  of  the  introduc- 
tion, which  Pompey  had  clearly  given  him  to  Miss  Dora. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jupp,  who  had  been  passing  a  day  or  two  at 
Hampton,  usually  resided  in  London,  where  old  Jupp  had  been  in 
business  till  within  the  last  year  or  two.  Their  niece.  Miss  Hobbs, 
had  only  very  lately  come  to  live  with  them,  having  been  princi- 
pally brought  up  by  two  old  maiden  aunts  in  Staffordshire,  whose 
house  was  a  perfect  menagerie  of  cats  and  dogs,  where  Dora  had 
acquired  her  love  for  dumb  darlings.  The  Jupps  had  a  son  named 
Bartholomew,  or,  as  he  was  commonly  called,  Bartho'  Jupp,  to 
whom  they  were  very  desirous  to  unite  their  niece  and  her  six  hun- 
dred a-year.  This  led  them  to  endure  the  presence  of  Pompey, 
though  the  toleration  was  not  exercised  without  heavy  and  repeatecl 
murmurs  on  the  part  of  the  old  gentleman,  who  consoled  himself  by 
a  mental  vow  to  strangle  Pom|>ey  in  a  white  favour,  on  Bartho'  ^pd 
Dora's  wedding-day.  Bartho'  was  at  present  in  Guernsey,  engaged 
in  some  commercial  speculations,  for  he  was  a  thrifty  youth,  with 
his  affections  bound  up  in  bills  of  lading,  and  with  a  soul  that  fa- 
thomed and  comprehended  all  the  mysteries  of  tare  and  trett.  He 
did  not  run  after  Dora  so  diligently  as  his  parents  desired,  and  they 
therefore  determined  to  keep  Dora  near  him ;  and  with  this  purpose 
took  a  trip  to  Southampton,  as  Bartho's  present  mercantile  employ- 
ment frequently  brought  him  there. 

Mr.  Peachey  Baines  had  not  lone  paraded  on  the  Bag»  of  the 
High  Street  before  he  ascertained  tnat  her  Majesty  Queen  Victoria 


572 


YOUNG    LADIES    AND   THEIR    IDIOSYNCHAStES. 


had  done   him  the  honour  of  opening  a  correspondence  with  him. 

This  was  not  the  first  time  that  such  a  compliment  had  been  paid 
him,  and,  strange  to  say,  he  seemed  very  desirous  of  shunning  the 
distinction  of  receiving  any  more  of  his  Sovereign's  communtci- 
tionSj  which  ui^imlly  came  to  him  on  j»ma]l  shps  of  parchment,  po- 
litely requesting  the  pleasure  of  his  company  on  a  given  d«v  it 
Westminster,  and,  lest  there  should  be  any  doubt  of  their  genuine- 
ness, attested  by  no  less  a  personage  than  Thomas  Lord  Denman,  or 
some  other  legal  grandee,  Peachey  thought  Southampton  si 
too  hot  to  hold  him,  and  fearing  he  should  make 

"  The  very  atones  prate  of  hh  whereabouU." 

He  shipped  himself  oif  to  Guernsey  by  The  Lady  Saumarez,  to 
there,  out  of  the  reach  of  the  Queen's  writs,  in  the  bouse  of  an  old 
friend  and  schoolfellow.  Here  he  several  times  met  Mr.  Bartho' 
Jupp,  whom  he  already  regarded  as  his  rival,  and  who^e  appcsanince, 
chnriicter,  and  habits,  he  therefore  scrutinized  minutely.  Bartho* 
was  an  undersized,  pimply,  sandy* haired  young  man,  who  lookifd 
forty,  though  he  was  not  more  than  five-and-twentv*  He  h^d 
broad  nostrils^  gooseberry-coloured  eyes,  clotted  eyelaahes,  and  lop 
ears.  His  hands  were,  however,  remarkably  small  and  white,  andcif 
them  he  was  most  careful  and  most  vain.  11  is  favourite  costume  ap- 
peared to  be  a  blue  frock  C(*at,  with  a  black  velveteen  waistcoat^  and 
nether  integuments  of  drab  cloth.  He  was  plodding  in  business,  and 
very  priggish  in  conversation  and  manners. 

Peachey  talked  to  him  about  I^Iiss  Hobbs^  and  ascertjiined  that  he 
had  not  seen  her  dog.  Bartho'  looked  at  his  own  dainty  fingers  and 
expressed  a  great  avergion  for  quadrupeds,  and  said  he  supposed  the 
little  wretch  must  be  a  recent  purchase  of  his  silly  cousin's. 

**  What  a  chance  for  me  !"  thought  Peachey  ;  **  he  will  hate  tiie 
dog,  and  then  Dora  will  hate  him.  Ohj  that  I  could  get  bock 
to  England  I" 

And  get  back  to  England  Jlr,  Baines  soon  did,  through  the  kind* 
ness  of  his  host,  who  happened  to  be  pretty  flush  of  money  at 
time,  avid,  on  learning  his  old  triend's  difficulties,  instantly  supplit 
him  with  the  means  of  relieving  himsell'  from  the  most  nrefishig 
them,^a  proof  of  true  friendship  which  essay- writers  tell  us  an 
travagnnt  young  man  will  always  seek  in  vain  from  his  associ^ 
but  which,  notwithstanding  the  assertions  of  those  solemn  pn 
occurs,  and  will  occur  repeatedly,  as  long  as  warm  hearta  sore  to 
found  jiiined  with  careless  heads. 

The  Jupps   and   their  niece  remained  at  Southampton  about 
fortnight,  but  Mr.  Hart  ho'  did  not  cross  the  channel  to  bis  intend 
The  fact  was  that  Mrs.  Jupp  had  persuaded  her  son  that  he 
marry  his  cousin  whenever  he  pleased  ;  and  as  Bartho'   had  a 
deal  of  bui^iness  to  attend  to  in  Guernsey  at  this  period,  and 
that  happened  to  call  him  to  England,  he,  being  a  prudent  man,  de» 
termined  not  to  waste  time  and  money  in  visits  of  supererogation  toi 
girl  whom  he  was  already  sure  of. 

Dora  noticed  and  silently  resented  this  neglect,  but  her  hcAit  n4 
soul  were  almost  entirely  absorbed  in  her  dog.  She  brushed  it,  dtt 
combed  it,  she  washed  it,  she  held  it  before  the  kitchen  fire  to  air  if, 
she  decked  it  in  bbie  ribbon,  she  took  it  for  little  strolls  along  the 
buttery  and  the  common.     But,  alas  t  the  happiest  of  dogs,  likt  fb^ 


TOUNO   LADIES   AND   THETH  IDI08TKCRA8TES.         573 

happiest  of  men^  have  their  troubles  in  this  sablanary  world.  Pom- 
pey's  appetite  began  to  fail^  and  he  showed  an  unpleasant  tendency 
to  fits.  At  last  one  day  as  Miss  Dora  was  leading  him  along  the 
High  Street^  Pompey,  terrified  at  the  attentions  of  a  huge  blood- 
hound which  had  followed  him,  and  playfully  half-crushed  him  once 
or  twice  with  its  vast  paw,  broke  loose  from  his  mistress,  ran  howl- 
ing along  the  street,  and  finally,  dashing  into  a  china-shop,  rushed  up 
the  side  of  a  pyramid  of  crockery  which  was  arranged  against  the 
wall,  and  there  on  the  top  the  little  saiTerer  sat  among  tremulous 
butter-boats,  yelling  most  horribly,  foaming  most  alarmingly,  and 
rolling  his  eyes  round  in  their  sockets  ais  if  trying  to  ascertain  what 
was  the  matter  with  his  own  inside.  Of  course  were  was  a  general 
tumult  Dora's  feelings  must  be  left,  as  the  saying  is,  to  the  imagi- 
nation ;  the  owner  of  the  bloodhound  apolo^sed ;  the  china-man 
trembled  for  the  safety  of  his  plates  and  dishes,  expecting  every 
moment  to  see  Poropey  and  Pompey's  Pillar  come  down  in  what  the 
Yankees  call  an  "  Almighty  smash  ;"  the  passers-by  asked  "  What 's 
the  row?"  boys  shouted  ''Mad  dog!"  when  up  to  the  rescue  came 
Mr.  Peachey  Baines,  who  had  just  returned  to  Southampton,  and 
from  a  little  distance  had  witnessed  the  origin  of  the  catastrophe. 
Gallantly  seizing  a  pair  of  steps,  and  wreathing  his  handkerdiief 
round  lus  right  hand,  he  charged  up  the  perilous  ascent,  seized 
Pompey  by  ^e  scruflTof  the  neck,  dethroned  him  without  a  crack  to 
the  crockery,  brought  him  down  in  triumph,  plunged  him  into  a 
pail  of  water,  and  then  held  him  up,  lank  and  dripping,  before  the 
admiring  throng,  with  all  his  phrenzy  and  fury  converted  into  meek 
shiverings. 

Dora's  gratitude  was,  of  course,  unbounded;  she  called  Mr. 
Baines  the  preserver  of  what  was  dearer  to  her  than  her  life. 
But  what  was  to  be  done  with  the  poor  patient?  Peachey  pro- 
nounced  that  the  dog  decidedly  had  the  distemper,  and  that  if  it  had 
any  more  fits  it  would  most  likely  go  mad.  Dora  and  her  uncle  and 
aunt  were  to  return  to  London  the  next  day,  and,  to  say  nothing  of 
Mr.  Jupp's  probable  objections  to  the  society  of  an  insane  spaniel,  it 
was  evident  that  Poropey  was  not  in  a  fit  state  to  traveL  In  this 
emergency,  Mr.  Baines  volunteered  his  services :  he  was  about,  he 
said,  to  remain  a  short  time  longer  at  Southampton;  he  had  reared 
many  puppies  in  safety  through  the  distemper,  and  he  pledged  him- 
self to  bestow  every  possible  care  on  Pompey,  and  trusted  to  have 
the  happiness  when  he  came  to  town  of  restoring  him  to  Miss  Hobbs 
in  a  perfect  state  of  convalescence.  The  proposal  was  acceded  to, 
and  Peachey  thus  learned  Dora's  address  in  London  and  gained  an 
excuse  for  calling;  at  which  Mr.  Jupp,  when  he  was  informed  of  the 
morning's  adventures,  was  very  wrath,  but  consoled  himself  by  spe- 
culating on  the  probabilities  of  the  dog's  dying. 

Pompevy  however,  did  not  die.  Peachey  cured  him,  and  then  set 
about  training  him  to  the  furtherance  of  a  scheme  which  Mr.  Baines's 
literary  recollections  had  suggested,  and  by  which  he  hoped  to  create 
a  fierce  enmity  in  Pompey  against  young  Jupp,  and  consequently 
between  Dora  and  that  gentleman.  Peachey  had  read  Schiller's 
poem  of  the  "  Fight  with  the  Dragon,"  and  had  recently  refreshed 
his  memory  by  a  glance  at  Retsch's  outlines  in  illustration  of  it. 
Imitating,  therefore,  the  ingenious  knight  who  trained  his  mastiffs 
by  assaults  upon  a  counterfeit  dragon  to  worry  a  real  one,  Peachey 


574 


YOUNG    LADIES    AND   THEIR    IDIOSY NCR ASTES, 


trained  Pompey  to  snap  at  the  real  Bartho's  legs^  by  practising  him 
in  attacks  upon  a  pair  of  imitation  ones.  Be  it  remembered  thtt 
Bartho'  wore  drab  trowsera,  and  Peache}'  justly  considered  the  wear- 
ing of  drub  trowsers  to  be,  not  an  occasional  eccentricity  in  m  mMa, 
but  a  decided  vicious  propensity,  sure  to  continue  and  be  repeatedly 
dt:?p1ayed. 

Peach ey,  therefore,  bought  at  a  slop-shop  a  pair  of  drabs  in  colour^ 
texture,  size,  &c.,  closely  rcserabling  those  worn  by  yoang  Jupp : 
and,  stretching  them  over  a  pair  of  Welling'tonB,  he  taught  Pompc) 
and  a  little  bull -terrier,  whom  he  procured  a^  a  fellow -piipil  for 
youn^  charge,  to  fly  at  these  lay-extremities  whenever  they  were  < 
bibited  before  them.  The  scheme  answered  capitally,  and, 
Peachey  occasionally  placed  a  layer  of  cat'g-meat  between  thetro 
sers  and  the  boots,  the  dogs  soon  learned  to  attack  them  with  9U 
zeal,  that  Peachey  felt  sure  that  when  Pompey  encountered 
Bartho'  Jupp  in  liia  usual  habiliments,  an  interchange  of  biles  j 
kicks  would  be  the  speedy  result. 

Before  starting  for  town,  Peachey  took  anoUier  trip  to  Guernsey 
to  ascertain  what  his  rival  was  doing.  He  found  him  still  there^  laid 
lip  with  a  bilious  fever,  still  termioating  in  drabs,  and  designing  tu 
go  to  his  father's  house  in  about  a  week,  Peachey  returned  to  Lon- 
don instantly,  taking  Pompey  with  him,  and  carefully  rehearsing 
the  war  of  **  Black  and  Tan  versus  Drab,"  every  morning. 

lie  called  without  delay  at  the  Jupps's,  and  the  first  person  whom 
he  saw  was  the  old  lady,  who,  finding  from  him  that  he  had  seen 
her  son,  went  eagerly  to  fetch  Mr.  Jupp ;  and  the  old  couple  came 
in  and  began  questioning  him  together,  just  as  he  was  answering  the 
inquiries  of  IMiss  Dora — who  had  meanwhile  entered  the  room — 
about  Pompey. 

'*  So  you  've  seen  him,  lately/Vsaid  old  Jupp^  *'  well,  how  is  he?^s 
he  better?*' 

*'Oh,  yes,"  said  Miss  Dora;  "Mr,  Baines  is  kind  enough  to  saj 
that  he  is  much  better.  You  're  sure  of  it,  are  you  not,  Mr*  BainatK 

**  Quite  sure/*  replied  Peachey ;  "  the  fever  is  all  gone,  and  hit  nam 
19  quite  cool  and  comfortable/' 

**  His  nose  quite  cool  and  comfortable  J"  repeated  Jupp  in  a  low 
lone  aside  to  his  wife.  *' What  does  he  mean,  Mrs.  Jupp?  Tb* 
boy's  nose  is  rather  large  ;  but  it  used  not  to  be  red.  I  hope  BarlW 
has  not  taken  to  dram-drinking," 

"Heaven  forbid!"  replied  the  mother  in  an  anxious  whisper; 
**  but  there's  no  knowing  among  them  nasty  foreigners  ;  and  spirrt* 
arc  so  cheap  over  there,"  Then  turning  to  Peachey,  who  was  buiiir 
chatting  about  the  dog  with  Dora,  the  old  lady  inquired*  **  How  u 
his  appetite,  sir  ?'' 

"  Very  good  indeed,"  said  Peachey, 

"Are  you  quite  sure,  sir?"  said  the  mother.  '*  Have  you  nolitfd 
him  at  meal- times  >*' 

*'  Yes/'  answered  Peachey  ;  "  the  last  thing  I  saw  put  before  \am 
was  a  Urge  slice  of  liver.     He  ate  it  up  with  great  relish/* 

"Liver — liver  !"  said  the  old  lady.  "I  should  have  thought  Vitff 
a  bad  thing  for  that  complaint.  "  Tripe  I  could  understand,  Bsha 
so  digestible," 

"I  never/' replied  Peachey,  "give  them  tripe.  It  maket  thfV 
smell/' 


YOUNG   LADIES   AND   THEIR    IDIOSYNCRASIES.  "Sr^ 

''  Not  so/'  rejoined  Mrs.  -^upp ;  "  unless  it  is  dressed  with  onions." 
Peachey  and  Dora  stared.  The  idea  of  giving  a  spaniel  onions  was 
novel ;  but  at  this  crisis  the  servant  entered  to  announce  some  other 
visitors^  and  the  conversation  dropped.  Peachej  restored  Pompey 
the  next  day,  amid  the  blessings  of  Miss  Hobbs,  and  the  muttered 
curses  of  Mr.  Jupp,  something  like  the  double  chorus  in  Gustavus. 
He  made  rapid  progress  in  the  young  lady's  good  graces.  She  used 
to  take  Pompey  for  morning  walks  in  St.  James's  Park  ;  and  there 
Mr.  Baines  used  to  join  them.  He  had  diligently  studied  the  Percy 
Anecdotes,  and  Charles  Knight's  weekly  volume  about  the  dog,  so 
that  Dora  found  his  conversation  most  fascinating.  This  went  on  till 
the  Wednesday  week.  On  that  evening  Bartho'  Jupp  was  to  ar- 
rive, and  Peachey  came  to  the  usual  trysting-place  on  tne  Thursday 
morning,  intensely  anxious  to  hear  how  his  stratagem  had  succeed- 
ed. He  found  Dora  there  before  him.  carrying  Pompey,  not  leading 
him.  She  looked  very  forlorn ;  and  on  Peachey  coming  up,  she 
burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  and  placed  Pompey  in  his  arms,  declaring 
that  all  the  poor  little  angel's  bones  had  been  broken  by  that  wretch, 
her  cousin.  Peachey  ascertained  that  there  were  no  fractures,  but 
several  bruises;  and  begged  her  to  compose  her  feelings,  and  nar- 
rate what  had  happened.  Sobbingly  and  weepingly  she  told  him 
that  when  Pompey  saw  Bartho'  he  just  growled  and  snapped  a  little 
at  him, — that  Bartho'  kicked  at  him, — and  that  then  the  courageous 
little  creature  charged  the  wretch  like  a  life-guardsman. 

'' Bartho' beat  him  cruelly,"  she  continued ;  "and  uncle  and  aunt 
stood  by  Bartho'  in  it.  They  've  said  such  horrid  things  oi  Pompey. 
But  I  'U  never  put  him  in  their  power  again.  We  11  seek  a  sanc- 
tuary elsewhere." 

''Dora,"  softly  whispered  Peachey,  "the  best  sanctuary  is  the 
church." 

Dora  stared  through  her  tears.     Peachey  continued, 
"  It  is  very  early.     There  are  plenty  of  churches.     1 11  sooo  find 
a  friend  and  a  licence.   Let  us  be  married  ;  and  1 11  devote  my  days 
to  making  you  and  Pompey  happy." 

♦♦♦♦♦• 

I  waive  transcribing  the  rest  of  the  dialogue, the  surprise,  the 

expostulation,  the  objections,  the  arguments,  the  statement  of  birth, 
parentage,  and  education,  the  ceremony,  the  oonstemation  of  the  old 
Jupps,and  the  philosophic  composure  of  the  drab-trowsered  young 
Jupn.  Now  Peachey  is  well-married,  his  rich  reUtions,  who  had  fo^ 
merly  cut  him,  have  noticed  him  again ;  he  was  always  a  good- 
hearted  fellow,  and  now  is  a  steady  one:  nor  have  either  Dora  or 
Pompey  found  any  cause  to  regret  the  hour  when  a  taste  for  don 
caused  him  to  become  their  lord  and  master. 


516 

BRIAN  OXINN  ; 
OR,  LUCK  IS  EVERTTHINQ, 

BY   THE   AtTTHOR   OP    "  WtLD    SPDRTS   OF  THE    WB8T,' 


CHAPTER    II, 

Familj  affWlr^.— ^*  Tiic  Cat  and  Bigpipe^/* — IrUb  mcthoi]  of  making  a  Fn 
— The  rejected  recruit,— A  shindy. 

Several  months  bad  ebipi^ed  since  the  little  gentleman  dep 
and,  as  it  would  appear,  hi  peace;  for  none  of  the  consequences  which 
were  expected  to  attend  the  dreaded  visit  had  been  realized.  The 
sheep  were  reported  healthy, — from  the  dairy  department^  no  mur- 
murins^  were  heard, — my  elder  sister  had  enslaved  an  Ayrshire  laird, 
and  the  younger  demolished  an  Irish  dragoon, ^ — and  it  was  even  ad- 
mitted by  Archy*  that  if  the  dwarf  had  amused  himself  by  *'  working 
cantrips  wlien  inniest  people  were  asleep/'  they  had  not  been  to  the 
detriment  of  the  family ;  andj  while  my  sire  had  no  reason  to  cam* 
plain  that 

^^  His  cattle  dit^d,  and  blighted  was  hi«  com,'* — 

the  young  ladies  were  absolutely  on  the  high  road  to  matrimony,  i 
had  a  reasonable  diance  of  rapid  promotion  into  that  honourable  eatall 

This  happy  deliverance  from  the  evils  which  might  have  nrh 
from  lodging  a  warlock  with  brimstone  slipper??  in  a  Chrittian  est 
bliahment,  was  resolved  to  different  causes.  BIy  father  opined  tliat  i 
dock  an  dnrris  bad  softened  t!ie  heart  of  the  little  gentleman,  and 
abated  his  malignity  ;  while  the  ladies  like  the  Irishwoman  who  laid 
the  ultra-population  of  her  village  **  upon  fij^h  and  praties,"  a«(crtbed 
their  escape  from  witchcraft  and  eternal  celibacy,  to  a  braudered  mo 
fowl  and  turkey-eggs.  Archy,  however,  dissented  from  both- 
his  agency,  as  he  averred,  our  safety  from  satanic  influence  migfc 
be  traced.  He  bad  placed  a  rusty  borse-sboe  over  the  dwarTs  do 
and  dispersed  an  armful  of  rowan-tree  in  every  direction,  besides  goin 
through  sundry  operations,  too  numerous  to  be  remembered  or  relat 

The  bold  dragoon,  whom  I  have  alreiidy  mentioned  as  lieing  a  suitor 
to  my  younger  sister,  had  come  to  the  Border  on  short  leave,  to  fish  the 
Tweed  and  its  tributaries.  Our  acquaintance  commenced  on  the  bank 
of  that  classic  streauj;  both  were  enthusiastic  angers,  and  both  we 
versed  in  the  science  of  "the  gentle  art/'  He  was  a  stranger  to,  aa 
I  familiar  with,  every  jjooI  and  rapid  from  Blacatter  to  Yetham^|_ 
gave  liim  the  advantage  of  my  local  knowledge — and  he  returned  the 
compliment  by  a  present  of  foreign  feathers  and  Limerick  hook-%.  On 
the  third  evening  we  swore  eternal  friendiahip  on  the  captain's  fly -book 
— and  I  persuaded  him  to  leave  his  country  inn,  and  make  my  futber'i 
bouse  head-quarters  during  his  sojourn  on  the  Borders, 

Keginald  Dillon  was  an  excellent  sample  of  a  regular  Emeralder, — 
a  handsome,  hair-brained  fellow,  full  of  animal  spirits,  and  \inth  that 
national  originality  in  manner  and  expression  which  render  Irish  gen- 
tlemen so  companionable  and  amusing.  To  manly  character  be  united 
natural  talent  and  a  cultivated  mind — and  in  the  iield  and  in  the  draw- 
ing-room he  was  equally  at  home,  lie  shot  a  snipe  and  killed  a  salmon 
as  if  he  had  been  bred  a  borderer  :  and  he  possessed  qd  extensive  ^tock 
of  that  confounded  agreeability,  which  is  accounted  indigenous  lo  the 
land  of  saints,  and  acknowledged  by  the  fair  sex  to  be  irresistible. 


BRIAN  O'LINN.  577 

My  younger  sister  was  generally  admitted  to  be  handsome — at  least 
8o  said  the  men — and  even  some  of  the  women  admitted  that  her  face 
and  person  were  redolent  of  health  and  good  humour.  The  young  dra- 
goon was  a  person  of  similar  temperament,  and,  had  he  wooed  in  Fal- 
stafTs  vein,  he  might  have  claimed  sympathy  at  once,  and  pleaded, 
"  You  are  merry,  so  am  I."  In  a  brief  week,  things  looked  as  if  they 
would  end  in  housekeeping — and  in  a  fortnight,  the  dragoon  was  "  past 
praying  for/*  But  Dillon  was  every  inch  a  gentleman  ;  he  knew  that 
circumstances  would  not  at  present  permit  a  marriage — and,  conse- 
quently, he  determined  to  wait  until  prudence  should  warrant  a  dis- 
closure of  his  feelings,  and  authorise  him  to  demand  the  fair  one's 
hand. 

The  resolution  was  excellent ;  but  during  a  moorland  walk  the  se- 
cret unhappily  transpired,  and  Julia,  in  reply,  muttered  something 
about  maternal  love  and  family  approbation.  Whether  he  imprinted  a 
kiss  upon  her  vii^n  hand  d  la  Grandison  I  know  not ;  but  that  night 
he  made  me  his  confidant  after  supper  ;  and,  as  is  the  usual  course  in 
love  affairs,  he  was  pleased  to  ask  my  good  offices  and  advice,  after  he 
had  committed  himself  beyond  recovery,  and  promised  to  love,  honour, 
and  cherish  while,  as  they  say  in  Ireland,  '^  there  was  a  kick  in  him." 
Love  laughs  at  locksmiths ;  but  Cupid  himself  would  not  be  allowed 
to  take  liberties  with  the  Horse  Guards.  The  fatal  24th  came  round, 
and  Reginald  Dillon  was  obliged  to  travel  all  night,  to  report  himself 
next  morning.  I  fancy  that  the  parting  was  pathetic ;  for,  as  I  drove 
the  gig  from  the  hall-door  to  set  down  my  friend  where  the  Edin- 
burgh mail  changed  horses,  I  observed  a  hand,  with  half  a  yard  of 
cambric  in  it,  waving  a  mute  adieu  from  the  chamber  occupied  by  the 
young  ladies. 

Six  months  elapsed — and  a  letter  came  to  say  that  a  corpulent  uncle 
had  gone  the  way  of  all  flesh,  and  that  by  the  demise  of  this  stout  gen- 
tleman, Reginald  Dillon  was  placed  in  a  position  to  commence  house- 
keeping wiUiout  farther  delay.  It  was,  moreover,  intimated  that  he 
had  retired  from  the  5th  Dragoon  Guards — and,  that  with  the  permis- 
sion of  all  concerned,  after  a  decent  period  had  been  permitted  for 
lamenting  a  departed  relation,  who,  when  living,  would  not  have 
parted  with  a  shilling  to  save  him,  the  said  Reginald,  from  trans- 
portation, he  would  repair  to  the  Border,  and  claim  one  of  its  beauties 
for  a  bride.  A  pressing  invitation  came  to  me  by  the  same  post,  to 
visit  him  in  Ireland ;  and,  fearing  that  the  bereavement  he  had  suf- 
fered, with  the  burden  of  a  couple  of  thousand  per  annum  additionally 
imposed  upon  him,  might,  thus  united,  be  too  much  to  bear,  I  deter- 
mined to  sustain  my  friend  in  this  unexpected  calamity,  and  visit  the 
Emerald  Isle. 

Like  Norval  the  younger,  "  I  left  my  father's  house,"  but  did  not 
deem  it  necessary  to  "  take  with  me  a  chosen  servant  to  conduct  my 
steps."  Repairing  to  Glasgow,  I  embarked  in  a  Dublin  packet — crossed 
the  Channel — sojourned  a  week  in  the  metropolis — where  the  "  here- 
ditary bondsmen,"  notwithstanding  Saxon  oppression,  seemed  to  me  in 
wonderful  health  and  spirits, — set  out  for  the  south — and  en  route  to 
Killnacorrib,  reached  Bally poreen,  a  pleasant  and  populous  town,  where, 
in  the  preceding  chapter,  I  left  the  gentle  reader. 

"  The  Cat  and  Bagpipes "  was  not  an  hostelrie  which  a  traveller 
would  select  to  "  take  his  ease  in," — and  an  accidental  delay  in  the 
transmission  of  a  letter  to  Reginald  Dillon,  unfortunately  extended  my 
VOL.  xvm.  T  T 


678 


BRIAN   OUNN. 


sojourn  in  thif;  agreeable  caravansera  until  tlie  third  day  ;  *«iitdj  daring ^ 
the  couple  of  nights  which  I  remained  indebted  to  Phil  Corcoran  for' 
*'good  lodginr;  and  entertainment/*  I  am  ready  to  make  affidavit  before 
any  juslictt  of  the  peace,  that  none  of  those  on  the  strength  of  the  esta- 
blinhnient,  were  ever  under  a  counterpane.    Indeed,  the  whole  brigade,       i 
from   the    landlord  to  the    boots,    appeared   to    me  a  detachment  Q^^H 
somnambulists.     When  endeavouring  to  convey  dinner  orders  to  tb^H 
waiter,  and  reprobating  his  yawning  in  my  presence,  as  n  set  off  he 
pleaded  innocence  of  bed  from  the  ])receding  Thursday.    I  tumbled  the_ 
same  evening  over  the  chamber-maid,  who  was  dozing  on  the  st 
and  she  observed,  in  mitigation  of  damages,  that  she  had  not  "pr 
feathers"  for  three  nights.     *'  The  Cat  and  Bagpipes"  was  typical 
human  life  ;  for  it  w^as  an  eternal  succession  of  entr^e^  and  departur 

On  the  whole,  it  was  not  an  hostlerie  where  a  man  would  wish 
live  and  die.     Had  the  waiter  been  enabled  to  attend  awoke,  his 
nistry  might  have  been  unexceptionable, — and  full  allowance  roust  1 
made  for  a  spider-br usher  who  infests  the  lobbies,  in  that  state  of  semi 
somnolency  which  Ladtf  Macbeth  displays  upon  the  stage,  when  she  i 
in  quest  of  soap  and  water,  and  anxious  to  come  clean* handed  befon 
the  audience.     On  the  whole.  Dents  Ryan  would  have  been  the  bett« 
of  a  lighter-coloured  shirt — while  to  Sibby  Delaney>  shoes  and  sto 
ings  would  have  been  decidedly  an  improvement. 

As  to  the  culinary  department  of  the  '*  Cat  and  Bagpipes,"  I  sha 
merely  remark,  that  for  patriotic  considerations  Mister  Corcoran  dii 
penaed  with  a  F'rench  cook ;  and  the  tourist  who  required  turtle-souij 
might  not  find  that  cockney  abomination  in  honest  Philip's  bill  of  Ca 
An   elegant  simplicity  was  observed  in   all  the  arrangements  of  tb 
table — travellers  were  not  poisoned  by  the  villanons  addition  of  cucnn 
bera  to  fresh  salmon — and  cutlets  came  to  the  mahogany  without 
ing  surtorded  m  white  foolscap.     In  Ballyporeen,  it  would  appear  thi 
people   put  their  trust  in  God  and  the  gridiron;  and  although  Deoll 
Kyan  admitted,  that  during  fair-time,  he  had  seen  bigger  dinners  at  tli 
King's  Arms,  Ballinasloe,  he  maintained  that  a  rasher  at  the  Coi  i 
Bagpipes  defied  all  competition ;  and  might  the  devil  blister  hitiii 
said  Denis,  —  rather,  by  tbe  way,  an   unpleasant  operatioo  tain  ^ 
upon  his  8atanic  majesty,  — if  ever  there  was  a  tenderer  stake  tnc 
by  a  sinner*s  tooth,  than  what  he,  Denis,  would  undertake  to  ptrodu 
ay-^ind  before  a  traveller  had  time  to  bless  himself. 

In  Ireland,  a  pleasant  gentleman  is  a  person  who  never  goes  to  1 
and,  sehu  k  regie,  the  customers  of  Philip  Corcoran  were  sing 
agreeable*    I, — Heaven  forgive  my  ignorance  I — went  to  bed  und 
expectation  of  sleeping;  but  'Hhe  sons  of  harmony,"  who  occuf 
adjacent  room,  sang  through  the  earlier  portion  of  the  night,  and  foQg 
out  the  remiunder*     *'  With  bloody  murder  in  the  next  room/*  «fti 
termed  it,  8ibby  Delaney  admitted,  that  even  one  of  tbe  seven  aJeciicn 
could  not  Imve  closed  an  eye ;  and,  as  an  Irish  solicitor  charges  fa 
*' loss  of  Hleep/*  while  considering  whom  he  shall  employ  to  swear 
alibi  for  his  client,  so  might  I  have  fairly  debited  the  said  '"son*! 
harmony  "  with  thirteen  and  eightpence.     Determined  to  make  up  1 
broken  slumbers  on  the  former  night,  I  retreated  to  my  dormitory  will 
the  lark— and  exhausted  natnre  yielding  to  the  gentle  influence  of  t 
sleepy  deity,  I  was  forthwith  frtst  as  a  watchman.     Kre  an  hour  ha 
elapsed,  however,  I  was  startled  by  a  loud  alarum  ;  and  uoeartldy  noi^ 
were  united  to  sulphureous  smells.     There  was  a  tramplijig  if  i& 


BRIAN   lyLINN. 


579 


Rod  people  seemed  to  be  pelting  each  other  with  cbdrs  and  tables^ 
the  din  increased  ;  fire-arms  were  discharged — I  sprang  out  of  bed ; 
the  bell-pyll  was  broken  ;  and  iiuthing  reniauieil  but  to  roar  for  help. 
I  rushed  down  the  lobby— but  at  the  extremity  I  encountered  a  trucu- 
lent-looking fellow  with  a  naked  sword,  wlio  burred  a  further  passage, 
and  I  was  too  happy  to  retreat  witli  life.  At  lasjt  my  outcries  were 
overheard,  and  Denis  Ryan  came  to  my  assistance. 

"  What,  in  the  devil's  name,  is  the  matter?"  I  gasped  out. 

'*  Yer  honour  has  hit  it  to  a  T,  Oh  !  blessed  Virgin,  stand  our 
friend !"  aud  Denis  executed  a  liourish  of  his  thumb,  which  was  in- 
tended to  place  thtt  sign  of  the  cro^s  between  himself  and  evit. 
**  They  *re  raisin"  him  at  the  bottom  of  the  lobby." 

'*  Raising  whom  ?*' 

*'  The  divil !  The  Lord  pardon  us  for  naming  him  !"  responded  the 
chief  butler 

**  Nonsense,  man !" 

''  It 's  truths  yer  honour ;  the  masona  are  goin'  to  make  Mr.  Claucj 
of  Ballybooley,  and  they  Ve  gettin'  the  ould  lad  up  through  the  floor." 

"  By  the  ould  lad,  do  yon  nieun  Mr.  Clancy  ?" 

'*  No ;  I  mane  the  divil  himself/'  returned  Denisj  "  the  very  lad 
who'll  provide  a  warm  corner  for  the  company,  or  I'm  much  mis- 
taken,'* 

"  Fetch  me  candles ;  for,  with  the  dev^il  in  the  next  apartment  I 
may  give  up  all  hope  of  rest.** 

blister  Ryan  obeyed  the  order;  and  while  I  dressed  hastily,  he  fa- 
voured me  with  additional  information.  **  The  Blazers/* — as  the  ludjje 
was  happily  intitulated, — were  al>out  to  initiate  Brother  Clancy  into  the 
ancient  and  honourable  order  of  Freemasons;  and  the  terrific  noises 
which  had  banished  sleep  were  connected  with  certain  mystic  rites, 
known  only  to  the  favoured  few^  who  were  at  present  engaged  in 
makint^  suitable  preparations  for  the  reception  of  his  Satanic  majesty- 
Mr.  Clancy,  on  a  former  occasion,  had  designed  to  have  gone  through 
the  ordeal  which  now  awaited  him  ;  but  alarmed — (**  And  small  blame 
to  him  1"  observed  Denis,  as  another  explosion  was  heard  at  the  termi- 
nation of  the  lobby>)  — ^at  the  awful  sounds  which  preluded  his  entree, 
he  fairly  lost  heart,  slipped  through  a  side  door  to  the  yard,  mounted 
his  horse,  and  hastened  to  his  abiding-pUce»  All  rites  were  perform- 
edt  — the  devil,  of  course,  in  attendance,  —  a  detachment  of  *'  the  free 
and  accepted/'  in  full  paraphernalia,  ready  to  introduce  the  neophyte^ — 
when,  lo  1  he  was  sought  in  vain,  and  the  aspirant  for  masonic  ho- 
nours bad  vanished.  Great  was  the  indignation  of  **  The  Blazers ;" 
much  was  Mr.  Clancy  reprobated  for  his  wuul  of  resolution  hy  the 
world  at  large ;  and  even  the  wife  of  his  bosom  refused  her  smiles  to 
the  fugitive.  At  fair  and  market  polite  messages  were  delivered  to 
him  from  his  friend,  the  devil,  who  hoped  yet  to  have  the  honour  of 
making  his  acquaintance ;  until,  actually  driven  desperate,  Peter  re- 
solved to  make  a  second  essay,  obtain  admission  into  the  mystic  tem- 
ple, or  perish  in  the  attempt.  Mrs.  Clancy  —  she  was  one  of  the 
Blokes  of  Kilty corniick,  and  therefore,  as  everybody  knew,  a  gentle- 
woman of  pluck, — had  come  in  upon  the  jaunting-car  to  aid,  comfort, 
and  encouruge.  She  was  located  at  the  opposite  lernnniis  of  the  loliby 
— and  half-a-do2en  female  friends  had  kindly  given  her  their  company, 
and  the  parly  were  engaged  at  loo.    Peter,  to  meet  the  trial  like  a  nuin, 

td  fortified  himself  with  a  fourth  tumbler ;  hut  Denis  lamented  to 

T  T  */ 


580 


BRIAN    O  LRW. 


say,  that  though  the  said  tumbler  was  a  stiff  one,  the  alcohol  had  no 

effect.  The  candidate  for  masonic  honours  was  pallid  as  a  spectre; 
and  Denis  expressed  some  doubt  whether,  even  in  this  second  essaj, 
the  neophyte  could  screw  his  courage  to  the  sticking-point,  and  c^me 
to  the  scratch  like  a  brick.  Before  a  minute  passed,  I  also  held  simi- 
lar dubitationa  on  this  important  question* 

I  was  repairing  to  the  sitting-room,  attended  by  Denis  as  candle- 
hearer,  who  pointed  to  a  green  curtain  drawn  across  the  passage,  and 
the  swordsman  who  had  put  me  in  fear  and  terror  keeping  watch  and 
word  in  front  of  it»  This,  as  he  informed  me,  was  a  signal  that  the 
mystic  ceremonies  were  about  to  take  place,  and  that  Mr,  Cbmcy's  op- 
deal  was  at  hand.  From  the  other  end  of  the  passage  three  men  ad- 
vanced. Two  were  arrayed  in  collars  and  aprons  ornamented  witf 
cabalistic  symWs,  and  escortedi  rather  than  accompanied,  a  little  ma^ 
whose  bloodless  cheeks  and  quivering  lips  bespoke  mortal  apprehensia 
As  the  trio  came  down  the  passage,  I  was  reminded  of  a  deserter  T 
tween  a  double  file  of  the  guard — the  escort  might  be  honourable 
but  it  looked  a  devilish  liker  intended  to  prevent  Mr-  Clancy  from 
making  a  second  bolt.  They  reached  the  barrier,  —  the  sword-b 
raised  the  curtain, — the  party  disappeared  behind  it, — and  1  ent 
my  sitting  room*  wishing  honest  Peter  a  safe  deliverance- 

Ten  minutes  elapsed  ;  and  an  ominous  silence  reigned  at  the  furtb 
end  of  the  corridor,  I  peeped  from  the  door ;  the  sentry  was  on  duty  1 
fore  the  curtain  ;  and  I  fancied  that  the  alarm  had  abated,  and  that  the 
old  gentleman  was  in  the  best  of  temper  with  his  fiiithful  worshippenu 
Like  the  quiet  of  a  volcano  before  eruption,  or  the  calm  that  heralds 
the  tornado,  suddenly,  the  tempest  burst  with  redoubled  fury.  Mu  ^~ 
noise, — more  sulphur, — a  toss-up  wliether  it  were  the  ceiling  or  tlie  fla 
that  w^as  coming  down ;  but  quite  evident  that  the  devil  was  to  [ 
and  unhappily,  no  pitch  hot.  My  eyes  unconsciously  were  turned 
wards  the  place  from  whence  these  demoniac  sounds  proceeded — ti 
screen  wan  dashed  aside — and  a  phantom  in  human  fonn  darted  i 
the  corridor,  and,  followed  closely  by  half-a-dozen  pursuers,  the 
took  its  direction  towards  the  apartment  in  which  Mrs,  Clancy  and  I 
loo- party  were  assembled. 

The  mgitive  was  her  loving  lord.  Save  the  nether  portion  of  his 
habiliments,  his  person  was  untrammelled  by  linen  or  broadclc»th«— t 
rope  hung  dangling  from  his  neck, — his  eyes  were  bloodshot, — hii 
visage  paie,  —  and  he  seemed  precisely  like  a  man  w^ho  had  been  no* 
ceremoniously  introduced  to  '*  the  gentleman  in  black."  Air,  Clancf 
made  "  strong  running," — distanced  all  pursuit, — bounded  into  oij 
lady's  chambefj — ^and  the  yell  from  the  c<*mpany  within,  which  inark«^ 
his  unexpected  advent,  gave  evidence  that  it  is  not  considered  quitt 
correct  for  gentlemen  in  Adamite  costume  to  violate  the  delicacy  of  i 
loo-table. 

Dire  was  the  commotion,  and  deep  the  mystery  which  attendtnl  ihi 
sndden  efi(r^e  of  Peter  Clancy^  That  the  said  Peter  wna  being  ea- 
trusted  with  those  interesting  secrets 

**■  Which  none  but  maaons  ever  knew,*' 

was  generally  known ;  but  the  ladies,  in  happy  ignorance^    faQCjiif 

that  the  inauguration  of  a  brother  was  merely  accompanied  iritb  tffpf 
ceremony  and  an  uncommon  quantity  of  whiskey- punch,  had  set  it 
down,  on  the  whole,  as  rather  a  pleasant  sort  of  operation.      That « 


VMIAS  O'UXX.  581 


attempt,  howerer,  had  beea  ■■Hr  to  baag  PeCcr,  cr  tlial  Peter  had  at- 
tempted to  hang  himtdf,  was  dor  aa  a  prvbleBu  Well,  if  Mr.  dancj 
had  intended  to  ooanut  ydb-^fsfr,  the  corpse  woald  hare  cnt  a 

(•0,— and,t~ 


gentlemanly  figure  with  the  ckthta  00, — and,  therefae,  why  should  he 
peel  ?  Or,  like  another  tnveOer,  had  he  £dlen  amoi^  thieres,  who 
stripped  him  fint,  and  woold  have  crealed  robbery  by  murder  ?  Amid 
these  conflicting  doubts,  divcn  men  in  mystic  aoeoatrements  entered, 
and  demanded  the  body  of  Peter  Claacy,  under  pain  of  forfeiture  of 
personal  property  and  certain  habjltntcnts  which  were  enumerated  at 
length.  The  fiigitire  threw  himself  for  protectsao  upon  the  ladies, — 
and  when  was  lovely  woman  ci^  to  humanity's  appeal  ?  The  "  free 
and  accepted  **  secured  the  leranter's  right  arm,  —  the  loo-party  laid 
bold  of  the  left  one, — both  struggled  for  the  prizes — and  the  person  of 
Peter  bade  fair  to  be  tqnslh  psrtitioiied, — when,  fortunately,  he  with 
the  sword  appeared  upon  the  ield  of  battle,  bearing  orders  from  the 
Right  Worshipful  to  surcease  ;  and,  as  3Ir.  Clancy  had  not  courage  to 
meet  the  deril  like  a  gmtleman,  it  was  intimated,  by  that  high  func- 
tionary, that  he,  Peter,  bad  firee  permisaion  to  go  to  Pandemonium  as 
be  pleased. 

With  the  erasion  of  the  fugitire,  the  rites  and  ceremonies  of  the  en- 
lightened craftsmen  suddenly  ended.  The  green  curtain  was  retcored 
— the  sentinel  disappeared — the  lobbies  gradually  became  endurable — 
sulphur  gare  way  to  simple  peat-smoke — and  eren  an  asthmatic  gen- 
tleman might  bare  taken  a  turn  throogfa  the  corridor  without  the  risk 
of  suffocation.  How  Peter  Clancy  put  in  the  mght  I  cannot  tell ;  but 
a  more  hilarious  company  than  the  "  dear  brothen  of  the  mystic  tie  " 
never  kept  an  inn  in  an  uproar  till  blessed  sunshine.  At  five  Aac. 
Denis  announced  that  the  gentlemen  were  settling  the  bill, — and  at  six 
I  ventured  to  bed,  and  made  up  fior  broken  rest  by  reposing  until  mid^ 
day. 

While  sitting  at  break£ut,  I  observed  a  sergeant  of  light  dragoons 
pass  the  window  with  a  fine-looking  lad  whom  it  was  evident  he  in- 
tended to  make  *'  food  for  powder,''  and  that  the  youth  was  a  consent- 
ing party  to  the  same.  After  an  absence  of  an  hour,  the  non-com- 
missioned officer  and  the  recruit  returned — they  stopped — in  both  faces 
disappointment  was  apparent — and  as  the  casement  was  open,  I  over- 
heard the  conversation  which  ensued. 

"  Reject  me ! "  exclaimed  the  youth,  and  his  cheek  crimsoned  with 
anger.  "  Reject  me,  because  I  have  a  mark  or  two  on  my  legs  from 
kicking  football  1  Is  there  a  horse  in  your  regiment  I  won't  back,  or  a 
boy  of  my  own  inches  I  can't  throw  ?  And,  for  a  scrape  or  two  upon 
the  shin,  am  I  to  be  rejected  as  unfit  to  be  a  Kling's  man  ?  " 

"  Too  bad,  by  — ,'*  returned  the  sergeant  "  The  stupid  old  fool, 
who  is  as  fit  to  be  staff-surgeon  as  I  am  to  be  first  chambermaid  to  the 
Lady-Lieutenant,  when  he 's  drunk  pass^  everything  short  of  cripples, 
catches  it  at  head-quarters,  and  then  for  a  fortnight  afterwards  refuses 
every  man  he  examines." 

**  Well — I  am  regularly  bothered,"  said  the  youth  with  a  sigh  ;  "  I 
never  dreamed  that  I  was  not  man  enough  to  make  a  soldier.  Here  is 
your  shilling,  sergeant." 

"  And  may  the  devil  blister  the  palm  of  the  same  sergeant,  if  ever 
it  enters  the  same ! "  and  the  dragoon  pushed  back  the  offered  coin. 

There  was  something  in  this  short  episode  in  humble  life  that  inter- 
ested me — and  I  listened  to  the  conversation. 


M2  BBIAX  OLIN9. 


"^  Haog  Hr  flsid  tBe  sogcairt, '^  TM  miist  ooC  Iw  cart  dovB-Hi  wit 
Ud  like  TOO  cmi  ■em  cone  Mdrnj.  Wlij,  joo  're  the  regular  lo^ 
far  a  fortuian  aad,  with  a  little  fogleing,  would  show  off  a  slfv- 
headed  cane  and  snart  Ktctt  to  perfcctMe." 

**  I  '11  wear  no  MwrnT  ni^i  the  jonth,  **  bnt  that  whidi  haa  been  r- 
fiiaed  mew" 

''And  mar  I  be  fpiiicatcd  !* — I  wuoder  in  HeaTen'i  diasecfy 
whether  the  phrase  was  hdd  to  be  an  oath,  and  bocdced  aooordmoilT, 
against  the  sergeants — ''  3laj  I  be  spiilicated,  if  that  doting  oama  ion 
ahaU  cross  jour  lack,  mj  dariing  boV  ;  and  before  six  months,  too  shiil 
be  astride  a  horse  at  one  side  of  a  gateway  in  Whitehall,  if  there 'i 
a  TacancT  in  *  the  Biaes.' " 

The  Toath  expressed  his  thanlu,  and  asked  fbither  inlbrmatioii. 

''  Mj  third  coosin,  by  the  mother's  side,"*  retamed  the  dragooo,  "■ 
trumpet-major  in  the  regiment.  1 11  gire  joa  a  letter  to  hioi,  sad, 
though  I  hare  not  seen  him  these  t«i  years,  he  'U  pay  attention  to  t 
blood-rektion.     You  '11  just  hare  to  slip  fair  and  asy  across  to  Loodoo.' 

"  I  hare  heard  of  that  place,**  returned  the  rejected  <Mie.  '*  Is  it  nel 
a  long  way  off?  and  I  have  but  three  shillings  in  the  world  I " 

Before  the  sergeant  could  reply,  one  of  thcise  pleasant  oocurrenoes 
indigenous 

<<  To  the  hmd  that  gare  Patrick  his  birth,** 

interrupted  the  conyersation. 

If  there  be  any  risitation  more  afflicting  to  an  £meralder  than  all 
besides  to  which  the  flesh  is  heir,  it  is  to  endure,  with  ordinary  patience, 
the  audacity  with  which  Cockney  tourists  and  Scotch  impressionists 
fabricate  their  apocryphae  of  that  unhappy  land,  and  attempt  to  deli- 
neate character  whicn  none  but  a  born-Irishman  can  comprehend.  I 
croKsed  Channel  with  one  of  these  impostors,  and  he  casually  intimated 
at  breakfast,  that  he  purposed  to  enlighten  the  reading  public  with  his 
ex])eriences  during  a  fortnight's  sojourn  in  the  worst-used  land  ifi 
Christendom. 

"  You  treated  yourself  of  course,  with  a  rcwl  to  the  Rock  ?*'  obserred 
a  Dublin  citizen. 

"  Had  a  spoUeine  in  Donnybrook  ?  "  added  a  second. 

*<  Took  a  pinch  of  blackguard  at  a  country  wake  oflT  the  person  of  the 
departed  ?  "  said  a  gentleman  from  Connaught. 

"  Danced  a  ug  at  a  dragging  home  f  " 

**  And  drank  scaUeeine  at  a  pattern  ? "  continued  another  of  the 
oonntany. 

Now»  these  remarks  being  conveyed  in  an  unknown  tongue  Mrere  re- 
«|H^\d«Hl  to.  by 

**  Uontlemen»  I  really  do  not  understand  you." 

**  Thon,  |iermit  me  to  intimate,"  quoth  the  trans-Shannonite,  "that 
\  \m  know  as  much  of  national  character,  as  a  donkey  does  of  his  descent 
b>  tho  molhor's  side." 

K  vvrvNHiy  MXiuainted  with  Milesian  life,  will  recollect  how  often  he 
h,«>i  Ih^ii  «st\kni!^ed  by  the  sudden  outbreak  of  an  Irish  row.  Sir 
l«uoku^  i>'rri^*)^»r — Htmen  rencrahiU ! — judiciously  remarks,  that  in 
Ku^^UnJ  an  atfair  is  $o  tclalied,  that  people  cannot  iight  in  peace  and 
i|uivtiu\vi ;  and.  auum^  the  lower  classes,  so  much  unnecessary  verbiage 
uiu^it  U^  d^iv^ied  before  the  first  blow  is  given,  that  an  Irish  shindy 
\i  ill  bi'  i^ver  liefore  au  English  set-to  has  commenced. 


BRIAN   O'LINN.  588 

It  was  the  market-dajy  and  the  principal  mercantile  operations 
of  Ballyporeen  were  transacted  immediately  beneath  my  window. 
Frieze^  coarse  linen,  yam,  and  earthenware,  seemed  to  be  the  articles 
in  commercial  demand — the  former  commodities  being  displayed  on 
benches,  and  the  latter  paraded  on  the  ground,  which  was  littered  with 
straw  in  respect  to  the  fragility  of  the  article.  Indeed,  an  exhibition 
of  crockery  on  the  street  appeared  to  me  anything  but  discreet.  But, 
in  Hibernian  calculations,  fortune  is  always  taken  into  consideration ; 
and  when  an  Irish  whip  places  the  tying  of  his  wheel  upon  the  edge  of 
a  quarry,  the  salvation  of  your  neck  from  dislocation  is  satisfactorily 
accounted  for,  by  the  scoundrel  telling  you  with  a  grin,  "  it 's  himself 
that  has  the  best  of  luck !"  If  the  delft-dealers,  whose  merchandize 
was  exhibited  beneath  my  window,  had  calculated  on  the  protection  of 
the  blind  goddess,  verily,  on  this  occasion,  their  edifices  were  erected 
upon  sand. 

Without  the  interchange  of  a  word,  two  men,  whose  meeting  seemed 
purely  accidental,  commenced  a  furious  combat.  In  half-a-minute  one 
of  the  belligerents  was  beaten  to  the  ground ;  but  before  the  conqueror 
could  raise  an  lo  Paean  for  his  victory,  two  strangers  dashed  the  crowd 
aside,  and  assailed  him  fiercely. 

"  Mother  of  Heaven  ! "  exclaimed  the  rejected  recruit,  snatching  a 
blackthorn  as  he  spoke  from  the  hand  of  a  looker-on.  "  Two  upon  one 
in  a  christian  country ! "  and  quick  as  lightning  he  was  actively  engaged 
with  the  stouter  of  the  twain.  "  Hurrah  for  the  filakes ! "  was  an- 
swered by  a  shout  of  "  the  Sweenies  for  ever ! "  With  marvellous  ala^ 
crity,  the  kinsmen  and  acquaintances  of  both  these  respectable  families 
responded  to  the  call  to  arms — and  in  less  than  ^ve  minutes,  at  least 
thirty  couple  of  combatants  were  busily  engaged.  Loud  was  the  clatter 
of  cudgels,  as  saplin  encountered  crab-tree^— divers  good  men  and  true 
saluted  their  mother  earth— the  swearing  was  awful,  as  it  was  formerly 
in  Flanders — and,  prepared  as  I  had  been  by  the  gentleman  who  haa 
roofed  the  mail  in  my  company  fmrn  the  metropolis,  his  laudatory 
notice  of  the  pleasant  town  of  Ballyporeen  fell  innnitely  abort  of  what 
it  merited. 

The  fight,  which  had  exhibited  an  alternation  of  success  as  fresh 
adherents  of  the  houses  of  Montague  and  Capulel  came  into  action,  at 
lost  declared  against  the  Sweenies,  and  they  reluctantly  gave  ground. 
In  the  front  rank  of  the  Blake  brigade,  the  rejected  recruit  was  con- 
spicuously seen — and  his  performance  elicited  general  applause  from 
Trojan  and  Tyrian.  Several  elderly  amateurs,  whose  years  forbade  their 
taking  part  in  active  operations,  but  who  regarded  the  faction-figbt  from 
the  inn  steps  with  that  lively  interest,  which  mi^ht  be  expected  from 
veterans  who,  in  their  day,  had  cleared  many  a  fair,  and  been  a  small 
fortune  to  the  village  bone-setter, — these  experienced  gentlemen  wer« 
loud  in  their  commendation  of  thiH  promising  youth.  What  migbl 
have  been  the  result  or  the  duration  of  a  amibat,  whose  {tffiutum 
changed  as  fresh  actors  figured  on  the  stage,  it  is  impfnuiible  to  oilcu* 
late,  fur,  sudden  as  the  fight  commenced,  as  suddenly  was  it  terminated* 
At  once  the  arms  of  the  belligerents  were  fiaralysed  by  a  loud  ulMrum  ; 
"'Mind  yourselves,  boys,  dear!  Oh  I  murder — here's  the  fi«el4ff»-. 
may  the  devil  welcome  them  !  "  At  the  annunciation  ttf  that  dnfadeil 
body,  previous  animosity  g.ive  place  to  a  mutual  wish  on  \hAU  %U\^  Ut 
evade  the  penalties  of  kw — Sweeney  and  Blake  consulif^l  saf«Hy  iff 
inglorious  flight—and  "  i>auve  qui  jm'ul  I "  which,  cm  \Ute  ^WOUWW.^  vA 


584. 


BRUN  OXINN. 


Napoleon,   ended   the  shuidtf 


at   Waterloo,   was   re-enacted   at   ttc 
the  clo&ing  order  of  the  day  there  wai. 


apoieon,   end 
raoVawn  at  Bulljporeen — ffir 
•*  Devil  take  the  hin«lmost  I  " 

A  melancholy  incident  clouded  ihe^finale  of  this  pleasant  passage  of 
arms.  The  deep  interest  which  had  nhsorhed  the  attention  of  combtit* 
ants  And  lookers-on,  had  prevented  the  insidioris  advance  of  "  tliat 
green  handjtti"— as  poor  Burns  would  have  termed  the  Irish  |H>ljce^ 
frfim  being  remarked,  and  the  cavalry  were  actually  charging,  and  the 
fisced  bayonets  of  the  fwitmen  makings  a  derriere,  painful  demooKtra- 
tiouK  on  the  persons  of  divers  concerned,  before  danger  was  even  appre- 
hended. But  one  egress  was  opened  for  escape ;  and  alas !  that  led 
direct  over  the  space  before  my  window,  on  which  the  unhappy  delfl- 
merchanls  had  nr ranged  their  crockery  and  crystah  On  rushed  the 
cro\vd  ;  and  fearful  were  the  exclamations  of  the  proprietors  of  porce- 
lain. A  man.  with  a  bayonet  behind  him  and  crockery  in  his  frunt^ 
st'ldum  hults  between  two  opinions,  U'ithin  a  couple  of  minutes,  jug, 
mug,  and  tnmhler,  were  reduced  to  smit/iereens — an  on  cracked  plate 
woidd  have  been  accounted  a  curioaitv  in  Bally poreen — and  u  tea-cup 
could  not  be  obtained  at  any  v»rice,  1  had  remarked  the  rejected  one 
in  the  hour  of  triumph,  and  I  watched  him  in  that  of  his  reverse  ;  and 
I  must  say,  that  had  the  staff- surgeon  seen  him  as  1  did,  hound  over 
half-a-dozen  delft-crates  like  a  harlequin^  his  soundness  in  wind  and 
limb  would  never  have  been  ciuestioned — and  the  King,  God  blesa  him  ! 
have  been  provided  with  a  gallant  light  dragoon. 

Whether  the  police  were  not  desirous  of  making  prrsonen,  or  that 
the  malefactors  were  too  rapid  in  their  movements  to  be  overtaken  and 
secured,  I  did  not  observe  that  any  of  the  demolisliers  of  delft  were  led 
into  captivity  ;  and  save  that  for  an  liour  after  the  affray*  the  china- 
merchants,  male  and  female,  cried  a  coronach  over  the  street- full  of 
potsherds  which  in  the  morning  had  been  crockery,  peace  reigned  once 
more  in  Bally  poreen.  Tiie  sergeant  of  dragt>ons  and  the  rejected  re- 
cruit again  pot»ted  themselves  under  my  window,  and  resumed  the  con* 
versntion  which  the  recent  outbreak  had  interrupted. 

"You  are  short  of  cash/'  said  the  sergeant, 

**  I  am,  indeed,**  replied  tlie  youth, 

"  And  have  you  no  relation  that  would  stand  a  pound  or  two? — 00 
friend  to  stump  the  rowdy  ?  " 

'*  Friends  1  have  none— nor,  as  far  at  I  koow^  a  relation  in  the 
world.*' 

**  Why,  d — n  it  1  *'  returned  the  dragoon  ;  '*  have  you  dropped  from 
the  clouds?     Tltere  never  was  a  man  but  had  a  father." 

"  Father  or  mtither  I  never  saw  ;  and,  on  the  wide  earth,  there  is  not, 
I  believe,  a  being  so  lonely  and  desolate/*  A  tear  trembled  in  the  poor 
youth's  eye,  and  the  sigh  which  closed  the  sentence,  appeared  to  ImUt 
from  a  breaking  heart. 

I  had  taken  a  lively  interest  in  the  unknown — ^felt  for  the  disappoiai- 
ment  he  hnd  suffered — walched  his  reckless  gallantry  in  the  faction- 
fight — and  had  liijttned  with  deep  sympathy  to  the  brief  but  touching 
confession  of  his  deNtitution.  I  rang  the  liell — desired  Denis  to  sum- 
mon to  my  presence  the  sergeant  and  his  young  companion — and  in  ■ 
few  minutes  both  were  introduced, 

*'  1  have  overheard  your  conversation.  It  appears  your  wish  to  be- 
come a  soldier  has  been  disappointed  by  some  reul  or  imaginary  cau^e^ 


4 


4 


I 

4 


BRIAN   O'LINN.  686 

which  incapacitates  you  from  sustaining  the  hardships  attendant  upon 
military  life." 

<*  They  are  imaginary  indeed,  sir.  It  would  be  hard  to  say  that  a 
hunter  was  worthless  in  the  field,  because  his  legs  might  exhibit  a 
scratch  or  two,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Your  friend,  the  sergeant,  believes  that  elsewhere  you  would  suc- 
ceed.    Money  is  required.     What  sum  would  serve  the  purpose  ?" 

The  youth  fixed  his  dark  eyes  on  mine>  as  if  to  reaa  the  object  of 
the  question. 

'' Merely,"  he  said,  '^  sufficient  to  sustain  life.  I  can  walk  forty 
miles  a-day  for  a  fortnight  —  and  I  suppose  that  less  than  that  time 
would  bring  me  to  London." 

**  Grood  steady  action  that,"  observed  the  non-commissioned  officer, 
"  for  a  lad  declared  unsound  by  an  old  ass,  who  can't  tell  a  splint  from 
a  spavin." 

I  drew  my  purse  from  my  pocket,  and  placed  three  sovereigns  in 
the  young  man's  hand. 

'*  Grold,  by  Heaven !"  he  exclaimed,  and  his  cheeks  grew  scarlet.  For 
a  moment  he  held  the  money  in  his  hand,  then  respectfully  returning 
it,  he  muttered  his  thanks,  but  modestly  declined  accepting  a  pecuniary 
favour  from  a  stranger. 

I  examined  the  young  Irishman  with  attention,  and  a  closer  investi- 

fition  of  his  outer  man  by  no  means  abated  the  interest  he  had  created, 
should  have  guessed  his  age  at  eighteen,  and  a  finer  form  never  com- 
bined activity  with  strength.  Of  course,  several  years  would  be  re- 
quired to  develope  the  n*ame-work  of  the  man ;  but  at  present,  as 
Sergeant  O'Dwyer  was  pleased  to  remark,  ''  a  smarter  stripling,  in  a 
shell-jacket,  never  destroyed  a  milliner's  apprentice  at  first  sight."  To 
a  faultless,  although  an  unformed  figure,  the  stranger  united  a  face 
decidedly  handsome.  The  outline  was  a  gentleman's — while  dark  eyes 
of  singular  intelligence,  gave  an  animation  to  the  countenance,  which 
recular  features  so  often  want. 

I  ordered  the  waiter  to  bring  whiskey.  The  sergeant  turned  down 
a  bumper,  which  the  younger  Irishman  politely  declined. 

"'Pon  my  conscience,"  observed  the  dragoon,  ''after  that  lively 
rookatvn  in  the  street,  if  I  were  you,  I  would  be  inclined  to  wet  my 
whistle.  Come — sorrow 's  dry.  Who  knows  what  luck  's  before  us  ; 
and  when  a  goose  is  grazing  over  the  carcass  of  O'Drench,  you  '11  be 
sitting  snug  and  warm  on  a  saddle  at  the  Horse  Guards.  Fill — yer 
sowl !  and  drink  his  honour's  health." 

*'  That  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  will  I  do,"  returned  the  candi- 
date for  military  honours ;  and  he  tasted  the  whiskey,  and  replaced 
his  glass  upon  the  table. 

"  You  have  excited  my  curiosity,"  I  said.  "  Deem  it  not  idle  curi- 
osity if  I  trouble  you  with  a  few  questions." 

The  youth  bowed  respectfully,  and  replied  that  he  had  no  secret 
that  needed  concealment. 

"  You  are  an  orphan  ?" 

"  That  question  I  cannot  answer." 

"  Well,  you  have  no  parents,  if  I  understood  you  rightly." 

*'  If  I  have,  I  am  ignorant  of  them." 
'  No  relations  ?" 

**  None  upon  the  earth." 

"May  I  aiik  your  name?" 


586  THE   LONE  CHURCHYARD. 

"  I  must  give  you  an  assumed  one." 

'<  Egad  !  *'  observed  the  sergeant,  *'  I  never  heard  a  crosa-examinatioD 
that  produced  so  little  evidence,  and  I  have  been  present  before  now 
at  a  court-martial." 

"  In  a  word,  sir,"  said  the  youth,  addressing  himself  to  me,  **  yoo 
seem  to  take  some  interest  in  the  fortunes  of  an  outcast.  To  plaiji 
inquiries  I  have  returned  simple  answers,  and  yet  thej  throw  no  ligbt 
upon  my  history.  If  the  story  of  so  humble  an  individual  as  mvaelf 
can  be  worth  the  brief  space  that  will  be  consumed  in  its  narration,  I 
am  most  willing  to  relate  it." 

I  bowed  assent.  To  enable  him  the  better  to  comprehend  the  auto- 
biography of  the  rejected  recruit.  Sergeant  O'Dfvyer  supplied  his  gltsi 
anew.  I  signalled  the  strangers  to  be  seated, — ^my  orcler  was  obeyed, 
»-and  Brian  OLinn  thus  told  the  earlier  passages  of  a  life,  whose 
manly  career  it  shall  be  our  task  to  place  hereafter  before  the  gentk 
reader. 


THE  LONE  CHURCHYARD. 

The  lone  churchyard  !  the  still  churdiyai^  ! 

How  dear  is  the  spot  to  me ! 
How  sweet  the  sound  of  the  winds  that  stir 

The  leaves  of  its  cypress  tree ! 
1  love  to  walk  on  its  verdant  glade, 

That  yields  to  the  passing  tread, 
With  thoujrhts  that  a  thousand  fancies  weave, 

lu  dreams  of  the  bygone  dead  ! 
Or,  seated  upon  a  time-worn  stone, 

Where  the  silvery  moss  doth  creep  ; 
I  think  how  calm  in  the  earth's  warm  brea»t 

The  young  and  the  aged  sleep  ! 
The  child  with  its  locks  of  flaxen  hair. 

The  maid  with  a  brow  as  pale 
As  the  snowdrop  meek,  whose  fragile  stem 

Bends  to  the  evening  gale ! 
The  strong  man  shorn  of  his  pow'r  and  might, 

How  weak  in  his  strength  he  lies  ; 
With  limbs  that  a  breath  might  scatter  wide. 

And  nought  in  his  soulless  eyes  ! 
The  mother  sharing  her  infantas  l>ed. 

Watching  her  slumbVing  child  ; 
Shielding  its  form  in  a  close  embrace 

From  the  cold,  or  tempest  wild. 
And  the  old  church  bell,  whose  low,  soft  tone, 

Steals  o'er  the  list'ning  ear. 
It  seems  the  voice  of  the  early  known, 

The  loved  of  many  a  year  ! 
It  sju-'aks  to  my  heart  of  other  days, — 

It  brings  me  my  childhood's  home, — 
Illcssed  to  nic  arc  its  chastening  notes. 

Though  thrilling  and  sad  they  come  ! 
I  heard  it  when  I  was  but  a  boy, 

And  smiled  at  its  mournful  swell ; 
A  few  more  years,  I  wept  at  the  sound, 

For  it  tolPd  out  a  mother's  knell  I 
The  lone  churchyard  !  the  still  churchyard  ! 

How  dear  is  the  spot  to  me  ; 
How  hweet  the  sound  of  the  winds  that  stir 

The  loaves  of  its  cypress  tree  ! 


587 


DR.  MAG  INN. 


A  LITERARY  RETROSPECT  BV  A  MIDDLE-AGED  WAN. 

Before  I  dose  my  desk,  as  I  sit  In  my  moonlit  chamber  this  fine 
Slimmer  evening,  let  me  recall  one  sufferer,  now  at  rest, — slightly 
known  to  me,  intlcetl,  but  remembered  with  a  fearful  distinctness^ 
so  slightly,  that  if  you  were  to  ask  me  his  Christian  name  I  could  not 
tell  it,  A  clear  remembrance  of  his  blanched  cheek  and  w^andering 
eye  dwells  in  my  memory.  Who,  when  I  add  the  faltering  voice,  the 
symmetrical  features,  the  grey  hair,  even  in  comparative  yrmth, — 
the  slashing  reply,  the  sweet,  good-natured  smile, — who  will  not 
recall  the  name  of  Dr.  Maginn  ? 

I  saw  him  one  evenings — how  well  I  remember  it,  and  with  what 
throes  and  throbs  the  reniembrnnce  is  even  now  recalled  f — yes,  even 
now.  It  was  in  an  evening-party  where;  —  but  what  has  the 
world  to  do  with  our  private  reminiscences?  And  what  am /,  a 
stupid  old  man,  (to  night  in  one  of  my  low-spirited  seasons,)  that  I 
should  aim  at  exciting  the  interest  of  the  bright-eyed,  blooming 
creatures  who  will  bend  over  this  page  next  month,  perhaps  as  the 
travel  ling- carriage  carries  them  far  from  London  and  distraction, 
to  read  the  newspaper  to  papa,  maybe,  in  some  country  parsonage, 
or  to  listen  to  the  recital  of  Brother  Tom's  first  essay  in  hunting 
and  shooting,  or  to  be  the  hand-maiden  of  mamma's  charities,  or 
the  happy  representative  of  Aunt  Bountiful  at  the  Sunday-school. 

How  have  J  digressed  ! — Let  me  return  to  Dr.  Maginn;  and  for 
an  instant  mingle  with  the  thoughts  of  him  the  recollections  still  dear 
to  this  elderly  heart. 

It  was  a  low,  long,  narrow  room  through  which  I  made  ray  Tvay 
into  the  throng  of  a  party.  That  gentle  confusion  prevailed  which 
shews  that  all  is  *^  going  oW*  well.  That  Trt»phoniusVcave  look 
which  we  sometimes  see  on  the  faces  of  those  who  are  coming  out 
as  you  go  in,  and  which  appears  to  proclaim  that  the}^  are  never 
to  smile  again,  was  not  to  be  observed.  And  yet  there  was  no 
singing,  no  dancing,  no  charades — ^and  yet, — it  was  that  hateful  as- 
semblage known  by  the  name  of  a  literary  coterie. 

1  made  my  w*ay  into  the  very  thick  of  the  throng  ;  elbowed  a 
poetess  to  the  right,  trod  upon  the  slipper  of  a  lady  historian, 
touched  tlie  saintly  shoidder  of  some  Charlotte- Elizabeth  of  the 
day,  and  oh!  more  formidable  than  all,  brushed,  may  be,  the  sacred 
dust  off  the  sleeve  of  a  Reviewer.  All  were  standing,  all  were  lis- 
tening to  some  one  who  sat  in  the  middle  of  a  group;  a  low-seated 
man,  short  in  stature,  was  uttering  pleasantries,  and  scattering  wit- 
ticism about  him,  with  the  careless  glee  of  his  country — this  was 
Maginn.  His  articulation  was  impeded  by  a  stutter,  yet  the  sen- 
tences that  he  stammered  forth  were  brilliant  repartees,  utteretl 
without  sharpness,  and  edged  rather  with  humour  than  with  satire. 
His  countenance  was  rather  agreeable  th^m  striking  ;  its  expression 
sweet,  rather  than  bright.  The  grey  hair,  coming  straight  over  his 
foreliead,  gave  a  singular  appearance  to  a  face  still  bearing  the  at- 
tributes of  youth.  He  was  thirty  or  thereabouts,  (yes^  sauc^  niece 
of  mine,  thirty  h  still  young;)  but  \\\%  l\io\x^\.^\i\  \stii>N^>S\^\3k^ » 


588 


DR.   MAGINK* 


tbe  paletiess  of  his  complexion,  gave  him  many  of  the  attributes  of 
age.  I  ara^  however,  a  firm  believer  in  the  axiom,  that  age  can 
never  be  concealed  upon  a  careful  inspection, — we  may  look  older 
than  we  are,  but  we  rarely,  alas  !  look  younger.  True,  the  first  im- 
pression may  deceive ;  but  there  19  always  some  line,  some  telUtale 
change  somewhere,  which  betrays  the  ugly  truth,  I  looked  on  for 
a  moment,  as  the  crew  of  authors,  reviewers,  play-wrights,  and 
novel- weaver8  paid  homage  to  Dr.  Maginn.  He  was  then  in  the 
zenith  of  his  glory — the  glory  which  radiated  from  John  Bull  or 
sent  forth  a  rich  stream  of  light  from  the  pages  of  Fraser.  His 
conversation  was  careless  and  off-hand,  and,  but  for  the  impedi- 
ment of  speech  would  have  had  the  charm  of  a  rich  comedy.  His 
choice  of  words  was  such  as  I  have  rarely  met  with  in  any  of  my 
contemporaries ;  for,  indeed,  in  my  day  it  has  become  the  vogue  to 
corrupt  English  in  many  ways,  to  bring  doM^n  your  subject  by 
homely,  if  not  coarse  phrases,  and  to  neglect  ail  those  adjuncts  to 
reasoning  and  to  wit  which  a  true  use  of  our  language  affords. 

I  passed  on,  the  circle  closed  around  JMaginn,  and  that  evening 
I  saw  him  no  more.  Henceforth  his  career  was  a  bright  and  peril- 
ous one,  exercising  a  considerable,  though  ephemeral  influence  on 
the  age  in  which  he  lived.  No  modern  writer  in  periodicals  lias 
ever  given  to  satire  a  less  repulsive  form  of  personality.  No  pri- 
vate venom  seemed  to  direct  the  awful  pen  which  spared  not  af- 
fectation, and  lashed  presumption  till  she  bled  to  dejith.  Wby  are 
not  his  essays  collected  ?  What  holds  them  back  from  an  expect- 
ant public?  He  wrote  when  our  periodical  literature  was  in  its 
zenith  ; — yet  he  bore  away  the  palm  ;  and  bis  clear,  firm  hand 
might  be  discerned  amid  a  host  of  inferior  writers.  There  was  no 
mistaking  that  emphatic,  pure,  and  stately  English  of  his— poor 
Maginn  I 

The  next  time  I  saw  this  ill-starred  son  of  genius  was  in  a  friend's 
house,  very  early  one  morning,  as  Dr.  Maginn  was  going  away  to 
France.  He  and  I  were  for  some  minutes  alone  in  a  room  together. 
It  was  &  dingy,  London  morning,  and  the  room  corresponded  to  the 
day — a  lodging-house  room.  It  was  not  dirty,  to  speak  individu- 
ally ;  but  a  general  air  of  antiquity,  of  long-established  dustineai» 
of  confirmed,  ingrained,  never-to-be-effaced  uncleanliness  ftat  upon 
every  article  in  the  apartment,  even  to  the  top  of  the  bell-ropes. 
The  fire  was  not  lighted — it  was  September  ;  the  window  was  open 
sufficiently  to  chill  the  susceptible  frame  of  the  great  reviewer  as 
he  paced  to  and  fro,  never  looking  towards  me,  waiting  for  our 
common  friend.  I  shut  the  window.  He  looked  towards  roe  h)r  an 
instant,  stammered  out  a  ** Thank  you."  His  face  was  then  oft 
leaden,  ashy  hue ;  his  grey  hair  had  become  thin  ;  his  dress — but 
why  expatiate  upon  thai  ; — yet  it  looked  sorrowful,  and  shattered 
like  its  wearer,  and/  fancied  it  meant  much. 

Our  friend  came  into  the  room.  I  heard  Maginn  say,  **  I  am 
going  out  of  town  ;*  and  even  those  few  words  sounded  ominoui 
in  my  presaging  mind — going  out  of  town  !  AJas !  how  many  rea- 
•CNM  are  there  for  which  one  may  go  out  of  town.  Sorrow,  sick- 
neast  weariness  of  spirit,  embarrassed  circumstances,  and  a  long 
and  mournful  list  of  etceteras.  I  ran  down  ttie  dingy  stairs  with 
%  maurnftd  convicuon  tliat  Adversity,  with  her  rapid  strides,  had 
ovcirliLlten  poor  Maguvu — i^tx^  \  ^ft&  tiox.  '«tcA\%\  ^^^W^^  he  j^rO" 


OL  SAin^fTf;  -9 


atnKKphcre  «f  a  1 

minblj  he  ~ 
sam  it  vp  ?— 
be  canmn  SMf  \ 

The  liMlgliig^  Til  III  Ml  Ie&  nwi^i*<i  :tie  ' 
that  no  one  CDsU  dncnfae  die  iPtiartninr  -vtnca  one  jrninirm 
pccnliar  ifHyfuii .  Bf  die  -vav.  low  is  x  "tutc  Ji  itiu  ._ 
polis  there  «e  no  gnoii  'i^^gn^^  '31  ^e  lad '-  ^atim^  at 
ij^lfiii  f  ifi  iifiiiiig.  «i  dxrt7.  ifl  '^tift,  to  lEJi!'  I'.^qrmaMT- «i 
sin^,  such  wrctehtsd  rnrfgrng-Jumfle  jmma.  «ic!l  -iinawiaa  isie  ^avv 
to  wait  at  the  «iccc  door.  aic*L  iraba  it  'jonFfiiumia.  aeda  aFmcn  aK 
loathes,  ioCh  wtdch  «£  <aie  «  pamainnna.  ^arxEs  ad  in  "lia  an  -af 
dirty  and  aiwlwf  which  jhmm,  mmv  joiam.  dunaiza  x 
winter  a  fri  apmaiful  <i€  caaL  in  j'Hir  tire-^iiaee : 
hot  JtHMiiheie ;  as  wencxladaiL.  ua  jpuai  '^.nMUin^  la 
apartmcnti ;  nnflbcatnic  "'"g^*^  aad  -iav^ :  i^  jna  srs  x  juves.  ir  ^ 
bnese,  yon  jre  wretcheL  Wliy  ire  we  «i  iar  lemnii  ill 
for  the  teaeon  (Sat  Loodon  is  now  iixtie  ^as 
place,  without  aEznenl  sprin^p  in  these  ■*wi-ir:gi  zata&a^r  Z  ye^ 
pardon  for  ijingawaj  from.  De.  Kagizin.  izzoa  die  jnwtmamme  ar  j^ 
lodgin^-hooMa. 

Says  a  friend  to  aie  (me  dxf,  '^  Come  and  meet  Ifaarmi:  these  aiad. 
be  none  sare  fainir  oar  own  iSandj.  and  jo«inei£.  Y  la  wul  tee  jum 
to  adrantage.*  It  waa  oiiw  two  years  snce  I  had  leen  Xayrm. 
Time,  which  ambies  wrchal  go  aiany  had  giflnpyed  with  iiinL  fi^ 
grey  hair  was  now  Tcry  dun.  and  Kacoered  iver  an  Maumm  brnm ;  tne 
sweet  mildneas  of  his  eye  wis  gnne.  hx»  ipeeeh  waa  move  daterni^ 
than  erer;  many  m^awetiCA  rfapwed  before  nie  enoid  becsa  a wirrL  j^ 
natural  defect  waa  heightened  by  nerrooa  debility,  and  die  ap^macii 
of  bis  last  lata!  disease.  Still,  broken  ap.  anpairsd  m  le  wul  diene 
were  genuine  bants  of  homoar.  a  schoIaF-iike  :doeCw  if  exprsMuin  ; 
above  all,  a  hombled,  and  perhaps  fbastnird  ipirit  was  aopermt^ 
We  bad  a  d^  of  talk  of  the  fCeriine  and  ftandard  wrfcerv  ^f  ^n^^fand ; 
themes  fitted  for  the  Aogostan  ^ge  Hawtd  freciy.  3 -a  1ft  waa.  per* 
baps,  the  modd  of  3iaginn,  certainly  he  waa  the  object  cf  his  ^tUm^^ 
tion ;  and,  as  he  apdy  quoted  hhn,  tme  Irah  hanwar  piay^  ipw 
the  features  of  the  modem  iatirist. 

It  was  not  long  rince  the  town  had  rang  with  axrrenadrjn  r*- 
specting  the  famoos  article  in  "  Fraser* — the  detnolitioo  of  a  certain 
aristocratic  author — the  onmanlr  and  bnital  reven^re  op^xi  the  auMt 
amiable  of  booksellers — the  triat— the  doel  between  3f agirm  *ad  the 
assailant — the  slow  and  cruel  death  of  the  beaten  and  aiFHghted  p^i>. 
Usher — the  immunity  which  the  offender  bad  enjoyed — €n^  Uitivm 
had  lent  her  shield  to  the  Totary.  I  did  then  consider,  tA  f  «tilf  iU, 
consider,  Maginn's  article  on  the  work  in  oueft2<m  one  of  hl«  ttr^^rtg. 
est  and  his  best:  strong,  becaase  hatred  of  rice  lent  it  po-^er ;  gOTi^i, 
because  written  from  the  impulse  of  a  mind  which,  h<rwr»er  t'illwbtl 
by  excess,  was  originally  high-toned  and  fearless.  Of  c/cirte  I  al>. 
stained  scrupulously  from  the  subject,  and  waa  lurfirvtMs^  ^  ^i^  ^ 


5iiO 


DR.    MAOTNN* 


cliness  with  which  Ma^inn  entered  into  it.     He  gave  me  the  whole 

history  of  the  duel  from  first  to  last;  sjKjkeof  the  gentlemanly  bear- 
ing of  Ills  antagonist,  and  seemed  to  me  to  take  an  absaUite  pleasure 
in  recounting  the  whole.     But  when  he  touched  upon  the  sufferings 
of  the  injured  and  innocent  publisher,  his  lip  quivered,  his  frame 
writhed,  a  tear  dimmed  his  eye,  he  walked  hastily  to  and  fro,  and,  | 
when  he  returned  to  his  seat,  spoke  of  the  subject  no  more.  I  longed  | 
to  glean  more  from  him ;  to  gather  up  his  real  opinions  of  men  and, 
things ;    to  draw   him  forth  from  the  mask   which   the  periodical 
writer  must  need;*  wear;  to  enjoy  the  true  sentiment  which  lay  be- 
neath the  satire,  like  sweet,  crushed  water-plants  beneath  the  ice,  ' 
But  the  limits  of  a  London  party  are  all  too  short,  and  tea  came^  and 
eleven  o'clock  came,  anil  I  rushed  into  the  street,   thence   to  mingle 
among  many  wh  ?  would  repudiate  me  if  they  thought  I  bad  any  of 
the  contamination  of  literature  about  me, 

I  saw  Mag^inn  no  more,     1  was  not  surprised  when  I  learned  that 
slow  disease  had  wasted  his  Hmbs  and  brought  him  to  the  brink  of  ] 
the  grave,  but  had  left  his  intellect  bright  and  clear  to  the  last.  That 
was  a  wonderful  mind  which  could  stand  the  wear  and  tear  to  which 
poor  Maginn  subjected  it.     His  last  thoughts,  as  they  are  recorder!,  , 
were  of  literature  and  of  Homer,     IMay  we  not  hope  that  the  pure  j 
ray  of  reason  thus  spared,  was  ofltimes,  perhaps  in  the  silence  of  the 
sleepless  night,   employed  in  holy  and  hopeful  reflections — that  the 
things  o(  ikh  life  had  a  fitful  and  partird  influence  over  his  spirit- 
that  the  solemn  expectation    of  eternity  had  the  noblest  and   the  j 
greatest  share  of  that  mind,  so  vigorous  in  ils  close? 

When  I  review,  in  my  own   study »  the   ilifferent  literary  circles  I 
which  I  have  seen,  I  admire  at  the  contrast  between  my  setting  out] 
and  the  end  of  my  journey  as  a  pedestrian  through  the  walks  of  life, 
1  marvel  at  the  various  phases  which  the  polite  world  has  assumed, 
as  it  has  shone  upon  me;  the  various  aspects  which  certain  cliques  of  ] 
men,  all  following  the  same  pursuits^  have  worn.     How  like  a  dream 
it  now  seems,  to  suppose  flinginn  the  soul  and  centre  of  a  certain  ! 
circle,  who  hung  upon  his  applause,  and  adulated  his  talenta !     And 
now,  how  the  memory  of  his  brief,  feverish  existence  has  [massed  1 
away,  revived   only   by  tlie  accents  of  compassion,  or  adduced  ta  1 
^' point  a  moral/'     To  *' adorn  a  tale"  he  never  was  intended,     How  j 
completely  was  his  fame  limited  to  a  certain  circle  I  how  un-English  i 
was  his  reputation  1  how  n on- European  his  celebrity  I      The  circle 
that  surrounded  him  is  gradually  melting  away  ;  it  is  broken  up  ;  oue 
by  one  the  leaves  of  the  book  liave  been  snatched  out  by  death :  the 
ears  that  listened  to  him  are  even  already  dulled;  the  eyes  which 
gaaied  on  him  are  closeil  in  death.     The  very  bookseller  who  suffered  1 
for  his  aggression  upon  the  literary  merits  of  IVIr.  Grantley  Berkeley 
has  sunk,  after  slow  disease,  to  an  untimely  grave.     Men  of  letters,  | 
in  the  present  day,  live  fait:  the  words  of  the  Psalmist,  applicable  Xa 
all,  to  them  are  peculiarly  a])propriate.     As  soon  as  they  arrive  at 
their  zenith^  so  soon  doe^  the  canker-worm  of  disease  undermine  th«  j 
root,  and  poison  the  snp  that  nourishes  the  tree:  they  pass  away,  ta] 
borrow  from  the  sublimest  of  all  human  writers,  **  even  as  a  sleep;] 
they  fade  away  suddenly  like  grass."  I 

When  last  1  saw  Maginn,  there  ga^ed  upon  his  soft  but  restl^iil 
eye,  there  hung  u|>on  his  words,  a  pale  young  man,  himself  a  geniui 
of  tiie  purest  ray,  adu\al\n|^  \.W  ^^^mw*  of  another.     I  knew  Him 


DR,   MAOINN. 


591 


not ;  tii9  manner  was  unobtrusive ;  the  circle  who  stood  aroond 
Magiiin  had  scarcely  heard  his  name.  He  stood  behind  in  a  retired 
part  of  the  room.  Unseen,  he  went  away — no  one  missed  him.  No 
one  alluded  to  the  young  Iriishman  ;  the  name  of  Gerald  Griffin  was 
not  so  much  as  uttered  in  that  noisy  chamber.  As  he  passed  me, 
the  grave  and  melancholy  aspect,  the  lean  form,  and  anxious  counte- 
nance arrested  my  attention;  but  slill  I  was  not  sufficiently  interested 
to  inquire  his  name. 

Not  long  afterwards  I  undertook,  upon  the  recommendation  of  a 
short  encomium  in  The  Edhil/urgft  Rviivw,  to  read  '*  The  Collegians/' 
It  is  among  the  most  powerful  of  the  neglected  novels  of  the  day* 
I  speak  not  of  its  merits  merely  as  a  portaiture  true  to  the  life,  and 
Jar  exceeding  '*  Banim  *'  or  *'  Harry  Lorrequer,"  of  Irish  manners; 
I  speak  not  of  it  merely  as  a  tale  of  sad  and  powerful  intere&t,  but  as 
a  solemn,  appalling,  moral  lesson.  Nor  is  it  the  common  lesson  of 
passion  making  its  own  retribution,  or  of  vice,  rendered  so  delight- 
ful as  to  seem  to  wear  the  cast-off  vestments  of  virtue,  triumphing 
I  over  innocence.  Its  ground-work  is  domestic ;  the  seldom  told  tale 
of  a  mother  and  son :  the  pride  and  fondness  of  the  one,  the  lessons 
of  dubious  morality,  the  education  of  self-indulgence  turning  upon 
her.  The  son  of  fine  and  generous  nature,  becoming  her  curse — her 
tyrant — her  shame.  The  abuse  of  the  maternal  infiuence  is  slowly 
but  admirably  unfolded  ;  the  mother,  who  idolizes  her  sonj  points  to 
his  weak  and  wavering  resolution,  unconsciously,  the  path  to  crime. 
There  exists  not  in  fiction,  I  dare  to  assert  it,  a  finer  portraiture  than 
that  ot  yirs.  CregaWf  the  mother  of  the  fine- spirited,  warm-hearted 
murderer;  it  is  an  original  creation  of  the  highest  power. 

"  How  19  it,"  I  asked  L.  E,  L.  one  morning,  *'  that  so  fine  a  work 
has  produced  so  little  sensation?  Who  is  the  author? — what? — 
and  where  P  *' 

"Alas  !"  she  answered,  shaking  her  head,  "  he  is  a  poor  and  al- 
most friendless  young  man.     I  know  him  slightly/'  and  she  drew  a 
I    rapid  picture  of  the  young  man  whom  I  had  recently  seen  in  com- 
I    pany  with  Maginn,  and,  for  the  first  time,  she  made  me  acquainted 
with  the  name  of  Gerald  Griffin. 

He  is  gone:  his  intellectual  strength  was  to  him,  indeed,  but 
**  labour  and  sorrow  ;"  hi.s  life  had  '*  consumed  away  as  a  moth  fretting 
a  garment,'*  until  at  last  the  Sirocco  came:  fever  attacked  him,  and 
be  sank  to  rest  in  the  convent  to  which  he  had  retreated  like  a 
"  stricken  deer*'  to  lie  down  and  die.  He  was  a  very  gifted,  a  good 
man,  and,  as  a  writer  of  fiction,  a  great  man.  But  he  had  no  wor- 
shippers. He  lived  in  the  solitude  of  the  heart,  in  the  vast,  unthink- 
ing world  which  moves  on  like  a  tide  and  recks  not  the  minute  objects 
which  it  passes  over  in  its  ebb  and  flow.  His  heart  was  saddened,  if 
not  broken  by  the  neglect  of  critics— the  hardness  of  booksellers— the 
difficulty  of  living  by  talents  which  fetehed  not  their  price.  But  de- 
spair never  made  him  prostitute  his  powers  to  mere  popularity  ;  nor 
did  it  find  him  rebellious  beneath  the  chastisements  of  1  leaven.  His 
was  not  the  rash  impatience  of  Chatterlon  ;  rather  let  me  compare 
him  to  the  humble,  the  lontly,the  suffering  Kirk  Wliite,— areed.in- 
deed,  shaken  and  bowed  down  by  the  angry  blast  of  adversity, — a  de- 
licate plant  amid  a  wilderness  of  rank  weeds. 

Amid  the  heads  which  were  bowed  down  to  listen  to  the  fancies  of 
Maginn,  was  a  face  then  fresh,  and  youtliful>and  beamiw^.    iS^skiaxV^ 


692  THE   WAY    OF   THE   WORLD. 

quick  searching  eye — a  smile  foil  of  sweetness— a  brow  on  which  sat 
tne  innocence  of  youth — a  gentle  deportment,  and  the  universal 
love  and  sympathy  of  all  around  him,  proclaimed  the  presence  of 
Laman  Blanchard.  I  dare  not  prolong  the  theme — I  will  not  linger 
on  a  remembrance  too  recent  to  be  recalled  without  intense  regret,  a 
sorrow  too  fresh  for  consolation.  The  biographer,  and  the  subject  of 
his  pen,  the  reviewer  and  the  reviewed,  alike  sleep  in  the  tomb. 
How  hurried  was  their  destiny  !  how  brief  their  summer's  day  !  how 
few  the  years  that  were  allotted  them  to  delight  or  to  instruct  mankind. 
I  return  to  my  first  proposition — men  of  letters  live  fast:  it  was  not 
so  of  yore.  Formerly  they  attained  old  age :  their  occupation  was 
not  a  killing  one.  Let  me  throw  aside  my  pen  and  muse  on  things 
that  have  been — and  recall,  like  the  sexagenarian  of  old,  the  differ- 
ent aspects  of  the  lettered  world  :«-the  coteries  of  the  published  and 
the  publisher. 


THE    WAY    OF    THE    WORLD! 


They  knew  her  in  her  ^ladneM  ! 

In  her  cloudleis  summer's  day ; 
Ere  povertj  and  sadneM 

Had  dim'd  each  joyous  ray  ! 
But  who  can  watch  the  sunbeams 

When  hid  in  transient  gloom  ? 
Or  who  can  love  the  rose-tree 

When  its  roses  cease  to  bloom  ? 


They  left  her  in  her  sorrow  ! 

When  her  heart  was  sad  and  Idne  ; 
When  she  woke  upon  the  morrow 

But  to  wish  it  past  and  gone  ! 
But  who  can  love  the  winter. 

When  the  sky  with  tempest  lowers  ? 
'Ti&  the  spring  alone  finds  friends 

For  its  sunbeams  and  its  flowers. 


A  beacon-star  was  gleaming  ! 

A  guide  through  every  ill ; 
A  ray  of  hope  was  beammg  ! 

Omk  h^art  adored  her  still! 
Thus  Love — our  g^ef  beguiling — 

A  double  joy  can  win  : 
Like  a  blessed  angel  smiling 

O'er  a  long-lost  child  of  sin ! 

James  Willyams  Orylls. 


GAMING,  GLAJCOBSHaiflSSS   A33.    &2JC3S^SaiS^ 


muanmd,  vnn.  i. 
HiiMzasivt   1^   1 

wuruar^  xniFvmflK 
Ibe  panek  deKnoc?v»  ^  zut  nniiKr  -voa^  -aac  ic 
ing  or  doorvar  ;&  u«  par-rviiii.  vs  -3»  i4r7  wywrn 
of  Cerbenif  riar&w  ^'«uziiu%  'ti  icd.  sue  'Jit  f»*iiL  a  :sm 
throwinr  tiie  io^  viusk  w  u  iie^  -»£>9S.9<»  jl  jxiliar  '^^^i^  ann^*^  '»  m 
comfortable  napw  »  laoe  ca*  *  iiislui  fiHKisnjvui  A'»'»sni"'  omru;  i«  "" 
acoomplifhed.  yiT^eaute  taxa  snxxff^isiusic  «m  iczmnraout:  '*v  11* ' 
taste  of  the  giMf  u  %\m  ^rsonenir.  ir  'M  ij*  vx  aoil  mt^re£7  "^^ 
intelUgem  papcr-Matrer.  a  ms  cuwa:  'ins  x  iwa  »  fswneac  »uv««  <# 
jocose  obserrauon  aaiuiiric  tj«  T>ifues. 

There  was  an  air  «£  c:a»  »i  irir^y  a  ae  rauwfc  «B*fti«  «b4 
maoagemeiit  of  thss  f^a'Ti'arTiiwr.  nairii  ri^e  x  r^^ac  v'-Arrw*?*  viih 
a  certain  class  of  persoBS  ipik>  »*r*  -iairwia  :&  a^-jaS  vx^vr^gfr  aa4 
preserre  the  incofimito  *aea  cbcic««^  «  r**f -  Ta^ff^  »««  *  ™? 
few  who  caahntd  thefr  ff^r-iitawsi  tacirwT  v,  Taf>>r»,  «  <*• 
account;  <gf  this  nzmler,  rwMkesaoa  serres  to  the  ntfjg^vXM  «# 
faces  familiar  mider  the  freshnew  of  Tcolh,  bat  nw  x3*iV/w*i  *^«  « 
appearance  by  time,  and  oeeajiOfiallT  i^afoiied  owler  the  he^d-y«gjBf 
professional  adornment,  as  eiempKfied  in  the  perscn  U  a  ^•^'^"^J**^]^ 
recently  and  most  deserringiy  eleratcd  to  the  Bench— and  in  tbi>^  ala^ 

of  Messrs.  J ,  K ,  R ,  A ,  and  others,  wh«e  p*«««^ 

and  intelligent  countenances  are  now  to  be  neogmied  in  the  fuitm^ 
rank  at  the  Bar,  under  the  weighty  bodge  of  full-bottooied  »>g»»  ^^ 

VOL.  XTJII.  ''  '' 


V  V 


694 


GAMING,    aAMING-HOUSES, 


the  weli-merited  accompaninient  of  silk  gowns.  Similar  example* 
of  early  propensily  are  reco^izable  also  in  members  of  the  »eDale, 
and  m  indlYiduals  holding  higli  rank  and  position  in  the  military,  naval, 
and  civil  service  of  the  country. 

It  would  ill  accord  with  the  intentions  of  the   author  of  thU  paper 
to  make    invidious   mention    of  tiny  person   who  may  at    some  perio 
or   other   of   life    have  imprudently    indulged    in   the    propensity 
play  ;  but  while  referring  with  pleasure  to  the  example  of  individuals  wh 
have  had  wisdom  and  resolution  to  withdraw  from  the  danger,  and 
devote  their  energies  to  study  and  pursuits  that  have  led  to  well-merit* 
honours  and  fortune,  it  may  he  allowed  to  make  anonymous  but  faithfd 
allusion  to  cases  of  less  happy  ^-esult.     The  annals  of  gaming  affbr" 
perhaps,  no  more  distressing  or  sad  examples  of  ruinous,  degrading, 
distressing  con«iequences*  than  is  to  be  found  in  the  present  fate  and  con 

dition  of  a  gentleman  (Major  B^ )  who  has  occasionally  been 

about  town^  not  in  the  mere  threadbare  garment  of  poverty,  bespeakin 
a  change  from  more  prosperous  condition,  but  in  the  absolute  rags 
extreme  privation  and  abject  misery^  and  apparently  suffering  from 
of  life's  commonest  necessaries.  This  gentleman  (for  such  he  slf 
in  the  mtrinsic  sense  of  the  term,  even  under  the  tatters  that  " 
cover  him,)  was  formerly  a  captain,  with  brevet  rank  of  major  in* 
Life  Guards,  and  was  present  at  the  Battle  of  Waterloo.  His  father,  it  i 
believed,  realized  a  large  fortune  in  mercantile  pursuits ;  and  hav 
bestowed  on  his  son  the  education  of  a  gentleman,  purchased  for  him 
commission  in  the  household  brigade,  in  which  he  rose  to  the  rank 
described.  Returning  to  England  after  the  peace,  he  became  a  fre- 
quenter of  the  rouge  et  noir  tables,  but  his  visits  were  chiefly  made  to 
Taylor's  establiahment  in  Pall  Mall  In  the  course  of  two  or  three 
years  he  lost  the  whole  of  his  fortune  ;  the  proceeds  of  the  sale  of  his 
commLssion  followed,  and  lastly  disappeared  his  valuable  furniture,  pic«_^_ 
tures,  plate,  jewellery, — everything,  in  fact,  that  he  possessc«d.  1^*4^1 
reduced,  he  became  a  pensioner  on  the  bounty,  or  rather  the  policy,  of^^ 
the  man  whori  his  ruin  had  enriched  ;  but  the  trifle  being  withdrawn, 
he  fell  into  the  lowest  state  of  poverty  and  want — honourable  pride  had 
made  its  last  struggle,  and  giving  way  to  the  cravings  of  hunger,  and  all 
the  accumulated  evils  of  dire  distress  and  aggravated  suffering,  he  stood 
one  amidst  the  group  of  paupers  in  the  parish  workhouse,  a  supplicant 
for  the  wretched  pittance  of  parochial  relief ;  bis  condition  is  repOft«i 
to  have  been  since  somewhat  bettered  by  an  engagement  as  porter  in  a 
City  house  of  business.  The  condilion  of  this  gentleman  is  typical  of 
that  of  hundreds  reduced  to  similar  extremes  from  the  same  distressing 
cause. 

Another  instance  of  sad  reverse  and  the  ruinous  consequence  of  eiccc 
sive  play,  but  attended  with  less  extreme  of  suffering,  is  recogiiiirable 
the  altered  circumstanc€^s  and  reduced  state  of  Mr.  G — — ,  a  gentlemi 
of  family,  and  once  possessed  of  ample  fortune— an  individual  unitin 
in  himself  every  gentlemanly  quality,  and  distinguished  for  amabilit^ 
kindness,  and  generosity  of  heart.  In  him,  however,  lurked  the  one  plague-] 
spot,  or  propensity  for  play ;  he  was  a  devotee  to  rouge  ct  noir,  and 
for  days  and  nights  in  succession  would  give  himself  up  to  its   fatal 
infatuatiou.     He  has  himself  declared  (and  the  fkct  is  known)  that  he 
has  frequently  posted  with  four  horsea  from  his  country  residence,  about 
Iwenly  miles  distant  from   town,  t^  be   present  at  the  comntenceineot 


AND   GAMESTERS.  595 

of  play  at  Taylor's,  at  two  o'clock  in  the  afternooB.  He  has  heen 
there  engaged  in  the  game  until  seven  or  dght  o'clock  in  the  cTening ;  has 
then  po^ed  home  again,  and  having  ascertained  that  his  £umly  and  ser- 
Tants  had  retired  to  rest,  posted  off  again  to  London,  under  the  inllnence 
of  the  same  fatal  infatuation,  and  for  the  purpose  of  the  night  s  indul- 
gence in  the  same  ruinous  occupation.  The  ample  means  of  the  gentle- 
man alluded  to,  enabled  him  at  that  period  to  play  for  laige  sums ;  his 
mode  of  play  was  upon  the  destructive  principle  of  what  is  known  as  the 
losing  martingale,  or  method  of  doubling  each  amount  of  loss 
the  occurrence  of  any  particular  number  of  events — a  system  of 
lation  as  effective  of  certain  ruin  to  a  player  in  its  result,  as  the 
wild  and  palpable  bubble  sdieme  that  ever  gulled  the  credulity  of  : 
the  truth  of  this  was  too  £itally  shown — for  although  frequent,  ' 
siderable  gains  necessarily  attended  his  system  of  play,  the  day  of  heavy 
account  never  £uled  to  come  in  iu  calculated  course  of  events,  and  with 
it  caflM  the  demand  of  a  ruinous  balance  in  favour  of  the  taUe :  his 
fortune  was  ultimatdy  lost ;  his  family  and  friends,  hopdess  of  his 
redemption,  turned  the  cold  shoulder  on  him,  and  he  hnnaelf  came  to 
poverty  and  privation,  frequently  making  his  meal  from  a  biscuit  and  a 
half  pint  of  beer.  But  in  his  direst  extreme,  he  lost  not  the  true  digni^ 
of  the  man,  nor  did  his  philosophy  ever  £ul  him :  strange  as  it  may 
appear,  he  endured  ins  sad  reverse  with  fbrtitnde  worthy  of  a  Spartan, 
nor  was  he  ever  heard  to  repine  at  his  lot,  mudi  less  to  seek  the  sym- 
pathy of  any  man ;  he  fdt,  as  he  expressed  himself,  that  he  had  nooe  to 
blame  but  himself,  and  that  he  was  only  paying  the  penalty  of  his  folly 
uid  imprudence.  It  can  scarcdy  be  credited  that  a  mind  so  Strang  and 
determined  under  misfortune,  and  so  just  and  reasonable  in  its  aigii- 
ment,  should  ever  have  given  way  to  thie  absolute  influence  and  control 
of  a  particular  propensity ;  but  extremes  are  said  to  meet  in  natnre,  and 
the  character  of  the  gentleman  referred  to  is  eoe  of  the  many  proo6 
that  continually  occur  to  establish  and  iUnstrate  the  propositiflo.    The 

most  agreeable  addition  to  the  narrative,  having  refaence  to  Mr.  G , 

is  the  &ct  that  title  and  inheritance  of  large  landed  estates  have  fallen 
to  an  immediate  member  of  his  £unily,  who  has  obtained  for  his  impru- 
dent relative  a  desirable  appointment  abroad,  where  it  is  hoped  and 
believed  that  he  is  profiting  by  past  bitter  experience^  and  enjoying  the 
fruits  of  honorable  employment.  The  annals  of  the  gaming-table  would 
furnish  a  lengthened  and  distressing  list  of  men,  fallen  from  a  similar 
independent  position,  and  who  have  sacrificed  all  the  hopes  and  prospects 
of  life  to  the  monomania  that  has  possessed  them. 

The  description  given  of  the  houses  kept  by  Roubel,  Fulder,  and 
Taylor,  may  be  taken  as  generally  characteristic  of  the  whole — 

<<  The  same  their  purpose^  and  so  like  each  other, 
One  was  the  very  model  of  another.** 

Rouge  et  noir  was  the  business  carried  on  at  all,  and,  with  few  excep. 
tions,  the  same  company  moved  indiscrimiDately  from  one  place  to 
another,  as  fancy  or  caprice  prompted,  or  as  time  permitted.  Each 
establishment  had  its  fair  proportion  of  play  and  profit,  and  no  small 
amount  did  such  proportion  realize,  as  may  be  inferred  from  the  style  and 
extravagant  mode  of  living  of  the  several  proprietors.  The  two  bouses 
kept  by  Bennett  and  Oldfieid  may  be  said  to  have  been  on  a  par  with 
that  of  Taylor  in  point  of  arrangement,  but  rather  more  easy  of  ^ 

V  V  2 


596 


GAMING,    GAMING-HOUSES, 


to  strangers.  Old  Dick  Bennett,  as  he  was  terraed,  was  a  blunt  speci- 
men of  a  man,  somewhat  coarse  in  manner  and  habit ;  he  was  also 
apparently  indolent  and  indifferent  to  the  principle  of  business — but  bad, 
nevertheless,  a  keen  eye  to  its  interest.  His  partner,  01dfield«  was,  on 
the  coulrary,  a  man  of  quick,  active,  and  intelligent  character,  cut  out, 
as  the  term  is,  for  the  position  he  bL4d  as  the  ostensible  manager  and 
director  of  such  anestabHshment.  His  aptitude  and  accuracy  tn  all  matters 
of  account  and  calculation,  his  attention  and  quick  observance  and  correc- 
tion of  any  error  or  mistake  at  the  table,  were  of  material  adirantage*  This 
bouse  was  the  favourite  occasioual  resort  of  a  gentleman  at  that  time  of 
some  notoriety  in  town^  from  the  extravagant  singulariiy  of  a  very  elegant 
curricle  which  be  daily  sported  in  Hyde  Park,  and  by  his  frequelll 
appearance  on  the  theatrical  boards,  in  the  characters  of  Jicrme^ 
Loi/iario,  ike ,  as  an  amateur  performer.  This  gentleman  (who,  what- 
ever might  be  his  eccentricity — ^and  there  are  few  without  some  spice  of 
the  quality — was  a  most  amiable  and  kind-hearted  man)  used  to  take  a 
deep  interest  in  the  game,  and  was  most  particular  that  the  cards  shouldt 
after  each  deal,  be  duly  distributed  on  the  table,  so  that  each  and  every 
player  should  have  an  opportunity,  if  he  chose,  to  shuffle  or  mix  thrm; 
be  himself  look  inBnite  pains  in  this  respect,  and  would  frequently,  al 
the  lime,  enter  into  an  elaborate  course  of  reasoning  to  prove  the  necet- 
sity,  and  to  convince  his  co- adventurers  of  the  good  likely  to  result  from 
such  operation.  Like  most  amateurs  of  rouge  et  noir,  he  had  bis  favou* 
rile  theory  or  system  of  play,  and  it  ended  in  the  one  common  result  of 
/ojs*. 

Attending  to  systems  or  theories,  it  was  most  amusing  to  an  obs^erver 
of  the  game»  to  mark  the  extreme  and  anxious  attention  paid  by  the  several 
players  to  the  different  events  decisive  of  gain  or  loss  on  the  res|>ective 
colours^  as  they  from  time  to  time  occurred,  and  which  they  noted  in  order 
of  occurrence,  by  pricking  a  card  ruled  in  columns  for  the  special  pur* 
pose.  Every  player  was  snupplied  with  a  card  of  this  description,  to 
guide  him  in  any  fancy  or  favourite  mode  of  spt^culation  in  reference  to 
particular  events  ;  and  it  is  a  strange  fact,  that  not  one  out  of  ten  was  to 
be  observed  who  did  not  make  his  game  a  matter  of  calculation,  and  ttA 
upon  some  imaginary  principle  of  certain  suc€e^s.  It  was  common  to 
see  men,  with  a  number  of  cards  bearing  the  recorded  events  of  former 
deals  before  them,  making  their  calculations  as  to  future  probabilities — 
wandering,  in  fact,  in  the  labyrinth  of  problematical  discovery,  and  de- 
voting time  and  capability,  that  might  have  been  more  profitably  employedt 
in  the  vain  attempt  to  work  out  a  principle  or  system  of  play  upon 
progressive  risk  of  money  that  should  defeat  the  advantage  or  per-ceu- 
tage  of  the  bank,  and  control  the  incalculable  combiuations  and  changes 
of  which  the  numbers  contained  in  six  packs  of  cards  are  capable.  Every 
Jtuin  seemed  to  hug  to  himself  the  dear  deceit  that  he  had  discovered  ihb 
true  philosopher's  stone,  and  to  feed  on  hope  made  obstinately  strong 
that  he  was  on  the  high  road  to  fortune.  Underthe  different  prevailing 
fancies,  some  speculated  for  runs,  or  a  continuance  of  success  on  the 
last  winning  colour;  others  adopted  a  system  of  opposition,  and  played 
against  the  colour  that  had  last  won  ;  some  would  wait  the  event 
of  the  black  or  red  winning  a  given  number  of  times  in  succession,  and 
then  immediately  commence  a  most  desperate  and  determined  opposition 
against  a  recurrence  of  I  he  name  number  of  like  event*  ;  while  others 
(and  but  few)  would,  without  any  jwrticular  attention,  and  wholly  untn* 


4 

4 


AND    OAMESTERS. 


hin 


flaonceil  by  rule,  throw  thc*Ir  mincy  heedlessly  down  on  one  or  other 
colour,  a5  the  mere  fancy  of  thu  moment  prompted — a  moAe  quite  ns 
successful  in  its  practice  as  all  the  laboured  systems  of  mathematical 
SQg^gestion, 

As  an  instance  of  the  fact,  it  may  be  related,  that  Mr.  J.,  a  yonn^ 
Cantab,  who  in  the  vacation  usually  found  his  way  to  Londun,  and  quiie 
as  often  to  the  dtveri  G^amlng-temples  therein,  paid  one  ddy  a  passing  visit 
to  Taylor's  establishment  in  Pall  MalL  His  finances  were  not  io  the 
most  satisfactory  or  promising'  condition,  his  whole  amount  of  capital  at 
the  time  being- embodied  in  two  crown  pieces.  These  he  carelessly  threw 
down  on  one  of  the  colours,  liitle  anticipating  the  product  that  was  to 
arise  therefrom.  The  event  was  successful  ;  the  two  crowns  received 
their  equivalent  value  ;  and  from  such  small  sum  he,  being  a  bold  and 
determined  player,  absolutely  won,  in  a  very  short  space  of  time,  a  sura 
exceeding  XOOOLt  with  which,  and  his  two  original  crown  pieces,  be  left 
the  place,  declaring  most  emphatically  that  *'  he  would  have  the  latter 
framed  in  memento  of  their  success."  This  circumstance  occasioned 
him  to  be  distinguished  ever  afterwards  as  the  fortunate  youth — a  term 
most  inappropriate  to  the  reverse  that  attended  his  subsequent  specula- 
tions, and  which  has  considerably  atFected  his  patrimonial  estate. 

Another  peculiar  player  was  a  gentleman  bearing  the  same  cognomen 
as  the  subject  of  the  preceding  anecdote*  Ho  held  high  rank  in  the 
military  service  of  the  Ea^tt  India  Company,  and  had  roalixed  consider- 
able property  ui  Eastern  climes.  He  was  a  person  of  a  most  quiet  and 
retired  manner  and  methodlail  mode  of  play,  his  custom  being  to  make 
one  stake  of  100/.,  and,  under  the  result  either  of  gain  or  loss,  to  retire 
immediately.  Ho  adopted  this  plan  with  success  for  twelve  successive 
days,  realizing  in  that  time  1200/.;  but  on  the  thirteenth  came  the  re- 
action, (and,  as  the  caprice  of  fortune  would  have  it,  not  at  the  house  of 
his  previous  success,)  for,  losing  his  first  stake,  he  ventured  a  second, 
which  shared  a  like  fate;  and  resolution  failing  him,  he  conthjwed  his 
pursuit  of  change  until  he  had  lost  not  only  the  1 200^,,  proceeds  of  for- 
mer good  fortune,  hut  5Q0L  in  addition.  Strange  and  Irreconcilable 
acts  were  also  sotuetimea  observable  in  players,  as  instanced  once  in  the 
conduct  of  a  Captain  B — — ,  holding  rank  in  His  Majesty's  service,  and 
who  was  in  the  habit  of  occasionally  playing  at  rouge  etnoir.  He  visited 
Taylor's  one  day,  and  delibivrately  placed  on  one  of  the  colours  a  note  of 
100/.  value — a  stake  very  far  exceedmgany  in  amount  which  he  had  ever 
been  before  known  to  play.  The  colour  lost  ;  and  before  the  croupier 
had  time  to  draw  the  stake  from  the  table*  the  Captain  rendered  it  unne- 
ceasary,  by  coolly  taking  the  note  up  himselfj  and  with  equal  sautj/roid 
depositing  the  same  in  his  pocket,  pleasantly  intimating  to  the  olHcialt* 
of  the  table,  that  he  owed  them  100/,  Remonstrance  was  vain  ; 
no  appeal  to  his  honour  or  gentlemanly  propriety  could  re-produce 
the  Bank  of  England  promise  from  its  safe  deposit.  Frequent  fraudu- 
lent tricks  were  practised  on  the  proprietors  of  tables,  which  served  to 
exemplify  the  sad  infirmity  of  principle  to  which  men  are  subject  under 
the  avarice  of  the  passion  for  gaming. 

The  houses  No.  3  and  No.  10,  King-street,  St,  James's,  were  more 
indbcrimiuately  open  day  and  night  to  all  persons  having  the  exterior  of 
respecubility.  Great  business  was  carried  on  at  both,  and  at  thc^  former 
house  in  particular,  immense  sums  were  realized  from  the  consLint  and 
unce^ing  source  of  profit  accruing  from  more  general  and  regular  play. 


598 


GAMING,   GAMING-HOUSES, 


The  ordinary  coarse  of  magisterial  inierfereoce  was  al  ihai  \ 


tbe 


oflliei 


un dreaded  alike  by  proprietors  and  visitors 
had  extended  to  the  eastern  districts  of  tbe  metropolis,  aad 
the  market  men  of  mercantile  and  commercial 
broker?,  cootractors,  and  large  wholesale  traders,  wUo  vpi 
money  under  little  or  no  restraint.  These,  with  a  daily -m^ 
number  of  Bank»  East-India  House,  and  Gofvemuient  officials, 
from  time  to  time  to  swell  the  number  of  gamesters  and  sfiecala- 
tors  at  rouge  et  noir ;  and  it  is  no  exaggenuioQ  of  the  truth  to  say*  ikit 
to  their  sad  initiation  may  be  ascribed  the  loss  of  wealth,  commmml 
connection,  confidence  and  appointment,  of  at  least  one  half  of  the  mmbtr. 
Siidi  was  the  state  of  the  gaming  district,  during  a  |>eriod  of  t^  or 
six  years,  when  other  adventurers  stepped  into  the  market  to 
the  immense  profits  continually  flowing  from  the  apparently 
ible  sources  of  play.  Several  rival  establishments  were 
amongst  others,  one  by  the  brother  of  a  peer  of  the  realm,  an 
the  army,  who,  in  conjunction  with  a  medical  man  (both  then 
unfortunate  in  their  speculative  amusements)  took  a  handsome  haum  in 
Cleveland  How,  which  was  fitted  up  in  a  very  superior  si^kti  mi 
ad.ipted  to  the  purposes  of  rouge  et  noir,  but  for  some 
cause  it  did  not  succeed.  Another  establishment,  upon  a  most 
sive  scale,  was  opened  at  the  eastern  end  of  Fall  Mallt  and  bore 
the  name  of  The  Gothic  Hall.  The  reputed  proprieTorsh/p  and 
active  management  of  this  certainly  superb  mansion  was  accmlited 
to   a   worthy   of  the   church,   known   familiarly  as  parson  A  , 

a  reverend,  who,  it  is  said,  was  not  restrained  from  making  moi 
by  any  excessive  feeling  of  respect  for  his  calling,  or  by  any  v 
delicate  consideration  as  to  the  means  of  realizing  the  needful. 
gentleman  was  a  man  of  wit  and  talent,  and  one  of  the  most 
and  calculating  being b  in  the  universe  :  he  valued  what  the  world  said 
him  in  the  same  degree  as  the  universe  may  be  supposed  to  regard 
private  opinion  which  an  individual  may  record  of  it*  He  was  a  Asa 
vitHintt  and,  as  Shakspearc  says,  **  a  fellow  of  infinite  merrnnent,** — 
full  of  information  and  anecdote,  and  abounding  in  worldly  philosophy. 
He  was  a  sportsman  also  of  no  mean  grade  or  capability  ;  be  and  hit 
curate  (arcades  amba)  have  been  known  to  have  iheir  fifteen  hunirni 
the  stable,  and  to  give  them  all  pretty  regular  work.  This  is  a  fact 
lated  by  the  curate  himself,  of  whom  an  extraordinary  anecdote  ta 
tant  and  within  the  knowledge  of  the  writer.  Some  years  back 
stood  at  the  crossing  of  Park  Lane  and  Piccadilly,  a  rery  dean  9sA 
particularly  respectable  looking  man,  who  daily  exercised  the  broom  for 
the  convenience  of  passengers  making  their  transit  between  the  eosteni 
and  western  corners  of  the  street.  He  never  asked  for  fee  or  reward 
for  hia  labour,  but  modestly  took  what  was  generously  offered  him. 
After  two  or  three  days*  position  in  this  spot  he  announced  to  paiftpg 
strangers  by  a  small  placard  placed  on  his  back,  that  he  was  a  dislreMd 
clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England,  a  piece  of  information  which  ii 
mediately  excited  much  syrnpathy  and  compassion  for  his  degraded  p' 
tion,  and  made  him  an  object  of  peculiar  interest.  It  produced  also 
due  effect  which  it  was  doubtless  thought  it  would  operate ;  for 
after  this  announcement  of  his  sacred  profession,  the  Reverend  Divine 
suddenly  disflppcareiij  and  two  or  three  roonlhs  afterwards  was  seen  al 
TattersalFs  in  a  bran  new  suit  of  sporting  clerical  cut,  making  survey  of 


AND   GAMESTERS. 


599 


a  fine  stud  of  hunters  that  were  about  to  be  sold.     The  individtial  al* 
luded  to  was  the  identical  quondam  curate  of  the  well*knowii  Parson 

A^ \ 

In  addition  to  Llie  two  houses  named,  rouge  et  noir  banks  were  opened 
by  different  parties  in  St*  James's   Stretl,   linry  Street,  Jermyn  Street, 
and  the  neighbouring^  localities,     IVlost  of  the  new  proprietors  conSncd 
their  play  within  narrower  limits  as  to  the  amount  of  Btake :  some  regu- 
lating it  from  half-a-crown  to  20/.;  others  from  5s.  to  50/,     This  op- 
portunity to  risk  smaller  stakes  than  had  then  hitherto  been  recognized, 
brought  not  only  an  increase  of  customers,  but  had  the  effect  also  of 
drawing  off  some  of  the  more   moderate  speculators  from  the  larger 
bouses.    A  few  months  seemed  to  work  sudden  and  marvellously  favour- 
able change  in  the  condition  of  one  and  all  of  these  new  proprietors, — »aii 
appearance  which  still  further  increased  their  number  and  degree.     In 
a  short  space  of  time  the  district  of  St.  Jameses  afforded  an  opportunity 
to  persons  of  all  grades  and  circumstances  to  indulge  in  the  nilimus 
and  destructive  pastime  of  play.     No.  6,  Bury  Street^  was  one  of  the 
newly  consthuted  maimmi  des  Jeux^  and  bad  great  custom  amongst  the 
middle,  and    occa^sionally  among  the  higher  classes   of  players.     The 
stakes  played  at   this  house  were  from  half-a-crown  to   20/ ;   and  the 
usual  nightly  capital  provided  by  the  bank  did  not  exceed  300/.* — a  sum 
fu:fficient  to  work  out   a  wondrous   increase  under  the  influence  of  the 
trente  et  un  per  centage,  and  a  little   luck   therewith,  as  the  following 
narrative  will  show*    A  foreign  gentleman,  of  great  commercial  business 
and  consideration  in  the  City,  well  known  and  of  large  credit  on  'Change, 
entered  this  house  one  evening,  accompanied  by  a  friend.     He  was  a 
"^reat  patron  of  the  game  of  rouge  et  noir,  and  occasionally  played  at 
the  superior  houses  to  win  or  lose  bis  fowr  or  five  hundred  pounds.     On 
tbis  occasion  he  seated  liimsclf  at  the  table  and   commenced  operations 
hj  play  log  bL  on  the  red  colour,  which  he  lost ;  he  then  played  10/.  on 
the   same  colour,    which  he  also  lost.     His    next  risk  was  20/.    (the 
bigbest  stake  allowed),  which  shared  the  fate  of  bb  previous  deposits* 
The  rules  of  the  house  not  permitting  auy  one  player  to  stake  more  than 
i80A  on  an  event,  there  was  no  way  for  this  gentleman  to  increase  bis 
■take  beyond  such  amount  hut  by  getting  bis  friend  to  put  down,  as  if 
lor  himself,  a  similar  sum,  which  he  did, — thereby  in  reality  increasing 
f'the  stake  to  40/.,  which  was  placed  upon  the  same  colour  of  red  and  lost, 
(«s  were  many  sums  of  the  same  amount.     The  hankers  finding  them- 
[•lelves  in  great  luck,  and  their  bank  increasing,  thought  it  a  favourable 
opportuoity  to   give  full  scope  to  the  tide  of  fortune,  and,  under  pre- 
tended courtesy  to  their  visitor,  they  hinted  to  him  that  as  he  was  evi- 
dently desirous  to  play  higher  stakes  they  would  for  once  break  through 
the  rule  of  the  establishment  and  permit  him  so  to  do,  and  would  leave 
it  to  him  to  name  the  amount  to  which  he  should  he  restricted.     The 
gentleman  accordingly  named  100/.  as  the  limit;  hut  continuing  to  lose 
at  that  amount,  and  having  again  availed  himself  of  his  friend's  pre- 
tence to  double  even  this  sum,  he  was  again  told  by  the  bankers  that  so 
klong  as  they  should  be  winners  of  him,  be  might  put  down  any  slake  he 
j»leased  not  exceeding  300/,     The  very  uext  coup  he  played  was  actually 
I  a  stake  of  that  large  amount,  and  the  event  turned  up  a /ity/^f  e/ w/* 
[  nprin,   which   gave  the  bank  title  to  draw  half  the  money  on  the  table. 
'The  300/.  was,   therefore,  divided,  and   a  similar  sum  was  again  staked 
and  lost.     The  brief  result  of  the  eight's  contest  was  that  the  gentle- 


()00 


GAMING,    GAMING-HOUSES,    AND    GAMESTERS, 


man  referred  to  lost  3000/.  in  notes  of  the  Goveroor  and  Company  of 
the  Bank  of  England ;  and  the  most  remarkable  feature  of  the  game 
was,  that  the  black  colour  won  twenty-two  times  consecutively  in  oppo- 
sition to  the  red,  which  he  had  so  obstinately  and  pertinacioasly  backed* 
The  calculations  against  such  an  occurrence  exceed  all  amount ;  and  it 
was  observed,  at  the   time,  to  be  an  event  unknown  in  the  annals  of 
rouge  playing^,  as  ascertained  by  reference  to  French  records  of  the 
game  in  the  shape  of  books  published,  exhibiting  all  the  deals  that  had 
from  time  to  time  occurred  at  Freseati's,  and  other  gaming-houses  in  the 
French  metropolis.     The  amount  thus  imprudently  lost  by  the  party  aU 
luded  to  was  equal  to  about  ten  times  the  sum  which  he  could  by  possi* 
bility  have  won  even  under  the  most  favourable  turn  of  fortune  I    Several 
other  players  were  also  amongst  the  unsuccessful,  under  the  same  ob* 
sticate  course  of  opposition.     The  bank  at  length   closed, —  the  two 
bankei*s  (Carlos  and  Mfl^<7),  retired  with  their  cash -box  (the  one  close 
on   the  heels  of  the  other  to  prevent  accidents)  to  an  apartment  up- 
stairs to  count  their  gains,   and,  as  would  naturally  be  supposed^  to  re-  1 
joice  on  the  happy  result  of  so  large  an  acquisition  to  their  m€an8  :  not  1 
so,   however,  for   they  bad   not  been  long  absent  when  several  persons  I 
who  had  remained  in  the  room  to  take  refreshment,  with   what  appetite 
they  could  after  their  losses, — and  amongst  such  persons  the  gentleman  ' 
who   had  so   largely  contributed  to  the  bank's  resources,  and  who  bore 
his  ill-forlune  with  extraordinary  equanimity, — were  alanncd  by  a  tre- 
mendous noise   from  over  head  as  of  the  falling  of  some  extraordinary 
weighty  and  by  the  accompanimeiU  of  loud,  violent,  and  abusive  language. 
A  rush  was  iramediately   made  up  stairs  to  discover  the  cause,  when  it  | 
turned   out  that   so  far  from  the   parties  being  in  that  happy  slate  of] 
amity  and   mutual   congratulation   of  each   other's  good  fortune,   they  f 
had  actually  quarrelled   respecting  the  division  of  the  spoil,  and  wound 
up  the  uflair  by  pugilistic  contest,  which  in  the  close  had  occasioned  the 
two  worthies  to  measure  their  respective  longitudes  on  the  6oor,     The 
occurrence  may  perhaps  in   some  degree   be  accounted  for  when  it  is] 
stated  that  one  of  the  parties  was  a  most  hot-headed  fellow, — a  perfect] 
maniac  in  his  pcm^sion, — and  it  might  have  been  that  owing,  to  some  iroa* 
ginary   affront  by  his  partner,  he,  under  momentary  excitement,  had  in*| 
flicled  summary  punishment  on   the  offender,    whose  part  in  the  frayl 
might  have  been  a  mere  act  of  self-defence  from  further  violence.    The  I 
surmise  will  not  appear  improbable  when  it   ib  related  of  the  same  iras- 
cible person,— who,  by  the  way,  had  been  an  officer  in  the  army, — that 
taking  personal  offence  once  at  some  observation  made  by  a  gentleman 
(a   colonel  in  the   army)   at  the  table,   he  suddenly  rushed  out  of  the, 
room,  and   in  a  few   momenta  returned  with  a  brace  of  formidable  pi*"l 
tola,  one  of  which  he  hastily  and   angrily  presented  to  the  colonel,  andl 
insisted  on  inmiediate  satisfaction  on  the  spot.      Mischief,  however,  wii 
happily  prevented  by  some  of  the  company  seizing  the  madman  and  ae- 
curing  the  deadly  weapons,  which  on  examination  were  absolutely  found 
to  be   loaded.     It   is  scnrcely   necessary  to  add,  that  having  expressed 
due  indignation  at  the  insolence  and  infamy  of  such  conduct,  the  whole 
company   left   the  place  ;  and   it  was  some  time  before  the  house  rtCO- 
vered  from  the  prejudice  to  which  the  event  gave  rise. 


601 

THE  DUCHESS  OF  ST.  ALBANS. 

ENNOBLED  ACTRESSES, 

BY    MRS.  MATHEWS. 

The  stage  is  the  imitation  of  life,  the  mirror  of  manners,  the  representation  of 
truth. — Cicero. 

There  was  an  ancient  law  in  Egypt,  by  which  the  actions  and  cha- 
racters of  the  dead  were  examined  in  the  presence  of  competent  judges^ 
in  order  to  determine  what  was  due  to  their  memory.  A  wise  and  whole- 
some provision  for  posterity's  use  I  Such  an  existing  law  would  make 
honest  tombstones,  and  spare  much  monumental  marble,  while  it  be« 
nefited  the  cause  of  truth  and  virtue. 

Without,  however,  any  such  law  set  down  for  us,  our  good  and 
evil  actions  are  subjected  to  an  unerring  judge  on  earth,  which,  as 
surely  as  the  Egyptian  scrutiny,  will  test  and  determine  the  quality 
and  amount  of  every  one's  deeds  '<  done  in  the  flesh.'* 

Of  the  subject  before  us,  much  has  been  hastily  said  and  prematurely 
written,  which,  when  tested  by  our  "old  common  arbitrator  Time"  may 
be  found  erroneous,  if  not  altogether  false.  The  defects  and  merits  of 
the  Duchess  of  St.  Albans  have  not  been  weighed  by  the  even  hand  of 
one  personally  acquainted  with  either.  Thus  many  of  her  public  acts 
have  been  misquoted,  and  her  sequestered  habits  (which  who  that  wrote 
of  them  could  know  ?)  dragged  forward  in  a  distorted  shape,  in  order^ 
as  it  would  seem,  to  swell  the  catalogue  of  prejudices,  cherished  against 
her  former  profession,  by  those 

<^  Dread  reformers  of  an  impious  age. 
The  awful  c<U  o'-nine'taiU  of  the  stage," 

who  invariably  appear  to  forget  that  the  errors  of  actors  and  actresses 
are  but  the  errors  of  humanity.  We  knew  and  liked  "  Harriet  MelUm,* 
and  though  in  after  time  socially  separated,  retained  an  interest  and 
means  which  gave  us  continuous  knowledge  of  her  '<  whereabout."  Thus, 
with  an  accurate  key  to  her  original  character,  we  shall  open  to  the 
reader  a  straightforward  view  of  the  principal  acts  and  events  of  her 
life,  unintercepted  or  obscured  by  popular  prejudices,  or  the  confessed 
partiality  of  our  early  feelings.  1*0  begin  then  at  the  beg^inning,  upon 
which  we  lay  some  peculiar  but  necessary  stress^  in  reference  to  our 
heroine's  early  disadvantages — 

The  maternal  grandfather  and  grandmother  of  '*  Harriet  Mellon,"  as 
she  was  familiarly  and  indeed  generally  called  *'  when  she  was  young  and 
dim^  were  of  the  humblest  class  of  Irish  peasantry,  residing  in  Cork,  and 
deriving,  with  their  only  child,  a  meagre  subsistence  from  the  cultivation 
of  a  small  patch  of  ground  annexed  to  their  cabin.  The  husband  dying, 
this  property  fell  from  the  widow,  who,  with  her  daughter,  was  com- 
pelled to  seek  *'  the  bit  o'  livin"  elsewhere ;  the  latter,  a  sharp-eyed,  alert, 
and  capable  body,  obtained  admission  into  the  family  of  a  petty  general 
shopkeeper,  of  course  as  executive-general  in  kitchen,  parlour,  and  hall. 

Sarah  (we  are  obliged  to  stint  ourselves  to  her  baptismal  appellation, 
her  patronymic  having  escaped  us)  was,  by  nature  and  habit,  admirably 
fashioned  and  fitted  to  her  appointed  duties  ;  for,  gifted  as  she  was  with 
a  store  of  natal  brogue^  her  pedal  activity  had  never  till  then  been 
cramped  by  any  other,  neither  had  her  sturdy  leg  and  sufficient  ankle 
been  straitened  by  the  produce  of  the  loom ;  while  her  knotted  and 
combined  locks,  which  knew  no  other  covering  but  the  sun, — were 
little  subjected  **  to  paper  durance,"  or  the  intrusion  of  a  brush.     In 


602 


ENNOBLED   ACTRESSES. 


a  state  approach  in  g  to  the  nakml  simplicity  cyf  ancient  Sparta,  did  tiiisl 
single-minded  maid,  m  her  country's  phrase^  '*work  her  feet  up  to  hefl 
knees"  for  her  daily  hread»  when  the  lynx-eyed  retailer  of  tobacco  atidl 
tape,  whose  daily  practice  at  her  counter  had  given  an  accurate  itijiight 
to  general  measurement,  perceiving  her  servant's  waist  to  be  no  long 
like  that  of  Prior's  Emma,  *'  fiw}  by  degrees  and  beautifully  less/*  and 
that  her  maiden  girdle  proved  too  short,  sent  her  back  to  her  only  su 
viving  parent,  who,  with  a  mother's  love  which  clings  to  her  child 
all  the  world  has  forsaken  it,  received  her  with  open  arms. 

At  this  critical  period  an  event  occured  which  tended,  as  Sarah 
after  life  fancifully  expressed  it,  t/>  give  a  cokniHiu;  to  kerf  ale  I  This  even 
was  the  arrival  of  an  itinerant  troop  of  **  divarters,"  miglice^  strollinfl 
players,  bound  for  Wales,  but  landed  by  misadventure  at  Cork,     Thui 
compelled  from  their  course,  they  sought  to  supply  the  exigencies  of  i 
night's  stay,  and  of  their  ensuing  voyage,  by  performing  in  a  bam,  ^ 
luitously  granted  them  by  a  benevolent  farmer,  by  whose  favour  ou 
fair  Milesian  gained  a  seat  at  the  intellectual  banquet 

Sarah  was  at  this  time  just  "  rising"  four  and  twenty,  by  nature  of! 
lively  and  sanguine  temperament ;  but  the  dark  passage  in  her  on 
love  s  history  had  awakened  naturally  her  tenderest  sympathy  for  othen 
wt>e,  and  the  disastrous  history  of  the  ungentle  Juliet^  together  wi 
*'  the  cunning  of  the  scene/'  so  moved  Sarah's  corresponding  nature  thj 
something  told  her  she  was  born  for  tragedy ;  and  in  this  persuasio 
she  retired  from  the  scene  of  excitement  to  her  closet  But  there  '*  no 
curtained  sleep  had  she,'*  partly,  **  because  she  had  no  curtains  to  he 
bed,''  partly,  because  the  voice  of  her  dtUimjy  as  she  belieped^  was  lou 
and  clamorous,  and  only  to  be  appeased  by  the  resolution  she  took 
applying  the  next  morning  for  admission  into  Mn  and  Mrs*  Kena1| 
company,  representing  herself  to  be  the  widow  of  a  Lieutenant  Mello 
Those  experienced  and  well-judging  manofferat  were  in  fact  in  want  of  i 
assistant  hthind  rather  ihan  hf'fhre  the  curtain,  and  seeing  a  sturdy  nsA 
e0iclent  aid  in  the  plump,  but  active  hronettc  before  them,  judiciouslj 
suggested  to  her,  that  as  it  was  indispensably  necessary  she  should  learn  t 
Ttad  before  she  could  fully  enter  into  the  study  of  Shakspeare,  ih*^ 
might  for  the  present  611  the  then  vacant  departments  of  cook,  houtfi^ 
and  nursery-maid,  sempstress,  stage -dresser,  and  ^mrdrobe-keejier.  The 
latter  office  being  merely  R8i?tt'cun\  Mrs.  Lieutenant  Mellon  did  not  deem 
derogatory  lo  the  widow  of  an  officer,  (whose  pension,  we  must  assume, 
she  was  too  proud  to  claim,)  and  the  five  first  she  was  willing  to  perform 
con  amf/re — L  r.,  for — love  and  pi^o^mon — while,  by  a  little  ttttdy^  she 
might  be  enabled  &(yine  ivet  apenwon^  comfortably  to  read  Shakspear 
through,  and  so  become  competent  to  appear — in  ttansatlanlic  phra 
ologjf — npo7i  the  floor  of  the  respective  barns  in  Wales,  through 
which  Mr.  Ken  as  company  was  wont  to  *»  tratfeV  All  prelimins 
arranged,  our  fair  candidate  for  histrionic  fame  quitted  her  native  la 
and  only  surviving  parent  for  ever.  During  her  probationary  stale, 
Sarah  duly  became  a  mother, — a  fine  girl,  born  on  the  1 1th  of  Novem- 
ber, 1777,  being  the  fruit  of  her  union  with  her  lost  Mellon,  which  event, 
with  the  subse<|uent  cares  attendant  upon  reariug  the  first -bom,  matemlly 
interfered  with  the  Shakspearean  sttidies^  and  indeed  so  retarded  thfoit 
that  she  was  compelled  for  the  time  to  relinquish  all  thoughts  of  publicly 
contributing  lo  the  success  of  her  employers  '* concern, '  as  it  was  not 
inappropriately  caWed  b'j  \)a  oN^net%,  \\i\^\^  ^^tsx  ^t^-o^Wi^  the  birth  of 
the  little  Unrr'^i  (^our  VeiveelonV V^iccvm^T^^  ^ '^qsiiOcsiihA \Px>.i\^\Maw  yw  %fc<4. 


ENNOBLED   ACTRESSES. 


60S 


tbe  theatre^  somehow  contrived  to  engage  the  widowed  affections  of 
Mrs.  Lieutenant  Mellon.  How  he  could  presume  to  look  so  high  for 
a  wife,  as  the  undow  of  an  ofit'er,  and  how  she  came  to  look  so  htv — to 
use  a  favourite  word  of  hers^io  after  years,  as  the  orchestni  for  a  hus- 
band, we  do  not  pretend  to  €»xplain»  for  we  simply  relate  that,  although 
some  years  the  young  musician's  senior^  she  married  him  ;  that  is,  before 
two  witnesses ;    thiis,  as  the  undoubted   wife  of   Mr.  Entwistle,  terrai- 

i  Hated  the  romantic  portion  of  the  late  Mrg.  Licfite/tantMelhnsVife, 
Mr.  Entwistle,  though  on  a  parity  ju  matters  of  taste  and  pursuits, 
was  far  superior  to  his  lady  in  point  of  education,  and  it  followed,  that  in 
course  of  time  the  young  husband  bestowed  upon  bis  elder  half — what 
has  been  aptly  termed  **  a  dartgcnm^  //*/«</"— namely,  a  fU/lr  kitrniny. 
Certes,  he  taught  her  to  read,  but  whether  her  aUainmenta  ever 
reached  as  high  as  the  writing-desk,  history  has  not  revealed;  but  we 
believe  all  thoughts  of  furthering  the  interests  of  the  drama,  an<l  up- 
holding the  fame  of  our  inspired  bard,  were  relinr|uished  for  the  impedi- 
ments found  in  completing  her  preparatory  stmiies.  As  for  her  "  father- 
less orphin,"  aji  her  mamma  pensively  termed  her  little  Mellon,  she 
80  endeared  herself  to  her  young  step-father,  that  he  undertook 
to  instruct   the  little   lively   creature  in   all   he  himself  knew.    This 

J  to  be  sure,  was  not  much,  but  in  the  eyes  of  her  mother  a  load. 
Thus  rescued,  as  we  have  described,  in  her  childhood  from  a  state 
of  total  ignorance,  in  which,  left  wholly  with  her  mother,  she  must 
have  remained,  the  poor  little  creature  had  fio  advantages  from  the 
union  of  a  woman  of  coarse  and  uninformed  mind,  and  a  man  of  vulgar 
and  sottish  habits.  Mrs.  En  tw  is  tie  was,  indeed^  ti  painful  person;  re- 
collecting her  at  that  period  of  her  life,  when  the  heyday  in  the  blood 
is  supposed  to  be  tame,  her  furious  temper  appalled  even  our  child's 
heart ;  and  pitiable  must  it  have  been  to  a  reflecting  mind  to  observe 
the  daughter,  a  fine  creature,  then  in  her  first  youth,  exposed  to  all  the 
base  impresaionSj  likely  to  sink  deep  and  indelibly  into  a  fresh  and 
ardent  nature.  How  a  imm<tn  can  inflict  corporal  suffering  upon 
any  sentient  being,  must  ever  be  a  marvel  ;  but  for  a  mothers  hand  to 
deal  a  blow  upon  defenceless  infancy,  is 

**  An  act  at  whidi  inverted  nature  Btarts, 
And  Lilusheft  to  behold  iuelf  »o  cruel  !'* 

Mrs.  Entwistle  was  one  of  those  teachimj  parents  who  beat  the  child  for 
having  fallen  down  and  hurt  herself*  Indeed,  to  the  last  years  of  her 
life  she  was  addicted  to  the  vulgar  eloquence  of  blows ;  her  favourite 
threat,  in  her  fierce  vein,  when  any  one  stood  between  her  and  her  ma- 
tcnial  wrath,  was — ^with  certain  expletives  which  we  omit — *'  Let  me 
get  at  her  I  let  me  get  at  her  1  and  111  be  the  dtalh  of  her  I"  Thb 
formidable  person  had  been  in  herjenn^ssc  what  people  of  her  own  class 
and  country  would  have  called  good  looking ;  h^t  featuresy  which  those  of 
her  daiighter  closely  resembled,  were  decidedly  good,  and  her  face  alto- 
gether well  formed,  though  afterwards  Joujliic  by  bad  passions  and 
coarse  self-indulgence;  but  the  expression  of  her  black  lustrous  eyes, 
and  the  character  of  her  dark  browns,  were,  what  may  best  be  de- 
scribed under  the  term  forbiddint}.  And  if  to  true  discernment  the 
heart  is  in  the  face,  the  heart  of  Mrs,  Entwistle  must  have  been  formed 
of  rude  and  perilous  stuff, — while,  in  her  exasperated  mood^  the  ^ouwd 
of  her  voice  bruised  the  ear  '*  like  l\ie  b\asl  q^  ¥m^^\w>^\^  ^<£"^^x\.V 
He  are  not  allowed  *'  ample  scope  and  uet^e  ^nou^'  m  'Owsi*^  ' 


604 


ENNOBLED    ACTRESSES. 


for  a  detail  of  the  vicissitudes  of  Miss  Mellon *s  rise  to  womaobood,  and 
her  profession :  it  may  suflice  to  record  her  early  initiatioD  into  sta^ 
mysteries  in  the  little  theatre  alluded  to  in  diildrens  cfiaracttrM  (then 
much  in  vog^ue)  ;  and  that  she  found  herself,  about  the  year  1789,  a 
meraber  of  Mr,  Stanton's  small  but  respectable  theatrical  circuit,  which 
included  Stafford  and  other  principal  towns  of  the  country.  In  the 
year  1793»  the  two  Members  for  StafiFord,  Sheridan  and  the  Hoo* 
E,  Monclon,  bespoke  a  play  ;  on  which  night  our  heroine  appeared 
in  the  characters  of  Letltia  Hardy  and  FrUciUa  Tomboy,  The 
Honourable  Members  paid  her,  at  the  close  of  the  evening,  an  infinity 
of  those  time-serving  compUments  which  were  more  the  result  of 
generous  wine  and  habitual  gallantry  than  any  solid  conviction  of  the 
youn^  actress's  professional  superiority.  In  short,  Mr.  Sheridan*t 
intoxicating  praise  and  fascinaitng  manners,  infused  a  deep  and 
abiding  reliance  in  the  minds  of  those  interested ;  and  bis  con- 
cluding promise  of  a  London  engagement  was  not  forgotten  by  any  of 
the  party  but  hiTmeif.  The  senator  returned  to  town,  and  thought 
DO  more  of  the  Stafford  actress,  or  of  the  hopes  he  had  created ;  not  ao 
the  object  of  his  flattering  promises,  or  her  aspiring  mother.  As 
as  possible  they  betook  themselves  to  that  seat  of  hurry  and 
ambitious  merit,  Loudon,  presenting  themselves  and  their  hopes  before 
the  great  man ;  who,  quite  perplexed  what  to  do  with  the  expectants^ 
kept  ihem  in  daily  attendance  and  uncertainty  until,  their  little  stock  of 
money  being  exhausted,  they  obuincd  Jeiters  from  some  of  Mr. 
Sheridan 8  constituents,  urging  his  interest  in  his  own  theatre,  in  favour 
of  their  protegee  ;  and  on  the  ensuing  October  of  1 793,  Miss  Mellon 's 
name  appeared,  for  the  first  tune  in  a  London  play-bill  as  something 
less  than  a  chorus  sinyer  ! 

The  truth  is,  Mr.  Sheridan  was  at  all  times  %  promising  nutruM^er^  but 
as  he  was  at  no  time  a  perfyrmer,  he  could  not  be  expected  to  feel  for 
the  mortification  tie  had  caused  the  young  actress.  Again,  therefore* 
poor  Harriet  had  recourse  to  the  influence  of  her  Stafford  patrons,  who 
ultimately  drew  from  Mr.  Sheridan  his  slow  leave  that  she  should 
have  an  appmraui^^i  part ;  and,  aa  her  name  had  been  blotted  in 
the  public  eye,  it  was  deemed  expedient  to  announce  her  on  the  present 
occasion  as  a  Young  Lady^  by  theatrical  interpretation  but  an  unpro- 
mising title  to  success.  Thu3  Miss  Mellon  made  her  appearance  as  Lydia 
LaiujnUh^  in  Sheridan *s  own  **  Rivals/'  which  in  effect  was  but  a  feebla 
effort,  and  the  Staffordshire  Thalia  was  turned  back  to  commingle  again 
with  the  chorus  singers.  In  this  indistinguishable  position  the  poor 
girl  remained  the  greater  part  of  the  season,  clinging  to  the  green-room 
and  her  hopes  from  night  to  night,  subjected  when  at  home  to  her  dissatit- 
fied  mother's  inhuman  reproaches  and  abuse  for  her  **  tow^^'  and  gro- 
velling spirit  in  remaining  in  such  a  situation.  **  A  low  chorus  singer 
Harriet,  and  with  such  high  blood  in  your  veins  I*'  Accident,  how- 
ever, proved  "  Harriet's  **  friend,  in  the  absence  of  one  of  the  minor 
performers,  whose  humble  character  was  entrusted  to  her,  and  for  the 

Jirst  time  our  heroine  acted  with  the  darling  of  Thalia*  Mrs.  Jordan, 
whose  like  we  ne'er  shall  see  again  !  Fascinated,  she  returned  home 
in  a  stale  of  enthusiasm,  and  might  aptly  have  exclaimed, 

**  O.  mother  1 
A  Wghtmtt^  fiu&\v\^iA  <^'A'in^it\  \Tkv^«ad  never 
Can  vhose  c^e*  we  \xuia  i^^hjaw  V^ 

for  from  this  bour  ^He  Ioo\l  Vo  ^Bi%\v\otk  \\^ix%^M  w^^wew  ^O^sa  xond^ 


I 
I 


ENNOBLED    ACTRESSES, 


her,  aud,  like  other  ynung  actresses  of  Ker  time,  became  a  dose  copy, 
not  a  reserManctj  for 

*'  None  but  benelf  could  be  her  pnralleL'^ 
By  such  fortuitoiia  means,  Miss  Mellon  crept  mto  favour  with  the 
management  and  the  public, —  to  which  in  candour  it  must  be  added,  her 
fine  person  and  handsome  face  principally  recommended  her ;  at  the 
same  time,  attentive  study,  and  tasteful  costume,  were  not  unappre- 
ciated. In  like  manner  our  heroine  rose  to  a  very  creditable  point 
In  her  profession ;  and  if  not  at  any  period  greaij  she  was  always 
correct  and  agreeable;  whilst  her  ingenuous  manners,  and  strict 
propriety  behind  the  scenes,  together  with  her  known  admirable  adhe- 
rence to  her  mother,  under  all  the  rigour  of  her  inhuman  dispositioni 
made  her  beloved  and  commended  by  all  who  knew  her  ; — indeed, 
a  more  popular  person  never  existed  than  **  Harriet    Mellon," 

We  come  now  to  a  period  of  Miss  Mellon's  history,  from  which  seve- 
ral events  took  their  date,  and  regulated  much  of  her  after  life.  Miss 
Mellon  made  acquaintance  with  a  joung  person  nearly  of  her  own  age, 
the  daughter  of  a  respectable,  but  decayed  tradesman.  She  was  hand- 
some, gentle,  sensible,  and  well-raannered.  The  friendship  of  these 
young  people  was  little  less^  sudden  and  ardent  than  that  of  the  romantic 
ladies  in  Mr.  Canning's  **  Rovers  ;**  and  Miss  Mellon's**  slight  acquaint- 
was   still    more   endeared  to    her    new   friend,   as  being  the  medium 

of  an  attachment  of  a  more  tender  nature.      A  Mr.  B had  become 

enamoured  of  the  blooming  Harriet,  who  frankly  gave  him  love  for 
love.  This  gentleman,  though  confessedly  not  rich,  had  *♦  ^reat  erpeo 
tancies/*  but  when  did  true  love— first  love — imuuins  love,  think  of  any 
riches  beyond  the  heart's  treasure  ?  The  rising  actress  had  attained  to  a 
rising  salary*  and  this,  with  love,  was  all-sufficient — at  all  events  until 
the  rich  relation  to  whom  Mr.  B.  was  heir,  died.  Though  the  gentle- 
man had  been  plausibly  introduced  in  Little  Russell  street,  the  under- 
plot of  the  drama  was  conducted  with  all  the  secresy  that  novel- reading 
tni^ses  of  the  day^ — when  the  Minerva  Press  flourished,  and  inculcated 
any  thing  but  wmlom — delighted  to  practise.  But  independent  of  this 
Lt/difj  Laitt/tdsk  propensity  for  deceiving  our  friends  and  relations  in 
matters  of  the  heart,  Harriet  Mellon  knew  well  that  her  mother's  views 
were  oppose«l  to  trnt/  change,  and  least  of  all,  such  change  as  *'  a  jtemti^ 
less  hu»hitnd  could  give" — or  that  could  interfere  with  the  exclusive 
system  of  domination  she  had  hitherto  practised  over  her  daughter* 
Concealment  was  therefore  imperatively  necessary — but  not  longer 
poshible.  Mrs.  Entwistle  discovered  the  attachment,  and  her  furj*  knew  no 
bounds.  She  knew  the  unfortunate  lover  had  neither  present  means 
nor  expectant  wealth  ■  of  this  she  convinced  her  daughter,  who  in  a 
transport  of  indignation  immediately  resigned  him,  net  because  he  was 
pooi\  but  because  a  woman's  heart  can  furgive  all  things  in  the  man 
she  loves  bnt  deception  ;  and  when,  like  the  daughter  of  Tilbury *8 
Governor,  she  cried,  "  Duty  behold,  I  am  all  over  thine  f  it  was 
more  in  resentment  at  her  Lover's  disingenuousness,  than  any  dimi- 
nution of  her  attachment  for  bim.*  Notwithstanding  the  "swashing 
and  niartial  outside"  with  which  poor  Harriet  bore  this  disappointment, 
there  is  little  doubt  but  that  it  was  severely  felt.     Meanwhile  the  in- 

*  Th«  uiif'iirtuiitive  ^«iiiJeiuaii  mom  ^(vat  thin  eveut  weut  tu  M2«k  his  fytrtUUii  ia 
Iiitlia,  where  it  wua  baii]  he  fcU  u  victim  t(»  the  dinuekVe. 


€06 


EKNOBLED    ACTRESSES- 


fluencc  of  her  favourite  daily  gained  ground,  aod 
creased  that  of  the  queen  mother,  hence  ensued  enlarged 
hies,  and  oiithreaks  of  the  demon  Temper,  in  which  it  u  to  It 
feared  ''her  Harriet'"  hore  her  part  with  a  tolerable  grace;  «i 
implicit  ohedience  was  no  longer  yielded.  Pending  t2us  effect  Md 
Entwistle,  who  had  heen  engaged  in  the  orchestra  at  Drurj-koesA 
'*  second  vioUn/*  (for  he  had  ceased  after  his  marriage  to  plaj  jot 
Sddle)f  was  for  some  irregulanty  discharged  from  his  situstton;  \m 
totally  unemployed  life  gave  leisure  for  still  greater  indulgence  in  b- 
temperate  habits,  and  his  step-daughter  felt  that,  '^  though  she  W 
hound  to  him  as  her  kinsman,  she  was  nothing  allied  to  his  disordfft;" 
and  finding  that  neither  hudband  nor  wife  could  separate  thaDKliU 
from  their  misdemeanours,  she  delivered  her  indignation  by  word  of 
mouth,  finally  proposiing  a  separation  of  persona  and  interesti. 
Mrs.  Eutwistle  was  utterly  astounded — 

^<  \^lieii  on  our  headi  it  brings  ihe  oeilliig 
The  bave  begins  to  show  iu  feeling/* 

Her  selfishness  was  touched  to  the  quick  by  •*  her  Harriet's ' 
assumption  of  power,  yet — let  us  deliver  all  id  charity.  Odioui 
this  woman  was,  her  present  feelings  might  not  be  all  selfish ; 
thing  of  the  mother  at  a  moment  of  purposed  separation  from  sn 
child,  possibly — nay»  probably — struggled  with  her  otherwise  tintatt* 
nine  character ;  and,  as  it  is  said  every  metal  contains  some  Quantity  ol 
gold,  so  some  spark  of  goodness  may  be  eitracted  from  the  iurdeil 
nature;— a  mother's  heart  must  still  retain,  however  £uatly,  the  inhe- 
re at  stamp  of  nature. 

Her  daughter,  however,  had  now  reached  a  period  of  life  i 
period  it  often  proves)  when  young   ladies  learn    to   believe 
are  able  to  judge  and  act  for  themselves,  and  she  revealed  to  her  motlifr 
a  decision  of  character  and  force  of  will  little  inferior  to  her  owo^  wHk 
a  tone  of  command  little  less  arbitrary  and  disputable. 

A  great  statesman  once  declared  that  the  secret  of  human  gofi^v* 
ment  is  a  ntaji/rUt/.  Miss  Mellon  held  the  same  opinion,  for  at  this 
juncture  she  called  in  her  newly -made  friend  and  ally,  and  together 
taking  her  mother  in  the  most  subdued  vein,  they  placed  the  matter 
before  her  in  such  nnajiswerable  terms,  that  she  was  almost  silenced. 
In  fact,  she  felt  herself  in  the  ffvinoriiy,  it  was  two  to  one  against  bcr 
stay,  and  after  one  or  more  experimental  struggles  to  regain  domtKtkm 
over  her  lost  throne^  prudence  wanly  took  her  by  the  ear  and  whispered 
submission  to  what  she  could  not  controb* 

Ttius  emancipated  from  domestic  thraldom,  the  first  use  Miss  Me  _ 
made  of  her  liberty,  was  to  domesticate  her  young  friend  with  her,  in 
Little  Kussell  Street,  and  friendship  in  its  most  enthusiastic  form  suo 
ceeded  the  brief  reign  of  early  passion.  This  continued  for  upwards 
of  twelve  years,  when  it  died  a  sudden  and  violent  death. 

About  the  period  of  Mr*  and  Mrs.  Eutwistle's  departure  from  their 
daughter's  roof,  an  old  gentleman,  sordidly  dressed  and  of  meek  de- 
portment, was  seen  occasionally  in  the  green  room  of  Dmry  Lane 
Thtatre,  in  common  with  more  noble  and  distinguished  h^bkuU^ 
course  of  time  he  was  observed  to  enter  Miss  Mellon's  humble  dwellin 


leUcH 


*  MiRfi  Mdlmi  uUim«tely  obmined  for  her  fsiber-in  Uw  the  situation  of  j 

miist«r  lie  Clitilteubum. 


ENNOBLED    ACTRESSES. 


607 


and  it  being  knowo  that  the  rich  banker  frequently  visited  tbe  friends, 
mElice  iosinuated  that 

^^  Old  as  h«  wfts,  for  ladi«a  \ot€  unfit, 

Tliu  power  of  beauty  he  rememiMjred  yet,** 

And  day  by  day  new  slanders  were  circulated,  and  Misa  Mellon *8  patron 
informed  of  tbe  injurious  impressions  against  his  protiyie^  bis  friend- 
ship took  a  more  ciindid  and  decided  course,  and  be  did  at  last  what 
it  is  to  be  regretted  he  did  not  do  at  firsts  he  introduced  her  to  his 
daughters,  tbe  MarchioDess  of  Bute,  tbe  Comitess  of  Guilford,  and 
Lady  Burdett,  (matrons  of  unHpotted  fame,)  wbo,  with  their  families, 
thenceforth  exhibited  the  most  public  and  friendly  regard  for  her, 

**'  The  snake  wm  scotched,  nut  killed.*' 

That  aught  but    a    paternal  regard  actuated  Mr,   Coutts's   continuous 

friendship  for  Miss  Mellon,  no  person  who  really  knew  fur  or  him  ever 

believed;   and  there  is  little  doubt  hut  that  the  otherwise  unjust  nut* 

mises  first    suggested    the   result    which     probably    had    never    been 

thought    of  by   either    party.     However  this    may  be,   the    period   at 

length  arrived  which  made  these  odds  all  even.     Mrs.  Coutts,  who  bad 

long  been   in   a  state  of  helpless  imbecility»  expired  suddenly  from  an 

accident  ;and  in  the  February  of  the  following  year,  li>i5,  Miss  Mellon 

withdrew   from    the  stage,    after  performing  the  character  of  Audrey 

fin  **  As  You  Like  It/'  without  other  intimation  of  her  intention  than   a 

[friendly  whisper  to  Mr.  Bannister   {the  Toucketinie  of  tbe  night)  that  it 

I  was  tbe  hst  tim^  she  should  appear  with  him  iu  public,     in  this  abrupt 

[mnd  uneitpected  manner,  after  21   years  upon  the  London  stage,  ended 

I  Miss  Meilon's  professional  career,  and  on  the  2nd  of  March  tbe  public 

I  journals  formally  announced  the  marriage  of  **  Miss  Mellon  of  Holly 

I  Lodge,  Highgate,  to  Thomas  Coutts,  Esq.'** 

In  respect  to  the  date  of  this  marriage  tt  must  be  admitted  that  Mr, 
Coutts^s  advanced  age  and  precarious  life  rendered  delay  hazardous  to 
bis  premeditated  intentions  of  making  sucb  provision  for  his  prottgte 
as  could  only  be  enjoyed  by  hu  widow y  without  perpetuating  the  slanders 
I  previously  put  forth  against  her  by  their  long  intimacy.  The  injury 
Buffered  by  Miss  Mellon  in  consequence  of  her  benefactor's  liberality 
r  donsidered,  it  was  not  unnatural  on  her  part  to  be  anxious  to  see  herseu 

And  her«  let  vl%  diBntiuBie  otir  renders  of  a  capiinl  error  in  retatiim  to  JUla  Mgt- 
\hn**Jirtt  aeq\tijfUiofVi^fwmUh^x\\ii  famed  hlter^  ticket.  Previous  to,  and  at  the 
[  iK?riod  of  Mr.  Coutt'i  fimt  intimacy  with  Mix^  Mellon,  hhe  was  fond  of  tpeculjiting 
fin  the  lottery  ^  and  like  mnny  other  people  of  narrow  means  and  sanguine  tenipe- 
1  ramentR,  she  siifTered  her  hope»  continualty  to  dwell  on  the  expectation  of  y;{iin  from 
J  i^ft  Eldorado  of  the  east,.  &nd  nev^er  failed,  however  difficult  the  meAnan,  to  expend 
[;Snniiidiy  small  sumi  in  the  purchase  of  shares ;  n  character] stic  reliance  on  dr«iim», 
land  other  auguries,  which  suggested  luckif  numbers,  keeping  her  ever  divo  to  tilti- 
I  luate  gaiu.  The  manner  in  which  these  hope«  were  cherished,  and  the  diiuip|H>itil' 
^menta  surrooanted^  aznuxed  Mr,  Couttt  exceedingly  ;  whoKO  good  will,  seconded  by 
Idits  ample  mew,  tuggeated  a  kindly  strat»g«m  by  which  to  augment  hm  young 
[  ^end*t  preMtnt  comlbirti,  and  ensure  a  solid  CAjntinuance  of  them.  He  proposed  to 
Pilier  old  friend,  Blr,  Wewtlser,  who  was  often  present  at  the  banker's  visit*,  a  plan 
i»by  which  bis  wishes  might  he  put  in  force,  without  exciting  the  scruples  or  wound. 
■  ling  the  delicacy  of  Mis^  Mellon.  It  was  to  persuade  her  to  rauke  one  large  vetUure 
K-in  place  of  the  many  small  ones,  which  so  diKsipated  her  money,  and  by  the  pur- 
'iMeof  a  whoie  ticket,  bribe  Fortune  to  be  kind,  and  turn  the  wheel  in  her  favour, 
l^ilh  tome  diificulty  this  ru«£  succeeded.  Wewitzer  was,  as  usual,  sent  to  make 
9  puEvhoie  with  the  accumulation  of  some  weeks'*  deduction  from  her  salary  ;  and 
in  the  course  of  time  the  ticket^  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  piToved  a  ynxt  \  '^^. 
Wewitxer,  the  lucky  agent,  received  the  inoney,  w\\\cYv  \\e  \mv^  v«  Vv%  ^\?v\>^Vft^ 
yoang  friend  in  nsw  bank^noiee ;  and  she,  who  Viaid  ivcvot  ^(Ma^fiM^  taoiw  i^i»5i.  » 


COS  S^OBLED  ACniESSES. 

MCtttcid  horn  fatajpi  malice  and  oooliiigcscies  by  an  honourable  title  and 
Ibctmie.  Tliai  Bffiaa  Melloo  deserved  tbe  Tile  interpretatiofit  wbich  tbe 
prejudiced  or  naUcioiia  pot  upon  Mr.  Coatts'&  benefits  we  never  be- 
fimd,  ooiMaderiBg  faer  at  all  time*  **  moeX  straight  in  virtue  :**  otberwiae 
ooold  Am  liave  ventured  upon  tbe  violent  dbmissal,  from  ber 
and  fiivou-,  of  the  aereral  persons  who  bad  been  so  coD6denttally  i 
and  ifnntin*^  frith  aU  her  aecrela?  Had  tbe  fortunale  lottery 
been  alia fiibkb  or  eoonlved  at  bj  Miss  Mellon,  would  sbe  bave  ventn 
lo  dmard  llie  pwttkemtr  at  so  critical  a  period  of  ber  history,  and  risk 
bii  resentment  with  such  a  secret  in  his  power  ?  But  in  the  many 
m£ti  acts  of  inconsuncy,  and  which  undoubtedly  sullied  the  character  of 
Miu  MMm,  ifn.  CouUs,  and  tbe  Duehm  of  St  AlbanM,  not  ofi«  of  her 
discarded  dependants  or  confidants  ever  attempted  to  impugn  tbe  moral 
conduct  of  their  capricious  patroness. 

During  the  year  of  Miss  Mellon's  marria^  Mrs.  Entwistle,  happtly»  as 
we  onist  think  for  her  daughter,  died*     Her  maternal  merits  were  re-  I 
warded  by    a  costly  funeral,   and  perpetuated  by  a  second  monument  I 
erected  some  yean  after  by  **  her  qfeetianate  daughter ,  Harriet,  Buekm  I 

As  soon  as  Miss  Mellon 's  marriage  was  proclaimed,  sbe  was  aasailed  by  , 
aboBl  of  venal  scribblers 

^  Whose  pniae  brinf^i  no  profit,  mod  whoie  ce&mre  no  dlsgnoB." 

These  base  attempts  to  extort  money  from  the  fears  to  which  new-born 
honours  are  subject,  at  first  acted  upon  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Coutts 
with  full  effect,  but  judtcioos  advisers  happily  restrained  her  impulsive 
resentment,  and  withheld  her  desire  to  coniiite  their  calomnies. 

Mrs.  Coutts  now  made  many  additions  and  embelUshments  to  her  fa^  | 
vourite  villa,  JloUtf  L<^d^^  tbe  after  scene  of  so  many  gof^^eous  feslifi- 
tiesj  in  which  Royalty  did  not  disdain  participation.     But  vast  expendi- 
ture did  not  lavish  itself  on  the  rich  and  noble  only ;  hers  was  not  tlie 

*•  Proud  luxury  that  leU  not  lU  bcranty  MX    ' 

Where  Want  needs  aotne,  but  where  Ezoest  begs  &!).' 

Her  charities  were  wide  and  liberally  spread,  often  spontaneous,  i 
though  perhaps  somewhat  scenic^ — her  nature  was  essentially  dramatic,  1 
and  she  loved  to  try  effecU,  by  giving  surprises  to  those  she  benefited,  ] 
the^e  ntfcesjsarily  gave  publicity  to  her  bounties,  and  drew  upon  her  the  | 
charge  of  ostentation. 

Mrs.  Coutts  had  been  married  seven  years,  when  her  aged  husband's  | 
infirm  frame  gave  indications  of  a  rapid  decay,  which  dailv  threatened  | 
dii;solutioa.  During  the  period  of  his  last  illness,  sbe  tended  him  with  \ 
the  most  sedulous  and  unremitting  care,  administering  his  medicines, 

few^ineas,  BMW  herself  mifitre&»  of  thottmnds!     Afusr  the  first  burat  i 

tubttided^  she  exultingly  placed  the  suiidculy-ncqutred  wealth  before  I 
btsfCf^iti^  him  to  direct  her  in  the  best  manner  of  iiiveating  it;  and  aft* 
ftoiiill   portion  fnmi  the  ainouut  for  pre«ent  ucca«ions.  she  placed  the  r 
bauds  of  him  from  whom  she  hud  uncoDsciouaily  received  it.     This  biiKu 
on  accrcdii^*!  nutliurity,  tis  delivert^d  by  Mr,  Wewit«er  a  few  dayi  before  fail  doRihi  i 
when  he  h&H  fuiled  in  a  last  appeal  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Coutu  lo^relieve  hi*  waati. 
Here  ii  may  be  *jbserFed  that  if  MisiA  Mellon,  at  thij  time,  potseued  Biidi  ua* 
limit<^d  power  aa  her  HUuderen  pretended   ov'er  Mr.  Couttat  mind  and  ncMiSi  I 
nnd  so  lit  tie  delicacy  and  good  »en»e  in   thc4r  u*e,  how  wa»  it  that  ihe  reuwincd  j 
in  ber  huiul*k%  nay  mean  habitation,  in  which  he  rtrat  found  her,  mx6  to  which  the  | 
iidheried  unltl  it  almoat  fell  u|>on  her  head  fnim  deciiv. 


ENNOBLED  ACTRESSES* 


609 


aoothing^  his  pains,  cheering  his  descent  into  the  grave,  and  assuredly 
doing  the  utmost  to 

<^  Huiband  mic  life*s  torpor  nt  the  ckwe 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting." 

Mr.  Coutts  expired  at  the  beginning  of  March,  1 8EJ8,  in  the  presence 
of  his  daughter  imd  Mrs.  Coutta^  to  whom  he  left  afl  hh  enormous 
wealth,  putting  the  whole  strength  into  one  giant  arm  to  use  "  aa  hu- 
mours and  conceits  "  might  direct^  having  recorded  his  conviction  that 
"  her  goodness  would  not  foil  to  do  for  his  family  more  than  they  ex- 
pected or  he  unslietL"  {])  The  commentary  this  act  suggests  will  arise 
in  every  feeling  mind. 
I  Pending  the  two  following  years  the  wealthy  widow  gracefully  witli* 

\  drew  from  public  notice,  and  "  motirned  "  her  aged  partner  with  every 
appearance  of  sincerity.  Before  she  cast  her  '*  nighted  colour  off/*  se- 
veral men  of  family  who  had  ^'sickened  their  estates/*  and  were  willing 
to  make  the  rich  widow  their  physician,  became  suitors  for  her  hand, 
and  amongst  other  candidates,  the  Duke  of  York  was  named,  but  we  be- 
lieve erroneously. 

In  the  year  1 824,  Mrs.  Coutts  emerged  from  her  **  weeds."  The 
first  memorable  result  of  her  reappearance  in  society  was  her  introduc- 
^_  tion  to  the  now  Duke  of  St,  Albans  (then  Lord  Burford),  in  his  twenty- 
^P  third  year,  and  just  returned  from  his  travels.  Death  once  more  opened 
~  the  portal  of  advancement  to  this  favourite  of  Fortune  ;  for  the  next 
I  year,  IS25,  the  Duke  of  St.  Albans  died,  when  his  successor,  with  his 
^w lister  Lady  Charlotte  Beauclerk,  accompanied  Mrs.  C'outts  on  a  tour  to 
pTthe  birthplace  of  her  late  huijbaad,  also  to  visit  the  great  Magician  of 
the  North  at  Abbotsford  ;•  and  on  the  lOth  of  June,  1827,  Mrs,  Coutts 

k became  a  Duchess.  Arrived  at  the  pinnacle  of  her  earthly  ambition, 
wedded  to  an  amiable,  young,  and  exceedingly  handsome  nobleman,  h^r 
Grace  tJie  Duchess  of  SL  Albans  bec4ime  *'  the  observed  of  all  observers/' 
She  could  not  stir  abroad  hut  like  a  shining  comet  she  was  wondered  at, 
and  men  would  tell  their  children,  **  This  is  site  ! "  She  continued  to 
dispense  her  charities  with  the  same  liberality,  but  with  more  advised- 
Bess  than  in  her  early  acquisition  of  fortune,  when  i*hc  was  often  cgre- 
giously  imposed  upon.  Her  establishments  were  thus  magnificent  both 
in  town  and  at  Holly  Lodge:  her  hospitalities  were  spoken  of  with 
praise  by  intellectual  and  noble  visitors,  who  landed  the  agreeable  con- 
versation and  good  manners  of  their  hostess,  and  we  hope  to  be  for- 
^^  given  if  we  presume  to  think  she  owed  much  of  these  to  a  profession 
^Hi^hich  assuredly  teaches  its  followers,  whether  before  or  behind  the 
^Hcurtain,  more  than  any  other  pursuit  can  teach  the  half-edrntit^d ; — to  the 
^H middle  ranks,  the  stage  baa  done  more  towards  conveying  the  usages 
^"  and  moralities  of  life  than  the  boarding-school. 

When  the  manifest  disadvantages  of  **  Harriet  Mellon's  *'  life  are  re- 
membered,— living,  as  she  did,  under  the  control  and  example  of  a  de- 
hased  and  illiterate  mother, — little,  if  any,  expectation  could  be  formed 
of  her  proving  a  degree  superior  to  her  guide  in  either  mind  or  morals  \ 
and  mnch,  we  think  verij  much^  praise  attaches  to  the  manner  in  which 
she  ultimately  raised  herself  above  such  demoralising  associations.  From 
Infancy  to  womanhood  her  mind  was 

*^  A  wild  where  weeds  and  flowen  promiscuotii  ihoot/' 

*  See  Mr.  Locklmrt't  ■cooiint  of  thii  visit  in  hii  "  Ijjfe  of  Sir  Waltar  Scott." 
VOL.   XVlIJ^  X   X 


610  ENNOBLED  ACTBESaBB. 

It  bad  neitber  tlie  adyanUge  of  eirlj  regalatioo  ikmt  afW-cnUnre.  At 
the  period  when,  temper-tried  and  hcart-wom  with  the  despotic  and 
unfeminine  torbaknoe  of  her  mother,  she  assumed  self-oonduct  through 
a  world,  of  the  usages  of  which  she  was  still  in  perfect  ignorance,  she  was 
a  loveljt  pure,  kind,  and  ingenoons  creature, — 4itUe  giren  to  iuTestigate 
her  feelii^  which  governed  bar,  rather  than  she  them, — taking  &eir 
own  bias,  right  or  wrong.  This  £Ual  defect  was  the  basis  upon  which 
all  the  mistakes  of  her  Ufe  were  reared  and  fixed.  The  continuous  state 
of  autocracy,  so  to  speak,  in  which  she  existed  firom  the  moment  she 
had  cast  adde  the  domestic  oppression  under  which  she  had  so  long 
suffered,  was  such  as  few  untutored  minds  could  maintain  with  grace 
and  approval ;  and,  though  the  hateful  example  of  her  mother's  control- 
ling will  might  be  expected  to  act  with  wholesome  warning  upon  her 
victim,  she  did  not  profit  bj  the  fearful  lesson.  (How  <3ten  is  the 
enfranchised  slave  a  tyrant  master  ?)  As  the  wife  of  Mr.  Coutts,  she 
had  all  the  rojal  makings  of  a  queen.  Surrounded  by  people  who 
"  fed  her  every  minute  with  words  of  sovereignty,"  she  became  inordi- 
nately self-endeared.  Mlth  a  partial  husband,  more  than  forty  years 
her  senior,  in  whose  time-enfeebled  judgment  she  was  pronounced  per- 
fection's self, — the  errors  bred  by  a  defective  education,  and  concurring 
circumstances,  wexe  engrained  in  her  very  existence.  Possessed  of  un- 
limited wealth,  power,  and  sway,  like  an  over-petted  child,  she  grew 
fractious  from  very  satiety  of  indulgence ;  added  to  which,  she  was 
net  a  hippy  woman  ;  and  might  we  dboose,  we  would  rather  have  been 
*'  Harriet  Mellon  **  in  her  poverty,  when  she  had  only  her  good  spirits 
to  feed  and  clothe  her,  than  Mrs.  Coutts,  *'  whose  state  sumptuous 
showed  like  a  continual  feast."  One  by  one  she  had  thrown  from  her 
those  upon  whom  her  young  affections  bad  been  grafied, — the  undying 
memory  of  her  first  and  only  love, 

*'  The  shadow  of  whose  eyes  were  for  ever  on  her  touL** 

His  affections,  written  on  the  table  of  her  heart,  cltmg  to  her  in  the 
midst  of  her  after  successes,  and  turned  the  edge  of  contentment, — 
the  friends,  severed  from  her  by  her  own  rash  hand,  she  regrretted 
even  against  her  will.  But  she  never  gave  repentance  words  or  acts, 
fully  persuaded  that,  like  the  King,  her  sovereignty  could  do  no 
wrong.  She  piqued  herself  upon  her  justice,  forgetting  that  to  be  al- 
ways rigorously  just,  we  must  sometimes  be  unjustly  cruel.  One  of  her 
prominent  errors  was,  never  to  forgive  a  perao^nal  ofence.  This  arose 
from  an  over  estimate  of  self,  and  what  was  due  to  her  position.  Pre- 
viously to  her  marriage^  she  felt  with  bitterness  that  she  had  partially 
incurred,  without  forfeit  of  her  chastity,  the  ill  repute  that  should  only 
attend  the  loss  of  it.  She  was  galled  by  unmerited  censures,  and  avensed 
herself,  she  believed,  of  the  blind  injustice  of  the  vcorld,  by  showing  that 
she  could  do  without  it  (a  mournful  fallacy).  Like  the  Spartan  boy,  she 
hugged  the  growing  torment  which  preyed  upon  her  heart ;  which  con- 
cealed anguish  affected  her  naturally  excitable  nature,  and  often  made 
her  upon  slight  cause  act  as  if  unbenevoIenL  Sometimes  attended  by 
<'  Pickthanks  and  base  newsmongers,"  her  too  credulous  car  was  poi- 
soned by  many  a  leprous  distilment,  and  her  generous  inclinations 
checked,  and  her  judgment  perverted.  With  these  admitted  failings, 
Mrs.  Coutts,  and  the  DucVes«  o(  Sl«  Albans^  assuredly  possessed  some 


ENNOBLED    ACTRESSES. 


611 


briniant  and  unalToyed  qiialiiiea  ;  furpmost  atnonjr  them  stood  her  active 
bt'iievolciice,  by  wliich  **  the  poor  were  clolhod^  the  hungry  fed." 

Beyond  her  charitahle  deeds  and  the  support  of  her  lustre,  she  had  no 
regard  for  monc^y, —  and  although  with  such  enormous  riches  it  would 
have  been  crirainal  not  to  let  its  bounty  fall  upon  the  needy, — yet  raay 
we  not  withhold  due  praise  for  that  which  is  not  always  the  result  of 
power  and  riches ;  and  if  she  sometimes  too  loudly  proclaimed  her  be- 
iiefic<^nce,  there  were  occasione  upon  which  she  could  do  good  by 
steallbt  Whatever  ill- nature  may  ascribe  to  her  raotivep,  it  can't  deny 
tJu'  fxample  she  set  to  others» — ^one  of  no  mean  value  in  a  sordid 
world.*  Amongst  her  many  good  qualities,  probity  in  money  matters 
distinpfiiished  her  from  her  earliest  years,  before  riches  rendered  it  easy 
to  be  just ;  and  her  strict  regard  to  tnith  formed  another  valuable  trait 
in  her  character,  while  she  prominently  exbibited  what  has  been  aptly 
termed  the  *'  politeness  of  kings/'  she  wa^  ptnidtt/ilki/  ptrsmiijUd,  (a 
quality  to  be  placed  among  the  minor  morals  of  life,)  sJit  never  kept  ant^- 
body  uHtitinify  tried  the  spirits,  or  wasted  the  time  of  an  expectant,  bow- 
ever  hinnble* 

With  little  taste,  she  had  some  refinement:  she  delighted  mfioiveri 
and  mufiic,  and  in  enjoyment  of  the  latter  she  proved  extremely  liberal 
anftl  attentive  to  its  professors : «-  at  both  of  the  patent  theatres  she 
owned  a  private  box,  and  was  anxious  to  patronise  merit  when  she 
thought  she  saw  it. 

With  much  natural  wit  and  more  humour^  she  had  but  indifferent  fa- 
culties for  intellectual  attainments — possibly  owing  to  her  want  of  early 
directions  in  her  choice  of  reading,  which  was  desultory  and  frivolous, 
and  she  had  a  rabid  appetite  for  vulgar  marvels  and  supernatural  hor- 
rors. In  this  particular,  the  defective,  or  rather  no  education  of  Har- 
riet Mellon,  was  not  rectified  by  Mrs.  Couits  or  the  Ducbeas  of  St.  Al- 
bans. With  much  native  energy  of  mindj  she  cherished  extraordinary 
weaknesses^  She  held  implicit  faith  in  spectres  and  goblins ;  and  a 
ghost-story  or  a  substantial  murder,  engaged  every  faculty,  which,  when 
not  oriilly  related,  she  sought  for  with  avidity  in  old  calenders  and  obso- 
lete magazines.  She  was  superstitious  in  all  things — dreams  were  to  her 
presages  ?  omens  and  signs  gave  her  frequent  inijuietude  ;  and  the  fivil 
erte  and  fe(dte»  of  her  mother*a  country  received  her  entire  credence. 
She  pinned  her  faith  upon  a  horse-shoe  nailed  upon  the  outer  gate; 
while  the  drilling  of  a  hole  at  the  narrow  end  of  an  egg-shell  after  its 
conlentii  had  been  eaten,  in  order  to  exclude  wicked  fairies  from  haunt- 
ing the  hen-roost,  was  a  precaution  in  no  wise  to  he  neglected.f 

"  Beauty  is  a  mighty  empire,"  but  it  lasts  not  long.  Those  who  only 
saw  the  Duchess  of  St.  Albans  iu  her  later  years,  could  have  but  a  .^oup* 
^071  of  her  early  attractions.    In  person  she  was  tall,  and  finely-formed,  but 

**  What  powerful  hajid  can  hold  Time's  Ktrong  fool  back. 
Or  who  hii  spoil  on  lieauty  can  forbid  ?" 

•  It  was  not  known  till  the  death  of  th^  Dnchew  of  St.  Albans  that  she  had  for 
many  yenr»  past  granted  life-antiuities  to  soi^eml  aged  n^tre^itos  whom  aIic  had 
known  in  e^rly  life,  and  whoM"  intirmities  forced  iht'm  to  reUnquiih  their  profeisioni 
^'ithout  adeqjuate  nic^iiDs  of  retirement.  One  snub  act  obhtemtc^a  die  rumcnibrmiice 
of  A  thoutand  fiolih^. 

+  W<^  once  saw  Mhk  Mdlon  retire  in  ^^a%  aiputiott  (rem  a  dinner^uble  wkftt« 
wwe  ihirteeii  p<^jple  about  to  l»e  Heated^  and  with  ft  ftu,«V\«Ci  ti«£fc  Vvwiv^v  \v^«5tv  smjCvw^ 
bar  dinner  upon  a  wdtf-tuble,  iu  despiu?  oi  the  ridVcuVe  i^v\^  W\^\ct  >«\v\i^'^t  «^- 


612  ENNOBLED   ACTRESSES. 

Ske  gndmllT  aocjoired  a  fblness  which  mfterwards  id  Its  excess  became 

Her  coantcnaDce  had  an  oriental  conformalioD — the  features  were 
■Ball — she  had  dark  bright  eres  and  deeply  fringed  lids — a  delicate  nose 
aadwcil-shaped  month  with  white  and  regular  teeth — clear  and  blushing 
akin  (pofished  ercn  to  shining) — and  fine  black  hair  waving  in  natural 
cnis — yet  with  all  these  appUanoes  her  countenance  was  unsusceptible  of 
varied  expfesskm.  A  heavy  frown  and  a  sunny  smile  constituted  all  its 
when  not  in  repose ;  but  a  modest  dropping  of  the  eyelids  from 
i  to  dme,  while  spea^king,  had  a  most  loveai>le  effect  upon  the  per- 


As  we  have  said,  her  powers  as  an  actress  were  not  brilliant ;  with 
■atnrally  a  dear  and  full-toned  voice,  her  determined  imitation  of  Mrs. 
Jordan  gave  the  greater  roundness  to  it.  Her  best  attempts  were  in 
diambermaids.  She  never,  we  believe,  donned  the  doublet  and  hose, 
akhoogh  her  ^gfire  could  not  have  been  objectionable.  The  best  of  her 
lady  characters  was  that  of  VolanU,  in  "  The  Honeymoon,"  originally 
acted  by  her ;  but  her  appearance  was  more  engaging  in  simple  than  in 
riegant  costume,  for  her  figure  when  in  motion  was  not  graceful 

In  the  summer  of  1837  the  Duchess's  constitution  gave  indications  of 
a  considerable  change ;  a  nervous  excitement,  which  it  was  difScult  to 
aDay ;  a  continuous  pain  in  the  right  side,  a  gradual  increase  of  fever 
with  general  debility,  told  of  much  to  fear  and  little  to  hope.  These 
sympcoms  augmented,  and  she  became  day  by  day  more  and  more  rest- 
less, and,  at  length,  altogether  dispirited.  She  removed  from  Stretton 
Street  to  Holly  Lodge ;  but  there  no  acqubition  of  strength  awaited 
her;  and  after  visiting  moumfiilly  every  part  of  her  favourite  abode  and 
its  surroundings,  she  desired  to  be  taken  back  to  Stretton  Street  in 
order,  as  she  said,  to  die  in  the  same  apartment  and  on  the  same  bed 
wherein  her  benefactor  breathed  his  last.  Thither  she  was  of  course 
coaveyed.  It  had  been  her  frequently-expressed  hope  that  she  might 
die  on  a  Sabbath,  and  her  hope  was  realized,  for  on  Sunday,  the  6th  of 
August,  after  eight  weeks  of  intense  suffering  which  she  endured  with 
unwonted  patience  and  religious  resignation,  while  supported  on  the  arm 
of  her  noble  husband,  '*  she  gave  her  honours  to  the  world  and  her  mor- 
tal part  to  Heaven.'** 


*'  Thus  far  with  rough  and  all  uueven  pen 
Our  bendiDg  author  hath  pursued  the  story, 
In  little  room  confining  lofty  dames.** 

Our  task  is  terminated  though  not  completed.  Time  must  add  to  the 
circlet  we  have  weaved  two  yet  blooming  portions  of  our  work  when 
they  shall  have  dropped  their  leaves.  Our  business  is  with  the  past,  not 
the  present ;  our  dramatic  garland  will  be  perfected  by  the  addition  of 
the  elegant  Countess  of  Harrington  and  the  amiable  Countess  (  Dowager) 
of  Essex,  when  they  have  "  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil," — a  period,  we 
trust,  far  distant. 

Wishing  to  the  one  a  long  pursuance  of  her  admirable  domestic 
virtues,  and  to  both  happiness,  we  bid  our  patient  readers  farewell  ! 

*  The  Duchess*s  will  is  registered  where  all  may  read.  It  is  a  curious  doca> 
ment,  of  which  the  text  forms  its  own  oommeotary.  She  made  her  first  husbands 
grandchild  her  heiress,  whose  fortune  amounted,  it  was  said,  in  cash,  to  1,800,000/. 


613 


THE  KING  OF  CLUBS. 


BY    PAUL    PEENDEBOAST. 


Wk  Imve  had  some  little  difficulty  in  retulvitigto  make  the  fulkming 
narrative  public,  since,  if  the  truth  must  bu  told,  the  particulars  of  it 
came  to  our  knowledge  thraygh  what  the  scrupulous  might  consiider  a 
▼iolation  of  professional  confidence.  We  have*  however,  taken  every 
precantiou  against  its  connection  with  the  personages  really  concerned 
in  it ;  and,  besides,  the  events  of  which  it  is  a  record  occurred  so  long 
— several  months — ^ago^  and  ««  far — almost  ten  miles — off,  that  we  iire 
not  under  the  sliglitest  apprehension  of  giving^  by  working  them  into  a 
magazine  article,  the  slightest  pain  to  the  feelings  of  a  highly 
respectable  family. 

Ojje  Saturday  afternoon,  on  a  fine  day, — rare  occasion  I — during  the 
last  summer,  a  young  man,  apparently  of  about  five-and*twenty,  with 
a  carpet-hag,  the  ticket  whereon  indicated  that  he  had  just  come  from 
the  Great  Western  Railvvav,  was  seen,  by  several  people,  to  ring  at  the 
gate  of  a  substantia!  dwelling-hoiise,  with  a  shrubbery  before  it,  in 
front  of  that  a  high  wall,  and  glass  battles  on  the  top  of  the  latter*  It 
was  situate  in  the  county  of  Middlesex ;  no  matter  where  more  par- 
ticularly. He  carried  his  paletot  on  his  arm  :  it  was  thus  apparent  that 
he  was  dressed  in  black;,  and  he  wore  a  white  cravats  His  face  was 
pale;  his  eyes,  hair,  and  whinkers — ^the  latter  very  neatly  trimmed — were 
dark  and  lustrous.  He  was  tall,  thin,  stooped  a  Jittle,  and  was  slightly 
narrow-chested  ;  not  so  much  so,  honever,  as  to  suggest  a  more  than 
interesting  tendency  to  consumption.  By  a  superficial  observer,  he 
might  have  been  mistaken  for  a  young  curate  ;  btit  a  shirt- frill,  which 
escaped  his  bosom,  would,  to  a  more  judicious  eye,  have  negatived  that 
surmise.  In  fact,  he  was  a  clerk  in  the  Treasury  ;  and  it  being,  as  we 
have  mentioned,  Saturday  afternooUj  he  was,  of  course,  a  gentleman  at 
large  till  Monday.  He  bad  come  dawn  from  town  to  stay  over  Sunday, 
at  the  mansion  at  whose  portal  we  left  him  ringing. 

The  bell  was  speedily  answered — by  a  female,  but  not  a  domestic. 
No  ;  her  ricli,  flowing  auburn  tresses,  delicate  figure,  and  Parisian  ele- 
gance of  attire,  procliiimed  at  once  the  young  lady.  Nor  less  decidedly 
would  her  sparkling  eyes  and  flushed  cheek  have  revealed  he  relation  in 
which  she  stood  to  the  youug  gentleman,  even  if  she  had  not,  as  she 
grasped  his  hand,  excbiinied  passionately,  '*  JMy  dear,  dear  William  \'* 

De  Vigne,  for  that  was  his  surname,  affectionately  returned  the 
greeting;  and  the  two  lovers,  having  closed  the  door  behind  them, 
walked  slowly  along  the  serjientine  gruvel-path  whose  meanders  led  to 
the  hf>use. 

^'  Huw  sweety  but  yet  how  tantalizing,"  said  the  young  man  to  the 
beautiful  creature,  whose  slight  weight,  as  she  leant  upon  his  arm,  did 
not  half  balance  his  carpet-bag,  "  have  been  these  flying  visits,  for — m 
— now  these  four  years, — to  my  beloved  Sarah  I  And  is  this  to  be  the 
last,  and  shall  next  Thursday *^\vbich  is  a  holidaj- — make  me  the  hap- 
piest of  men  ?  The  anticipation  is  almost  too  Mattering  to  be  trust* 
worthy. 

'*  Alus,  William!"  cried  the  maiden,  drooping  her  head  like  the 
evening  dahlia. 


6U 


THE   KINO    OF  CLUBS. 


*'  Sarah,  my  love  !  what  is  the  matter?"  exclaimed  De  V*'igne»  "  No- 
tiling,  I  trust,  liua  happened  likely  to  retard  our  felicity.  The  little 
property  (the  few  thousands  which  your  dear  aiuit  left  you,  and  which 
removeti  the  sole  ohjectiun  to  our  union),  was  safely  invented  in  the 
three  per  cents*  Surely  there  has  been  no  mistake  about  the  will, 
Sarah  !"  and  here  he  clutched  her  hand  convulsively,  whiJst  his  voice 
fell  several  octaves, — "I  hope  you  have  not  been  buying  railway- 
shares." 

*' Oh,  no, — ^no,  William  1"  she  replied  hastily*  "My  father — my 
father  V 

**  The  dear  old  gentleman  is  not  j1\,  I  trust,"  said  De  Vigne,  in  a 
tone  of  alarm. 

**  Not  in  body,*'  Sarah  answered,  hesitatingly ;  "  but — however, 
WilUiim,"  she  added,  checking  herself,  "  you  will  presently  see  him, 
and  then  you  will  know  all/'     And  she  averted  her  head. 

A   few   moments  brought   them  into  the  old   gentleman's  librwy. 
Mr.  Wilkinson^  a  stout  tall  personage  of  about  sixty,  was  sitting,  ap- 
parently in  a  high  state  of  comfort,  in  his  arm-chair.      He  looked  n»«i 
markahly  well  for  a  gentleman  of  his  years,  in  his  brass-buttoned  blti 
cmit^  white  waistcoat,  and  nankeen  trousers.     His  venerable  head  wa»* 
powdered;  Mr.  Wilkinson  was  a  disciple  of  the  old  fjchooh      On  the 
table  bedde  him  was  a  full  decanter  of  sherry,  and  one,  half  emptiedpj 
of  port,  with  biscuits  and  desert.     He  was  reading  the  Qt4arierfy  He 
view  through  his  spectacles,  which  he  raided  at  the  approach  of  his' 
visitor. 

"Ha;,  ha,  my  boy  1"  he  exclaimed^  coughing ;  but  from  habiti  not  JiwJ 
disposition,  "  how  are  ye — how  are  ye  ?  Eh  ?   What  ?   Have  ye  dined i 
Cijme  ;  help  yourself  to  a  glass  of  wine/* 

De  Vi|2;ne  was  at  a  loss  to  conceive  what  circumstance  in  the  oondi- 
tion  of  lier  sire  could  possibly  account  for  Sarah's  mdancholv  e%pre* 
sions  respecting  htm.  He  felt  bewildered  ;  however  he  sat  down  and 
helped  himself. 

'*  I  hope,  sir,  you  are  quite  well,"  he  said,  "  still  preserving  the 
*  meti.i  satta  in  corjiore  sano'*' 

Sound  as  a  roach,  my  boy, — though  I  don't  understand  your  Latin,'* 
said  iVlr.  Wilkinson,  alluding  to  De  Vigue's  beautiful  quotation  from  the 
Lfitin  G rum  mar. 

De  Vigne  said  he  was  glad  to  hear  it — meaning  the  affirmative  of 
heiihh^  and  not  the  confession  of  ignorance.  A  conversation  then  en- 
sued between  him  and  the  old  gentleman  on  miscellaneous  topics,  which 
onlv  served  to  increase  his  perplexity.  JVlr.  Wilkinson  expressed  himself 
with  his  usual  sagacity  ;  he  talked  as  sensibly  on  politics  as  his  Toryism 
ever  admitted  of,  and  in  taking  the  dark  side  on  railway  matters, 
evinced  no  unwonted  obstinacy.  In  reference  to  this  latter  subject, 
BIr.  De  Vigne  at  length  let  fall  on  observation  to  the  effect  that  the 
speculations  in  question  involved  an  enormous  deal  of  shuffling- 
No  sooner  did  Mr.  W^ilktnson  hear  these  words,  than  he  became 
violently  excited.  **  Deal  !'*  he  cried,  "  sir ! — deal  \ — shuflfiing,  sir  !— 
shufliiiig !  Dealing  and  shufHing  will  be  the  ruin  of  the  country- 
Look  at  me  sir!  See  how  I  have  been  beaten  and  knocked  about  in 
consequence  of  their  dealing  and  shuttling/' 

'*  Aly  dear  sir/'  said  De  Vigne,  astonished, — *'  what  is  the  matter?" 

*'  Matter,  sir? — mutter  ! — ^have  you  noeyes,  sir? — ^are  you  mad,  sir? 
•don't  you  see? — SEOunds,  4>ir,  I  am  the  King  of  Clubir* 


THE    KINO   OF  CLUBS. 


615 


De  Vigne  fell  back  in  his  chair  pale  as  oahesi  and  frightened  almost 
to  death.     The  parent  of  bis  Sarah  waa  a  tnonomaBiac  1 

]VIr.  Wilkinson  was  an  inveterate  whist-player ;  and  his  delusion 
supervened  on  a  long  evening  of  itl  luck,  mainly  owing  to  the  had  play- 
ing of  his  partncFj  with  whom,  at  last,  he  had  a  violent  cjuarrel  on  the 
suhject  of  a  particular  card.  This  happened  to  be  the  King  of  Clubs  ; 
and  he  wivs  found  on  the  following  morning  to  have  confused  that  sove- 
reign's identity  with  his  own* 

De  Vigne  adroitly  changed  the  subject,  and  the  evening  concluded 
^vithout  any  other  interruption  of  its  harmony ;  after  which  the  old 
gentleman  retired  to  rest.  Not  so  De  Vigne — after  bidding  a  sad 
good  night  to  his  beloved  Sarah,  he  threw  himself  upon  his  couch, 
where,  after  long  tossing  disturhedly  as  he  meditated  what  was  best  to 
be  done,  he  at  length  sank  into  an  nnquiet  slumber,  lie  kept  dream- 
ing that  he  held  a  pack  of  cards,  from  which  some  unseen  conjuror  had 
filched  !iis  Queen  of  Hearts  ;  whilst  the  King  of  Clubs  made  faces  at 
him,  and  cut  capers  around  his  pillow. 

The  folhjwing  morning  he  repaired  to  church  with  Miss  Wilkinson, 
and  after  hearing  an  excellent  discourse  by  the  good  rector  of  the 
parish,  Dr  Oldpurtj  he  discussed  with  her,  as  they  bent  their  steps 
homeward,  the  best  plan  to  be  adopted  for  the  restoration  of  her  parent. 
This  the  dutiful  child  declared  would  be  an  indispensable  condition  to 
their  marriage ;  nor  could  the  warmest  pleadings  of  her  attached  Wil- 
liam, dissuade  her  from  tliis  determination. 

The  family  apothecary  of  Mr.  Wilkinson  being,  though  a  good  sort 
of  man,  hardly  competent  to  the  management  of  such  cases  as  that  of 
the  venerable  sufferer,  De  Vigne  resolved  that  immediateiy  on  his  re- 
turn to  town  he  would  seek  the  assistance  of  an  eminent  physician, 
weE  known  for  his  skill  in  the  treatment  of  nervous  and  mental  com- 
plaints. But  first  he  agreed  to  call  on  the  Reverend  Dr,  Oldport  that 
evening,  and  consult  with  the  esteemed  clergyman  on  the  state  of  his 
afflicted  parishioner. 

He  found  the  worthy  Hector  sedulously  engaged  in  studying  a 
volume  of  divinity  ;  recruiting,  at  the  same  time,  his  inner  man  with  a 
particuhirly  fine  glass  of  '*  old  crusted."  The  Doctor  gave  him  a  gra- 
cions  reception,  and  having  begged  him  to  be  seated,  pushed  the  de- 
canter towards  him,  saying,  in  the  expressive  words  of  Ilorace: 
"  Nunc  eat  bibcndom/* 

"  I  cannot  proceed,*'  added  the  reverend  gentleman  with  a  grave 

smile^^ 

u  I  isTuoc  peile  libero 
PulsAnda  tellus,* 

this  evening ;  although  I  by  no  means  disapprove  of  innocent  recreation 
on  a  snitahre  day,  my  good  young  sir." 

De  Vigne  bowed  ;  his  invariable  custom  when  addressed  by  a  cler* 
gyxnan.  **  I  have  taken  the  liberty,"  he  said,  **  sir,  of  thus  intruding 
on  your  privacy  for  a  purpose  which  1  feel  confident  will  render 
apology  needless/* 

*'  Say  no  more,  young  gentleman,"  cried  the  go«d-humoiired  divine. 
**  Aha  !  *'  he  added,  with  a  paternal  blandnesa  not  unmixed  with  an 
expression  bordering  on  the  arch  ;  ''I  had  the  gratification  of  observing 
you  among  my  flock  this  morning.  Am  I  to  hope  to  see  you  at  my 
church  again  shortly,  under  what  1  may  venture  to  call  yet  more  in- 
teresting circumstances  ?  *' 


616  THE  KINO   OF  CLUBS. 

De  Vigae  dig^tlj  Umhed,  whereapon  Dr.  Oldport  said — 
•■  *  Ne  sit  andDs  tiU  amor  podori.'  ^ 

**  I  Icar,"  leplied  tlie  roang  ^ratlemaD, ''  dear  and  reverend  sir,  tbal 
I  have  led  job  into  a  trifling  mistake.  My  object  in  calling  on  yon  is 
to  weA  tbe  benefit  of  yoor  valuable  advice  under  circumstances  pecu- 
liarlv  diatmsing.*  He  then  related  to  the  Doctor  the  unhappy  par- 
tica&rs  of  the  calamity  that  had  be€illen  Mr.  Wilkinson.  The  kind 
pastor  having  listened  attentively  to  his  narrative^  agreed  with  him 
after  a  dne  discussion  of  the  subject,  that  something  decidedly  ought  to 
be  done,  and  that  nothing  better  could  be  done  than  to  call  in  the  aid 
of  a  phTsfdan^-— a  course  which  he  recommended  to  be  adopted  without 
delay.    '"  For,**  observed  the  reverend  and  learned  gentleman — 

*>  Prindpiis  obsta ;  aero  medicina  paratur.'  ** 

He  also  very  much  applauded  his  intention  of  applying  to  the  prac- 
titioner celebrated  for  his  skill  in  treating  nervous  and  mental  com- 
plaints, who  was  an  old  collie  hiend  of  his  own,  and  to  whom  he 
gave  him  a  letter  of  introduction.  After  a  short  conversation  on  the 
classics  which  ensued,  De  Vigne,  with  many  thanks,  respectfully  tocdr 
his  leave.  His  first  care  on  his  return  to  town  was  to  seek  the  re«- 
dence  of  the  ph)-sician. 

That  well-known  ornament  of  his  profession.  Dr.  Blanke,  was  at  that 
time  living  in  Walker  Street.  De  Vigne  was  fortunate  enough  to  find 
him  disengaged,  standing,  with  his  hands  behind  his  coat  tails,  and  his 
legs  apart,  erect  in  front  of  his  consulting-room  fire-place.  He  lia« 
tened  to  De  Vigne's  story  with  evident  attention,  though  mingled  with 
a  jovial  confidence,  which  indicated  his  familiarity  with  such  cases  as 
that  in  question,  and  his  moral  certainty  of  successfully  treating  it* 
On  this  point,  of  course,  he  could  give  no  positive  assurance,  though  he 
held  out  every  hope.  The  consultation  concluded  by  his  making  an 
appointment  to  visit  tbe  patient  on  the  following  Thursday ;  and  De 
Vigne  having  presented  him  with  an  honorarium,  took  his  leave.  The 
Doctor  at  parting  shook  hands  with  De  Vigne,  and  slapped  his  back ; 
and  the  young  gentleman  retired,  much  pleased  with  Dr.  Blanke,  the 
cut  of  whose  respectable  suit  of  black,  and  the  professional  physiognomy 
of  whose  shoes  and  gaiters  had  made  a  strong  impression  on  him. 

The  appointed  Thursday  saw  Dr.  Blanke  at  Air.  Wilkinson's,  where 
De  Vigne  bad  introduced  bim  under  pretence  of  seeing  Sarah,  respect- 
ing whose  health  he  affected  an  anxiety.  It  was  necessary  to  resort  to 
this  pious  fraud,  for  tbe  old  gentleman  declared  that  he  was  never 
better  in  bis  life ;  and  bad  he  suspected  the  object  of  the  visit,  would 
assuredly  have  ordered  tbe  physician  out  of  the  house,  and  perhaps 
sent  his  intended  son-in-law  after  him.  As  it  was,  he  asked  him  to 
stop  and  dine, — a  request  to  which,  for  more  reasons  than  one,  the 
Doctor  readily  acceded. 

During  and  after  dinner,  tbe  physician,  with  great  tact,  avoided  all 
reference  to  tbe  subject  of  bis  patient's  delusion,  until,  by  a  sufficiently 
long  conversation  with  him,  be  bad  satisfied  himself  of  his  sanity  in 
other  respects,  and  had  also  bad  time  quietly  to  take  as  much  wine  as 
he  wanted.  He  then  cautiously  introduced  tbe  topic,  on  which  be 
found  Mr.  Wilkinson  as  insane  as  any  inmate  of  Beulam.  Contradic- 
tion, be  knew,  would  only  have  produced  excitement ;  and  he  there- 
fore heard,  without  even  tbe  appearance  of  surprise,  the  unfortunate 


THE   KING   OF   CLUBS.  617 

gentleman's  declaration,  that  he  was  the  King  of  Clubs.  The  mere 
allusion^  however^  had  considerably  irritated  the  monomaniac^  causing 
him  to  glare  savagely  around,  and  to  tremble  violently  in  every  limb. 
Dr.  Blanke  was  quite  prepared  for  these  consequences.  Steadily  fix- 
ing his  gaze  on  that  of  the  sufferer,  he  exerted  upon  him,  with  all  his 
might,  that  peculiar  power  of  fascination  which  the  eye  is  well  known 
to*  possess  over  insanity,  until  the  old  gentleman  became  comparatively 
tranquil.  He  then  tipped  him  a  wink  fraught  with  deep  meaning,  and 
shook  his  head  mysteriously,  consummating,  by  these  means,  the  influ- 
ence which  he  had  obtained  over  his  patient.  This  done,  with  the 
gravest  possible  face,  he  proceeded  to  assure  him  that  his  case  was  a 
very  common  one ;  that  many  such  had  occurred  within  his  own  expe- 
rience ;  and  that  he  was  at  the  present  time  in  attendance  on  a  gentle- 
man, who,  whilst  too  intent  on  a  stroke  of  finesse,  had  been  transmuted 
into  the  Knave  of  Diamonds.  The  details  of  this  case  appeared  greatly 
to  interest  Mr.  Wilkinson,  and  his  manner  indicated  an  increasing 
respect  for  the  physician,  which  was  much  heightened  by  the  latter 's 
evident  knowledge  of  whist,  a  collateral  branch  of  medicine  with  which 
he  was  thoroughly  acquainted.  Dr.  Blanke  perceived  his  advantage, 
and  his  measures  were  instantly  taken.  Ere  his  visit  was  concluded, 
he  had  made  an  arrangement  to  come  down  again  on  the  following 
Saturday,  for  the  express  purpose  of  taking  part  in  a  rubber. 

De  Vigne  descended  with  the  Doctor,  ostensibly  to  see  him  to  his 
carriage— Sarah  followed  him ;  and  they  took  the  physician  aside  into 
the  library.  **  And  now.  Doctor,"  said  the  young  man,  '*  what  is  your 
opinion  of  the  case  ?  ** 

''  A  singularly  beautiful  instance  of  disordered,  consciousness,"  an- 
swered the  Doctor. 

'*  But,  Dr.  Blanke,"  eagerly  demanded  Miss  Wilkinson,  '^  are  there 
any  hopes  of  papa's  recovery  ?  " 

"  We  have  no  evidence  "  he  replied,  '*  that  the  cerebral  disorder  has 
amounted  to  absolute  lesion.  It  would  therefore  be  too  much  to  say 
that  there  are  no  hopes.  On  the  other  hand,  there  is  no  demonstra- 
tion to  the  contrary  ;  consequently,  we  must  not  be  too  sanguine.  On 
the  whole,  the  circumstances  of  the  case  are  sufficiently  favourable  to 
warrant  a  proceeding  which  my  theory  of  monomania  suggests  as  ap- 
propriately remedial." 

"  Would  you  have  the  goodness,  sir,  to  explain  the  views  you  allude 
to  ?"  said  De  Vigne. 

"  Certainly.  I  consider,"  proceeded  Dr.  Blanke,  "  that  the  hallucin- 
ation in  monomania  arises  from  an  impression  which  has  been  made 
upon  the  brain,  of  such  strength  that  ordinary  means, — such  as  reason, 
persuasion,  and  so  forth, — are  incompetent  to  remove  it.  The  cure, 
then,  is  to  be  accomplished  by  the  production  of  a  counter  impression 
of  superior  force  to  that  whence  the  impression  originated." 

''  Indeed.  You  think  so.  Doctor  ?  And  in  what  manner,"  asked  De 
Vigne,  '*  do  you  propose  to  effect  your  object }" 

"  Aha,  my  dear  young  sir !"  replied  the  Doctor.  "  That  you  shall 
know  on  my  next  visit.  At  present  the  disclosure  would  be  premature. 
Good  night,  sir.  Good  night,  Mi.ss  Wilkinson.  Keep  up  your  spirits, 
and  hope  for  the  best.     Farewell — adieu !" 

Laden  with  the  benedictions  of  the  lover  and  his  beloved.  Dr.  Blanke 
returned  to  town.  The  very  next  day  he  repaired  to  a  masquerade 
warehouse,  the  emporium  of  an  eminent  Israelite.     This  may  seem  a 


4I.i  ISK  KHBG  or 


(a 

Dc,  i-IiixDHR.  -V3U  lai  leies.  iirrisai  »  seiec  xs  •au£  .'«t^       Ix  ra  sw 

«BBit  OBiiaciBxis.  Farrh.  bl  jcbrl3C  «c  xs  zsritfaioed  £iii«r>£Zr-jrr. 
W2IU  '▼^li  Jifguiitiig  ^  ^vTzna^  ^-I'JijoiBUi  -ic  *^-'  <  '•-^■■■**»r-  {^  V^i^iie^  rrv 
&  -^imt:  pnK  a  !■»  fais  tone  x-wrr  zE^    :2e  jcrr^c:t£  i£«fd 

i  mmL  -parpai,  md  ICr.  WiIkixsiHs  vox  fv^re-El  nsi 

ani  liL  -snmicmtMi&iZj  itsal:  '  H-se  ie  ^taaxae»  !      T\as  '«  liie  D^etT.* 

Ll  imiaizr -mwrnwrg  ^i^  librae  icsc 4t  T^ffczaBiw t&e  "^mc  mi      t^  icjtc 

MBeauxnir  '^n^  icarasHf.    auluw?ii    br   a   ^ieinsr    sad    i^^s^r  ir?sii 

Tliconniir  imsx  i3i»  imH-.  ^sk  irynir  ixaarafred.  »#c   I>r.  Btxzie.  :c:  i 

▼in  Biii  in  3m:iC  ssd  w^salai  «e  Mr.  WZii=a«B_     All  «tir*c 

3ir:  litsiTC  lii  ifcwff   cBr\s    «a-*>«V     x=   izsirrjiTiJ^ 


IfciT^  T'^ffi^"ff'4J^iT  "f  -  c^»Mr  frjixi  aij*-* 
-^  "S^iias  ill  T-m  xeur  37  liai.  sr  r' 

rfii»  ^iiLC.  ii*  i2fcta.j<c  za  lie  t-.^tt  oc  ti^f  ist«:<isdeo  ccirr^tzT  u^ 


K*  xxai  x»  fCiss  jjci  411  lie  s»:&Hrir?iCy  wi«s  as  if  piralried  :t 

ib  irf-iMaise.  ttMi£  like  «De  ik^xde^crack. 

ai  I>r.  Oj^ir:  xfbfnrirai  safe  is  xhe  wvrd*  of  VxrgiL  TLe  C-irc- 
JifCBRS.  -vrmi  ii»  r.i-Tuf.  jad  t^  «^  ^cctlocas  icsuntlj  soxtk  jvv^rr- 
jess  ii  i:»  dtikir.  Ainzciz^  ih^ea  with  il*:-w  steps  toiranis  him.  tie 
^nne  extcnies  is»  fz«n  i=d  potsttc  tLes  steadilj  at  the  rvot  of  Lis 
Bwew  I:  tiiea  ^^^^-T  v*'*^  tLe=:  cp  aad  down  at  tl»e  distacce  cf  t 
ipw  iac^K  snm  L^s  htcj.  util  Ls  eyelids,  at  first  wide  apes,  slow  :t 
c^iiwid.  lis  boid  dn^^wd.  aad  be  fetl  £ut  asieep. 

I:  is  aeecjess  ^»  sit.  iLit  the  Khig  cf  CIqIri  had  long  ere  this  been 
i«ciec:Lisitd  as  Dr.  B^arke.  Mr  ocherwise  the  nspetuoiu  De  Vigne  woe  Id 
cerui^T  ij.Te  kz>ocked  llzz  dowrs.  £<^iial]y  onnccessarT  is  it  to  st^te 
tLu  ie  hid  icesrerised  Mr.  WilkinscA.  The  Doctor  raised  cne  of  the 
cui  rectlescis's  irzs.  It  rescained  where  be  placed  it.  He  beet  the 
tl^jtb  to  t^e  ncbe,  az>d  extended  the  ficfrers  of  the  same  hand.  The 
Izicb  o:«tii;ced  in  that  positioo.  He  opened  one  of  the  eyes,  leaving 
the  jcher  shct ;  md  in  thi^  fnterestfcg  attitude  the  patient  sat — >tiii 
asd  DcOonless  as  the  statne  of  Patience  so  beaotifuJiT  alludtd  to  bv 
S&takspMre.    He  was  in  that  mysterions  and  r&re  state  of  beiug^  knoivii 

'     the  designatkn  of  cttalepij. 


THE  KING   OF  CLUBS.  619 

**  Let  us  now/'  said  Dr.  Blanke,  ''  leave  the  venerable  sufferer  to  his 
repose,  during  which  Nature  may  be  free  to  perform  the  work  of  his 
restoration."  He  then  addressed  himself  to  inspire  the  hopes  and  allay 
the  apprehensions  of  the  company  for  the  welfare  of  him  in  whom  two 
of  them,  at  least,  were  so  deeply  interested.  He  next  retired  to  change 
his  dress,  leaving  them  without  any  injunctions  to  await  his  return  in 
silence.  On  the  contrary,  he  told  them  that  they  might  bawl  in  the 
sleeper's  ear,  or  bum  his  nose,  or  prick  his  fingers  if  they  thought  pro- 
per, without  any  fear  of  awakening  him.  Filiu  piety,  and  neighbourly 
respecty  however,  prevented  them  from  trying  these  experiments.  In 
anxious  astonishment,  conversing  only  in  ejaculations,  they  awaited  his 
return,  which  took  place  very  soon.  He  reappeared  in  his  usual  pro- 
fessional costume. 

"  I  will  now,"  said  the  Doctor,  '*  proceed  to  awaken  our  patient. 
Should  he  prove  recovered,  as  I  trust  he  may,  let  me  request  you,  young 
lady  to  moderate  your  transports:  or  he  will  be  in  danger  of  a  re- 
lapse." He  then  made  a  few  transverse  passes  in  front  of  the  face  of 
the  patient,  who  altered  his  position,  and  began  to  move  a  little  in  his 
ohair.  ''  Sensation,"  said  the  Doctor,  '^  is  now  partially,  restored.  The 
brain  is  in  a  state  of  semi-consciousness.  Perhaps  the  soothing  influ- 
ence of  music,  for  which  I  have  provided,  will  comf^ete  the  restoration 
of  its  powers."  He  then  went  to  the  window,  and  throwing  it  open, 
concisely  exclaimed,  ''Strike  up*"  A  barrel-organ  below  instantly 
commenced  Balfe's  touching  melody  of  ''  Marble  Halls."  Eeturning 
to  the  somnambulist.  Dr.  Bianke  touched  his  organ  of  tune ;  where^ 
upon  he  instantly  began  to  beat  time  to  the  air ;  and  continueed  doing 
so  for  some  ten  minutes. 

"  Now/'  said  the  Doctor,  ''  I  think  this  will  do.'*  So  sayings  he  in- 
clined his  head,  and  blew  a  sudden  puff  of  air  on  tiiepatient's  eye-brows^ 
which  the  latter  began  to  rub.  He  then  gradually  opened  his  eyes, 
and  at  length  with  a  start  awoke.  The  &8t  word  he  uttered  was 
''Hallo!" 

"  My  dear,  dear  Papa  !"  cried  Sarah — but  De  Vigne  prudently  re- 
strained her  from  rushing  into  his  arms. 

"  Hey  ?  What  ?"  cried  the  old  gentleman.  "  Why  surely  I've  been 
napping.  Doctor,  I  beg  your  pardon.  What  noise  is  that  ?"  Here  he 
alluded  to  the  organ,  which  continued  playing.  *'  Who  left  the  gate 
open  ?     Tell  that  fellow  to  go  away  instantly." 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  have  been  dreaming  about,  sir/'  said  Dr. 
Bianke. 

"  Dreaming— eh  ?     Have  I  ?" 

'*  Yes,  sin    You  have  been  talking  in  your  sleep  about  the  King  of 

CLUBS." 

It  was  a  moment  of  breathless  interest ! 
"  The  King  of  Clubs,  eh  ?  Ha,  ha !  I  don't  recollect  it." 
Hour  of  joy  and  transport  I  Yes.  The  sire  of  Sarah  had  returned 
to  reason.  He  retained  not  a  trace  of  recollection  of  his  malady.  We 
leave  to  be  imagined  the  feelings  of  William  and  his  Sarah^  which 
were  only  equalled  by  those  which  filled  their  bosoms  when,  a  few  days 
afterwards,  their  hands  were  joined  by  the  Reverend  Dr.  Oldport.  We 
can  compare  their  emotions  to  nothing  else,— except,  perhaps,  the  de- 
light ana  satisfaction  with  which  Dr.  Bianke,  in  reward  for  his  services^ 
received  from  De  Vigne,  on  the  morning  of  his  marriage,  a  check  for 
one  hundred  pounds.  "  So  much/'  said  the  learned  and  facetious  prac- 
titioner, "  for  trumping  the  Kino  op  Clubs." 


620 
MEMOIR  OF  ALBERT  SMITH. 

WITH   A   POmTKAIT. 

As  one  of  the  most  popular  and  prolific  oomtribators  to  the  lisbt 
literature  of  the  day>  and  one  whose  name  has  now  ao  long  figured  at 
the  portal  of  our  Miscellany  as  a  promiae  of  good  entertainment  within, 
a  sketch  of  Mr.  Albert  Smith's  biogmph?  (in  company  with  the  aketch 
of  his  physiognomy)  may  not  be  an  unacceptable  present  to  our  readen, 
at  the  same  time  that  it  is  a  tribute  to  his  merit,  which  he  haa  well 
and  fairly  earned.  The  life  of  a  successful  literary  man  in  the  present 
day  will  generally  afford  very  little  interest  of  a  romantic  nature — no 
''  hair  breadth  'scapes  nor  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field  " — and  for- 
tunately for  us  who  hare  not  the  noTelist's  talent  to  aet  forth  sndi 
things,  this  is  the  case  with  Mr.  Albert  Smith,  with  <me  exception, 
his  ^venture  with  the  brigands  in  Italy,  and  to  that  he  haa  himself 
done  full  justice,  in  the  narrative  with  which  he  commenced  hia  Mit- 
cellaneaus  career.  The  first  fact  of  importance  in  Mr.  Smith'a  life  wn 
his  birth,  which  took  place  in  the  town  of  Chertsey,  where  his  fsthcr 
still  resides  in  the  capacity  of  suq^eon,  enjoying  an  extensive  practioe 
and  the  esteem  of  all  who  Icnow  him.  There  the  embryo  lUUraiemr  wu 
fostered  under  the  paternal  roof  until  deemed  of  sufficient  years  to  be 
consigned  to  one  of  the  public  schools  in  London.  Merchant  Taikti' 
was  the  shooting  gallery  selected  for  his  young  idea ;  but  how  hr  Uie 
young  gentleman  himself  concurred  in  the  choice,  we  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  judging  by  his  reminiscences  of  that  establishment  as  recorded 
in  the  history  of  "  The  Scattergcod  Family."  The  writer  of  this  me* 
moir  was  here  first  acquainted  with  its  subject ;  although  he  is  bound 
to  say  that,  at  that  time,  Mr.  Albert  Smith  gave  no  indications  of 
literary  aptitude,  unless  the  skill  he  displayed  in  "  paintine  charac- 
ters" (for  a  pasteboard  theatre)  be  looked  upon  as  a  pre-shadowing  of 
his  future  achievements  as  a  novelist.  On  leaving  Merchant  Tailors', 
it  was  proposed  that  Mr.  Smith  should  be  brought  up  in  the  profession 
of  his  &ther,  and  he  accordingly  became  a  student  in  Middlesex  Hos- 
pital, and  subsequently  at  the  Hotel  Dieu  in  Paris,  where  he  acquinid 
that  intimate  knowledge  of  all  the  phases  of  student-life  in  London  and 
Paris,  which  he  afterwards  set  forth  with  such  keen  minuteness  of  ob- 
servation and  comic  power.  Let  it  not  be  thought,  however,  that  his 
acquirements  were  limited  to  a  knowledge  of  this  questionable  art 
merely,  as  he  was  soon  after  admitted  a  member  of  the  Royal  College 
of  Surgeons,  and  returned  to  Chertsey  as  assistant  to  his  father,  and  the 
destined  successor  to  his  practice.  His  literary  aspirations,  however, 
were  already  urging  their  ascendancy  in  opposition  to  the  obscure  path 
thus  traced  out  for  bis  exertions,  and  at  last  found  an  outlet  in  The 
Literary  World — a  little  periodica]  started  about  this  time  by  Mr.  Timbs, 
the  editor  of  The  Mirror,  To  this  he  contributed  a  number  of  sliort 
tales  and  sketches,  for  which  a  more  extended  popularity  was  after- 
wards eained  by  their  publication  in  a  collected  form  under  the  title  of 
**Tke  n assail  Bowl."  This  was  conclusive ;  our  young  author  had  tasted 
lilood — he  had  seen  himself  in  print — and  his  career  was  from  that 
'  irrevocably  ^xed.  He  shortly  after  e6tablished  himself  in  Luo- 
d  Punch  lia.\\ii|^  \\i«ii  y^^  ^X»s\^>  Vi«  was  solicited  to  become  t 


MEMOIR  OF   ALBERT  SMITH.  621 

contributor.  His  several  papers  of ''  The  Medical  Student,"  "  Evening 
Parties,"  *'  The  London  Lounger,"  '*  The  Side-scenes  of  Society,"  con- 
tributed in  no  small  degree  to  tne  success  and  popularity  of  that  periodi- 
cal ;  and  established  for  their  author  at  once  a  high  reputation  as  a  comic 
writer  and  an  amusing  and  good-natured  satirist  of  London  Society,  its 
external  ostentations  and  its  inward  economy.*  His  reputation  for  this 
style  of  writing  was  carried  out  still  further  in  his  alliance  with  Mr.  John 
Parry,  whom  he  has  supplied  with  a  rich  budget  of  materials  adapted 
with  admirable  tact  to  the  display  of  those  executive  drolleries  for  which 
Mr.  Parry  might  fairly  claim  a  patent  of  invention  but  that  he  may 
discard  all  fear  of  imitation. 

A  few  random  contributions  to  ''  Bentley's  Miscellany  "  then  led  to 
a  firmer  connection  ;  and  the  novel  of  ''  The  Adventures  of  Mr,  Led* 
hury "  was  commenced  in  1842 ;  with  what  success  is  known  to  the 
readers  of  the  ''  Miscellany."  This  first  essay  in  a  work  of  longue 
haleine,  as  they  also  know,  was  immediately  followed  by  the  "  Fortunes 
of  the  Scattergood  Family"  and  the  "  Marchioness  de  BrinviUiers ;"  in 
which  latter  work  Mr.  Smith  has  made  a  bold  plunge  into  antiquarian 
and  historical  romance,  and  shown  the  power  to  deeply  interest  and  in- 
struct, of  which  few  would  have  suspected  the  comic  writer.  It  is  not 
necessary  that  we  should  give  a  complete  catalogue  of  Mr.  Smith's 
literary  labours ;  his  indefatigable  industry  and  versatility  would  ren- 
der this  no  easy  task,  and  we  have  merely  traced  the  landmarks 
through  which  he  has  so  rapidly  travelled  to  the  position  he  now  holds. 
Were  we  to  enumerate  the  result  of  even  one  year's  labour  in  his  mul- 
tifarious contributions  to  periodical  literature  of  every  description,  we 
should  more  than  astonish  the  reader.  One  principal  feature,  how- 
ever, we  have  omitted, — his  connections  with  the  theatre,  which  com- 
menced humbly,  but  most  successfully,  at  the  Surrey  Theatre,  in  the 
drama  of  **  Blanche  Herxot"  and  has  subsequently  been  carried  on  with 
no  less  success,  and  more  acceptable  laurels  in  the  path  of  burlesque 
writing.  '* Aladdin,"  *' Valentine  and  Orson'  '' Whittington,"  "Cinderel^ 
la,"  we  have  all  seen  succeed  each  other  in  rapid  and  in  brilliant  array, 
and  establish  for  Mr.  Smith  a  reputation  for  Burlesque  only  inferior  to 
its  inventor  Mr.  Planche.  Having  brought  our  hero  up  to  his  last 
achievement,  we  now  leave  him  with  the  hope  that  what  he  may  have 
recorded  is  but  the  glimmering  dawn  of  a  long  and  bright  day.  One 
word  more,  and  this  at  the  risk  of  saddling  Mr.  Bentley  with  actvertise- 
ment  duty,  we  particularly  address  to  eligible  spinsters,  Mr.  Smith  is 
unmarried,  and  twenty-nine  years  of  age. 

C.  L.  K. 

*  Mr.  Smith's  connection  with  Punch  has  since  ceased,  through  a  misunder* 
standing,  the  causes  of  which  are  among  the  mysteries  of  London. 


623 


EARLY  YEARS  OF  A  \^£TERAN  OF  THE  ARMY  OF 
WESTPHALIA, 
BETITEEN  IttS  ASJ}  1814. 


It  k  t»  be  tapfMMed  that  the  bmkt  was  enptr  9i  its  former  inks- 
bifcmtB.  On  the  appriih  of  cneBics  tber  concealed  themaelTes  and 
their  small  fwiyeitf  ia  the  forests ;  and  tlios  eren  the  first  fngxtiTcs 
had  foond  no  mod  of  anj  kind.  After  having  in  some  d^ree  warmed 
oonielTesy  we  began  corertlr  to  do  honour  to  our  eatables.  As  thejr 
could  not,  eren  bj  the  nxist  thrifty  dirisions  of  them,  hold  out  very 
loi^,  what  was  to  become  of  os  during  the  remaining  distance  to 
Wilna  ?  and  how  did  these  masses  of  homsn  beings  anmnd  os  sustain 
themselres  ?  I  know  not.  The  last  resonrces  had  been  left  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Beresina,  where,  when  all  else  failed,  there  were  jet 
horses  to  slaughter  and  to  feed  upon.  Here  was  nothing  ^  absolute] j 
nothing ;  and  as  we  on  the  succeeding  day  saw  countless,  heaped-op 
corpses  on  our  road,  we  knew  to  a  certainty  by  their  appearance  with 
what  enemy  they  had  been  combating ;  their  hollow^  &llen-in  fiices 
proved  that  famine,  gaunt  fiunine,  bad  allied  itself  wiUi  their  innume- 
rable prirations  and  exhausting  efforts  to  destroy  them.  In  mounds,  in 
walls,  heaped  up  together,  lay  the  rictims  of  the  last  night  as  we  left 
our  bivouac  in  the  morning. 

Early  on  the  second  day  we  hastened  on,  but  with  strength  much 
diminished, — for  the  remainder  of  the  ham  had  furnished  only  slender 
rations  for  our  breakfast.  The  storm  blew  with  redoubled  violence ; 
the  cold  was  intense,  and  the  despair  around  us  was  not  calculated  to 
sustain  our  courage.  The  dead  and  the  living  increased  in  number  at 
we  passed  along ;  many  of  the  latter,  in  quiet,  melancholy  delirium, 
were  seated  uj)on  a  stone  or  a  hillock  of  earth  ;  and,  as  we  at  evening 
sank  down  by  our  fire,  weak,  weary,  and  worn  out,  more  than  one  <^ 
us,  too,  had  lost  all  hope.  Next  morning,  when  I  had  left  my  compa- 
nions at  a  short  distance,  I  espied  a  man  carrying  a  large,  coarse  bag>  and 
ran  after  him  as  fast  as  I  was  able.  To  my  inquiry  of  what  the  bag  con* 
tiiined  the  man  answered  there  was  flour  in  it,  and  made  over  to  me  the 
half  of  it  for  an  extravagant  sum  of  money.  I  ran  back  in  triumph  to  my 
fainting  companions.  The  prospect  of  so  reviving  a  breakfast  screwed 
up  our  courage.  Quickly  was  our  camp-kettle  filled  with  snow,  there- 
in to  cook  our  soup.  We  seasoned  it  with  a  cartridge,  and  half-famish- 
ed as  we  were,  we  fell  to  as  soon  as  it  was  ready ;  but,  what  horror 
was  ours  upon  discovering  a  number  of  those  disgusting  worms  so  often 
to  be  found  in  old  flour.  General  Schulz  was  able,  indeed,  to  joke 
ovvT  our  soup,  and  baptised  it  soul-cement,  recommending  it  as  the 
only  means  of  keeping  liody  and  soul  in  harmony  together ;  but  though 
none  of  us  refused  his  share,  neither  could  any  one  get  down  the  dis- 
gusting mixture  without  a  monstrous  eflx)rt  over  himself.  Our  horses 
still  held  out,  and  we  fed  them  upon  a  little  straw-thatch,  or  we  found 
here  and  there  a  haycock  in  a  meadow,  out  of  which  we  provided  our- 
selves. While  relating  our  grievous  necessities  some  ])ersons  may  per- 
haps make  the  observation  that  we  might  have  had  one  of  these  ani- 
mals killed  for  our  subsistence ;  but,  in  the  first  place,  we  could  not 
n  have  taken  on  our  wounded, — besides  from  station  to  station  we 
i^etUng  nwctet  \o  "WWiva.,  "wWt^,  «&  W.  \va&  %scA>  vj^  v;^^^^  v^  form 


OF   THE    ARMY    OF    W^ESTPHALIA. 


f)23 


and  be  nssembled  ;  therefore,  in  order  to  be  soon  fit  for  service,  we 
must  preserve  to  tbe  uttermost  the  meana  requisite  for  that  purpose. 

The  scene  next  dny  at  our  bivouac  had  again  changed,  and  for  the 
worse  ;  sutferinga,  want,  and  fatigue  had  increased  to  a  hideous  degree. 
Thousands  of  those  newly  arriv^ed,  staggering  round  the  tire,  endea- 
voured with  impotent  hand«  to  reach  it,  and  soon,  acknowledging  the 
fruitlessness  of  their  efforts,  sank  down  upon  the  icy  field  to  sleep  the 
sleep  of  death.  At  intervals  curses  and  adjurations  resoundedi  mingled 
with  loud  lamentations  for  dear  kinsfolk,  and  in  particular  young  sol- 
diers were  often  heard  to  grieve  with  expressions  of  the  deepest  sor- 
row after  their  beloved  mothers  at  home.  Some  who  found  no  more 
dry  wood  for  their  fire  tried*  but  generally  in  vain,  to  break  oif  the 
green  twigs  from  the  trees ;  their  powerless  hands  slipped  off  the 
smooth  rind  ;  they  sank  down,  and  he  who  once  fell  rose  up  no  more, 
unless  lifted  up  by  n  friend's  hand.  An  old  man  with  snow-white  hair, 
bent,  feel>le,  wrapped  in  a  large  cloak,  approached  tbe  fire  of  tbe  sol- 
diers, and  said  to  them,  with  supplicating  gestures* 

"  Room  at  the  fire,  for  the  love  of  God !" 

**  Get  you  gone  !" 

*'  But  I  am  a  general.*' 

"  There  are  no  more  generals/'  was  the  aiiawer ;  ^*  we  are  all 
generals." 

Terrible  as  were  tbe  curses  and  imprecations  from  all  sides,  nothing 
made  so  deep  an  impression  upon  us  as  the  misery  of  those  who  had  lost 
their  reason  through  destitution,  and  the  now  hourly-increasing  cold. 
Some  threw  themselves  upon  the  crackling  fire  ;  others  cursed  God  and 
moDj  whilst  they  madly  struck  their  heads  against  the  stems  of  trees; 
others^  again,  were  singing,  with  a  melancholy,  frenzied  smile  in  their 
pale,  hollow- eyed,  deathly  faces,  the  songs  of  their  native  country* 
Others  sat  by  the  wayside,  and  wept  with  all  tbe  painfnl  intensity 
that  children  weep  in,  and  with  the  convulsive  passionate  sobbing  of 
that  period  of  life. 

On  the  fourth  day,  as  we  were  hardly  able  for  hunger  to  drag  our- 
selves along,  we  obtained  upon  the  march  (I  no  longer  remember 
through  what  happy  accident)  a  great  piece  of  raw  meat,  which  we 
tned  to  cook  at  our  fire ;  but,  meantime,  our  hunger  was  so  imperative 
that  ive  thawed  a  portion  of  it,  cut  o IT  small  bits,  and  strewing  a  little 
gunpowder  upon  them,  swallowed  them  down  raw. 

On  the  night  of  the  28th  of  November  we  crossed  the  Beresina,  and 
on  the  .^tli  of  December  readied  an  inhabited  tract  of  country  in  the 
district  of  Malodecznow.  Although  there  were  no  provisions,  yet  in 
bouses  and  sheds,  or  in  the  rear  of  tbem,  we  found  aleeping-places  se- 
cure from  the  harsh-blowing  wind.  T!ie  houses  were  often  so  full  that 
tbe  ground-iloor,  and  every  corner,  were  crammed  with  fugitives.  How- 
ever, we  had  the  good  luck  once  to  be  among  the  first  arrivals  in  one  of 
the  huts,  where  we  soon  made  ourselves  comfortable,  and  lay  down  to 
sleep*  I  awoke  about  two  o'clock  ;  and  liaving  roused  Lieutenant 
Brand  and  my  servant,  1  prepared  to  start.  All  my  comrades  were 
ready  except  Lieutenant  Schrader  and  Lieutenant  Koliltr,  who  found 
themselves  too  comfortable  in  their  warm  birth,  now  a  novelty,  to  be 
induced  to  stir*  At  our  deiiarture  the  wliole  hamlet,  according  to  cus- 
tom, was  in  flames;  and  when  wc  hud  gone  on  a  hundred  paces  we 
discovered  lb  At  our  last  night's  quarters,  caught  by  the  fire,  was  also 
blazing ;  and  after  a  hundred  paces  or  so  Lieutenant  ScUi^d'et  w*^tT\v5«^ 


IF  i  Tiraaj^y 


5^  X  . 

'"Tf  "T*  »Frg  '•p±L  '"i*^  — — itiw^w^  waica. : 

II    3-2C1    X    Ik  ije  -writ  JBli  ftZB  «c  «sck 
-ZU^n  Tlfe*    -31*    3I1JCC 


i&     Tie  x-LiT ftt  3iiir3Led  siL  aawBg 

IT  -TMrri  "uac  Xinnueon.  luii  iecRtlj  &m  tlmn 

•I  i-r-  '•^j*r=i  njTir.  mil  r~=ia   i«*-'r  ^i*  .ascLaad  to  tkt 

T'Sl  -LLjt    31-nr^   if  319  itgJMTlATtt  ISae  eSTWCfiSlMIIS  of 

if  2=^  -iinmr:.nr  ncioDi  ^ncfrcLT  rciaLed,  fiv  it  be- 
-wTM  .li&i  ^  ^7S  ix^iiL  -s^iKUair  j^azsSE^:  jmi  u  est  «as  «c  the  eoantiy 

ATZ!^  A*:,  -r^izi  t**  rur^  -f-^u  i.  i;tr,:a>'C  h  i^izx  fr.mtn  to  stone ; 
zcaI  d'-.Jz:i  'Se  74«r^uii  uluc^i  "Li  «9iss.  jf  i»  ir  rroc  we  coosomcd 
«e  'IaT^  LZii  £*£*;r  -^iti  iCLiisr  ^-'  "  3ir  "Liic  3^11  CAj  ir  c;:;r  schakos,  where 
X  1I-TT-1  i»-  ;«fp-*si.  li  "ue  -s-^iT.n;!  :f  li*  7^  """e  windered  about 
mnl  2inis  i  ::ncy  ■v^x^itii::  ikhi^t  iri»">*.  i>  rrx^int  ti'Jier  «LeIter  or  6re : 
jr  >^r:a  x^  n — ^--i  ic  i  ^irr^  kr^iiCiciian  ir  ciMmtrr  inn,  into  which 

-W^   ♦nTV*a**«T.       JL^liT    ni-i.r^    iTililui    IZ-l   31JXT  Useless    tTuJs,    We   •UC- 

=--it!*i  n  in^limr  rTrir  -an*  if  il*  w>}Ci££  cv,2i&tn2ctiMn,  for  the  pur- 
His^  if  laitixur  1  ir*  u  L?a^  jLsiic  ti*  i^ert^  house, — that  is  to  say, 
in.  "Ill*  'lar*  nuiria.  Li  *ll2*  A3:nzar>jc  the  skin  from  the  tips  of  our 
fnaKi  -Jn-mf-n  iTtH-Ai  «Min.  ce  crx-mz,  od"  lie  a  glore.  Scarcely  had  the 
±rt  iamed  -lj  t'-k*  tie  «ciuae  i*-  n"^  lis  was  filled  so  entirely  with  fugi- 
C^rsaw  '->:»-  -v«  -v^r^  =i:c  i^or..  f^c  xa£.t  of  room,  to  bring  our  wounded 
3iar  lotf^  ir?.  "^  z^j  -rtr^  -icli^ed  to  remain  oatside^  exposed  to  the 
upr^s^  -rn^r^A  x^t  ooi'i.  Hxriii^  had  some  repose,  we  again  set 
wtj-  it  3xi;£it  ae  x  liitle  aner  xci^i  night ;  and  as  the  road  now  became 
Biir«  iillT.  it  irp«ar«i  eTident,  to  oar  great  alarm^  that  the  horses 
w«re  ^^-ftp^-y  of  pr»xeecii:g  £&rth«;r.  A  short  halt,  and  fresh  endea- 
Y^crs  t»  get  taem  oo  w«ie  unsuccessful ;  and  it  was  therefore  decided 
t^t  tn  of  cs  should  go  forward  to  procure  assistance  if  possible- 
Colooei  Pf  uhl  and  I  were  chosen  for  this  object :  we  promised  to  do 
«ar  best,  bade  our  friends  fisrewell,  and  turned  from  them.  I  left  with 
lb0n  all  I  poficisrd,  except  a  well-furnished  pouch  of  gold  in  a  belt 
tmad  mj  bodr,  and  the  formerly  described  wearing  apparel.  My 
■.dienalicd  Wies,  so  dear  to  erery  cavalry  soldier,  I  recommended 


OF    THE   ARMY    OF    WESTPHALIA. 


6S9 


to  tlie  care  of  my  nian  ; — but  I  liave  never  again  beheld  either  fritnda 
or  bagjjagt*,  or  hursen.  All  trnr  endeavours  to  procure  assistance  were, 
as  nitiy  ha  supposed,  fruitless  ;  tlje  country  itweJf  was  a  desert,  and  wo 
soon  fell  af^in  into  u  stream  of  fug^itivesj  who  curried  us  on  al*»u^  with 
them^elveSf  and  who,  h^d  we  solicited  succour  from  tbeOTj  nere  unable 
to  afford  us  any- 

At  six  o*cl»ck  in  tbe  niorninjr  we  arrived  at  t!ie  advanced  posts  be- 
fore Wilna,  wbere  the  whirl  and  the  confusion  increased  to  a  m<»Rt  be- 
wildering degree.  Besides,  1  was  now  bron^rht  to  that  extreme  of 
death-like  fatigue*  in  which  memory  and  reflection  began  to  fail  me ; 
and  Ijere  I  lost  Colonel  Pf  uhl  from  my  mdi},  the  last  comrade  fate  bad 
left  me.  I  made  inquiries  for  the  billetHiHice  and  the  stores  ;  both 
were  so  encompassed,  that  to  get  at  them  was  impossible.  However, 
as  I  was  coming  away,  I  met  a  Jewish  broker  or  agent,  through  whom 
alonei  as  I  knew,  any  one  thing  could  be  procured.  With  my  last  re- 
maining energy  I  besought  him  to  conduct  me  to  a  warm  chamber,  pro- 
mising him  a  rich  recompense.  Fortunately  the  man  was  prepared  for 
such  a  request,  and  brought  me  instantly  to  a  lodging,  where,  in  a  well* 
heated  ch umber,  i  first  devoured  some  food,  made  an  appointment  for 
the  afternoon  with  the  Jew,  and  then  instantly  fell  into  so  deep  a 
slumber,  that  I  could  only  with  diHiculty  be  awakened  at  four  o'clock, 
when  the  Jew  canic  back,  I  inquired  of  him  whether  we  were  in 
safety  here,  upon  wljich  he  told  me  that  such  was  not  altogether  the 
case;  that  Co»sack*  had  been  seen  hovering  about  the  town,  which  was 
filling  every  moment  more  and  more  with  defenceless  fugitives.  1  was 
too  weary  at  present  to  make  any  farther  arrangements ;  half-asleep*  I 
swallowed  some  warm  food,  commissioned  the  Jew  to  bring  me  at  six 
o'clock  next  morning,  a  loaf  and  a  bottle  of  rum,  and  was  soon  fast 
asleep  again,  I  invoke  tolerably  refreshed,  and  found  tlie  Jew  in  wait- 
ing for  me ;  he  had  indeed  performed  my  errand,  but  brought  me  no 
consolatory  tidings.  lie  told  me  that  on  the  roads  leading  to  the  dif- 
ferent gales,  there  were  such  multitudes  of  people,  that  a  passage 
ibrough  them  ^vasnot  to  bethought  of;  but  that  he  would  try  to  bring 
me  near  the  town  by  a  thoroughfare  he  was  acquainted  with,  1  was 
soon  ready  ;  the  rum  was  put  into  a  pocket  of  my  surtout,  a  cord  passed 
through  my  loaf,  and  then  I  sallied  fortli,  having  first  handsomely  re* 
compensed  my  liostess-  A*  the  agent  had  promised,  so  did  all  ensne. 
During  a  short  time  we  vvent  on  with  the  stream  ;  then  turning  to  the 
left,  we  got  into  the  o[>en  country  by  a  small  side-gate.  Ilere  the 
wind  blew  so  sharp,  and  the  cold  liad  so  powerful  an  etfect  on  me  after 
my  passing  the  night  in  a  warm  chaud>er,  that  my  breath  was  for  a 
while  cut  short  ;  how^ever,  we  went  on  faster  and  faster,  until  we 
came  out  i*gain  on  the  high  road,  where  I  rewarded  my  honest  Jew  to 
his  satisfaction,  taking  good  care  though  not  to  let  him  see  my  hidden 
treasure,  for  hnndrcdi*  and  thousands  have  been  assassinated  and  plun- 
dered upon  sucfi  occasions,  1  had,  on  leaving  the  house,  heard  a  report 
of  small  arms  and  the  thundering  of  cannon  ;  danger  was  therefore  near, 
and  haste  necessary,  I  met,  in  the  road  quite  close  to  the  town,  with 
our  4lh  Westphaliau  infantry  regiment  draw^n  up  in  a  square;  it  was 
part  of  the  division  of  St.  Cyr,  had  not  crossed  the  Beresina,  and  was 
complete  in  consequence.     I  delayed  but  a  short  time  with  it  to  speak 

with  Captain  von  C ,  an  acquaintance,  little  foreseeing  that   niy 

fate  was  shortly  to  bi^  bound  up  iji  the  closest  manner  with  kk« 


VOL.  XVI II, 


or 


^  -T  ^t .^as^  vT\r  xja 


^- 


It  mZ 


:t  al: 


a  X  -car  - 


i  -rrfl:  iHv  M  £Ibk  ^rsa  rack 


"t    .*»:ta>  J.W  JT   3" 


rsr  ^Uf7'«4X 


^ 


\lMt:    =fiB£    «iur  ^   ^^n 


BiC   Itf   JUI 


5l»-^«»- 


r  iH«  lie.  Zmm  ^m^nmm  aev  &  sm^^ 

ar  '  «ac  sik*-  «p^       Txu^  ^bm^  »  jh^  '^^^  ^^ 

z-t..    aw  ^v  HmHuai  abn  i^kv  -*  I  xuim  u  -vj&  »y  i^^r  iim'mA 


GLIMPSES  AND  MYSTERIES. 

WRITTEN   AND    ILLUSTRATED   BY    ALFHED    CROWQUlLI« 

TOE  OLD  WOMAN  AT  THE  CORNER. 


^>rj 


^-^ 


J^- 


What  !  an  old  nohian  hir  a  mystery?  Ves  !  my  occasional  glimpset 
at  her  had  made  her  ho.  In  fact,  she  had  become  a  matter  of  i^real  in* 
tere*t  to  me.  There  ia  nothing  uncommon  either  about  old  wfimen.  or 
apple-stalls  generally  ;  but  upon  a  particular  fttHf  of  these  things  had 
ray  imagination  become  fixed,  and  my  brain  truly  puzzled.  Site  sat  at 
the  corner  of  a  new  line  of  bnildin|Ts  which  were  in  all  the  freshness  of 
their  first  quarter  and  6r»t  tenants,  atandiug  rather  aloof  from  tlie 
older  part  of  the  town,  as  if  in  pride  of  their  new  coats  of  painty  and 
treading  with  their  heels  upon  the  crass  of  tlae  desecrated  fields.  Under 
the  shelter  of  a  newly-raised  gable  of  a  wall  appertaining  to  one  of 
these«  she  ruined  hi?r  rickety  temple  tr>  Pomona.  It  was  a  cold  bleak 
corner  ;  but  she  had  ensconced  herself  in  a  patched  contrivance,  look- 
ing like  a  hall-porter's  chair  which  had  seen  better  days,  yet  good  en«ui;h 
to  keep  off  the  windy  gusts  that  revelled  around  her;  and  her  feet 
were  protected  by  being  popped  out  of  the  damp  into  a  half-sieve 
basket. 

Her  stall  was  a  wonder  of  ingenuity*  It  consisted  of  a  much-worn 
tea-tray,  balanced  upon  very  dubious-looking  legi%,  tied  in  the  most 
puczling  manner  by  wonderful  diagrams  of  string.  The  stock,  which 
•eemed  to  stick  by  her  most  pmvokingly,  consisted  of  a  few  very  ill- 
used  apples,  bruised  to  a  most  uninviting  look,  flanked  by  some  neg- 
lectcd-iooking  figs,  evidently  robbed  long  ago  of  "  all  their  sweetness  " 
by  some  brigand  flies.  A  few  saucers  of  liquid  something,  bad  enough 
ta  the  eye, — what  they  would  have  been  to  the  mouth  na  ^^\^  ^t^'ct 


"  '-^^^   -  ^-'^    *^*^  -i^  ^"    iU'TK-srr^-  v-i^uxTv::    ii^nif^  ir  uiiissL  iff 
i=-  T^t^-L.^  •r  =-r-_-      icT  ami.  rtsiw-  *^=»    «air-i;  w-nuni::: 
JL.  -.11=^  rr  ^  r-Laiie-L  ^Hic  2i^»:!f-«Ik  ^■nmr.  -r-iirx   i»l2   a:  l1  ::§  c- 

1- .t    hlllii.    l*liL  "Uci  7:^::Tr  SilC£.   Hks^ti  r  t  nt*.'  th  fX^tft 

:^::-  ti:.    ir»':;rir   icr   ^3*=:»  - — ^rjxr    im^   ic  jmL  iisr  sail 

Bw»r  -     Xi  dbOxiXiL  ir  rulii  ¥"4»  iw i^st  ▼THi  iisr.      2^icv^u£isft- 

Jur  vTiiri.   luw^-'S"  -t-TL'j  ji  "infr  sm^anif  I  ^»wtr-^r>   ji^^i  friiit  irr  wis- 

Hr=ucrS3r^  -Set  vncc  ic  naat  TkTrrT'-.ir      7!i^r«  -mss  &  arriOB-r  iz  litf 
UAi.  vnmiox 

I  soua  ids  Its'  m.  "zn*  ii^z^  -vncas  sunmu^' 
liiizn  ii£±  I.  iuzxc  intiir!!:  "nniii'v  i<>!ssi  jict^  I 
o^  in  n*^  am.  ixziL  317  uiL-^'Tur-'viCer  ^  rsC  cau^  ^arsfir  irr  : 
lupw  iir  TT^  suzjc  ji  ir  ^itfc  jzc^oct  larxira^ 3acxBv>«— ££e  g»-*^  wiji^ 
JeL  :LiAt  T-iiuuc  rsxcjsxujL  21  as  lOiEr  sts^  WiTiiwi  s»  f^  viiev  the 
-voDC  raxne  f*iin.  — ilic  viibl  irj  mniL  ir  T^BCBkBjflirn:  W  u  ^i.  jpccs 
Jim  i&suiiL  inic  wic£i  jimtj:  ju^  ioh  fiirxsw.  mcxai^  r^^  sttsffr  .^  V-*rj- 
aur*  111=  L  •  fLL  rrui   m£  -ruran-ar  itrjMCtt-*  W~cscvr«-r  ic  li*  i^- 

fcii'»  lOiL  ior-i  rifrr*tt??v   iat  I  ll  vinii  iii±  riOLj^jraic-i  re^iL  x^i  rZesr  i 

n:  CMeiwsrr  laxjfijC  iii*  ^mks  suL  "LiMt  itfC£«w  ix  w^aci  I  tike  1  r7«t 
Dft'-igiri.  B»  -I  zTTims  irj  Ti.:3ii  a$  ^r  -wie  tz*  Ls^  ttrriad*  Are  c.« 
zr  liisir  iiPTCi*.  «r  icirtr*  ri^Eaes^  -wTii  tie  scr^i  <«v«^  «c  tissr  xir- 
CSX*.  l1  ^Oori  ;.::-T;rt  irt  «i-rT.TilT»  t>  =r  MTp  ic"  iaq^irr.  I  *r- 
priibLJA:*L  ilzDHtS  cziaifiuaHL^T  tlri«Lr':>  I.IK  ^feais  to  I2ie  back  of  xcr  o!d 
-v^fuxu^  Li*i  iier  tfb  lzl£  st  tip;i::s£:iu  jc^e  i«Mk  tbor  prorokin^  s>£il 
ITLJZ  :  Liii  xk  ZLT  ere  becLSie  f  xec  <c  t'^e  c^ject,  stetlin^  iiadssriiict  h 
tilt  fE*g-fi.'  i>£  tTCiiisx:.  I  Ui.CsTi:  I  pcraered  «  £ecrv  stooping  orer 
ijie  i&^  ix  «-n5e::t  9Hc^vrttt>:w  wh^  naj  mTOeriocs  oM  m^^m-ju  I 
hsrCj  ATcrabSiec  ctct  xht  zrmm  thai  mMsipjotd  the  rend  until  alaiost 
cjiiat  -p3c  liiesi,  vbex  iet  rcwt  ttzikisg  the  gnrd,  sUiticd  tlie  stnnirtT. 
vL«i  iizL2iiediUc-]j  nraed  any.  and  walked  on.  I  9000  orertook  Iuq. 
—  for  tbere  vu  h-otiidne  odd  ia  hi^  muiner  wliidi  prooipted  me  to 
f^ilicnr  Lim,  aisd  I  v^  uu«iiihed  to  find  sn  elegantlr-dressed  man, 
wnh  is7isUiCx5o»  and  imperul,  no:  of  the  neigliboariiood.  His  avk- 
vard  ssHUxpckci  of  eiase  btinjed  some  embtrrnsment  mnd  mTsterv.  I 
tcrsed  spoo  mj  kexJ,  and  repassed  the  frnit-stalL  I  kioked  piercings 
Ir  at  tLe  Okd  woman.  She  did  not  retnm  it.  There  she  sat,  stolid  and 
inuDore^e.     She  looked  at  nothing ! 

I  turned  orer  in  mr  mind  all  the  possible  or  proluble  vonng  ladies  in 
the  oe^Ehboarfaood  who  woold  be  romantic  enough  to  commit  sach  an 
act  of  impmdenoe  as  to  indulge  in  a  clandesU'ne  oorreqNMideiice  with 


GLIMPSES    AND    MYSTERIES, 


629 


sucli  a  tlubious-looking  gentleman,  through  such  a  very  questionable 
medium  ;  but  all  my  revidvings  were  unsatisfactory:  yet  was  I  deter- 
minctl  to  fiud  it  out,  for  I  kuevv  the  danger  to  the  young  and  inexpe- 
rienced which  hus  accrued  from  the  romance  wrapt  round  these  pic- 
turesque mysteries  of  Polt?  aud  pickpocket. 

Stone  few  morniugs  after,  i  arose  at  an  earlier  hour  than  usuaJ  to 
pack  my  carpet-bii^  for  a  railway-trip  fur  a  day  or  two,  when,  throw- 
in|^  up  my  window  to  give  admittance  to  the  svveet  morning  air,  I  be- 
held, though  so  very  early,  the  old  woman  and  her  stidl.  *•  Curioun," 
thought  I.  Ratlier  early  foi.  customers,  and  for  such  warea  I  ^*  She 
must  sleep  there,"  thought  I,  *'  and  I  have  never  discovered  it  before !" 

My  reverie  was  soon  broken  by  the  appearance  of  a  servant-girl, 
who,  gliding  cautiously  from  the  door  of  a  neighbouring  house,  ran 
across  the  road  to  the  old  woman's  stall.  Her  apron,  which  was  rolled 
partly  round  her  arm,  «oon  yielded  some  smull  articles  to  the  old  wo- 
man's outstretched  hands,  who  in  return  handed  a  letter  to  the  giggling 
girl  I  Oh  1  oh  f — Love  '8  messenger,  by  u!l  the  power^s  of  uglineNH  1  A 
fruitful  post-uihce,  truly  1  She  hurried  back  ;  but  in  a  few  minutes  I 
saw  another  nymph  of  tiie  dusting-brush  tripping  over  to  the  mysteri- 
ous matron,  and  yielding  her  otfering  here.  No  letter  appeared,  but 
much  violent  gesticulation  from  the  maid,  as  if  from  some  disappi>iot- 
ment ;  after  a  long  parley  she  returned  sulkily  to  her  work,  and  be- 
stowed many  savage  blows  upon  the  door>mat8«  much  to  their  benefit 
in  the  expulsion  of  the  dust.  She  was  quickly  succeeded  by  other  early- 
rising  maids,  who  hung  their  little  bits  of  carpet  and  door-mats  on  the 
rails,  whilst  they  indulged  in  a  short  chat  with  the  apparently  general 
agent,  popping  across  and  across  from  street-d<x»rs  and  areas,  like  so 
many  rabbits  from  their  burrows,  "  There  is  danger  in  that  cold- 
eyed  old  woman,*'  thought  I,  *'  or  I  am  very  much  mistaken  V  A 
casual  glance  from  one  of  the  laughing  girls  betrayed  my  watching 
ga2e>  and  they  all  vanished  like  the  aforesaid  rabbits  do  at  the  ap« 
proach  of  a  poacher's  lurcben 

The  morning  after  my  return  from  my  trip,  when  I  had  nearly  for- 
gotten my  old  woman  and  my  suspicions,  the  neighbourhood  was  alarm- 
ed by  the  account  of  the  house  at  the  corner  of  the  field  having  been 
robbed  of  plate  and  money  to  a  large  amount.  Upon  inquiry,  I  found 
that  the  servant-girl  had  been  discovered  by  the  inmates  bound  and 
gagged  in  the  kitchen.  The  alarm  was  given;  the  officers  arrived^ 
mod  after  a  minute  search  found  that  no  forcible  entry  had  been  made 
from  without  by  the  burglarsj  which  led  to  a  suspidon  that  the  girl 
was  an  accomplice ;  but  the  terrified  creature  fell  on  her  knees,  almost 
paralysed  with  horror  at  the  situation  into  which  her  imprudence  had 
placed  her,  and  amfessed  that  the  truth  was  that  a  lover  was  ta  the 
case^  who  had  written  to  her,  through  the  old  apple-woman  at  the  comer, 
many  letters  of  love  and  admiration ;  and,  being  flAtlered  by  which, 
she  hud  often  met  him  when  sent  on  errands  or  meaaagef, 

Tlie  evening  before  he  bad  told  her  that  he  was  about  to  leave  town 
for  some  time,  and  begged  her  to  admit  him  after  the  family  had  re- 
tired, that  he  might  hare  a  better  opportunity  of  laying  his  plans  be- 
fore her  for  their  future  marriage,  which  must  be  cJanaeitinef  on  ac^ 
count  of  his  family.  She  consttUed  with  the  old  woman^  wbo  slT0ng)f 
urged  her  compbance,  as  it  would  be  folly  in  her  to  throw  away, 
through  a  little  squeamiahnesa  so  good  an  opportunity  of  iettliag  her* 
self,  and  she  was  sore  he  meant  honourably,  for  "  she  nerer  law  anjr 
young  gentleman  go  on  so  aboot  a  girl  in  hi;r  life*** 


630 


GLIMPSES    AND    MYSTERIES. 


Urged  by  the^e  motires.,  and  the  furfher  eloquence  of  the  old  wo- 
man, nhe  con»ented^  and  admitted  her  lorer  after  the  family  bad  re* 
tired;  he  had  hardly  entered  her  kitchen  when  he  threw  a  abavl  orer 
Iter  head,  and  bound  her  to  the  dresser,  them  admitted  an  acoomplice, 
who  assisted  in  gauging  her  effectually. 

Every  one's  suspicion  imtnediately  turned  to  the  old  woman.  We 
looked  out  of  the  window^  and  discovered  that  the  bird  was  Aown.  The 
officers,  however,  soon  traced,  through  the  information  and  fears  of 
some  of  the  neighbouring  senrants,  her  abode.  Here  some  important 
lights  were  thrown  upon  the  old  woman's^eneral  usefulness  and  cun- 
ning ways  in  entrapping  the  foolish  girls  to  her  purpose.  Para&ol«i 
boas,  and  fiaunty  dresses  for  tliem  to  wear  on  '*  their  days  out,"  which 
they  dare  not  put  on  under  the  eye^  of  their  mistresses,  were  stowed 
away  in  abundance  in  the  wretched  garret  which  seemed  to  have  been 
made  the  'tiring  room  of  all  the  area  beauties  of  the  neighbourhood ; 
but  no  trace  of  the  old  woman  !  The  hearth  was  cold,  and  the  people 
of  the  house  knew  nothing  of  her,  except  that  she  had  a  great  many 
visitors  of  aU  sorts,  and  that  they  had  supposed  she  was  a  fortune- 
tellt^r ;  but  it  was  no  business  of  theirs;  she  paid  her  rent^  which  in 
such  a  neighbourhood  was  the  highest  guarantee  of  respectability. 

A  few  weeks  passed,  when  an  Irish  row  of  the  usuai  kind,  made  up 
of  serious  blows  and  funny  speeches,  a  bent  poker  or  two,  and  heada 
tied  up  in  pocket-handkerchiefs,  brought  some  parties  before  the  ma- 
gistrates  with  their  alarmingly  long  tails  of  witnesses  to  prove  that 
both  complainant  and  defendant  were  *^*  kilt  entirely*"  The  defendant 
in  the  case  attracted  tlie  attention  of  one  of  the  officers,  from  her  beif^ 
ing  so  strong  a  resemblance  to  the  description  of  the  old  apple-woman. 
He  dispatched  a  messenger  for  the  girl,  who  upon  her  arrival  soon  re- 
eognif>ed  hen  The  officer  quietly  awaited  the  conclusion  of  the  case 
then  on,  which  was  decided  by  the  magistrate  in  the  only  way  such 
cases  can  be  decided,  by  warning  both  parties  to  keep  the  peace,  and  a 
delicate  hint  at  th<?  treadmill  to  be  administered  all  round  if  he  saw  any 
of  their  faces  again  in  a  like  cause. 

As  the  old  woman  turned  to  leave  the  bar,  the  officer  arrested  ber 
progress,  and  stating  to  the  magistrate  the  cause  of  her  detention,  pro- 
duced the  witness*  Upon  her  appearance,  the  old  woman  hitched  her 
shawl  tightly  round  her  shoulders  ;  and  pulled  her  scrap  of  a  bonnet 
down  over  her  forehead,  upon  the  witness  swearing  |»ositively  to  her,  and 
stating  her  case,  which  was  confirmed,  as  far  as  the  identity  of  the 
party  went,  by  the  arrival  of  the  master,  and  a  host  of  friends--^ 
among  which  I  was  one— to  whom  she  had  been  known  for  months. 
Though  the  case  appeared  strongly  against  her  she  kept  an  unmoved 
countenance,  bobbing  curtseys  to  the  magistrates  with  the  most  inno* 
cent  look  in  the  world,  and  when  called  upon  to  say  what  she  had  to 
answer  to  the  charge,  she  hurst  out  into  a  torrent  of  language,  saying 
that  **  the  u  hole  faction  of  Vm  would  swear  an  ould  woman's  life  away 
with  lis  mucfi  aise  as  they  *d  pull  a  daisy,  a  stall  she  never  had  from 
her  born  day  to  the  present  writing.  Look  at  my  rags,"  said  «he ;  *'  do 
I  look  like  a  collogurer  with  burglars,  and  the  liKe ;  or  do  they  look  as 
if  they  had  had  the  gentleman'^  spoons  in  the  pockets  of  *em*  Oh  1  it 
is  not  so  miserable  and  poor  I  'd  be  if  I  wasn't  as  vartuous  as  the  bttbe 
unborn  l  But  1  knovv  \vhat  's  putting  the  swearing  on  the  ladies  aod 
gentleman, — it 's  the  twin  of  me,  Och,  when  I  walked  into  this  world 
of  trouble,  I  came  arm-in-arm  with  another  young  lady,  who's  gone 
tstrav,  and  bin  the  death  of  m 


I  my  , 


my 


GLIMPSES    AND    MYSTERIES. 


631 


MfMf  and  it's  transported  or  hung  I  '11  be  for  not  baving  a  face  I  can 
c^l  my  own/' 

*'  Ocli,  Biddy  !"  exclaimed  a  little  roynd-headed  Irisliman,  with  half 
his  head  in  a  handkerchiefj  and  the  other  cohered,  like  Munchausen, 


(ii. 


.^i': 


With  plaislers, — ^"  Och,  Biddy  V'  said  he,  '*  it  a  ihekay,  I  *ll  turn  upon 
ye  this  precious  morning,  and  it  *s  my  broken  nose  that  '11  he  revenged 
of  your  faction.  Plase  your  worship/'  continued  he,  pushing  himself 
to  the  foreground,  "it's  myself  knows  the  young  gentleman  that  put 
the  comether  on  the  young  kdy,  wid  his  whiskers  under  the  nose  of 
him.  Just  send  to  the  Red  Lion,  not  a  hat*a  throw  round  the  corner, 
and  you  11  lind  my  jontleman  beliind  a  newspaper  taking  liis  drops. 
Och  I  he  quick,  or  he  '11  get  the  office.     Now  it  *a  out  of  nie  !" 

Two  or  three  of  the  officers  left  instantly,  and  a  dead  pause  ensued ; 
during  which  the  old  woman  threw  up  her  eyes,  and  seizin;^  with  hoth 
hands  the  har-raii,  kept  up  a  continual  rocking-motion  with  her  body, 
and  her  breathing  could  be  distinctly  heard  through  the  court. 

A  few  minutes  only  elapsed,  when  a  slight  bu&tle  announced  the  re- 
turn of  the  officers  who  had  the  accused  in  custody.  The  moment  my 
eyes  fell  upon  him  I  recognised,  as  I  had  all  along  suspected,  the  per- 
son I  had  seen  conversing  with  her  in  the  twilight.  He  was  a  fine 
handsome  young  man,  elegantly  dressed,  and  of  very  prepossessing  ex- 
terior. The  girl  turned  pale  as  she  instantly  recognised  and  swore  to 
him.  The  old  woman  Imrdly  noticed  him  ;  but  her  anxiety  was  ap- 
parent, for  in  endeavouriiig  to  shield  him,  she  lost  herself,  for,  turning 
with  a  fierce  look  npon  the  witness,  she  said, 

Tl^Iy  pretty  miss,  it's  anything  you'd  swear  to;  the  man  who 
coorted  you  was  shorter  by  a  head,  and  as  swarthy  as  a  bluckamoor/' 

She  here  suddenly  stopped!  She  saw  she  had  committed  herself. 
Her  observation  was  put  down,  and  she  relapsed  into  silence.     1  here 


632 


GLIMPSES   AND   MYSTERIES. 


felt  bound  to  come  forward,  and  state  all  I  knew  of  the  case  and  holli 
prisoners,  which  was  final. 

A  few  weeks  brought  the  sessions  and  the  trial.  The  prisoners  were 
placed  at  the  bar  together.  The  old  woman  was  much  altered ;  a  sicklj 
nue  overspread  her  countenance,  which  was  shadowed  by  a  scrupulonslj 
clean  cap,  and  her  eyes  appeared  more  colourless  than  ever,  which  gave 
her  a  curious  stolid  look,  which  is  seen  only  in  the  blind.  Her  young 
companion  stepped  up  boldly  to  her  side,  and  bowed  elegantly  to  the  court 
He  was  shorn  of  his  mustachios,  which  altered  his  appearance  very 
much,  but  not  sufficiently  so  to  leave  a  doubt  as  to  his  laentity.  As  he 
took  his  place  beside  her,  a  nervous  feeling  appeared  to  shake  her 
frame,  and  her  hand  trembled  over  the  herbs  that  laid  strewed  on  the 
dock  before  them. 

The  facts  of  the  case  were  so  plain  and  simple  that  there  appeared 
not  the  slightest  doubt  from  the  first  of  the  verdict ;  and  notwith- 
standing the  ingenuity  of  their  counsel,  the  verdict  "  Guilty"  against 
both  prisoners  was  given. 

As  the  judge  delivered  his  sentence  her  gaze  was  painfully  acute, 
and  her  hand  became  clasped  in  that  of  her  accomplice.  As  the  sen> 
tence  was  uttered  of  '' transportation  for  life"  on  both,  she  uttered 
a  wail  that  vibrated  through  every  person  present,  and  seizing  her 
fellow-prisoner  round  the  neck,  covered  him  with  kisses  amidst  a 
storm  of  most  endearing  epithets.  She  clutched  him  with  the  fierce- 
ness of  a  tigress  in  her  embrace,  which  no  force  could  separate,  and 
they  were  borne  from  the  court  together.  You  could  hear  her  cries  as 
she  was  borne  through  the  subterraneous  passages  of  the  gaol.  Her 
piercing  shrieks  echoed  mournfully  along  the  walls  that  would  soon 
part  her  and  her  only  child  for  ever,  for  such  he  was  stated  to  be  by 
the  governor  of  the  gaol. 

I  never  pass  the  corner  where  the  old  woman  used  to  be  stationed 
without  expecting  to  see  her  and  her  stall  at  their  wonted  place,  and 
it  will  be  a  long  while  ere  I  forget  the  old  woman  and  her  child. 


>   '  /.iMi^r-' 


.IT" 


INDEX 

TO  THE    EIGHTEENTH    VOLUME. 


Adept  (The),  by  Dalton,  172. 
A  Little  While,  by  WiUum  Jonef,  73. 
Ancient  Church  (The),  372. 
At  1  laye  a  Thynkynge— 4he  last  lines  < 
Thomas  Ingoldal^,  201. 


Barfaam  (Rev.R.H.).  and^r  of  **The 
IngoldsW  Legends,"  198. 

Barkers (W.  G.  J.)  Otfaryades.  238. 

Black  Prophet  (The),  353. 

Brian  O'Linn  ;  or.  Lock  is  Eveiythioff ; 
faj  the  Author  of  <*  Wild  SporU  of  the 
West,"  479.  576. 

Bridal  (The)  of  Manstone  Court,  by 
Henry  Curling,  394. 

Brinvilliers  (The  Marchioness  of),  the 
Poisoner  of  the  Seventeenth  Century  ; 
a  Romance  of  Old  Paris;  by  Albert 
Smith. — The  mischief  still  thickens  on 
all  sides,  1 ;  two  great  villains,  7 ;  the 
dead-house  of  the  H6tel  Dieu,  9;  the 
orgy  at  the  Hotel  de  Cluny,  105; 
Sainte  Croix  and  Marie  encounter  an 
uninvitnl  guest,  111 ;  Louise  Gauthier 
falls  into  (Ungerous  hands,  114;  Marie 
has  Louise  in  her  power.  209 ;  Sainte 
Croix  discovers  the  great  secret,  216  ; 
matters  become  veiy  serious,  221 ;  the 
flight  of  Marie  to  Liege —  Paris,  317  ; 
Philippe  avails  himself  of  Maitre  Pi- 
card's  norse  for  the  Marchioness,  325  ; 
the  stratagem  at  Montefontaine,  328  ; 
Philippe  Glazer  throws  Desgrais  off  the 
scent,  425  ;  Offmont  to  Lie^e,  428  ; 
the  end  of  Lachauss^,  436  ;  the  game 
is  up,  440 ;  News  for  Louise  Gauthier 
and  Benoit,  529  ;  the  Journey  —  exa- 
mination of  the  Marchioness,  532 ;  the 
last  interview,  534  ;  the  water  question 
—  Exili  — the  Place  de  Gr6ve,  539  ; 
Louise  Gauthier — the  conclusion,  551. 

C. 

Campbell  (I'homas).  A  Literary  Retro- 
spect, by  a  Middle-aged  Man,  17. 

Canter's  (D.)  Outpourings,  30, 126  272 
376.  447. 

C'ase    of   Conscience    (A),    by  Everard 
Clive,455. 
VOL,   XVIII. 


Christening  the  Villa,  3& 

Clire's  (Kverard)  Case  of  Conscience. 
4'>5  ;  Young  Ladies  and  their  Idiosyn- 
crasies, 569. 

Come  down  in  the  deep  with  me.  316, 

Comnna.  the  Retreat  to,  from  ^  The  Re- 
collections of  Rifleman  Harris.**  74. 

Costello's  (Miss  Louisa  Stuart)  Sketches 
of  Legendary  Cities.  Colchester,  62  ; 
Derby,  341.   To  Janet,  265. 

Crowquill's  (Alfred)  Glimpses  and  Mys- 
teries. The  New  Neighbourhood,  90  ; 
Good-natured  Woman,  266  ;  the  Ap- 
parition, 403  :  the  Youog  Gentleman 
who  never  did  any  thing,  517  ;  the  Old 
Woman  at  the  Comer,  627. 

Curling's  (Henry)  Bridal  of  Manstone 
Court,  394  ;  Retreat  to  Comnna.  from 
the  Recollections  of  Rifleman  Harris. 
74. 

Curvet  (A),  or  Two  in  the  Career  of  Tom 
Wilkins,  by  Charles  Whitehead,  229. 

D. 

Dalton.    The  Adept.  172. 

Dangerous  Character  (A),  by  Paul  Preo- 
dergast,  293. 

Death  (The)  of  the  Youngest,  by  Wil- 
liam Jones,  271. 

Dick  Sparrow's  Evening  "Out,'*  by 
CbaHes  Whitehead,  498. 

Dream  of  a  Family  Man  (The),  by 
I«n^  Mciiv.,  445. 

E. 

Early  Years  of  a  Veteran  of  the  Army  of 
Westphalia,  between  1805-14,  45,  203, 
241.509,622. 

Elves  (The)  in  Windsor  Forest,  by 
W.  Y.B.,  121. 

Ennobled  Actresses,  by  Mrs.  Mathews. 
The  Countess  of  Derby,  54  ;  Countess 
of  Craven,  249  ;  Lady  Thuriow,  251  ; 
the  Duchess  of  St.  Albans,  601. 

Evening  Star  (The),  by  H.B.  K.,  171. 


Flower's  (Rev.  W.  B.)  Gatherings  from 

the  Greek  Poets : — Endurance,  156. 
Flower  (The)  of  the  Folil,  468. 
F.  P.  P.'s  Old  House  in  the  G  ungate,  80. 

z  z 


S34 


I^DEX. 


Gait  :  Jaiia\     A  Liarar  Rccaipect,  bj 

Goima^.    v3aaii3iE-Haasie9»   lod  Gubc- 

G*ii  Chopiun ;    iir.  x  Dvk  Pa^  from 
LJc'\  Vjiame :  —  IX}    tne    anxrdtfrcd 

I M  .  a«  L*tv  IhiKT.  310 ;  tiM  Jew 
«*.ai  :«K?eaes' u  ^gclenr,  31*2:  the 
Lou.-.  rhT^uRan.  353  ;  *  Trait  of  Syd- 
ae«  <auc3.  -loi-,  :2iie  Resutl«ss  Foe, 
4*": .  Tjm  sivica  Ductnr .  ilrv  Fry, 
jq".  .     a«   Aveiuer'*  wtcses*   Against 


GadneRn^  ^jm  a«  G?cek  Poers,  by  the 
lUv.  ^^  .  B.  F  jiw: — E^unace,'l545. 

G  JmoMB  Uki  M^naeraB^  bv  Alaeti  Cnw- 
^uul  ^Vkt  ><w  N«xhbtia.Hhmi,9i?; 
3tai  Govc-oAiartii  \^  iioua.  :2o6  :  :h« 
JkpfiirtQua.  -ICS ;  ;itti  Youo^  Geatle- 
3ua  V9U  ai%«r  i>i  Aayrhiag.  517  ;  the 
Oiki  W  joua  ic  =w  Conier,  6:i7. 

G.  r.  F/«  ViMCuze  31  ;ae  Q«cea  oi  Pn»- 


KiTT-s's   RjlvKAa^  Recv&Jeccucsi : — Tbc 

H.!?.  5w.%    Swi-.t  ot  die   F'jii««n,  53; 
Fv«ii.3^  5aL-.  ;'l  :  ^^  ay  a  oe  *iy  so 

Hc«  ^-.  >raoc»  I.C  ace  ia::oe  «-.ui  lae 

1x3  zixl\  S  1  Lav  SraLie^t.  5o*JL 
How  sci^ve^esi'sft  w.-ouul  *  .HX?. 


I. 


J«e»*»  v^VVU'-is  Had  XM  lie  co^ks, 
CS?  ;  A  li.L<  i>i.:«.  T 3  ;  Hivxi  art 
s^««f(a^.  Vrcci^r,  1C5:  U  ho  lo«« 
iS«  =cc  •  C-kr  ;  I"  <  death  of  the 
;c«&3^«;,  CT I  :  rc«enojt:rt,  C34. 

K. 
K«aa<^'>  .Clark*"    I  iiaahwi  Picture, 

41 1: 

Kir^  01*  Clab*  vl"i<\  bT  Paul  Prendcr- 
ga;»t.  Cl3. 

L. 

Las^horDe*^  ^C.  Hartley')   Sony  to  the 

God  ci  Wioif,  oT. 
Last  tiacs  oi  Thoiuai  logoldsby  :  —  As  I 

Uw  a  ihy  nky  a  ^,  20 1 . 
Lau^  ^  the  CDOoks  !    bv  William  JoDes, 

29.* 


Leal  (AX  out  of  my  Book,  bj  TnHonfy. 

5-25l 
Utile  Velvet  Shoes  (The),   by  F.  P.  N- 

■ler,  365. 
Lone  Chorchjaxd  (The),  586. 

M. 

Magtnn  (Dr.),  a  Litenry  Retrospect,  by 

a  Middle-aj:ed  Man,  587. 
Martingale*!  Sammer  Birds,  167. 
Mary  Queen  of  ScoU  and   Lord  Broo;- 

haiDf  157. 
Mathews's   ^Mrs.)    Ennobled  ActresMs: 

—  The  Counteas  of  Derby.  54 ;  Coia- 
tiess  of  (.'raven,  249  ;  Ladv  Thorlsv, 
251  ;  The  Duchess  of  Sl  Albans,  601. 

MaiveiPs   O^-  H.)    BrUn   0*Linn,   or 

La^  is  Erenrthing,  479,  576. 
Menaaid*s  Home  (The>,  357. 
Middle-a^cd  Man*s  Literary  Retrwpeet : 

—  rhomaa  Campbell,  17';  John  GalU 
285. 

My  Jamie !  thon  wert  kind  to  me.  393. 

O. 

Ode  to  Lo«.  by  W.  Y.  B.,  373. 

Oh:  fairest  of  earth's  jewels,  309. 

OU  Elm>trce  (^The ),  478. 

Okl  Farm-house  (The).  297. 

Old  House  ^Tbe)  in  th«  G  ungate,  a  le- 
gend of  the  da\s  of  Queen  Anne,  by 
F.  P.  P..  80. 

Opal  N;t  (The),  298. 

LHhmdes,  br  W.  G.  J.  Barker.  239. 

Ovi:pounags,'bv  D.  Canter.  30,  126,  272, 
376,  447. 

P. 

Palmer's  ( F.  P.)  Utile  Vehei  Shoes, 365. 
Penalty  (The)  after  death,  183. 
PostanVs  ^  Robert)  Press-gang  Hero.  256. 
Powersccurt,  by  W  illiam  J  ones,  2b4. 
Prendereast's  ^Paul )  Dangerous  Cbarac- 

ter,  293  ;  King  of  Clubs,  613. 
PTess-gang  Uero»  by  Robert  Postans,256. 


Railroads  now  are  all  the  rage,  626. 
Railway  Queen    (The),     bT  the    Irish 

\\  hiskcy  Drinker,  386. 
R.  ( .*s  Mermaid*s  Home.  357. 
Komer*s  (Mrs.)  Story  of  a  Picture.  143. 
Russell  v^SamuelS  523. 


Sketches  of  Legendary  Cities,  by  Miss 
Loosa  Stuart  Costello  :  —  Colchester, 
62;  Derb>.341. 

Smith's  (Albert)  Marchioness  of  Rrin- 
viili«rs,  the  Poisoner  of  the  Seventeenth 
CentuTv  ;  a  Romance  of  Old  Paris,  I, 
105,209,317,425,529. 

Smith  (Albert),  Memoir  of,  620. 


INDEX. 


635 


Song  to  the  God  of  Wine,  bj  C.  Hartley 

I^Dghorne,  37. 
Sorrows  of  the  Poor  (The),  385. 
Spirit  of  the  Flowers,  by  H.  B.  K.,  53. 
Story  of  a  Picture,  by  Mrs.  Romer,  143. 
Summer  Birds,  by  Martingale,  167. 

T. 

There  is  some  ooe  abiding-place,  468. 
Thou  art  sleeping,  brother,    by  William 

Jones,  1*25. 
Thou  hapless  6ower,  that  bids  me  stay, 

497. 
To  Janet,  by  Miss  L.  S.  Costello,  265. 
Trotcosey's  Leaf  out  of  my  Book,  525. 

U 

nfinished  Picture   (The),    by   Charles 
Kenney,  411. 


Voltaire  to  the  Queen  of  Prussia,  237. 

W. 

Whitehead's  (Charles)  Curret  or  two  in 
the  Career  of  Tom  Wilkins,  229;  Dick 
Sparrow's  Evening  '«  Out,"  498. 

Who  loves  thee  not !  by  William  Jones, 
248. 

Why  is  the  sky  so  brightly  blue?  by 
H.  B.  K.,  182. 

Widow  (Th^)  to  her  Son,  309. 

Withered  Rose  (The),  497. 

Woman.  508. 

W.  Y.  B.'s  Elves  in  Windsor  Forest, 
121 ;  Ode  to  Love,  373. 

Y. 

Young  Ladies  and  their  Idiosyncrasies, 
by  Kverard  Clive*  569. 


END    OF  THE    EIGHTEENTH   VOLUME. 


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