Pearl-Fishing; Choice stories from Dickens' Household Words

PEARL-FISHING

CHOICE STORIES.

FROM

FIRST SERIES,

AUBURN:
ALDEN, BEARDSLEY <fc CO,

ROCHESTER:
WANZER, BEARDSLEY & CO.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by

ALDEN, BEARDSLEY & CO.,
In the Clerk's Office of the Northern District of New York.

Stereotyped by
THOMAS B. SMITH,
216 William St., N.Y.

nnHE following Stories are selected from that ad-
mirable publication, " DICKENS' HOUSEHOLD
WORDS."

That work has had a smaller circulation in this
country than its merits entitle it to, in consequence
of its being issued in such form as to make it trouble-
some to preserve the numbers, and have them bound.
Many of its papers, too, are of local and somewhat
temporary interest, which scarcely touches the popular
mind of American readers. It is believed, therefore,
that judicious selections from its pages, embracing
some of its best stories, in which the hand of the
master is readily discerned, will be welcomed with
delight in many a home in which the name of DICKENS
has become as " familiar as household words."

I.

SEYEKAL years ago, I made a tour through.
some of the Southern Counties of England
with a friend. "We travelled in an open carriage,
stopping for a few hours a day, or a week, as it
might be, wherever there was anything to be
seen; and we generally got through one stage
before breakfast, because it gave our horses rest,
and ourselves the chance of enjoying the brown
bread, new milk, and fresh eggs of those country
road-side inns, which are fast becoming subjects
for archaeological investigation.

One evening my friend said, " To-morrow we
will breakfast at T - . I want to inquire about
a family named Lovell, who used to live there. I
met the husband and wife, and two lovely chil-
dren, one summer at Exmouth. "We became

8 PEAKL-FISHING.

very intimate, and I thought them particularly
interesting people, but I have* never seen them
since."

The next morning's sun shone as brightly as
heart could desire, and after a delightful* drive,
we reached the outskirts of the town about nine
o'clock.

"Oh, what a pretty inn!" said I, as we ap-
proached a small white house, with a sign swing-
ing in front of it, and a flower-garden on one
side.

" Stop, John," cried my friend, " we shall get a
much cleaner breakfast here than in the town, I
dare say ; and if there is anything to be seen there,
we can walk to it;" so we alighted, and were
shown into a neat little parlor, with white cur-
tains, where an unexceptionable rural breakfast
was soon placed before us.

" Pray do you happen to know anything of a
family called Lovell ?" inquired my friend, whose
name, by the way, was Markham. " Mr. LoveU
was a clergyman."

LOADED DICE. 9

" Yes, Ma'am," answered the girl who attended
us, apparently the landlord's daughter, " Mr. Lov-
ell is the vicar of our parish."

" Indeed ! and does he live near here ?"

" Yes, Ma'am, he lives at the vicarage. It 's just
down that lane opposite, about a quarter of a mile
from here ; or you can go across the fields, if you
please, to where you see that tower ; it 's close by
there."

"And which is the pleasantest road?" inquired
Mrs. Markham.

"Well, Ma'am, I think by the fields is the
pleasantest, if you don't mind a stile or two ; and,
besides, you get the best view of the Abbey by
going that way."

" Is that tower we see part of the Abbey?"

"Yes, Ma'am," answered the girl, "and the
vicarage is just the other side of it."

Armed with these instructions, as soon as we
had finished our breakfast we started across the
fields, and after a pleasant walk of twenty minutes
we found ourselves in an old churcnyard, amongst

10 PEAEL-FISHING.

a cluster of the most picturesque ruins we had
ever seen. With the exception of the gray tower,
we had espied from the inn, and which had doubt-
less been the belfry, the remains were not consid-
erable. There was the outer wall of the chancel,
and the broken step that had led to the high altar,
and there were sections of aisles, and part of a
cloister, all gracefully festooned with mosses and
ivy ; whilst mingled with the grass-grown graves
of the prosaic dead, there were the massive tombs
of the Dame Margerys and the Sir Hildebrands of
more romantic periods. All was ruin 'and decay,
but such poetic rum! such picturesque decay!
And just beyond the tall gray tower, there was
the loveliest,- smiling, little garden, and the pretti-
est cottage, that imagination could picture. The
day was so bright, the grass so green, the flowers
so gay, the air so balmy with their sweet per-
fumes, the birds sang so cheerily in the apple and
cherry trees, that all nature seemed rejoicing.

"Well," said my friend, as she seated herself on
the fragment of a pillar, and looked around her,

LOADED DICE. 11

"now that I see this place, I understand what sort
of people the Lovells were."

" What sort of people were they?" said I.

" Why, as I said before, interesting people. In
the first place, they were both extremely hand-
some."

" But the locality had nothing to do with their
good looks, I presume," said I.

"I am not sure of that," she answered; "when
there is the least foundation of taste or intellect to
set out with, the beauty of external nature, and
the picturesque accidents that harmonize with it,
do, I am persuaded, by their gentle and elevating
influence on the mind, make the handsome hand-
somer, and the ugly less ugly. But it was not
alone the good looks of the Lovells that struck
me, but their air of refinement and high breeding,
and I should say high birth — though I know
nothing about their extraction — combined with
their undisguised poverty and as evident content-
ment. Now, I can understand such people finding
here an appropriate home, and being satisfied with

12 PEAKL-FISHING.

their small share of this world's goods; because
here the dreams of romance writers about Love in
a Cottage might be somewhat realized; poverty
might be graceful and poetical here; and then,
you know, they have no rent to pay."

"Very true," said I; "but suppose they had
sixteen daughters, like a half-pay officer I once
met on board a steam-packet ?"

"That would spoil it certainly," said Mrs.
Markham; "but let us hope they have not.
"When I knew them they had only two children, a
boy and a girl called Charles and Emily ; two of
the prettiest creatures I ever beheld!"

As my friend thought it yet rather early for a
visit, we had remained chattering in this way for
more than an hour, sometimes seated on a tomb-
stone, or a fallen column ; sometimes peering
amongst the carved fragments that were scattered
about the ground, and sometimes looking over the
hedge into the little garden, the wicket of which
was immediately behind the tower. The weather
being warm, most of the windows of the vicarage

LOADED DICE. 13

were open and the blinds were all down ; we had
not yet seen a soul stirring, and were wondering
whether we might venture to present ourselves at
the door, when a strain of distant music struck
upon our ears. "Hark!" I said, "how exquisite!
It was the only thing wanting to complete the
charm."

" It 's a military band, I think," said Mrs. Mark-
ham, " you know we passed some barracks before
we reached the Inn."

Nearer and nearer drew the sound, solemn and
slow ; the band was evidently approaching by the
green lane that skirted the fields we had come by.
"Hush," said I, laying my hand on my friend's
arm, with -a strange sinking of the heart ; " they
are playing the Dead March in Saul ! Don't you
hear the muffled drums? It's a funeral, but
where 's the grave ?"

"There," said she, pointing to a spot close
under the hedge where some earth had been
thrown up ; but the aperture was covered with a
plank, probably to prevent accidents.

14 PEARL -FISHING.

There are few ceremonies in life at once so
touching, so impressive, so sad, and yet so beauti-
ful, as a soldier's funeral ! Ordinary funerals with
their unwieldy hearses and feathers, and the ab-
surd looking mutes, and the "inky cloaks" and
weepers of hired mourners, always seem to me like
a mockery of the dead ; the appointments border
so closely on the grotesque ; they are so little in
keeping with the true, the only view of death that
can render life endurable ! There is such a tone
of exaggerated, forced, heavy, over-acted gravity
about the whole thing, that one had need to have
a deep personal interest involved in the scene, to
be able to shut one's eyes to the burlesque side of
it. But a military funeral, how different ! There
you see death in life and life in death ! There is
nothing over-strained, nothing overdone. At once
simple and silent, decent and decorous, consoling,
yet sad. The chief mourners, at best, are gener-
ally true mourners, for they have lost a brother
with whom "they sat but yesterday at meat ;" and
whilst they are comparing memories, recalling

LOADED DICE. 15

how merry they had many a day been together,
and the solemn tones of that sublime music float
upon the air, we can imagine the freed and satis-
fied soul wafted on those harmonious breathings to
its Heavenly home; and our hearts are melted,
our imaginations exalted, our faith invigorated, and
we come away the better for what we have seen.

I believe some such reflections as these were
passing through our minds, for we both remained
silent and listening, till the swinging-to of the lit-
tle wicket, which communicated with the garden,
aroused us ; but nobody appeared, and the tower
being at the moment betwixt us and it, we could
not see who had entered Almost at the same
moment, a man came from a gate on the oppo-
site side, and advancing to where the earth was
thrown up, lifted the plank, and discovered the
newly-made grave. He was soon followed by
some boys, and several respectable-looking persons
came into the enclosure, whilst nearer and nearer
drew the sound of the muffled drums, and now we
descried the firing party and their officer, who led

16 PEAKL-FISHING.

the procession with their arms reversed, each man
wearing above the elbow a piece of black crape
and a small bow of white satin ribbon ; the band
still playing that solemn strain. Then came the
coffin, borne by six soldiers. Six officers bore up
the pall, all quite young men ; and on the coffin
lay the shako, sword, side-belt, and white gloves
of the deceased. A long train of mourners
marched two and two, in open file, the privates
first, the officers last. Sorrow was imprinted on
every face ; there was no unseemly chattering,
no wandering eyes ; if a word was exchanged, it
was in a whisper, and the sad shake of the head
showed of whom they were discoursing. All this
we observed as they marched through the lane
that skirted one side of the churchyard. As they
neared the gate the band ceased to play.

" See there," said Mrs. Markham, directing my
attention to the cottage, "there comes Mr. Lovell.
Oh, how he is changed!'7 and whilst she spoke,
the clergyman entering by the wicket, advanced
to' meet the procession at the gate, where he com-

LOADED DICE. 17

menoed reading the funeral service as he moved
backwards towards the grave, round which the
firing party, leaning on their firelocks, now
formed. Then came those awful words, " Ashes
to ashes, dust to dust," the hollow sound of the
earth upon the coffin, and three volleys fired over
the grave, finished the solemn ceremony.

"When the procession entered the churchyard,
we had retired behind the broken wall of the
chancel, whence, without being observed, we had
watched the whole scene with intense interest.
Just as the words, " Ashes to ashes ! dust to dust I"
were pronounced, I happened to raise my eyes
towards the gray tower, and then, peering through
one of the narrow slits, I saw the face of a man —
such a face ! Never to my latest day can I forget
the expression of those features ! If ever there
was despair and anguish written on a human
countenance, it was there ! And yet so young !
so beautiful ! A cold chill ran through my veins
as I pressed Mrs. Markham's arm. "Look up at

the tower I" I whispered.

2

18 PEARL-FISHING.

"My God! What can it be?" she answered,
turning quite pale! "And Mr. Lovell, did you
observe how his voice shook ? at first, I thought
it was illness ; but he seems bowed down with
grief. Every face looks awe-struck ! There must
be some tragedy here — something more than the
death of an individual !" and fearing, under this
impression, that our visit might prove untimely,
we resolved to return to the inn, and endeavor to
discover if anything unusual had really occurred.
Before we moved, I looked up at the narrow slit —
,the face was no longer there ; but as we passed
round to the other side of the tower, we saw a
tall, slender figure, attired in a loose coat, pass
slowly through the wicket, cross the garden, and
enter the house. "We only caught a glimpse of
the profile ; the head hung down upon the breast ;
the eyes were bent upon the ground; but we
knew it was the same face we had seen above.

We went back to the inn, where our inquiries
elicited some information, which made us wish to
know more ; but it was not till we went into the

LOADED DICE. 19

town that we obtained the following details of this
mournful drama, of which we had thus accident-
ally witnessed one impressive scene.

Mr. Lovell, as Mrs. Markham had conjectured,
was a man of good family, but no fortune ; he
might have had a large one, could he have made
up his mind to marry Lady Elizabeth "Wentworth,
the bride selected for him by a wealthy uncle who
proposed to make him his heir; but preferring
poverty with Emily Bering, he was disinherited.
He never repented his choice, although he re-
mained vicar of a small parish, and a poor man
all his life. The two children whom Mrs. Mark-
ham had seen, were the only ones they had, and
through the excellent management of Mrs. Lovell,
and the moderation of her husband's desires, they
had enjoyed an unusual degree of happiness in
this sort of graceful poverty, till the young
Charles and Emily were grown up, and it was
time to think what was to be done with them.
The son had been prepared for Oxford by the
father, and the daughter, under the tuition of her

20 PEAEL-FISHING.

mother, was remarkably well educated and accom-
plished ; but it became necessary to consider the
future : Charles must be sent to college, since the
only chance of finding a provision for him was in
the Church, although the expense of maintaining
him there could be ill afforded ; so, in order in
some degree to balance the outlay, it was, after
much deliberation, agreed that Emily should ac-
cept a situation as governess in London. The
proposal was made by herself, and the rather con-
sented to, that, in case of the death of her pa-
rents, she would almost inevitably have had to
seek some such means of subsistence. These part-
ings were the first sorrows that had reached the
Lovells.

At first, all went well; Charles was not want-
ing in ability nor in a moderate degree of applica-
tion; and Emily wrote cheerfully of her new
life. She was kindly received, well treated, and
associated with- the family on the footing of a
friend. Neither did further experience seem to
diminish her satisfaction. She saw a great many

LOADED DICE. 21

gay people — some of whom she named ; and,
amongst the rest, there not unfrequently appeared
the name of Herbert. Mr. Herbert was in the
army, and being a distant connexion of the family
with whom she resided, was a frequent visitor at
their house. " She was sure papa and mamma
would like him." Once the mother smiled, and
said she hoped Emily was not falling in love ; but
no more was thought of it. In the meantime
Charles had found out that there was time for
many things at Oxford, besides study. He was
naturally fond of society, and had a remarkable
capacity for excelling in all kinds of games. He
was agreeable, lively, exceedingly handsome, and
sang charmingly, having been trained in part-
singing by his mother. No young man at Oxford
was more fite ; but alas ! he was very poor, and
poverty -poisoned all his enjoyments. For some
time he resisted temptation; but after a. terrible
struggle — for he adored his family — he gave way,
and ran in debt, and although the imprudence
only augmented his misery, he had not resolution

22 PEARL-FISHING.

to retrace his steps, but advanced further and
further on this broad road to ruin, so that he had
come home for the vacation shortly before our
visit to T ^threatened with all manner of an-
noyances if he did not carry back a sufficient sum
to satisfy his most clamorous creditors. He had
assured them he would do so, but where was he
to get the money? Certainly not from his pa-
rents ; he well knew they had it not ; nor had he
a friend in the world from whom he could hope
assistance in such an emergency. In his despair
he often thought of running away — going to Aus-
tralia, America, New Zealand, anywhere ; but he
had not even the means to do this. He suffered
indescribable tortures, and saw no hope of relief.
It was just at this period that Herbert's regiment

happened to be quartered at T . Charles had

occasionally seen his name in his sister's letters,
and heard that there was a Herbert now in the
barracks, but he was ignorant whether or not it
was the same person; and when he accidentally
fell into the society of some of the junior officers,

LOADED DICE. 23

and was invited by Herbert himself to dine at the
mess, pride prevented his ascertaining the fact.
He did not wish to betray that his sister was a
governess. Herbert, however, knew full well
that their visitor was the brother of Emily Lovell,
but partly for reasons of his own, and partly be.
cause he penetrated the weakness of the other, he
abstained from mentioning her name.

Now, this town of T was, and probably is,

about the dullest quarter in all England ! The offi-
cers hated it, there was no flirting, no dancing, no
hunting, no anything. Not a man of them knew
what to do with himself. The old ones wandered
about and played at whist, the young ones took to
hazard and three-card-loo, playing at first for mod-
erate stakes, but soon getting on to high ones.
Two or three civilians of the neighborhood joined
the party, Charles Lovell among the rest. Had
they begun with playing high, he would have
been excluded for want of funds ; but whilst they
played low, he won, so that when they increased
the stakes, trusting to a continuance of his good

24 PEARL-FISHING.

fortune, lie was eager to go on with them,
did his luck altogether desert him ; on the whole,
he rather won than lost ; but he foresaw that one
bad night would break him, and he should be
obliged to retire, forfeiting his amusement and
mortifying his pride. It was just at this crisis,
that, one night, an accident, which caused him to
win a considerable sum, set him upon the notion
of turning chance into certainty. Whilst shuffling
the cards, he dropped the ace of spades into his
lap, caught it up, replaced it in the pack, and
dealt it to himself. No one else had seen the
card, no observation was made, and a terrible
thought came into his head !

Whether loo or hazard was played, Charles
Lovell had, night after night, a most extraordinary
run of luck. He won large sums, and saw before
him the early prospect of paying his debts and
clearing all his difficulties.

Amongst the young men who played at the
table, some had plenty of money and cared little
for their losses ; but others were not so well off,

LOADED BICE. 25

and one of these was Edward Herbert. He, too,
was the son of poor parents who had straitened
themselves to put him in the army, and it was
with infinite difficulty and privation that his
widowed mother had amassed the needful sum
to purchase for him a company, which was now
becoming vacant. The retiring officer's papers
were already sent in, and Herbert's money was
lodged at Cox and Greenwood's ; but before the
answer from the Horse-Guards arrived, he had
lost every sixpence. Nearly the whole sum had
become the property of Charles Lovell.

Herbert was a fine young man, honorable, gen-
erous, impetuous, and endowed with an acute
sense of shame. He determined instantly to pay
the debts, but he knew that his own prospects
were ruined for life; he wrote to the agents to
send him the money and withdraw his name from
the list of purchasers. But how was he to support
his mother's grief? How meet the eye of the girl
he loved ? She, who he knew adored him, and
whose hand it was agreed between them he should

26 PEARL-FISHING.

ask of her parents as soon as he was gazetted a
captain! The anguish of mind he suffered then
threw him into a fever, and he lay for several
days betwixt life and death, and happily uncon-
scious of his misery.

Meantime, another scene was being enacted else-
where. The officers, who night after night found
themselves losers, had not for some time enter-
tained the least idea of foul play, but at length, one
of them observing something suspicious, began to
watch, and satisfied himself, by a peculiar method
adopted by Lovell in " throwing his mains," that
he was the culprit. His suspicions were whispered
from one to another, till they nearly all entertained
them, with the exception of Herbert, who, being
looked upon as Lovell's most especial friend, was
not told. So unwilling were these young men to
blast, forever, the character of the visitor whom
they had so much liked, and to strike a fatal blow
at the happiness and respectability of his family,
that they were hesitating how to proceed, whether
to openly accuse him. or privately reprove and

LOADED DICE. 27

expel Mm, when Herbert's heavy loss decided the
question.

Herbert himself, overwhelmed with despair, had
quitted the room, the rest were still seated around
the table, when having given each other a signal,
one of them, called Frank Houston, arose and said :
" Gentlemen, it gives me great pain to have to call
jour attention to a very strange — a very distress-
ing circumstance. For some time past there has
been an extraordinary run of luck in one direction
— we have all observed it — all remarked on it.
Mr. Herbert has at this moment retired a heavy
loser. There is, indeed, as far as I know, but one
winner amongst us — but one, and he a winner to a
very considerable amount ; the rest all losers.
God forbid that I should rashly accuse any man !
Lightly blast any man's character! But I am
bound to say, that I fear the money we have lost
lias not been fairly won. There has been foul
play ! I forbear to name the party — the facts
sufficiently indicate him."

Who would not have pitied Lovell, when, livid

28 PEAKL-FISHING.

with horror and conscious guilt, lie vainly tried to
say something ? ' ' Indeed — I assure you — I never"
— but words would not come; he faltered and
rushed out of the room in a transport of agony.
They did pity him ; and when he was gone, agreed
amongst themselves to hush up the affair ; but un-
fortunately, the civilians of the party, who had not
been let into the secret, took up his defence. They
not only believed the accusation unfounded, but
felt it as an affront offered to their townsman ; they
blustered about it a good deal, and there was
nothing left for it but to appoint a committee of
investigation. Alas ! the evidence was overwhelm-
ing ! It turned out that the dice and cards had
been supplied by Lovell. The former, still on the
table, were found on examination to be loaded.
In fact, he had had a pair as a curiosity long in his
possession, and had obtained others from a dis-
reputable character at Oxford. No doubt remained
of his guilt.

All this while Herbert had been too ill to be
addressed on the subject; but symptoms of recov-

LOADED DICE 29

ery were now beginning to appear ; and as nobody
was aware that he had any particular interest in
the Lovell family, the affair was communicated to
him. At first he refused to believe in his friend's
guilt", and became violently irritated. His inform-
ants assured him they would be too happy to find
they were mistaken, but that since the inquiry no
hope of such an issue remained, and he sank into
a gloomy silence.

On the following morning, when his servant
came to his room door, he found it locked. When,
at the desire of the surgeon, it was broken open,
Herbert was found a corpse, and a discharged pis-
tol lying beside him. An inquest sat upon the
body, and the verdict brought in was Temporary
Insanity. There never was one more just.

Preparations were now made for the funeral —
that funeral which we had witnessed ; but before
the day appointed for it arrived, another chapter
of this sad story was unfolded.

When Charles left the barracks on that fatal
night, instead of going home, he passed the dark

30 PEARL-FISHING.

hours in wandering wildly about the country ; but
when morning dawned, fearing the eye of man, he
returned to the vicarage, and slunk unobserved to
his chamber. "When he did not appear at break-
fast, his mother sought him in his room, where she
found him in bed. He said he was very ill — and
so indeed he was — and begged to be left alone;
but as he was no better on the following day, she
insisted on sending for medical advice. The doc-
tor found him with all those physical symptoms
that are apt to supervene from great anxiety of
mind ; and saying he could get no sleep, Charles
requested to have some laudanum ; but the physi-
cian was on his guard, for although the parties
concerned wished to keep the thing private, some
rumors had got abroad that awakened his caution.
The parents, meanwhile, had not the slightest
anticipation of the thunderbolt that was about to
fall upon them. They lived a very retired life,
were acquainted with none of the officers — and
they were even ignorant of the amount of their
son's intimacy with the regiment. Thus, when

LOADED DICE. 31

news of Herbert's lamentable death reached them,
the mother said to her son: "Charles, did you
know a young man in the barracks called Herbert;
a lieutenant, I believe ? By-the-bye, I hope it 's
not Emily's Mr. Herbert."

" Did I know him," said Charles, turning sud-
denly towards her, for, under pretence that the
light annoyed him, he always lay with his face to
the wall. " Why do you ask, mother ? "

" Because he 's dead ! He had a fever, and — "

" Herbert dead ! " cried Charles, suddenly sit-
ting up in the bed.

" Yes, he had a fever, and it is supposed he was
delirious, for he blew out his brains ; there is a
report that he had been playing high, and lost a
great deal of money. What 's the matter, dear ?
Oh, Charles, I shouldn't have told you ! I was not
aware that you knew him ! "

" Fetch my father here, and, mother, you come
back with him ! " said Charles, speaking with a
strange sternness of tone, and wildly motioning her
out of the room.

32 PEARL-FISHING.

the parents came, tie bade them sit down
beside him ; and then, with a degree of remorse
and anguish that no words could portray, he told
them all ; whilst they, with blanched cheeks and
fainting hearts, listened to the dire confession.

"And here I am," he exclaimed, as he ended,
" a cowardly scoundrel that has not dared to die !
Oh, Herbert ! happy, happy, Herbert ! "Would I
were with you ! "

At that moment the door opened, and a beauti-
ful, bright, smiling, joyous face peeped in. It was
Emily Lovell, the beloved daughter, the adored
sister, arrived from London in compliance with a
letter received a few days previously from Herbert,
wherein he had told her that by the time she re-
ceived it, he would be. a captain. She had come
to introduce him to her parents as her affianced
husband. She feared no refusal ; well she knew
how rejoiced they would be to see her the wife of
so kind and honorable a man. But they were
ignorant of all this, and in the fulness of their
agony, the cup of woe ran over, and she drank of

LOADED DICE. 33

the draught ! They told her all before she had
been five minutes in the room. How else could
they account for their tears, their confusion, their
bewilderment, their despair !

Before Herbert's funeral took place, Emily Lovell
was lying betwixt life and death in a brain fever.
Under the influence of a feeling easily to be com-
prehended, thirsting for a self-imposed torture, that
by its very poignancy should relieve the dead
weight of wretchedness that lay upon his breast,
Charles crept from his bed, and slipping on a loose
coat that hung in his room, he stole across the
garden to the tower, whence, through the arrow-slit,
he witnessed the burial of his sister's lover, whom
he had hastened to the grave.

Here terminates our sad stqjy. "We left T

on the following morning, and it was two or three
years before any further intelligence of the Lovell
family reached us. All we then heard was, that
Charles had gone, a self-condemned exile, to Aus-
tralia; and that Emily had insisted on accompany-
ing him thither.

II.

FT! HE materials for the following tale were fur-
nished to the writer while travelling last year
near the spot on which the events it narrates took
place. It is intended to convey a notion of some of
the phases of Polish, or rather Kussian serfdom (for,
as truly explained by one of the characters in a suc-
ceeding page, it is Eussian), and of the catastro-
phes it has occasioned, not only in Catherine's
time, but occasionally at the present. The Polish
nobles — themselves in slavery — earnestly desire
the emancipation of their serfs, which Eussian
domination forbids.

The small town of Pobereze stands at the foot
of a stony mountain, watered by numerous springs
in the district of Podolia, in Poland. It consists oi
a mass of miserable cabins, with a Catholic chapel

THE SEEF OF POBEREZE. 35

and two Greek churches in the midst, the latter
distinguished by their gilded towers. On one side
of the market-place stands the only inn, and on the
opposite side are several shops, from whose doors
and windows look out several dirtily-dressed Jews.
At a little distance, on a hill covered with vines
and fruit-trees, stands the Palace, which does not,
perhaps, exactly merit such an appellation, but
who would dare to call otherwise the dwelling of
the lord of the domain ?

On the morning when our tale opens, there had
had issued from this palace the common enough
cdtnmand to the superintendent of the estate, to
furnish the master with a couple of strong boys,
for service in the stables, and a young girl, to be
employed in the warclrobe. Accordingly, a num-
ber of the best-looking young peasants of Olgogrod
assembled in the broad avenue leading to the
palace. Some were accompanied by their sorrow-
ful and weeping parents, in all of whose hearts,
however, rose the faint and whispered hope, "Per-
haps it will not be my child they will choose 1 "

36 PEARL-FISHING.

Being brought into the court-yard of the palace,
the Count Koszynski, with the several members of
his family, had come out to pass in review his
growing subjects. He was a small and insignifi-
cant-looking man, about fifty years of age, with
deep-set eyes and overhanging brows. His wife,
who was nearly of the same age, was immensely
stout, with a vulgar face and a loud disagreeable
voice. She made herself iddiculous in endeavoring
to imitate the manners and bearing of the aris-
tocracy, into whose sphere she and her husband
were determined to force themselves, in spite of
the humbleness of their origin. The father of tffe
" Eight Honorable" Count Koszynski was a valet,
who, having been a great favorite with his master,
amassed sufficient money to enable his son, 'who
inherited it, to purchase the extensive estate of
Olgogrod, and with it the sole proprietorship of
1,600 human beings. Over them he had complete
control; and, when maddened by oppression, if
they dared resent, woe unto them ! They could
be thrust into a noisome dungeon, and chained by

THE SERF OF POBEREZE. 37

one hand from the light of day for years, until
their very existence was forgotten by all except the
jailer who brought daily their pitcher of water and
morsel of dry bread.

Some of the old peasants say that Sava, father of
the young peasant girl, who stands by the side of
an old woman, at the head of her companions in.
the court-yard, is immured in one of these subter-
ranean jails. Sava was always about the Count,
who, it was said, had brought him from some dis-
tant land, with his little motherless child. Sava
placed her under the care of an. old man and
woman, who had the charge of the bees in a forest
near the palace, where he came occasionally to visit
her. But once, six long months passed, and he
did not come ! In vain Anielka wept, in vain
she cried, " Where is my father ? " — JSTo father ap-
peared. At last it was said that Sava had been
sent to a long distance with a large sum of money,
and had been killed by robbers. In the ninth
year of one's life the most poignant grief is quickly
effaced, and after six months Anielka ceased to

38 PEARL-FISHING.

grieve. The old people were very kind to her,
and loved her as if she were their own child.
That Anielka might be chosen to serve in the
palace never entered their head, for who would
be so barbarous as to take the child away
from an old woman of seventy and her aged
husband ?

To-day was the first time in her life that she had
been so far from home. She looked curiously on
all she saw, — particularly on a young lady about
her own age, beautifully dressed, and a youth of
eighteen, who had apparently just returned from a
ride on horseback, as he held a whip in his hand,
whilst walking up and down and examining the
boys who were placed in a row before him. He
'chose two amongst them, and the boys were led
away to the stables.

" And I choose this young girl," said Constantia
Eoszynski, indicating Anielka ; "she is the pret-
tiest of them all. I do not like ugly faces about
me."

"When Constantia returned to the drawing-room,

THE SEEF OF POBEEEZE. 39

she gave orders for Anielka to be taken to her
apartments, and placed under the tutelage of Mad-
emoiselle Dufour, a French maid, recently arrived
from the first milliner's shop in Odessa. Poor
girl! when they separated her from her adopted
mother, and began leading her towards the palace,
she rushed, with a shriek of agony, from them,
and grasped her old protectress tightly in her
arms ! They were torn violently asunder, and the
Count Eoszynski quietly asked, " Is it her daugh-
ter, or her grand-daughter ? "

" Neither, my lord,' — only an adopted child."

" But who will lead the old woman home, as she
is blind?"

"I will, my lord," replied one of his servants,
bowing to the ground; "I will let her walk by the
side of my horse, and when she is in her cabin she
will have her old husband, — they must take care
of each other."

So saying, he moved away with the rest of the
peasants and domestics. But the poor old woman
had to be dragged along by two men ; for in the

40 PEARL-FISHING.

midst of her shrieks and tears she had fallen to
the ground, almost without life.

And Anielka ? They did not allow her to
weep long. She had now to sit all day in the
corner of a room to sew. She was expected to do
everything well from the first ; and if she did not,
she was kept without food or cruelly punished.
Morning and evening she had to help Mdlle. Du-
four to dress and undress her mistress. But Con-
stantia, although she looked with, hauteur on
everybody beneath her, and expected to be slav-
ishly obeyed, was tolerably kind to her poor
orphan. Her true torment began, when, on leav-
ing her young lady's room, she had to assist
Mdlle. Dufour. Notwithstanding that she tried
sincerely to do her best, she was never able to
satisfy her, or draw from her aught but harsh,
reproaches.

Thus two months passed.

One day Mdlle. Dufour went very early to con
fession, and Anielka was seized with an eager
longing to gaze once more in peace and freedom

THE SEKF OF POBEREZE. 41

on the beautiful blue sky and green trees, as she
used to do when the first rajs of the rising sun
streamed in at the window of the little forest
cabin. She ran into the garden. Enchanted by
the sight of so many beautiful flowers, she went
farther and farther along the smooth and winding
walks, till she entered the forest. She who had
been so long away from her beloved trees, roamed
where they were thickest. Here she gazes boldly
around. She sees no one! She is alone! A
little further on she meets with a rivulet which
flows through the forest. Here she remembers
that she has not yet prayed. She kneels down,
and with hands clasped and eyes upturned she
begins to sing, in a sweet voice, the Hymn to the
Virgin.

As she went on, she sang louder and with in-
creased fervor. Her breast heaved with emotion,
her eyes shone with unusual brilliancy ; but when
the hymn was finished she lowered her head, tears
began to fall over her cheeks, until at last she
sobbed aloud. She might have remained long in

42 PEARL-FISHING.

this condition, had not some one come behind her,
saying, " Do not cry, my poor girl ; it is better to
sing than to weep." The intruder raised her head,
wiped her eyes with her handkerchief, and kissed
her on the forehead.

It was the Count's son, Leon !

" You must not cry," he continued ; " be calm,
and when ^ the filipony (pedlars) come, buy your-
self a pretty handkerchief." He then gave her a
rouble and walked away. Anielka, after conceal-
ing the coin in her corset, ran quickly back to the
palace.

Fortunately, Mdlle. Dufour had not yet re-
turned, and Anielka seated herself in her accus-
tomed corner. She often took out the rouble to
gaze fondly upon it, and set to work to make a
little purse, which, having fastened to a ribbon,
she hung round her neck. She did not dream of
spending it, for it would have deeply grieved her
to part with the gift of the only person in the
whole house who had looked kindly on her.

From that time Anielka remained always in her

THE SERF OF POBEREZE. 43

young mistress's room; she was better dressed,
and Mdlle. Dufour ceased to persecute her. To
what did she owe this sudden change ? Perhaps
to a remonstrance from Leon. Constantine or-
dered Anielka to sit beside her while taking her
lessons from her music-masters, and on her going
to the drawing-room, she was left in her apart-
ments alone. Being thus more kindly treated,
Anielka lost by degrees her timidity ; and when
her young mistress, whilst occupied over some em-
broidery, would tell her to sing, she did so boldly
and with a steady voice. A greater favor awaited
her. Constantia, when unoccupied, began teach-
ing Anielka to read in Polish ; and Mdlle. Dufour
thought it politic to follow the example of her mis-
tress, and began to teach her French.

Meanwhile, a new kind of torment commenced.
Having easily learnt the two languages, Anielka
acquired an irresistible passion for reading. Books
had for her the charm of the forbidden fruit, for
she could only read by stealth at night, or when
her mistress went visiting in the neighborhood.

44 PEARL-FISHING.

The kindness hitherto shown her, for a time, began
to relax. Leon had set oif on a tour, accompanied
by his old tutor, and a bosom friend as young, as
gay, and as thoughtless as himself.

So passed the two years of Leon's absence.
"When he returned, Anielka was seventeen, and
had become tall and handsome. No one who had
not seen her during the time, would have recog-
nized her. Of this number was Leon. In the
midst of perpetual gaiety and change it was not
possible he could have remembered a poor peasant
girl ; but in Anielka's memory he had remained as
a superior being, as her benefactor, as the only one
who had spoken kindly to her, when poor, neg-
lected, forlorn I When in some French romance
she met with a young man of twenty, of a noble
character and handsome appearance, she bestowed
on him the name of Leon. The recollection of the
kiss he had given her, ever brought a burning
blush to her cheek, and made her sigh deeply.

One day Leon came to his sister's room. Ani-
elka was there, seated in a corner at work. Leon

THE SEEF OF POBEEEZE. 45

himself had considerably changed ; from a boy he
had grown into a man. " I suppose Constantia,"
he said, "you have been told what a good boy I
am, and with what docility I shall submit myself
to the matrimonial yoke, which the Count and
Countess have provided for me ?". and he began
whistling, and danced some steps of the Mazurka.
"Perhaps you will be refused," said Constantia,

4+

coldly.

."Kefused! Oh, no. The old Prince has al-
ready given his consent; and as for his daughter
she is desperately in love with me. Look at these
moustachios, could anything be more irresistible ?"
and he glanced in the glass and twirled them
round his fingers; then continuing in a graver
tone, he said, " To tell the sober truth, I cannot
say that I reciprocate. My intended is not at all
to my taste. She is nearly thirty, and so thin that
whenever I look at her, I am reminded of my old
tutor's anatomical sketches. But thanks to her
Parisian dress-maker, she makes up a tolerably
good figure, and looks well in a Cachemere. Of

46 PEARL-FISHING.

all things, you know, I wished for a wife of an im-
posing appearance, and I don't care about love. I
find it 's not fashionable, and only exists in the ex-
alted imagination of poets."

"Surely people are in love with one another
sometimes," said the sister.

" Sometimes," repeated Anielka, inaudibly. The
dialogue had painfully affected her, and she knew
not why. Her heart be*at quickly, and her face
was flushed, and made her look more lovely than
ever.

" Perhaps. Of course we profess to adore every
pretty woman," Leon added abruptly. "But. my
dear sister, what a charming ladies' maid you
have !" He approached the corner where Anielka
sat, and bent on her a coarse familiar smile. Ani-
elka, although a serf, was displeased, and returned
it with a glance fall of dignity. But when her
eyes rested on the youth's handsome face, a feel-
ing, which had been gradually and silently grow-
ing in her young and inexperienced heart, pre-
dominated over her pride and displeasure. She

THE SEEF OF POBEREZE. 47

wished ardently to recall herself to Leon's mem-
ory, and half unconsciously raised her hand to the
little purse which always hung round her neck.
She took from it the rouble he had given her.

"See! " shouted Leon, "what a droll girl; how
proud she is of her riches ! "Why, girl, you are a
woman of fortune, mistress of a whole rouble ! "

"I hope she came by it honestly," said the old
Countess, who at this moment entered.

At this insinuation, shame and indignation kept
Anielka, for a time, silent. She replaced the
money quickly in its purse, with the bitter thought
that the few happy moments which had been so
indelibly stamped upon her memory, had been ut-
terly forgotten by Leon. To clear herself, she at
last stammered out, seeing they all looked at her
inquiringly, " Do you not remember, M. Leon, that
you gave me this coin two years ago in the
garden ? "

"How odd?" exclaimed Leon, laughing, "do
you expect me to remember all the pretty girls to
whom I have given money ? But I suppose you

48 PEAKL-FISHING.

are right, or you would not have treasured up this
unfortunate rouble as if it were a holy relic. You
should not be a miser, child ; money is made to
be spent."

" Pray, put an end to these jokes," said Con-
stantia impatiently; "I like this girl, and I will
not have her teased. She understands my ways
better than any one, and often puts me in good
humor with her beautiful voice."

"Sing something for me, pretty damsel," said
• Leon, " and I will give you another rouble, a new
and shining one."

" Sing instantly," said Constantia imperiously.

At this command Anielka could no longer stifle
her grief; she covered her face with her hands,
and wept violently.

" Why do you cry ? " asked her mistress impa-
tiently ; "I .cannot bear it ; I desire you to do as
you are bid."

It might have been from the constant habit of
slavish obedience, or a strong feeling of pride, but
Anielka instantly ceased weeping. There was a

THE SERF OF.POBEREZE. 49

moment's pause, during which the old Countess
went grumbling out of the room. Anielka chose
the Hymn to the Virgin she had warbled in the
garden, and as she sung, she prayed fervently ; —
she prayed for peace, for deliverance from the
acute emotions which had been aroused within
her. Her earnestness gave an intensity of express-
ion to the melody, which affected her listeners.
They were silent for some moments after its
conclusion. Leon walked up and down with his
arms folded on his breast. Was it agitated with
pity for the accomplished young slave ? or by any
other tender emotion ? What followed will show.

" My dear Constantia," he said, suddenly stop-
ping before his sister and kissing her hand, "will
you do me a favor ? "

Constantia looked inquiringly in her brother's
face without speaking.

"Give me this girl.71

"Impossible!"

"I am quite in earnest," continued Leon, "I
wish to offer her to my future wife. In the Prince

50 PEARL-FISHING.

her father's private chapel they are much in want
of a solo soprano."

" I shall not give her to you," said Constantia.

"Not as a free gift, "but in exchange. I will
give you instead a charming young negro — so
black. The women in St. Petersburg and in
Paris raved about him : but I was inexorable ; I
half-refused him to my princess."

"No, no," replied Constantia; "I shall be
lonely without this girl, I am so used to her."

" Nonsense ! you can get peasant girls by the
dozen ; but a black page, with teeth whiter than
ivory, and purer than pearls ; a perfect original in
his way ; you surely cannot withstand. You will
kill half the province with envy. A negro ser-
vant is the most fashionable thing going, and
yours will be the first imported into the prov-
ince."

This argument was irresistible. "Well," re-
plied Constantia, " when do you think of taking
her?"

" Immediately ; to-day at five o'clock," said

THE SEKF OF POBEREZE. 51

Leon ; and he went merrily out of the room.
This then was the result of his cogitation — of
Anielka's Hymn to the Virgin. Constantia or-
dered Anielka to prepare herself for the journey,
with as little emotion as if she had exchanged
away a lap-dog, or parted with a parrot.

She obeyed in silence. Her heart was full.
She went into the garden that she might relieve
herself by weeping unseen. "With one hand sup-
porting her burning head, and the other pressed
tightly against her heart, to stifle her sobs, she
wandered on mechanically till she found herself
by the side of the river. She felt quickly for her
purse, intending to throw the rouble into the
water, but as quickly thrust it back again, for
she could not bear to part with the treasure.
She felt as if without it she would be still more
an orphan. "Weeping bitterly, she leaned against
the tree which had once before witnessed her
tears.

By degrees the stormy passion within her gave
place to calm reflection. This day she was to go

52 PEARL-FISHING.

away ; she was to dwell beneath another roof, to
serve another mistress. Humiliation ! always hu-
miliation ! But at least it would be some change
in her life. As she thought of this, she returned
hastily to the palace that she might not, on the
last day of her servitude, incur the anger of her
young mistress.

Scarcely was Anielka attired in her prettiest
dress, when Constantia came to her with a little
box, from which she took several gay-colored rib-
bons, and decked her in them herself, that the
serf might do her credit in the new family.
And when Anielka, bending down to her feet
thanked her, Constantia, with marvellous conde-
scension, kissed her on her forehead. Even Leon
cast an admiring glance upon her. His servant
soon after came to conduct her to the carriage,
and showing her where to seat herself, they rolled
off quickly towards Eadapol.

For the first time in her life Anielka rode in a
carriage. Her head turned quite giddy, she could
not look at the trees and fields as they flew past

THE SEKF OF POBEEEZE. 53

her ; but by degrees she became more accustomed
to it, and the fresh air enlivening her spirits, she
performed the rest of the journey in a tolerably
happy state of mind. At last they arrived in the
spacious court-yard before the Palace of Radapol,
the dwelling of a once rich and powerful Polish
family, now partly in ruin. It was evident, even
to Anielka, that the marriage was one for money
on the one side, and for rank on the other.

Among other renovations at the castle, occa-
sioned by the approaching marriage, the owner of
it, Prince Pelazia, had obtained singers for the
chapel, and had engaged Signor Justiniani, an
Italian, as chapel-master. Immediately on Leon's
arrival, Anielka was presented to him. He made
her sing a scale, and pronounced her voice to be
excellent.

Anielka found that, in Badapol, she was treated
with a little more consideration than at Olgogrod,
although she had often to submit to the caprices
of her new mistress, and she found less time to
read. But to console herself, she gave all her

54: PEARL-FISHING.

attention to singing, which she practiced several
hours a day. Her naturally great capacity, under
the guidance of the Italian, began to develop
itself steadily. Besides sacred, he taught her
operatic music. On one occasion Anielka sung
an aria in so impassioned and masterly a style,
that the enraptured Justiniani clapped his hands
for joy, skipped about the room, and not finding
words enough to praise her, exclaimed several
times, "Prima Donna ! Prima Donna !"

But the lessons were interrupted. The Prin-
cess's wedding-day was fixed upon, after which
event she and Leon were to go to Florence, and
Anielka was to accompany them. Alas ! feelings
which gave her poignant misery still clung to her.
She despised herself for her weakness ; but she
loved Leon. 'The sentiment was too deeply im-
planted in her bosom to be eradicated ; too strong
to be resisted. It was the first love of a young
and guileless heart, and had grown in silence and
despair.

Anielka was most anxious to know something

THE SERF or POBEREZE. 55

of her adopted parents. Once, after the old
prince had heard her singing, he asked her with
great kindness about her home. She replied, that
she was an orphan, and had been taken by force
from those who had so kindly supplied the place
of parents. Her apparent attachment to the old
bee-keeper and his wife so pleased the prince,
that he said, " You are a good child, Anielka, and
to-morrow I will send you to visit them. You
shall take them some presents."

Anielka, overpowered with gratitude, threw
herself at the feet of the prince. She dreamed all
night of the happiness that was in store for her,
and the joy of the poor, forsaken, old people;
and when the next morning she set off, she could
scarcely restrain her impatience. At last they
approached the cabin ; she saw the forest, with its
tall trees, and the meadows covered with flowers.
She leaped from the carriage, that she might be
nearer these trees and flowers, every one of which
she seemed to recognize. The weather was beau-
tiful. She breathed with avidity the pure air

66 PEABL-FISHING.

which, in imagination, brought to her the kisses
and caresses of her poor father ! Her foster-father
was, doubtless, occupied with his bees; but his
wife?

Anielka opened the door of the cabin ; all was
silent and deserted. The arm-chair on which the
poor old woman used to sit, was overturned in a
corner. Anielka was chilled by a fearful presenti-
ment. She went with a slow step towards the
bee-hives ; there she saw a little boy tending the
bees, whilst the old man was stretched on the
ground beside him. The rays of the sun, falling
on his pale and sickly face, showed that he was
very ill. Anielka stooped down over him, and
said, "It is I, it is Anielka, your own Anielka,
who always loves you."

The old man raised his head, gazed upon her
with a ghastly smile, and took off his cap.

" And my good old mother, where is she ?"
Anielka asked.

" She is dead ! " answered the old man, and
falling back he began laughing idiotically. Anielka

THE SERF OF POBEREZE. 57

wept. She gazed earnestly on the worn frame, the
pale and wrinkled cheeks, in which scarcely a sign
of life could be perceived ; it seemed to her that he
had suddenly fallen asleep, and not wishing to dis-
turb him, she went to the carriage for the presents.
When she returned, she took his hand. It was cold.
The poor old bee-keeper had breathed his last !

Anielka was carried almost senseless back to the
carriage, which quickly returned with her to the
castle. There she revived a little ; but the recol-
lection that she was now quite alone in the world,
almost drove her to despair.

Her master's wedding and the journey to Flor-
ence were a dream to her. Though the strange
sights of a strange city slowly restored her percep-
tions, they did not her cheerfulness. She felt as if
she could no longer endure the misery of her life ;
she prayed to die.

" Why are you so unhappy ? " said the Count
Leon kindly to her, one day.

To have explained the cause of her wretchedness
would have been death indeed.

58 PEARL-FISHING.

"I am going to give you a treat," continued
Leon. A celebrated singer is to appear to-night in
the theatre. I will send you to hear her, and after-
wards you shall sing to me what you remember of
her performances."

Anielka went. It was a new era in -her exist-
ence. Herself, by this time, an artist, she could
forget her griefs, and enter with her whole soul
into the beauties of the art she now heard practised
in perfection for the first time. To music a chord
responded in her breast which vibrated powerfully.
During the performances she was at one moment
pale and trembling, tears rushing into her eyes,
at another, she was ready to throw herself at the
feet of the cantatrice, in an ecstasy of admiration.
" Prima donna," — by that name the public called
on her to receive their applause, and it was the
same, thought Anielka, that Justiniani had be
stowed upon her. Could she also be a prima
donna ? What a glorious destiny ! To be
able to communicate one's own emotions to
masses of entranced listeners ; to awaken in

THE SERF OF POBEREZE. 59

them, by the power of the voice, grief, love,
terror.

Strange thoughts continued to haunt her on her
return home. She was unable to sleep. She
formed desperate plans. At last she resolved to
throw off the yoke of servitude, and the still more
painful slavery of feelings which her pride dis-
dained. Having learnt the address of the prima
donna, she went early one morning to her house.

On entering she said, in French, almost inco-
herently, so great was her agitation — " Madam, I
am a poor serf belonging to a Polish family who
have lately arrived in Florence. I have escaped
from them ; protect, shelter me. They say I can
sing."

The Signora Teresina, a warm-hearted, passion-
ate Italian, was interested by her artless earnest-
ness. She said, " Poor child ! you must have suf-
fered much," — she took Anielka's hand in hers.
" You say you can sing ; let me hear you."
Anielka seated herself on an ottoman. She clasped
her hands over knees, and tears fell into her lap.

60 PEARL-FISHING.

With plaintive pathos, and perfect truth of intona-
tion, she prayed in song. The Hymn to the Vir-
gin seemed to Teresina to be offered up by inspira-
tion.

The Signora was astonished. " Where," she
asked, in wonder, "were you taught? "

Anielka narrated her history, and when she had
finished, the prima donna spoke so kindly to her
that she felt as if she had known her for years.
Anielka was Teresina's guest that day and the
next. After the opera, on the third day, the prima
donna made her sit beside her, and said : —

" I think you are a very good girl, and you shall
stay with me always."

The girl was almost beside herself with joy.

" We will never part. Do you consent, Ani-
elka?"

" Do not call me Anielka. Give me instead
some Italian name."

" Well, then, be Giovanna. The dearest friend
I ever had — but whom I have lost — was named
Giovanna," said the prima donna.

THE SEKF OF PO'BEEEZE. 61

" Then, I will "be another Giovanna to you."

Teresina then said, " I hesitated to receive you at
first, for your sake as well as mine ; but you are
safe now. I learn that your, master and mistress,
after searching vainly for you, have returned to
Poland."

From this time Anielka commenced an entirely
new life. She took lessons in singing every
day from the Signora. and got an engagement
to appear in inferior characters at the theatre.
She had now her own income, and her own ser-
vant— she, who had till then been obliged to
serve herself. She acquired the Italian language
rapidly, and soon passed for a native of the
country.

So passed three years. New and varied impress-
ions failed, however, to blot out the old ones.
Anielka arrived at great perfection in her singing,
and even began to surpass the prima donna, who
was losing her voice from weakness of the chest.
This sad discovery changed the cheerful temper of
Teresina. She ceased to sing in public; for she

62 PEAKL-FISHING.

could not endure to excite pity where she had for-
merly commanded admiration.

She determined to retire. "You," she said to
Anielka, " shall now assert your claim to the first
rank in the vocal art. You will maintain it.
You surpass me. Often, on hearing you sing, I
have scarcely been able to stifle a feeling of jeal-
ousy."

Anielka placed her hand on Teresina's shoulder,
and kissed her.

" Yes," continued Teresina, regardless of every-
thing but the bright future she was shaping for
her friend. ""We will go to Vienna — there you
will be understood and appreciated. You shall
sing at the Italian Opera, and I will be by your
side — unknown, no longer sought, worshipped —
but will glory in your triumphs. They will be a
repetition of my own ; for have I not taught you ?
"Will they not be the result of my work ? "

Though Anielka's ambition was fired, her heart
was softened, and she wept violently.

Five months had scarcely elapsed when a furore

THESEKFOFPOBEKEZE. 63

was created in Vienna by the first appearance,
at the Italian Opera, of the Signora Giovanna.
Her enormous salary at once afforded her the
means of even extravagant expenditure. Her
haughty treatment of male admirers only attracted
new ones ; but in the midst of her triumphs, she
thought often of the time when the poor orphan
of Pobereze was cared for by nobody. This re-
membrance made her receive the flatteries of the
crowd with an ironical smile ; their fine speeches
fell coldly on her ear, their eloquent looks made
no impression on her heart : that, no change could
alter, no temptation win.

In the flood of unexpected success a new mis-
fortune overwhelmed her. Since their arrival at
Vienna, Teresina's health rapidly declined, and in
the sixth month of Anielka's operatic reign she
expired, leaving all her wealth, which was consid-
erable, to her friend.

Once more Anielka was alone in the world.
Despite all the honors and blandishments of her
position, the old feeling of desolateness came upon

64: PEARL-FISHING.

her. The new shock destroyed her health. She
was unable to appear on the stage. To sing was a
painful effort ; she grew indifferent to what passed
around her. Her greatest consolation was in suc-
coring the poor and friendless, and her generosity
was most conspicuous to all young orphan girls
without fortune. She had never ceased to love
her native land, and seldom appeared in society,
unless it was to meet her countrymen. If ever she
sang, it was in Polish.

A year had elapsed since the death of the Sig-
nora Teresina when the Count Selka, a rich noble
of Yolkynia, at that time in Vienna, solicited her
presence at a party. It was impossible to refuse
the Count and his lady, from whom she had re-
ceived great kindness. She went. When in their
saloons, filled with all the fashion and aristocracy
in Vienna, the name of Giovanna was announced,
a general murmur was heard. She entered, pale
and languid, and proceeded between the two rows
made for her by the admiring assembly, to the
seat of honor, beside the mistress of the house.

THE SERF OF POBEKEZE. 65

Shortly after, the Count Selka led her to the
piano. She sat down before it, and thinking what
she should sing, glanced round upon the assembly.
She could not help feeling that the admiration
which beamed from the faces around her was the
work of her own merit, for had she neglected the
great gift of nature, her voice, she could not have
excited it. With a blushing cjieek, and eyes
sparkling with honest pride, she struck the piano
with a firm hand, and from her seemingly weak
and delicate chest poured forth a touching Polish
melody, with a voice pure, sonorous, and plaint-
ive. Tears were in many eyes, and the beating of
every heart was quickened.

The song was finished, but the wondering
silence was unbroken. Giovanna leaned exhaust-
ed on the arm of the chair, and cast down her
eyes. On again raising them, she perceived a
gentleman who gazed fixedly at her, as if he still
listened to echoes which had not yet died within
him. The master of the house, to dissipate his
thoughtlessness, led him towards Giovaiina. "Let

66 PEAEL-FlSHING.

me present to you, Signora," he said, " a country-
man, the Count Leon Eoszynski."

The lady trembled ; she silently bowed, fixed
her eyes on the ground, and dared not raise them.
Pleading indisposition, which was fully justified
by her pallid features, she soon after withdrew.

"When, on the following day, Giovanna's servant
announced the Counts Selka and Eoszynski, a
peculiar smile played on her lips ; and when they
entered, she received the latter with the cold and
formal politeness of a stranger. Controlling the
feelings of her heart, she schooled her features to
an expression of indifference. It was manifest
•from Leon's manner, that without the remotest
recognition, an indefinable presentiment regarding
her possessed him. The Counts had called to
know if Giovanna had recovered from her indis-
position. Leon begged to be permitted to call
again.

Where was his wife? why did he never mention
her? Giovanna continually asked herself these
questions when they had departed.

THE SERF OF POBEREZE. 67

A few nights after, the Count Leon arrived, sad
and thoughtful. He prevailed on Giovanna to
sing one of her Polish melodies, which she told
him she had been taught, when a child, by her
nurse. Koszynski, unable to restrain the express-
ion of an intense admiration he had long felt,
frantically seized her hand, and exclaimed, " I love
you ! "

She withdrew it from his grasp,, remained silent
for a few minutes, and then said slowly, distinctly,
and ironically, "But I do not love you, Count
Boszynski."

Leon rose from his seat. He pressed his hands
to his brow, and was silent. Giovanna remained
calm and tranquil. "It is a penalty from Heav-
en," continued Leon, as if speaking to himself,
" for not having fulfilled my duty as a husband
towards one whom I chose voluntarily, but with-
out reflection. I wronged her, and am punished."

Giovanna turned her eyes upon him. Leon
continued, " Young, and with a heart untouched,
I married a princess about ten years older than

68 PEARL-FISHING.

myself, of eccentric habits and bad temper. She
treated me as an inferior. She dissipated the for-
tune hoarded up with so much care by my parents,
and yet was ashamed, on account of my origin, to
be called by my name. Happily for me, she was
fond of visiting and amusements. Otherwise, to
escape from her, I might have become a gambler,
or worse ; but to avoid meeting her, I remained at
home — for there she seldom was. At first from
ennui, but afterwards from real delight in the
occupation, I gave myself up to study. Eeading
formed my mind and heart. I became a changed
being. Some months ago my father died, my
sister went to Lithuania, whilst my mother, in
her old age, and with her ideas, was quite inca-
pable of understanding my sorrow. So when my
wife went to the baths for the benefit of her
ruined health, I came here in the hope of meet-
ing with some of my former friends — I saw
you—"

Giovanna blushed like one detected ; but speed
ily recovering herself, asked, with calm pleasantry,

THE SERF OF POBEREZE. 69

"Surely you do not number me among your
former friends ? "

"I know .not. I have been bewildered. It is
strange ; but from the moment I saw you at Count
Selka's, a powerful instinct of love overcame me ;
not a new feeling ; but as if some latent, long-hid,
undeveloped sentiment had suddenly burst forth
into an uncontrollable passion. I love, I adore

I -- "

The Prima Donna interrupted him — not with
speech, but with a look which awed, which chilled
him. Pride, scorn, irony sat in her smile. Satire
darted from her eyes. After a pause she re-
peated slowly and pointedly, "Love me, Count
Eoszynski?"

"Such is my destiny," he replied. "Nor, de-
spite your scorn, will I struggle against it. I feel
it is my fate ever to love you ; I fear it is my fate
never to be loved by you. It is dreadful."

Giovanna witnessed the Count's emotion with
sadness. " To have," she said mournfully, "one's
first, pure, ardent, passionate affection unrequited,

70 PEARL-FISHING.

scorned, made a jest of, is indeed a bitterness,
almost equal to that of death."

She made a strong effort to conceal her emotion.
Indeed she controlled it so well as to speak the
rest with a sort of gaiety.

" You have at least been candid, Count Koszyn-
sM ; I will imitate you by telling a little history
that occurred in your country.' There was a poor
girl born and bred a serf to her wealthy lord and
master. "When scarcely fifteen years old, she was
torn from a state of happy rustic freedom — the
freedom of humility and content — to be one of the
courtly slaves of the Palace. Those who did not
laugh at her, scolded her. One kind word was
vouchsafed to her, and that came from the lord's
son. She nursed it and treasured it ; till, from
long concealing and restraining her feelings, she at
last found that gratitude had changed into a sin-
cere affection. But what does a man of the world
care for the love of a serf ? It does not even flat-
ter his vanity. The young nobleman did not un-
derstand the source of her tears a'nd her grief, and

THE SERF OF POBEREZE. 71

L£ made a present of her, as lie would have done
of some animal, to his betrothed."

Leon, agitated and somewhat enlightened, would
have interrupted her ; but Giovanna said, " Allow
me to finish my tale. Providence did not abandon
this poor orphan, but permitted her to rise to dis-
tinction b y the talent with which she was endowed
by nature. The wretched serf of Poberoze became a
celebrated Italian cantatrice. Then her former lord
meeting her in society, and seeing her admired and
courted by all the world, without knowing who
she really was, was afflicted, as if by the dictates of
Heaven, with a love for this same girl, — with, a
guilty love" — •

And Giovanna rose, as she said this, to remove
herself further from her admirer.

" No, no ! " he replied earnestly ; " with a pure
and holy passion."

" Impossible ! " returned Giovanna. " Are you
not married ? "

Koszynski vehemently tore a letter from his
vest, and handed it to Giovanna. It was sealed

72 PEARL-FISHING.

with black, for it announced the death of his wife
at the baths. It had only arrived that morning.

" You have lost no time," said the cantatrice,
endeavoring to conceal her feelings under an iron
mask of reproach.

There was a pause. Each dared not speak.
The Count knew — but without actually and prac-
tically believing what seemed incredible — that
Anielka and Giovanna were the same person — his
slave. That terrible relationship checked him.
Anielka, too, had played her part to the end of
endurance. The long-cherished tenderness — the
faithful love of her life, could not longer be wholly
mastered. Hitherto they had spoken in Italian.
She now said in Polish,

" You have a right, my Lord Eoszynski, to that
poor Anielka who escaped from the service of your
wife in Florence ; you can force her back to your
palace, to :ts meanest work, but" —

" Have mercy on me ! " cried Leon.

" But," continued the serf of Pobereze, firmly,
"you cannot force me to love you."

THE SERF OF POBEEEZE. 73

" Do not mock — do not torture me more ; you
are sufficiently revenged. I will not offend you
by importunity. You must indeed hate me ! But
remember that we Poles wished to give freedom
to our serfs ; and for that very reason our country
was invaded and dismembered by despotic powers.
"We must therefore continue to suffer slavery as it
exists in Eussia ; but, soul and body, we are
averse to it ; and when our country once more
becomes free, be assured no shadow of slavery will
remain in the land. Curse then our enemies, and
pity us that we stand in such a desperate position
between Kussian bayonets and Siberia, and the
hatred of our serfs."

So saying, and without waiting for a reply,
Leon rushed from the room. The door was
closed. Giovanna listened to the sounds of his
rapid footsteps till they died in the street. She
would have followed, but dared not. She ran to
the window. Koszynski's carriage was rolling
rapidly away, and she exclaimed vainly, " I love
you, Leon ; I loved you always 1 "

74: PEAEL-FISHING.

Her tortures were unendurable. To relieve
them she hastened to her desk, and wrote these
words : —

" Dearest Leon, forgive me ; let the past be for-
ever forgotten. Eeturn to your Anielka. She
always has been, ever will be yours."

She despatched the missive. "Was it too late ?
or would it bring him back ? In the latter hope
she retired to her chamber, to execute a little
project.

Leon was in despair. He saw he had been
premature in so soon declaring his passion after
the news of his wife's death, and vowed he would
not see Anielka again for several months. To
calm his agitation, he had ridden some miles into
the country. When he returned to his ho'e after
some hours, he found her note. With th wild
delight it had darted into his soul, he flew uack
to her.

On regaining her saloon a new and terrible
vicissitude seemed to sport with his passion : — she
was nowhere to be seen. Had the Italian can-

THE SERF OF POBEREZE. 75

tatrice fled? Again lie was in despair; stupefied
with disappointment. As he stood uncertain how
to act in the midst of the floor, he heard, as from a
distance, an Ave Maria poured forth in tones he
half-recognized. The sounds brought back to him
a host of recollections ; a weeping serf, the garden
of his own palace. In a state of new rapture he
followed the voice. He traced it to an inner
chamber, and he there beheld the lovely singer
kneeling in the costume of a Polish serf. She
rose, greeted Leon with a touching smile, and
stepped forward with serious bashfulness. Leon
extended his arms ; she sank into them ; and in
that fond embrace all past wrongs and sorrows
were forgotten ! Anielka drew from her bosom a
little purse, and took from it a piece of silver. It
was the rouble. Now, Leon did not smile at it.
He comprehended the sacredness of this little gift ;
and some tears of repentance fell upon Anielka's
hand.

A few months after, Leon wrote to the steward
of Olgogrod to prepare everything splendidly for

76 PEARL-FISHING.

the reception of his second wife. He concluded
his letter with these words : — " I understand that
in the dungeon beneath my palace there are some
unfortunate men, who were imprisoned during
my father's lifetime. Let them be instantly liber-
ated. This is my first act of gratitude to God,
who has so infinitely blessed me ! "

Anielka longed ardently to behold her native
land. They left Vienna immediately after the
wedding, although it was in the middle of Jan-
uary.

It was already quite dark when the carriage,
with its four horses, stopped in front of the portico
of the palace of Olgogrod. Whilst the footman
was opening the door on one side, a beggar solicit-
ing alms appeared at the other, where Anielka was
seated. Happy to perform a good action, as she
crossed the threshold of her new home, she gave
him some money ; but the man, instead of thank-
ing her, returned her bounty with a savage laugh,
at the same time scowling at her in the fiercest
manner from beneath his thick and shaggy brows.

THE SERF OF POBEEEZE. 77

The strangeness of this circumstance sensibly af-
fected Anielka, and clouded her happiness. Leon
soothed and re-assured her. In the arms of her
beloved husband, she forgot all but the happiness
of being the idol of his affections.

Fatigue and excitement made the night most
welcome. All was dark and silent around the
palace, and some hours of the night had passed,
when suddenly flames burst forth from several
parts of the building at once. The palace was en-
veloped in fire ; it raged furiously. The flames
mounted higher and higher ; the windows cracked
with a fearful sound, and the smoke penetrated
into the most remote apartments.

A single figure of a man was seen stealing over
the snow, which lay like a winding-sheet on the
solitary waste; his cautious steps were heard on
the frozen snow as it crisped beneath his tread.
It was the beggar who had accosted Anielka. On
a rising ground, he turned to gaze on the terrible
scene. " ISTo more unfortunate wretches will now
be doomed to pass their lives in your dungeons,"

78 PEARL-FISHING.

lie exclaimed. " What was my crime ? Kemind-
ing my master of the lowness of his birth. For
this they tore me from my only child — my darling
little Anielka; they had no pity even for her
orphan state ; let them perish all ! "

Suddenly a young and beautiful creature rushes
wildly to one of the principal windows : she
makes a violent effort to escape. For a moment
her lovely form, clothed in white, shines in terri-
ble relief against the background of blazing cur-
tains and walls of fire, and as instantly sinks back
into the blazing element. Behind her is another
figure, vainly endeavoring to aid her, — he perishes
also ; neither are ever seen again !

This appalling tragedy horrified even the per-
petrator of the crime. He rushed from the place ;
and as he heard the crash of the falling walls, he
closed his ears with his hands, and darted on
faster and faster.

The next day some peasants discovered the
body of a man frozen to death, lying on a heap
of snow, — it was that of the wretched incendiary.

THE SERF OF POBEREZE. 79

Providence, mindful of his long, of his cruel im-
prisonment and sufferings, spared him the an-
'guish of knowing that the mistress of the palace
he had destroyed, and who perished in the flames,
was his own beloved daughter — the Serf of
Pobereze I

III.

3S0ntorfttl JAtontem in

T AM fond of Gardening. I like to dig. If
• among the operations of the garden any need
for such a work can be at any time discovered or
invented, I like to dig a hole.

On the 3d of March, 1849, 1 began a hole behind
the kitchen wall, whereinto it was originally in-
tended to transplant a plum tree. The exercise
was so much to my taste, that a strange humor
impelled me to dig on. A fascination held me
to the task. I neglected my business. I disap-
peared from the earth's surface. A boy who
worked a basket by means of a rope and pulley,
aided me ; so aided, I confined my whole atten-
tion to spade labor. The centripetal force seemed
to have made me its especial victim. I dug on
until Autumn. In the beginning of November I

ADVENTURES IN SKITZLAND. 81

observed that, upon percussion, the sound given
by the floor of my pit was resonant. I did not
intermit my labor, urged as I was by a mysterious
instinct downwards. On applying my ear, I occa-
sionally heard a subdued sort of rattle, which
caused me to form a theory that the centre of the
earth might be composed of mucus. In Novem-
ber, the ground broke beneath me into a hollow,
and I fell a considerable distance. I alighted on
the box-seat of a four-horse coach, which happened
to be running at that time immediately underneath.
The coachman took no notice whatever of my sud-
den arrival by his side. He was so completely
muffled up, that I could observe only the skilful
way in which he manipulated reins and whip.
The horses were yellow. I had seen no more than
this, when the guard's horn blew, and presently we
pulled up at an inn. A waiter came out, and ap-
peared to collect four bags from the passengers
inside the coach. He then came round to me.
"Dine here, Sir?"

" Yes, certainly," said L I like to dine—not
6

82 PEAEL-FISHING.

the sole point of resemblance between myself and
the great- Johnson.

" Trouble you for your stomach, Sir."
While the waiter was looking up with a polite
stare into my puzzled face, my neighbor, the coach-
man, put one hand within his outer coat, as if to
feel for money in his waistcoat pocket. Directly
afterwards his fingers came again to light, and
pulled forth an enormous sack. Notwithstanding
that it was abnormally enlarged, I knew by obser-
vation of its form and texture that this was a
stomach, with the ossophagus attached. This,
then, the waiter caught as it was thrown down to
him, and hung it carelessly over his arm, together
with the four smaller bags (which I now knew to
be also stomachs) collected from the passengers
within the coach. I started up, and as I happened
to look round, observed a skeleton face upon the
shoulders of a gentleman who sat immediately
behind my back. My own features were noticed
at the same time by the guard, who now oame fo?
ward touching his hat.

ADVENTURES IN SKITZLAND. 83

" Beg your pardon, Sir, but you Ve been and
done it."

"Done what?"

" Why, Sir, you should have booked your place,
and not come up in this clandestine way. How-
ever, you Ve been and done it ! "

" My good man, what have I done ? "

" Why, Sir, the Baron Terroro's eyes had the
box seat, and I strongly suspect you Ve been and
sat upon them."

I looked involuntarily to see whether I had been
sitting upon anything except the simple cushion.
Truly enough, there was an eye, which I had
crushed and flattened.

" Only one," I said.

" Worse for you, and better for him. The other
eye had time to escape, and it will know you again,
that 's certain. Well, it 's no business of mine.
Of course you Ve no appetite now for dinner ?
Better pay your fare, Sir. To the Green Hippo-
potamus and Spectacles, where we put up, it 's ten-
and-six."

g4 PEARL-FISHING.

" Is there room inside ? " I inquired. It was
advisable to shrink from observation.

" Yes, Sir. The inside passengers are mostly
skeleton. There 's room for three, Sir. Inside,
one-pound-one."

I paid the money, and became an inside passen-
ger.

Professor Essig's Lectures on Anatomy had so
fortified me, that I did not shrink from entering
the Skitzton coach. It contained living limbs,
loose or attached to skeletons in other respects
bare, except that they were clothed with broadcloth
garments, cut after the English fashion. One pas-
senger only had a complete face of flesh, he had
also one living hand ; the other hand I guessed
was bony, because it was concealed in a glove
obviously padded. By observing the fit of his
clothes, I came to a conclusion that this gentleman
was stuffed throughout ; that all his limbs, except
the head and hand, were artificial. Two pair of
Legs, in woollen stockings, and a pair of Ears,

ADVENTUKES IN SKITZLAND. 85

were in a corner of the coach, and in another cor-
ner there were nineteen or twenty Scalps.

I thought it well to look astonished at nothing,
and, having pointed in a careless manner to the
scalps, asked what might be their destination ?
The person with the Face and Hand replied
to me ; and although evidently himself a gentle-
man, he addressed me with a tone of unconcealed
respect.

" They are going to Skitzton, Sir, to the hair-
dresser's."

" Yes, to be sure," I said. " They are to make
Natural Skin Wigs. I might have known."

" I beg your pardon, Sir. There is a ball to-
morrow night at Culmsey. But the gentry do not
like to employ village barbers, and therefore many
of the better class of people send their hair to
Skitzton, and receive it back by the return coach
properly cut and curled."

" Oh," said I. " Ah ! Oh, indeed ! "

" Dinners, gentlemen ! " said a voice at the win-,
dow, and the waiter handed in four stomachs, now

86 PEARL-FISHING.

tolerably well filled. Each passenger received his
property, and pulling open his chest with as much
composure as if he were unbuttoning his waistcoat,
restored his stomach, with a dinner in it, to the
right position. Then the reckonings were paid,
and the coach started.

I thought of my garden, and much wished that
somebody could throw Professor Essig down the
hole that I had dug. A few things were to be met
with in Skitzland which would rather puzzle him.
They puzzled me ; but I took refuge in silence,
and so fortified, protected my ignorance from an
exposure.

" You are going to court, Sir, I presume ? " said
my Face and Hand friend, after a short pause.
His was the only mouth in the coach, excepting
mine, so that lie \\ras the only passenger able to
enter into conversation.

" My dear Sir," I replied, " let me be frank with
you. I have arrived here unexpectedly out of
another world. Of the manners and customs, nay,
of the very nature of the people who inhabit this

ADVENTURES IN SKITZLAND. 87

country, I know nothing. For any information
you can give me, I shall be very grateful."

My friend smiled incredulity, and said,

" Whatever you are pleased to profess, I will
believe. "What you are pleased to feign a wish
for, I am proud to furnish. In Skitzland, the in-
habitants, until they come of age, retain that illus-
trious appearance which you have been so fortun-
ate as never to have lost. During the night of his
twenty-first birthday, each Skitzlander loses the
limbs which up to that period have received from
him no care, no education. Of those neglected
parts the skeletons alone remain, but all those
organs which he has employed sufficiently continue
unimpaired. I, for example, devoted to the study
of the law, forgot all occupation but to think, to
use my senses, and to write. I rarely used my
legs, and therefore Nature has deprived me of
them."

" But," I observed, " it seems* that in Skitzland
you are able to take yourselves to pieces."

" JSTo one has that power more largely than your-

88 PEARL-FISHING.

self. What organs we have we can detach on any
service. When dispersed, a simple force of Nature
directs all corresponding members whither to fly
that they may re-assemble.

" If they can fly," I asked, " why are they sent
in coaches? There were a pair of eyes on the
box-seat."

"Simply for safety against accidents. Eyes
flying alone are likely to be seized by birds, and
incur many dangers. They are sent, therefore,
usually under protection, like any other valuable
parcel."

" Do many accidents occur ? "

"Very few. For mutual protection, and also
because a single member is often all that has been
left existing of a fellow Skitzlander, our laws, as
you, Sir, know much better than myself, estimate
the destruction of any part absent on duty from
its skeleton as a crime equivalent to murder "

After this I held my tongue. Presently my
friend again inquired whether I was going up to
Court?

ADVENTURES IN SKITZLAND. 89

" Why should I go to Court ? "

" Oh, Sir, it pleases you to be facetious. You
must be aware that any Skitzlander who has been
left by Nature in possession of every limb, sits in
the Assembly of the Perfect, or the Upper House,
and receives many State emoluments and dig-
nities."

" Are there many members of that Upper As-
sembly?"

" Sir, there were forty-two. But if you are now
travelling to claim your seat, -the number will be
raised to forty-three."

" The Baron Terroro— " I hinted.

" My brother, Sir. His eyes are on the box-seat
under my care. Undoubtedly he is a Member of
the Upper House."

I was now anxious to get out of the coach as
soon as possible. My wish was fulfilled after the
next pause. One Eye, followed by six Pairs of
Arms, with strong hard Hands belonging to them,
flew in at the window. I was collared ; the door
was opened, and all hands were at work to drag

90 PEABL-FISHING.

me out and away. The twelve Hands whisked me
through the air, while the one Eye sailed before
us, like an old bird, leader of the flight.

What sort of sky have they in Skitzlacd ? Our
earth overarches them, and, as the sun-light Miters
through, it causes a subdued illumination vith
very pure rays. Skitzland is situated nearly In
the centre of our globe, it hangs there like a
shrunken kernel in the middle of a nutshell. TV *
height from Skitzland to the over-arching canopv
is great ; so great, that if I had not fallen person
ally from above the firmament, I should have con-
sidered it to be a blue sky similar to ours. Al
night it is quite dark ; but during the day there is
an appearance in the Heaven of white spots ; their
glistening reminded me of stars. I noticed then?
as I -was being conveyed to prison by the strong
arms of justice, for it was by a detachment of
members from the Skitzton Police that I was now
hurried along. The air was very warm, and cor-

ADVENTUKES IN SKITZLAND. 91

roborated the common observation of an increase
of heat as you get into the pith of our planet.
The theory of Central Fire, however, is, you per*
ceive, quite overturned by my experience.

"We alighted near the Outskirts of a large and
busy town. Through its streets I was dragged
publicly, much stared at, and much staring. The
street life was one busy nightmare of disjointed
limbs. Professor Essig, could he have been dragged
through Skitzton, would have delivered his fare-
well lecture upon his return. " Gentlemen, Fuit
Ilium — Fuit Ischium — Fuit Sacrum — Anatomy
has lost her seat among the sciences. My occupa-
tion 's gone." Professor Owen's Book " On the
Nature of Limbs," must contain, in the next
edition, an Appendix " Upon Limbs in Skitz-
lancl." I was dragged through the streets, and all
dhat I saw there, in the present age of little faith,
I dare not tell you. I was dragged through the
streets to prison and there duly chained, after
having been subjected to the scrutiny of about
fifty couples of eyes drawn up in a line within the

92 PEARL-FISHING.

prison door. I was chained in a dark cell, a cell
so dark that I could very faintly perceive the
figure of some being who was my companion.
Whether this individual had ears wherewith to
hear, and mouth wherewith to answer me, I could
not see, but at a venture I addressed him. My
thirst for information was unconquerable ; I began,
therefore, immediately with a question :

" Friend, what are those stars which we see
shining in the sky at mid-day ? "

An awful groan being an unsatisfactory reply,
I asked again.

" Man, do not mock at misery. You will your-
self be one of them."

'The Teachers shall shine like Stars in the Fir-
mament.' I have a propensity for teaching, but
was puzzled to discover how I could give so prac-
tical an illustration of the text of Fichte.

" Believe me," I said, " I am strangely ignorant.
Explain yourself."

He answered with a hollow voice :

" Murderers are shot up out of mortars into the

ADVENTURES IN SKITZLAND. 93

sky, and stick there. Those white, glistening
specks, they are their skeletons."

Justice is prompt in Skitzland. I was tried in-
credibly fast by a jury of twelve men who had
absolutely heads. The judges had nothing but
brain, mouth, and ear. Three powerful tongues
defended me, but as they were not suffered to talk
nonsense, they had little to say. The whole case
was too clear to be talked into cloudiness. Baron
Terroro, in person, deposed, that he had sent his
eyes to see a friend in Culmsey, and that they
were returning on the Skitzton coach, when I, ille-
gally, came with my whole bulk upon the box-
seat, which he occupied. That one of his eyes
was, in that manner, totally destroyed, but that
the other eye, having escaped, identified me, and
brought to his brain intelligence of the calamity
which had befallen. He deposed further, that
having received this information, he despatched
his uncrushed eye with arms from the police-
office, and accompanied with several members of
the detective force, to capture the offender, and to

94: PEARL-FISHING.

procure the full proofs of my crime. A sub-inspec-
tor of Skitzton Police then deposed that he sent
three of his faculties, with his mouth, eye, and ear,
to meet the coach. That the driver, consisting only
of a stomach and hands, had been unable to ob-
serve what passed. That the guard, on the con-
trary, had taxed me with my deed, that he had
seen me rise from my seat upon the murdered eye,
and that he had heard me make confession of my
guilt. The guard was brought next into court,
and told his tale. Then I was called upon for my
defence. If a man wearing a cloth coat and
trousers, and talking excellent English, were to
plead at the Old Bailey that he had broken into
some citizen's premises accidentally by falling
from the moon, his tale would be received in Lon-
don as mine was in Skitzton. I was severely
reprimanded for my levity, and ordered to be
silent. The Judge summed up and the Jury
found me Guilty. The Judge who had put on the
black cap before the verdict was pronounced, held
out no hope of mercy, and straightway sentenced

ADVENTURES IN SKITZLAND. 95

me to Death, according to the laws and usage of
the Eealm.

The period which intervenes between the sen-
tence and execution of a criminal in Skitzland, is
not longer thai) three hours. In order to increase
the terror of death by contrast, the condemned
man is suffered to taste at the table of life from
which he is banished, the most luscious viands,
All the attainable enjoyment that his wit can ask
for, he is allowed to have, during the three hours
before he is shot, like rubbish, off the fields of
Skitzland.

Under guard, of course, I was now to be led
whithersoever I desired.

Several churches were open. They never are
all shut in Skitzton. I was taken into one. A
man with heart and life was preaching. People
with hearts were in some pews ; people with
brains, in others ; people with ears only, in some.
In a neighboring church there was a popular

96 PEARL-DISHING.

preacher, a skeleton with life. His congregation
was a crowd of ears, and nothing more.

There was a day-performance at the Opera. I
went to that. Fine lungs and mouths possessed
the stage, and afterwards there was a great bewil-
derment with legs. I was surprised to notice that
many of the most beautiful ladies were carried in
and out, and lifted about like dolls. My guides
sneered at my pretence of ignorance, when I asked
why this was. But they were bound to please me
in all practicable ways, so they informed me, al-
though somewhat pettishly. It seems that in
Skitzland, ladies who possess and have cultivated
only their good looks, lose at the age of twenty-
one, all other endowments. So they become liter-
ally dolls, but dolls of a superior kind ; for they
can not only open and shut their eyes, but also
sigh ; wag slowly with their heads, and sometimes
take a pocket-handkerchief out of a bag, and drop
it. But as their limbs are powerless, they have to
be lifted and dragged about after the fashion that
excited my astonishment.

ADVEN TUBES IN SKITZLAND. 97

I said then, " Let me see the Poor." They took
me to a Workhouse. The men, there, were all
yellow; and they wore a dress which looked as
though it were composed of asphalte ; it had also a
smell like that of pitch. I asked for explanation
of these things.

A Superintendent of Police remarked that I was
losing opportunities of real enjoyment for the
idle purpose of persisting in my fable of having
dropped down from the sky. However, I com-
pelled him to explain to me what was the reason
of these things. The information I obtained was
chiefly this : — that Nature, in Skitzland, never re-
moves the stomach. Every man has to feed him-
self; and the necessity for finding food, joined to
the necessity for buying clothes, is a mainspring
whereby the whole clockwork of civilized life is
kept in motion. Now, if a man positively cannot
feed and clothe himself, he becomes a pauper. He
then goes to the Workhouse, where he has his
stomach filled with a cement. That stopping lasts
a life-time, and he thereafter needs no food His

98 PEABL-FISHING.

body, nowever,"" becomes yellow by the superfluity
of bile. The yellow-boy, which is the Skitzland
epithet for pauper, is at the same time provided
with a suit of clothes. The clothes are of a mate-
rial so tough that they can be worn unimpaired
for more than eighty years. The pauper is now
freed from care, but were he in this state cast loose
upon society, since he has not that stimulus to
labor which excites industry in other men, he
would become an element of danger in the state.
.Nature no longer compelling him to work, the law
compels him. The remainder of his life is forfeit
to the uses of his country. He labors at the work-
house, costing nothing more than the expense of
lodging, after the first inconsiderable outlay for
cement wherewith to plug his stomach, and for the
one suit of apparel.

When we came out of the workhouse, all the
bells in the town were tolling. The Superintend-
ent told me that I had sadly frittered away time,
for I had now no more than half an hour to live.
Upon that I leaned my back against a post, and

AD VENTUKES IN SKITZLAND. 99

a&ked him to prepare me for my part in the im-
pending ceremony by giving me a little informa-
tion on the subject of executions.

I found that it was usual for a man to be exe-
cuted with great ceremony upon the spot whereon
his crime had been committed. That in case of
rebellions or tumults in the provinces, when large
numbers were not unfrequently condemned to
death, the sentence of the law was carried out in
the chief towns of the disturbed districts. That
large numbers of people were thus sometimes dis-
charged from a single market-place, and that the
repeated strokes appeared to shake, or crack, or
pierce in some degree that portion of the sky to-
wards which the artillery had been directed. I
here at once saw that I had discovered the true
cause of earthquakes and volcanoes; and this
shows how great light may be thrown upon theo-
ries concerning the hidden constitution of this
earth, by going more deeply into the matter of it
than had been done by any one before I dug iny
hole. Our volcanoes, it is now proved, are sit

100 PEARL-FISHING.

uatecl over the market-places of various provincial
towns in Skitzland. When a revolution happens,
the rebels are shot up,— discharged from mortars
by means of an explosive material evidently far
more powerful than our gunpowder, or gun-cotton ;
and they are pulverized by the friction in grinding
their way through the earth. How simple and
easy truth appears, when we have once arrived
at it.

The sound of muffled drums approached us, and
a long procession turned the corner of a street. I
was placed in the middle of it, — Baron Terroro by
my side. All then began to float so rapidly away,
that I was nearly left alone, when forty arms came
back and collared me. It was considered to be a
proof of my refractory disposition, that I would
make no use of my innate power of flight. I was
therefore dragged in this procession swiftly through
the air, drums playing, fifes lamenting.

We alighted on the spot where I had fallen, and
the hole through which I had come I saw above
me. It was very small, but the light from above

ADVENTUKES IN S KIT z LAND. 101

shining more vividly through, it made it look, with
its rough edges, like a crumpled moon. A quan-
tity of some explosive liquid was poured into a
large mortar, which had been erected (under the
eye of Baron Terroro) exactly where my misfor-
tune happened. I was then thrust in, the Baron
ramming me down, and pounding with a long
stock or pestle upon my head in a noticeably vi-
cious manner. The Baron then cried " Fire ! " and
as I shot out, in the midst of a blaze, I saw him
looking upward.

By great good fortune, they had planted their
artillery so well, that I was fired up through my
hole again, and alighted in my own garden, just a
little singed. My first thought was to run to an
adjoining bed of vegetable marrows. Thirty vege-
table marrows and two pumpkins I rained down
to astonish the Skitzlanders, and I fervently hope
that one of them may have knocked out the re-
maining eye of my vindictive enemy, the Baron.

102 PEARL-FISHING.

I then went into the pantry, and obtained a basket
full of eggs, and having rained these down upon
the Skitzlanders, I left them.

It was after breakfast when I went down to
Skitzland, and I came back while the dinner bell
was ringing.

IV.

"\T7"HEN Death is present in a household on a
Christmas Day, t^ie very contrast between
the time as it now is, and the day as it has often
been, gives a poignancy to sorrow, — a more utter
blankness to the desolation. James Leigh died
just as the far-away bells of Eochdale Church were
ringing for morning service on Christmas Day,
1836. A few minutes before his death he opened
his already glazing eyes, and made a faint motion
of his lips, that he had yet something to say. She
stooped close down, and caught the broken whis-
per, " I forgive her, Anne ! May God forgive
me."

" Oh my love, my dear ! only get well, and I
will never cease showing my thanks for those
words. May God in heaven bless thee for saying

104 PEARL-FISHING.

them. Thou 'rt not so restless, my lad ! may be— •
Oh God!"

For even while she spoke, he died.

They had been two-and-twenty years man and
wife; for nineteen of those years their life had
been as calm and happy, as the most perfect up-
rightness on the one side, and the most complete
confidence and loving submission on the other,
could make it. Milton's famous line might have
been framed and hung up as the rule of their mar-
ried life, for he was truly the interpreter, who
stood between God and her ; she would have con-
sidered herself wicked if she had ever dared even
to think him austere, though as certainly as he was
an upright man, so surely was he hard, stern, and
inflexible. But for three years the moan and the
murmur had never been out of her heart ; she had
rebelled against her husband as against a tyrant,
with a hidden sullen rebellion, which tore up the
old land-marks of wifely duty and affection, and
poisoned the fountains whence gentlest love and
reverence had been forever springing.

LIZZIE LEIGH. 105

But those last blessed words replaced him on his
throne in her heart, and called out penitent an-
guish for all the bitter estrangement of later years.
It was this which made her refuse all the entreaties
of her sons, that she would see the kind-hearted
neighbors, who called on their way from church,
to sympathize and condole. No ! she would stay
with the dead husband that had spoken tenderly
at last, if for three years he had kept silence ; who
knew but what, if she had only been more gentle
and less angrily reserved he might have relented
earlier — and in time.

She sat rocking herself to and fro by the side
of the bed, while the footsteps below went in and
out ; she had been in sorrow too long to have any
violent burst of deep grief now ; the furrows were
well worn in her cheeks, and the tears flowed qui-
etly, if incessantly, all the day long. But when
the winter's night drew on, and the neighbors had
gone away to their homes, she stole to the window,
and gazed out, long and wistfully, over the dark
gray moors. She did not hear her son's voice, as

106 PEARL-FISHING.

he spoke to her from the door, nor his footstep as
he drew nearer. She started when he touched

her.

"Mother! come down to us. There's no one
but Will and me. Dearest mother, we do so want
you." The poor lad's voice trembled, and he
began to cry. It appeared to require an effort on
Mrs. Leigh's part to tear herself away from the
window, but with a sigh she complied with his
request.

The two boys (for though Will was nearly
twenty-one, she still thought of him as a lad) had
done everything in their power to make the house-
place comfortable for her. She herself, in the old
days before her sorrow, had never made a brighter
fire or a cleaner hearth, ready for her husband's
return home, than now awaited her. The tea-
things were all put out, and the kettle was boiling;
and the boys had calmed their grief down into a
kind of sober cheerfulness. They paid her every
attention they could think of, but received little
notice on her part ; she did not resist — she rather

LIZZIE LEIGH. 107

submitted to all their arrangements ; but they did
not seem to touch her heart.

When the tea was ended, — it was merely the
form of tea that had been gone through, — Will
moved the things away to the dresser. His
mother leant back languidly in her chair.

"'Mother, shall Tom read you a chapter ? He 's
a better scholar than I."

" Aye, lad ! " said she, almost eagerly. " That's
it. Eead me the Prodigal Son. Aye, aye, lad.
Thank thee."

Tom found the chapter, and read it in the high-
pitched voice which is customary in village-schools.
His mother bent forward, her lips parted, her eyes
dilated ; her whole body instinct with eager atten-
tion. Will sat with his head depressed, and hung
down. He knew why that chapter had been
chosen; and to him it recalled the family's dis-
grace. When the reading was ended, he still hung
down his head in gloomy silence. But her face
was brighter than it had been before for the day.
Her eyes looked dreamy, as if she saw a vision ;

108 PEAKL-FISHING.

and by-and-bye she pulled the Bible towards her,
and putting her finger underneath each word,
began to read them aloud in a low voice to her-
self; she read again the words of bitter sorrow and
deep humiliation ; but most of all she paused and
brightened over the father's tender reception of the
repentant prodigal

So passed the Christmas evening in the Upclose
Farm.

The snow had fallen heavily over the dark wav-
ing moorland, before the day of the funeral. The
black, storm-laden dome of heaven lay very still
and close upon the white earth, as they carried
the body forth out of the house which had known
his presence so long as its ruling power. Two
and two the mourners followed, making a black
procession, in their winding march over the un-
beaten snow, to Milne-Row Church — now lost in
some hollow of the bleak moors, now slowly
climbing the heavy ascents. There was no long
tarrying after the funeral, for many of the neigh-
bors who accompanied the lx>dy to the grave had

LIZZIE LEIGH. 109

far to go, and the great white flakes which came
slowly down, were the boding fore-runners of a
heavy storm. One old friend alone accompanied
the widow and her sons to their home.

The Upclose Farm had belonged for generations
to the Leighs ; and yet its possession hardly raised
them above the rank of laborers. There was the
house and outbuildings, all of an old-fashioned
kind, and about seven acres of barren, unproduc-
tive land, which they had never possessed capital
enough to improve ; indeed they could hardly rely
upon it for subsistence ; and it had been customary
to bring up the sons to some trade — such as a
wheelwright's, or blacksmith's.

James Leigh had left a will, in the possession of
the old man who accompanied them home. He
read it aloud. James had bequeathed the farm to
his faithful wife, Anne Leigh, for her life-time, and f\j
afterwards to his son "William. The hundred and
odd- pounds in the savings-bank was to accumulate
for Thomas.

After the reading was ended, Anne Leigh sat

110 PEARL -FISHING.

silent for a time ; and then she asked to speak to
Samuel Orme alone. The sons went into the
back-kitchen, and thence strolled out into the
fields regardless of the driving snow. The broth-
ers were dearly fond of each other, although they
were very different in character. Will, the elder,
was like his father, stern, reserved, scrupulously
upright. Tom (who was ten years younger) was
gentle and delicate as a girl, both in appearance
and character. He had always clung to his
mother, and dreaded his father. They did not
speak as they walked, for they were only in the

habit of talking about facts, and hardly knew the

t

more sophisticated language applied to the descrip-
tion of feelings.

Meanwhile their mother had taken hold of Sam-
uel Orme's arm with her trembling hand.
" Samuel, I must let the farm — I must."
"Let the farm 1 What's come o'er the woman? "
" Oh, Samuel ! :? said she, her eyes swimming in
tears, u I 'm just fain to go and live in Manchester.
I mun let the farm."

LIZZIE LEIGH. Ill

Samuel looked, and pondered, but did not speak
for some time. At last he said —

"If thou hast made up thy mind, there's no
speaking again it ; and thou must e'en go. Thou 'It
be sadly pottered wi' Manchester ways , but that 's
not my look out. Why, thou 'It have to buy
potatoes, a thing thou hast never done afore in all
thy born life. Well ! it 's not my look out. It 's
rather for me than again me. Our Jenny is
going to be married to Tom Higginbotham, and
he was speaking of wanting a bit of land to
begin upon. His father will be dying some-
time, I reckon, and then he '11 step into the Croft
Farm. But meanwhile" —

" Then, thou 'It let the farm," said she, still as
eagerly as ever.

" Aye, aye, he '11 take it fast enough, I Ve a no-
tion. But I '11 not drive a bargain with thee just
now ; it would not be right ; we '11 wait a bit."

" No ; I cannot wait, settle it out at once."

" Well, well ; I '11 speak to Will about it. I see
him out yonder. I'll step to him, and talk it over."

112 PEARL-FISHING.

Accordingly lie went and joined the two lads,
and without more ado, began the subject to
them.

" Will, thy mother is fain to go live in Man-
chester, and covets to let the farm. Now, I'm
willing to take it for Tom Higginbotham ; but I
like to drive a keen bargain, and there would be
no fun chaffering with thy mother just now. Let
thee and me buckle to, my lad ! and try and cheat
each other ; it will warm us this cold day."

"Let the farm!" said both the lads at once,
with infinite surprise. " Go live in Manchester ! "

When Samuel Orme found that the plan had
never before been named to either Will or Tom,
he would have nothing to do with it, he said, until
they had spoken to their mother ; likely she was
"dazed" by her husband's death; he would wait
a day or two, and not name it to any one ; not to
Tom Higginbotham himself, or may be he would
set his heart upon it. The 1-ads had better go in
and talk it over with their mother. He bade them
good day, and left them.

LIZZIE LEIGH.

Will looked very gloomy, but he did not speak
till they got near the house. Then he said, —

" Tom, go to th7 shippon, and supper the cows.
I want to speak to mother alone."

When he entered the house-place, she was sit-
ting before the fire, looking into its embers. She
did not hear him come in ; for some time she had
lost her quick perception of outward things.

" Mother ! what 's this about going to Manches-
ter ? " asked he.

" Oh, lad ! " said she, turning round and speak-
ing in a beseeching tone, " I must go and seek our
Lizzie. I cannot rest here for thinking on her.
Many 's the time I Ve left thy father sleeping in
bed, and stole to th' window, and looked and
looked my heart out towards Manchester, till I
thought I must just set out and tramp over moor
and moss straight away till I got there, and then
lift up every downcast face till I came to our
Lizzie. And often, when the south wind was
blowing soft among the hollows, I've fancied (it

could but be fancy, thou knowest) I heard her
8 .

114 PEAKL-FISHING.

crying upon me ; and I Ve thought the voice came
closer and closer, till at last it was sobbing out
'Mother' close to the door; and I've stolen
down, and undone the latch before now, and
looked out into the still black night, thinking to
see her, — and turned sick and sorrowful when I
heard no living sound but the sough of the wind
dying away. Oh ! speak not to me of stopping
here, when she may be perishing for hunger, like
the poor lad in the parable." And now she lifted
up her voice and wept aloud.

Will was deeply grieved. He had been old
enough to be told the family shame when, more than
two years before, his father had had his letter to
his daughter returned by her mistress in Manches-
ter, telling him that Lizzie had left her service
some time — and why. He had sympathized with
his father's stern anger; though he had thought
him something hard, it is true, when he had for-
bidden his weeping, heart-broken wife to go and
try to find her poor sinning child, and declared
that henceforth they would. have no daughtei

LIZZIE LEIGH. 115

that she should be as one dead, and her name
never more be named at market or at meal time,
in blessing or in prayer. He had held his peace,
with compressed lips and contracted brow, when
the neighbors had noticed to him how poor Liz-
zie's death had aged both his father and his
mother; and how they thought the bereaved
couple would never hold up their heads again.
He himself had felt as if that one event had made
him old before his time ; and had envied Tom
the tears he had shed over poor, pretty, innocent,
dead Lizzie. He thought about her sometimes,
till he ground his teeth, and could have struck
her down in her shame. His mother had never
named her to him until now.

" Mother ! " said he at last. " She may be dead
Most likely she is."

"No, Will; she is not dead," said Mrs. Leigh
" God will not let her die till I 've seen her once
again. Thou dost not know how I Ve prayed and
prayed just once again to see her sweet face, and
tell her I've forgiven her, though she's broken

116 PEARL-FISHING.

my heart— she has, Will." She could not go on
for a minute or two for the choking sobs. " Thou
dost not know that, or thou wouldst not say she
could be dead, — for God is very merciful, "Will ;
He is, — He is much more pitiful than man, — I
could never ha' spoken to thy father as I did to
Him, — and yet thy father forgave her at last.
The last words he said were that he forgave her.
Thou 'It not be harder than thy father, Will ? Do
not try and hinder me going to seek her, for it 's
no use."

Will sat very still for a long time before he
spoke. At last he said, "I'll not hinder you. I
think she's dead, but that 's no matter."

" She is not dead," said her mother, with low
earnestness. Will took no notice of the inter-
ruption.

"We will all go to Manchester for a twelve-
month, and let the farm to Tom Higginbotham.
I'll get blacksmith's work; and Tom can have
good schooling for awhile, which he's always
craving for. At the end of the year you'll come

LIZZIE LEIGH. 117

back, mother, and give over fretting for Lizzie,
and think with me that she is dead, — and, to my
mind, that would be more comfort than to think
of her living ; " he dropped his voice as he spoke
these last words. She shook her head, but made
no answer. He asked again, —

" Will you, mother, agree to this ?"

"I'll agree to it a-this-ns," said she. "If I
hear and see nought of her for a twelvemonth,
me being in Manchester looking out, I '11 just haj
broken my heart fairly before the year's ended,
and then I shall know neither love nor sorrow for
her any more, when I 'm at rest in the grave — I '11
agree to that, Will."

" Well, I suppose it must be so. I shall not
tell Tom, mother, why we 're flitting to Manches-
ter. Best spare him."

" As thou wilt," said she, sadly, "so that we go,
that's all."

Before the wild daffodils were in flower in the
sheltered copses round Upclose Farm, the Leighs
were settled in their Manchester home ; if they

118 PEARL-FISHING.

could ever grow to consider that place as a home
where there was no garden, or outbuilding, no
fresh breezy outlet, no far-stretching view, over
moor and hollow, — no dumb animals to be
tended, and, what more than all they missed,
no old haunting memories, even though those
remembrances told of sorrow, and the dead and
gone.

Mrs. Leigh heeded the loss of all these things
less than her sons. She had more spirit in her
countenance than she had had for months, because
now she had hope ; of a sad enough kind, to be
sure, but still it was hope. She performed all her
household duties, strange and complicated as they
were, and bewildered as she was with all the town-
necessities of her new manner of life ; but when
her house was " sided," and the boys come home
from their work, in the evening, she would put on
her things and steal out, unnoticed, as she thought,
but not without many a heavy sigh from Will,
after she had closed the house-door and departed.
It was often past midnight before she came back,

LIZZIE LEIGH. 119

pale and weary, with almost a guilty look upon
her face ; but that face so full of disappointment
and hope deferred, that Will had never the heart
to say what he thought of the folly and hopeless-
ness of the search, Night after night it was re-
newed, till days grew to weeks and weeks to
months. All this time Will did his duty towards
her as well as he could, without having sympathy
with her. He staid at home in the evenings for
Tom's sake, and often wished he had Tom's pleas-
ure in reading, for the time hung heavy on his
hands, as he sat up for his mother.

I need not tell you how the mother spent the
weary hours. And yet I will tell you something.
She used to wander out, at first as if without a
purpose, till she rallied her thoughts, and brought
all her energies to bear on the one point ; then she
went with earnest patience along the least known
ways to some new part of the town, looking wist-
fully with dumb entreaty into people's faces ; some-
times catching a glimpse of a figure which had a
kind of momentary likeness to her child's, and fol-

120 PEARL-FISHING.

lowing that figure with never-wearying persever-
ance, till some light from shop or lamp showed the
cold strange face which was not her daughter's.
Once or twice a kind-hearted passer-by, struck by
her look of yearning woe, turned back and offered
help, or asked her what she wanted. "When so
spoken to, she answered only, "You don't know a
poor girl they call Lizzie Leigh, do you ? " and
when they denied all knowledge, she shook her
head, and went on again. I think they believed
her to be crazy. But she never spoke first to any
one. She sometimes took a few minutes' rest on
the door-steps, and sometimes (very seldom) cov-
ered her face and cried ; but she could not 8 fiord
to lose time and chances in this way ; while- her
eyes were blinded with tears, the lost one if Jght
pass by unseen.

One evening, in the rich time of shortening
autumn-days, Will saw an old man, who, -without
being absolutely drunk, could not g^iide himself
rightly along the foot-path, and was mocked for
his unsteadiness of gait by the idle boys of the

LIZZIE LEIGH. 121

neighborhood. For his father's sake "Will regarded
old age with tenderness, even when most degraded
and removed from the stern virtues which digni-
fied that father ; so he took the old man home, and
seemed to believe his often-repeated assertions that
he drank nothing but water. The stranger tried
to stiffen himself up into steadiness as he drew
nearer home, as if there were some one there, for
whose respect he cared even in his half-intoxicated
state, or whose feelings he feared to grieve. His
home was exquisitely clean and neat even in out-
side appearance ; threshold, window, and window-
sill, were outward signs of some spirit of purity
within. Will was regarded for his attention by a
bright glance of thanks, succeeded by a blush of
shame, from a young woman of twenty or there-
abouts. She did not speak, or second her father's
hospitable invitations to him to be seated. She
seemed unwilling that a stranger should witness
her father's attempts at stately sobriety, and Will
could not bear to stay and see her distress. But
when the old man, with many a flabby shake of

122 PEARL-FISHING.

the hand, kept asking him to come again some
other evening and see them, Will sought her
down-cast eyes, and, though he could not read
their veiled meaning, he answered timidly, "If
it 's agreeable to everybody, I '11 come — and thank
ye." But there was no answer from the girl, to
whom this speech was in reality addressed ; and
"Will left the house liking her all the better for
never speaking.

He thought about her a great deal for the next
day or two ; he scolded himself for being so fool-
. ish as to think of her, and then fell to with fresh
vigor, and thought of her more than ever. He
tried to depreciate her ; and told himself she was
not pretty, and then made indignant answer that
he liked her looks much better than any beauty of
them all. He wished he was not so country look-
ing, so red-faced, so broad-shouldered ; while she
was like a lady, with her smooth colorless com-
plexion, her bright dark hair and her spotless
dress. Pretty, or not pretty, she drew his foot-
steps towards her ; he could not resist the impulse

LIZZIE LEIGH. 123

that made him wish to see her once more, and find
out some fault which should unloose his heart
from her unconscious keeping. But there she
was, pure and maidenly as before. He sat and
looked, answering her father at cross-purposes,
while she drew more and more into the shadow of
the chimney-corner out of sight. Then the spirit
that possessed him (it was not he himself, sure,
that did so impudent a thing !) made him get up
and carry the candle to a different place, under the
pretence of giving her more light at her sewing,
but, in reality, to be able to see her better ; she
could not stand this much longer, but jumped up,
and said she must put her little niece to bed ; and
surely, there never was, before or since, so trouble-
some a child of two years old ; for, though Will
staid an hour and a half longer, she never came
down again. He won the father's heart, though,
by his capacity as a listener, for some people are
not at all particular, and, so that they may talk on
undisturbed, are not so unreasonable as to expect
attention to what they say.

124: PEARL-FISHING.

"Will did gather this much, however, from the
old man's talk. He had once been quite in
a genteel line of business, but had failed for
more money than any greengrocer he had heard
of; at least, any who did not mix up fish and
game with greengrocery proper. This grand
failure seemed to have been the event of his life,
and one on which he dwelt with a strange kind
of pride. It appeared as if at present he rested
from his past exertions (in the bankrupt line), and
depended on his daughter, who kept a small
school for very young children. But all these
particulars Will only remembered and under-
stood, when he had left the house ; at the time he
heard them, he was thinking of Susan. After he
had made good his footing at Mr. Palmer's, he
was not long, you may be sure, without finding
some reason for returning again and again. He
listened to her father, he talked to the little niece,
but he looked at Susan, both while he listened
and while he talked. Her father kept on insisting
upon his former gentility, the. details of which

LIZZIE LEIGH. 125

would have appeared very questionable to Will's
mind, if the sweet, delicate, modest Susan had not
thrown an inexplicable air of refinement over all
she came near. She never spoke much ; she was
generally diligently at work ; but when she
moved it was so noiselessly, and when she did
speak, it was in so low and soft a voice, that
silence, speech, motion and stillness, alike seemed
to remove her high above Will's reach into some
saintly and inaccessible air of glory — high above
his reach ; even as she knew him ! And, if she
were made acquainted with the dark secret behind,
of his sister's shame, which was kept ever present
to his mind by his mother's nightly search among
the outcast and forsaken, would not Susan shrink
away from him with loathing as if he were tainted
by the involuntary relationship? This was his
dread ; and thereupon followed a resolution that he
would withdraw from her sweet company before it
was too late. So he resisted internal temptation,
and staid at home, and suffered and sighed. He
became angry with his mother for her untiring

126 PEABL-FISHING,

patience in seeking for one who, he could not help
hoping, was dead rather than alive. He spoke
sharply to her, and received only such sad depre-
catory answers as made him reproach himself, and
still more lose sight of peace of mind. This strug-
gle could not last long without affecting his
health ; and Tom, his sole companion through the
long evenings, noticed his increasing languor, his
restless irrjtablity, with perplexed anxiety, and at
last resolved to call his mother's attention to his
brother's haggard, care-worn looks. She listened
with a startled recollection of Will's claims upon
her love. She noticed his decreasing appetite,
and half-checked sighs.

" Will, lad ! what 's come o 'er thee ? " said she
to him, as he sat listlessly gazing into the fire.

" There 's nought the matter with me," said he,
as if annoyed at her remark.

" Nay, lad, but there is." He did not speak
again to contradict her; indeed she did not
know if he had heard her, so unmoved did he
look.

LIZZIE LEIGH. 127

" Would 'st like to go back to Upclose Farm ? "
asked she, sorrowfully.

" It 's just blackberrying time," said Tom.

Will shook his head. She looked at him awhile,
as if trying to read that expression of despondency
and trace it back to its source.

"Will and Tom could go," said she; "I must
stay here till I've found her, thouknow'st," con-
tinued she, dropping her voice.

He turned quickly round, and with the author-
ity he had at all times exercised over Tom, bade
him begone to bed.

When Tom had left the room he prepared to
speak.

" Mother," then said Will, " why will you keep
on thinking she 's alive ? If she were but dead,
we need never name her name again. We've
never heard nought on her since father wrote her
that letter ; we never knew whether she got it or
not. She 'd left her place before then. Many a
one dies is "

128 PEARL-FISHING.

"Oli my lad! durmot speak so to me, or my
heart will break outright," said his mother, with a
sort of cry. Then she calmed herself, for she
yearned to persuade him to her own belief.
"Thou never asked, and thou'rt too like thy
father for me to tell without asking — but it were
all to be near Lizzie's old place that I settled down
on this side o' Manchester; and the very day
after we came, I went to her old misses, and asked
to speak a word wi' her. I had a strong mind to
cast it up to her, that she should ha' sent my poor
lass away without telling on it to us first ; but she
were in black, and looked so sad I could na' find
in my heart to threep it up. But I did ask her a
bit about our Lizzie. The master would have
turned her away at a day's warning, (he 's gone to
t'other place ; I hope he '11 meet wi' more mercy
there than he showed our Lizzie, — I do, — ) and
when the missus asked her should she write to us,
she says Lizzie shook her head; and when she
speered at her again, the poor lass went down on
her knees, and begged her not, for she said it

LIZZIE LEIGH. 129

<7ould break my heart, (as it has done, Will — God
knows it has)," said the poor mother, choking with
her struggle to keep down her hard overmastering
grief, " and her father would curse her — Oh God,
teach me to be patient." She could not speak for
a few minutes, — "and the lass threatened, and said
she 'd go drown herself in the canal, if the missus
wrote home, — and so —

"Well! I'd got a trace of my child,— the
missus thought she 'd gone to th' workhouse to be
nursed ; and there I went, — and there, sure
enough, she had been, — and they 'd turned her out
as soon as she were strong, and told her she
were young enough to work, — but whatten kind
o' work would be open to her, lad, and her baby
to keep?"

Will listened to his mother's tale with deep
sympathy, not unmixed with the old bitter shame.
But the opening of her heart had unlocked his,
and after awhile he spoke.

"Mother I I think I'd e'en better go home.

Tom can stay wi' thee. I know I should stay too,
9

130 PEARL-FISHING.

but I cannot stay in peace so near — her — without
craving to see her — Susan Palmer I mean."

" Has the old Mr. Palmer thou telled me on a
daughter?" asked Mrs. Leigh.

" Aye, he has. And I love her above a bit.
And it's because I love her I. want to leave Man-
chester. That 's all."

Mrs. Leigh tried to understand this speech for
some time, but found it difficult of interpretation.

"Why should'st thou not tell her thou lov'st
her? Thou'rt a likely lad, and sure o' work.
Thou 'It have Upclose at my death; and as for
that I could let thee have it now, and keep mysel'
by doing a bit of charring. It seems to me a very
backwards sort o' way of winning her to think of
leaving Manchester."

"Oh mother, she's so gentle and so good, —
she's downright holy. She's never known a
tquch of sin; and can I ask her to marry me
knowing what we do about Lizzie, and fearing
worse 1 I doubt if pne like her could ever care for
me ; but if she knew about my sister, it would put

LIZZIE LEIGH. 131

a gulf between us, and she'd shudder at the
thought of crossing it. You don't know how good
she is, mother ! "

"Will, Will! if she's as good as thou say'st,
she '11 have pity on such as my Lizzie. If she has
no pity for such, she's a cruel Pharisee, and
thou 'rt best without her."

But he only shook his head, and sighed; and
for the time the conversation dropped.

But a new idea sprang up in Mrs. Leigh's head.
She thought that she would go and see Susan Palm-
er, and speak up for Will, and tell her the truth
about Lizzie; and according to her pity for the
poor sinner, would she be worthy or unworthy of
him. She resolved to' go the very next afternoon,
but without telling any one of her plan. Accord-
ingly she looked out the Sunday clothes she had
never before had the heart to unpack since she
came to Manchester, but which she now desired to
appear in, in order to do credit to Will. She put
on her old-fashioned black mode bonnet, trimmed
with real lace ; her scarlet cloth cloak, which she

132 PEARL-FISHING.

had had ever since she was married, and always
spotlessly clean, she set forth on her unauthorized
embassy. She knew the Palmers lived in Crown
Street, though \vhere she had heard it she could
not tell ; and modestly asking her way, she arrived
in the street about a quarter to four o'clock. She
stopped to inquire the exact number, and the
woman whom she addressed told her that Susan
Palmer's school would not be loose till four, .and
asked her to step in and wait until then at her
house.

"For," said she, smiling, "them that wants
Susan Palmer wants a kind friend of ours ; so we,
in a manner, call cousins. Sit down, missus, sit
down. I '11 wipe the chair, so that it shanna dirty
your cloak. My mother used to wear them bright
cloaks, and they're right gradely things agin a
green field."

"Han ye known Susan Palmer long? "asked
Mrs. Leigh, pleased with the admiration of her cloak.

" Ever since they corned to live in our street.
Our Sally goes to her school."

LIZZIE LEIGH. 133

" Whatten sort of a lass is she, for I ha' never
seen her ? "

"Well, — as for looks, I cannot say. It's so
long since I first knowed her, that I 've clean for-
gotten what I thought of her then. Mj master
says he never saw such a smile for gladdening the
heart. • But maybe it 's not looks you 're asking
about. The best thing I can say of her looks is,
that she's just one a stranger would stop in the
street to ask help from if you needed it. All the
little childer creeps as close as they can to her ;
she '11 have as many as three or four hanging to
her apron all at once."

" Is she cocket at all ? "

" Cocket, bless you ! you never saw a creature
less set up in all your life. Her father 's cocket
enough. No ! she 's not cocket any way. You 've
not heard much of Susan Palmer, I reckon, if you
think she 's cocket. She 's just one to come
quietly in, and do the very thing most wanted ;
little things, maybe, that any one could do, but
that few would think on, for another. She '11

134 PEARL-FISHING.

bring her tliimble wi' her, and mend up after the
cliilder o' nights, — and she writes all Betty
Barker's letters to her grandchild out at service,
— and she 's in nobody's way, and that 's a
great matter, I take it. Here 's the childer
running past ! School is loosed. You '11 find
her now, missus, ready to hear and to help. But
we none on us frab her by going near her in
school-time."

Poor Mrs. Leigh's heart began to beat, and she
could almost have turned round and gone home
again. Her country breeding had made her shy of
strangers, and this Susan Palmer appeared to her
like a real born lady by all accounts. So she
knocked with a timid feeling at the indicated door,
and when it was opened, dropped a simple curtsey
without speaking. Susan had her little niece in
her arms, curled up with fond endearment against
her breast, but she put her gently down to the
ground, and instantly placed a chair in the best
corner of the room for Mrs. Leigh, when she told
her who she was. " It 's not "Will as has asked

LIZZIE LEIGH. 135

me to come," said the mother, apologetically, "I'd
a wish just to speak to you myself ! "

Susan colored up to her temples, and stooped to
pick up the little toddling girl. In a minute or
two Mrs. Leigh began again.

" Will thinks you would na respect us if you
knew all ; but I think you could na help feeling
for us in the sorrow God has put upon us ; so I
just put on my bonnet, and came oil' unknownst
to the lads. Every one says you 're very good,
and that the Lord has keeped you from falling
from his ways ; but maybe you Ve never yet been
tried and tempted as some is. I 'm perhaps speak-
ing too plain, but my heart 's welly broken, and I
can't be choice in my words as them who are
happy can. "Well now ! I '11 tell you the truth.
Will dreads you to hear it, but I '11 just^tell it you.
You mun know," — but here the poor woman's
words failed her, and she could do nothing but sit
rocking herself backwards and forwards, with sad
eyes, straight-gazing into Susan's face, as if they
tried to tell the tale of agony which the quivering

1S6 PEARL-FISHING.

lips refused to utter. Those wretched stony eyes
forced the tears down Susan's cheeks, and, as if
this sympathy gave the mother strength, she went
on in a low voice, " I had a daughter once, my
heart's darling. Her father thought I made too
much on her, and that she'd grow marred staying
at home ; so he said she mun go among strangers,
and learn to rough it. She were young, and liked
the thought of seeing a bit of the world ; and her
father heard on a place in Manchester. Well!
I '11 not weary you. That poor girl were led
astray ; and first thing we heard on it, was when
a letter of her father's was sent back by her missus,
saying she 'd left her place, or, to speak right, the
master had turned her into the street soon as he had
heard of her condition — and she not seventeen I "

She now cried aloud ; and Susan wept too.
The little child looked up into their faces, and,
catching their sorrow, began to whimper and wail.
Susan took it softly up, and hiding her face in its
little neck, tried to restrain her tears, and think of
comfort for the mother. At last she said :

LIZZIE LEIGH. 137

" "Where is she now ? "

" Lass ! I dunnot know," said Mrs. Leigh, check-
ing her sobs to communicate this addition to her
distress. " Mrs. Lomax telled me she went" —

" Mrs. Lomax — what Mrs. Lomax ? "

" Her as lives in Brabazon-street. She telled
me my poor wench went to the workhouse fra
there. I '11 not speak again the dead ; but if her
father would but ha' letten me, — but he were one
who had no notion — no, I '11 not say that ; best
say nought. He forgave her on his death-bed. I
dare say I did na go th' right way to work."

" Will you 'hold the child for me one instant ?"
said Susan.

" Ay, if it will come to me. Childer used to be
fond on me till I got the sad look on my face that
scares them, I think."

But the little girl clung to Susan ; so she car-
ried it upstairs with her. Mrs. Leigh sat by her-
self— how long she did not know.

Susan came down with a bundle of far-worn
baby-clothes.

138 PEAKL-FISHING.

" You must listen to me a bit, and not think too
much about what I 'm going to tell you. Nanny
is not my niece, nor any kin to me that I know of.
I used to go out working by the, day. One night,
as I came home, I thought some woman was fol-
lowing me ; I turned to look. The woman, before
I could see her face (for she turned it to one side),
offered me something. I held out my arms b^
instinct : she dropped a bundle into them with a
bursting sob that went straight to my heart. It
was a baby. I looked round again ; but the
woman was gone. She had run away as quick as
lightning. There was a little packet of clothes —
very few — and as if they were made out of its
mother's gowns, for they were large patterns to
buy for a baby. I was always fond of babies ;
and I had not my wits about me, father says ; for
it was very cold, and when I 'd seen as well as I
could (for it was past ten) that there was no one in
the street, I brought it in and warmed it. Father
was very angry when he came, and said he 'd take
it to the workhouse the next morning, and flyted

LIZZIE LEIGH. 139

me sadly about it. But when morning came I
could not bear to part with it ; it had slept in my
arms all night ; and I Ve heard what workhouse
bringing up is. So I told father I 'd give up going
out working, and stay at home and keep school, if
I might only keep the baby ; and after awhile, he
said if I earned enough for him to have his com-
forts, he 'd let me ; but he 's never taken to her.
Now, don't tremble so, — I Ve but a little more to
tell, — and maybe I 'm wrong in telling it ; but I
used to work next door to Mrs. Lomax's, in Bra-
bazon-street, and the servants were all thick to-
gether ; and I heard about Bessy (they called her)
being sent away. I don't know that ever I saw
her ; but the time would be about fitting to this
child's age, and I Ve sometimes fancied it was
her's. And now, will you look at the little clothes
that came with her — bless her ! "

But Mrs. Leigh had fainted. The strange joy
and shame, and gushing love for the little child
had overpowered her; it was some time before
Susan could bring her round. There she was all

HO PEARL-FISHING.

trembling, sick impatience to look at the little
frocks. Among them was a slip of paper which
Susan had forgotten to name, that had been pinned
to the bundle. On it was scrawled in a round
stiff hand.

" Call her Anne. She does not cry much, and
takes a deal of notice. Grod bless you and forgive
me."

The writing was no clue at all ; the name
" Anne," common though it was, seemed some-
thing to build upon. But Mrs. Leigh recognized
one of the frocks instantly, as being made out of
part of a gown that she and her daughter had
bought together in Eochdale.

She stood up, and stretched out her hands in
the attitude of blessing over Susan's bent head.

" God bless you, and show you His mercy in
your need, as you have shown it to this little
child."

She took the little creature in her arms, and
smoothed away her sad looks to a smile, and
kissed it fondly, saying over and over again,

LIZZIE LEIGH. 141

" Nanny, Nanny, my little Nanny." At last the
child was soothed, and looked in her face and
smiled back again.

" It has her eyes," said she to Susan.

" I never saw her to the best of my knowledge.
I think it must be her 's by the frock. But where
can she be ? "

" God knows," said Mrs. Leigh ; "I dare not
think she 's dead. I 'm sure she isn't."

11 No ! she 's not dead. Every now and then a
little packet is thrust under our door, with maybe
two half-crowns in it ; once it was a half-sovereign.
Altogether I've got seven-and-thirty shillings
wrapped up for Nanny. I never touch it, but
I 've often thought the poor mother feels near to
God when she brings this money. Father wanted
to set the policeman to watch, but I said No, for I
was afraid if she was watched she might not
come, and it seemed such a holy thing to be
checking her in, I could not find in my heart to
do it."

" Oh, if we could but find her ! I tt take her

142 PEARL-FISHING.

in my arms, and we'd just lie down and die to-
gether."

" Nay, don 't speak so ! " said Susan gently,
" for all that 's come and gone, she may turn right
at last. Mary Magdalen did, you know."

" Eh ! but I were nearer right about thee than
Will. He thought you would never look on him
again if you knew about Lizzie. But thou 7rt not
a Pharisee."

" I 'm sorry he thought I could be so hard," said

Susan in a low voice, and' coloring up. Then Mrs.

. Leigh was alarmed, and in her motherly anxiety,

she began to fear lest she had injured Will in

Susan's estimation.

"You see Will thinks so much of you — gold
would not be good enough for you to walk on, in
his eye. He said you 'd never look at him as he
was, let alone his being brother to my poor wench.
He loves you so, it makes him think meanly on
everything belonging to himself, as not fit to come
near ye, — but he 's a good lad, and a good son —
thou 'It be a happy woman if thou 'It have

LIZZIE LEIGH. 143

him — so don't let my words go against him;
don't!"

But Susan hung her head and made no answer.
She had not known until now, that Will thought
so earnestly and seriously about her; and even
now she felt afraid that Mrs. Leigh's words prom-
ised her too much happiness, and that they could
not be true. At any rate the instinct of modesty
made her shrink from saying anything which
might seem like a confession of her own feelings
to a third person. Accordingly she turned the
conversation on the child.

"I'm sure he could not help loving Nanny,"
said she. " There never was such a good little
darling ; don't you think she 'd win his heart if he
knew she was his niece, and perhaps bring him to
think kindly on his sister ? "

" I'dunnot know," said Mrs. Leigh, shaking her
head. " He has a turn in his eye like his father,

that makes me . He 's right down good

though. But you see I 've never been a good one
at managing folk ; one severe look turns me sick,

144 PEARL-FISHING.

and then I say just the wrong thing, I 'm so flut-
tered. Now I should like nothing better than to
take Nancy home with me, but Tom knows no-
thing but that his sister is dead, and I 've not the
knack of speaking rightly to "Will. I dare not do
it, and that 's the truth. But you mun not think
badly of Will. He 's so good hissel', that he can't
understand how any one can do wrong ; and,
above all, I 'm sure he loves you dearly."

" I don't think I could part with Nancy," said
Susan, anxious to stop this revelation of Will's at-
tachment to herself. "He'll come round to her
soon ; he can't fail ; and I '11 keep a sharp look-
out after the poor mother, and try and catch her
the next time she comes with her little parcels of
money."

"Aye, lass! we mun get hold of her; my
Lizzie. I love thee dearly for thy kindness to her
child ; but, if thou can'st catch her for me, I '11
pray for thee when I'm too near my death to
speak words; and while I live, I'll serve thee
next to her, — she mun come first, thou know'st

LIZZIE LEIGH. 145

God bless thee, lass. My heart is lighter by a
deal than it was when I corned in. Them lads
will be looking for me home, and I mun go, and
leave this little sweet one," kissing it. " If I can
take courage, I '11 tell "Will all that has come and
gone between us two. He may come and see
thee, mayn't he?"

"Father will be very glad to see him, I'm
sure," replied Susan. The way in which this was
spoken satisfied Mrs. Leigh's anxious heart that
she had done "Will no harm by what she had said ;
and with many a kiss to the little one, and one
more fervent tearful blessing on Susan, she went
homewards.

That night Mrs. Leigh stopped at home ; that
only night for many months. Even Tom, the
scholar, looked up from his books in amazement ;
but then he remembered that Will had not been
well, and that his mother's attention having been
called to the circumstance, it was only natural she

should stay to watch him. And no watching

10

146 PEARL-FISHING.

could be more tender, or more complete. Her
loving eyes seemed never averted from his face ;
his grave, sad, care-worn face. "When Tom went
to bed the mother left her seat, and going up to
Will where he sat looking at the fire, but not see-
ing it, she kissed his forehead, and said,

" Will! lad, I've been to see Susan Palmer I "

She felt the start under the hand which was
placed on his shoulder, but he was silent for a
minute or two. Then he said,

" What took you there, mother? "

" Why, my lad, it was likely I should wish to
see one you cared for ; I did not put myself for-
ward. I put on my Sunday clothes, and tried to
behave as yo 'd ha liked me. At least I remember
trying at first ; but after, I forgot all."

She rather wished that he would question her as
to what made her forget all. But he only said,

" How was she looking, mother? "

"Will, thou seest I never set eyes on her before;
but she 's a good gentle looking creature ; and I
love her dearly, as I 've reason to."

LIZZIE LEIGH. 147

Will looked up with, momentary surprise; for
his mother was too shy to be usually taken with
strangers. But after all it was natural in this case,
for who could look at Susan without loving her ?
So still he did not .ask any questions, and his poor
mother had to take courage, and try again to
introduce the subject near to her heart. But
how?

" "Will ! " said she (jerking it out, in sudden de-
spair of her own powers to lead to what she wanted
to say), "I tolled her all."

"Mother! you've ruined me," said he, standing
up, and standing opposite to her with a stern white
look of affright on his face.

" No ! my own dear lad ; dunnot look so scared,
I have not ruined you ! " she exclaimed, placing
her two hands on his shoulders, and looking fondly
into his face. " She 's not one to harden her heart
against a mother's sorrow. My own lad she 's too
good for that. She 's not one to judge and scorn

<r:.~^

the sinner. She 's too deep read in her New Tes-
tament for that. Take courage. Will; and thou

148 PEARL-FISHING.

may'st, for I watched her well, though it is not for
one woman to let out another's secret. Sit thee
down, lad, for thou look'st very white."

He sat down. His mother drew a stool towards
him, and sat at his feet.

"Did you tell her about Lizzie, then?" asked
he, hoarse and low.

" I did, I telled her all ; and she fell a crying
over my deep sorrow, and the poor wench's sin»
And then a light corned into her face, trembling
and quivering with some new glad thought ; and
what dost thou think it was, Will, lad ? Nay, I '11
not misdoubt but that thy heart will give thanks
as mine did, afore God and His angels, for her
great goodness. That little Nanny is not her
niece, she 's our Lizzie's own child, my little
grandchild." She could no longer restrain her
tears, and they fell hot and fast, but still she looked
into his face.

"Did she know it was Lizzie's child? I do not
comprehend," said he, flushing red.

" She knows now : she did not at first, but took

LIZZIE LEIGH. 149

the little helpless creature in, out of her own pitiful
loving heart, guessing only that it was the child
of shame, and she 's worked for it, and kept it, and
tended it ever sin' it were a mere baby, and loves
it fondly. "Will ! won't you love it ? " asked she,
beseechingly.

He was silent for an instant; then he said,
"Mother, I'll try. Give me time, for all these
things startle me. To think of Susan having to do
with such a child ! "

" Aye, Will! and to think (as may be yet) of
Susan having to do with the child's mother ! For
she is tender and pitiful, and speaks hopefully of
my lost one, and will try and find her for me,
when she comes, as she does sometimes, to thrust
money under the door, for her baby. Think of
that, Will. Here 's Susan, good and pure as the
angels in heaven, yet, like them, full of hope and
mercy, and one who, like them, will rejoice over
her as repents. Will, my lad, I 'm not afeared of
you now, and I must speak, and you must listen.
I am your mother, and I dare to command you,

150 PEARL-FISHING.

because I know I am in the right and that God is
on my side. If He should lead the poor wander-
ing lassie to Susan's door, and she comes back
crying and sorrowful, led by that good angel to us
once more, thou shalt never say a casting-up word
to her about her sin, but be tender and helpful
towards one "who was lost and is found," so may
God's blessing rest on thee, and so mayst- thou lead
Susan home as thy wife."

She stood, no longer as the meek, imploring,
gentle mother, but firm and dignified, as if the
interpreter of God's will. Her manner was so
unusual and solemn, that it overcame all Will's
pride and stubbornness. He rose softly while she
was speaking, and bent his head as if in reverence
at her words, and the solemn injunction which
they conveyed. "When she had spoken, he said in
so subdued a voice that she was almost surprised
at the sound, " Mother, I will."

" I may be dead and gone, — but all the same, —
thou wilt take home the wandering sinner, and
heal up her sorrows, and lead her to her Father's

LIZZIE LEIGH. 151

bouse. Mj lad ! I can speak no more ; I 'm
turned very faint."

He placed her in a chair ; he ran for water.
She opened her eyes and smiled.

" God bless you, Will. Oh, I am so happy. It
seems as if she were found ; my heart is so filled
with gladness."

That night Mr. Palmer stayed out late and long.
Susan was afraid that he was at his old haunts and
habits, — getting tipsy at some public-house ; and
this thought oppressed her, even though she had
so much to make her happy, in the consciousness
that Will loved her. She sat up long, and then
she went to bed, leaving all arranged as well as she
could for her father's return. She looked at the
little rosy sleeping girl who was her bed-fellow,
with redoubled tenderness, and with many a
prayerful thought. The little arms entwined her
neck as she lay down, for Nanny was a light
sleeper, and was conscious that she, who was loved
with all the power of that sweet childish heart,
was near her, and by her, although she was

152 PEARL-FISHING.

too sleepy to utter any of her half-formed
words.

And by-and-bye she heard her father come
home, stumbling uncertain, trying first the win-
dows, and next the door-fastenings, with many a
loud incoherent murmur. The little Innocent
twined around her seemed all the sweeter and more
lovely, when she thought sadly of her erring
father. And presently he called aloud for a light ;
she had left matches and all arranged as usual on
the dresser, but fearful of some accident from fire,
in his unusually intoxicated state, she now got up
softly, and putting on a cloak, went down to his
assistance.

Alas ! the little arms that were unclosed from
her soft neck belonged to a light, easily-awakened
sleeper. Nanny missed her darling Susy, and
terrified at being left alone in the vast mysterious
darkness, which had no bounds, and seemed in-
finite, she slipped out of bed, and tottered in her
little night-gown towards the door. There was a
light below and there was Susy and safety 1 So

LlZZIE LEIGH. 153

she went onwards two steps towards the steep
abrupt stairs ; and then dazzled with sleepiness,
she stood, she wavered, she fell ! Down on her
head on the stone floor she fell ! Susan flew to
her, and spoke all soft, entreating, loving words ;
but her white lids covered up the blue violets of
eyes, and there was no murmur came out of the
pale lips. The warm tears that rained down did
not awaken her ; she lay stiff, and weary with her
short life, on Susan's knee. Susan went sick with
terror. She carried her upstairs, and laid her ten-
derly in bed ; she dressed herself most hastily,
with her trembling fingers. Her father was asleep
on the settle down stairs ; and useless, and worse
than useless if awake. But Susan flew out of the
door, and down the quiet resounding street, to-
wards the nearest doctor's house. Quickly she
went ; but as quickly a shadow followed, as if im-
pelled by some sudden terror. Susan rung wildly
at the night-bell, — the shadow crouched near. The
doctor looked out from an upstairs window.

" A little child has fallen down stairs at No. 9

164 PEARL-FISHING.

Crown -street, and is very ill, — dying, I 'm afraid.
Please, for God's sake, sir, come directly. No. 9
Crown-street."

" I '11 be there directly," said he, and shut the
window.

" For that God you have just spoken about, —
for His sake, — tell me are you Susan Palmer ? Is
it my child that lies a-dying ? " said the shadow,
springing forwards, and clutching poor Susan's
arm.

" It is a little child of two years old, — I do not
know whose it is ; I love it as my own. Come
with me, whoever you are ; come with me."

The two sped along the silent streets, — as silent
as the night were they. They entered the house ;
Susan snatched up the light, and carried it upstairs.
The other followed.

She stood with wild glaring eyes by the bed-
side, never looking at Susan, but hungrily gazing
at the little white still child. She stooped down,
and put her hand tight on her own heart, as if to
still its beating, and bent her ear to the pale lips.

LIZZIE LEIGH. 155

"Whatever the result was, she did not speak ; but
threw off the bed-clothes wherewith Susan had
tenderly covered the little creature, and felt its left
side.

Then she threw up her arms with a cry of wild
despair.

" She is dead ! she is dead I "

She looked so fierce, so mad, so haggard, that
for an instant Susan was terrified — the next, the
holy God had put courage into her heart, and her
pure arms were round that guilty wretched crea-
ture, and her tears were falling fast and warm
upon her breast. But she was thrown off with
violence.

" You killed her — you slighted her — you let her
fall down those stairs ! you killed her ! "

Susan cleared off the thick mist before her, and
gazing at the mother with her clear, sweet, angel-
eyes, said mournfully —

" I would have laid down my own life for her."

" Oh, the murder is on my soul ! " exclaimed
the wild bereaved mother, with the fierce impet-

156 PEARL-FISHING.

uosity of one who has none to love her and to bo
beloved, regard to whom might teach self-restraint.

" Hush ! " said Susan, her finger on her lips.
" Here is the doctor God may suffer her to live."

The poor mother turned sharp round. The
doctor mounted the stair. Ah I that mother
was right ; the little child was really dead and
gone.

And when he confirmed her judgment, the
mother fell down in a fit. Susan, with her
deep grief, had to forget herself, and forgot her
darling (her charge for years), and question the
doctor what she must do with the poor wretch,
who lay on the floor in such extreme of misery.

" She is the mother ! " said she.

" "Why did not she take better care of her
child ? " asked he, almost angrily.

But Susan only said, " The little child slept with
me ; and it was I that left her."

" I will go back and make up a composing
draught ; and while I am away you must get her
to bed."

LIZZIE LEIGH. 157

Susan took out some of her own clothes, and
softly undressed the stiff, powerless, form. There
was no other bed in the house but the one in
which her father slept. So she tenderly lifted the
body of her darling ; and was going to take it.
down stairs, but the mother opened her eyes, and
seeing what she was about, she said,

" I am not worthy to touch her, I am so wicked ;
I have spoken to you as I never should have
spoken ; but I think you are very good ; may I
have my own child to lie in my arms for a little
while?"

Her voice was so strange a contrast to what it
had been before she had gone into the fit that
Susan hardly recognized it ; it was now so un-
speakably soft, so irresistibly pleading, the fea-
tures too had lost their fierce expression, and were
almost as placid as death. Susan could not speak,
but she carried the little child, and laid it in its
mother's arms ; then as she looked at them, some-
thing overpowered her, and she knelt down, cry-
ing aloud,

158 PEARL-FISHING.

" Oh, my God, my God, have mercy on her,
and forgive, and comfort her."

But the mother kept smiling, and stroking the
little face, murmuring soft tender words, as if it
were alive; she was going mad, Susan thought;
but she prayed on, and on, and ever still she
prayed with streaming eyes.

The doctor came with the draught. The mother
took it, with docile unconsciousness of its nature
as medicine. The doctor sat by her ; and soon she
fell asleep. Then he rose softly, and beckoning
Susan to the door, he spoke to her there.

"You must take the corpse out of her arms.
She will not awake. The draught will make her
sleep for many hours. I will call before noon
again. It 'is now daylight. Good-bye."

Susan shut him out; and then gently extricat-
ing the dead child from its mother's arms, she
could not resist making her own quiet moan over
her darling. She tried to learn off its little placid
face, dumb and pale before her.

LIZZIE LEIGH. 159

'* ISTot all the scalding tears of care,

Shall wash away that vision fair ;
Not all the thousand thoughts that rise,

Not all the sights that dim her eyes,
Shall e'er usurp the place

Of that little angel face."

And then she remembered what remained to be
done. She saw that all was right in the house ;
her father was still dead asleep on the settle, in
spite of all the noise of the night. She went out
through the quiet streets, deserted still although it
was broad daylight, and to where the Leighs
lived. Mrs. Leigh, who kept her country hours,
was opening her window shutters. Susan took
her by the arm, and without speaking went into
the house-place. There she knelt down before the
astonished Mrs. Leigh, and cried as she had never
done before ; but the miserable night had over-
powered her, and she who had gone through so
much ca]mly, now that the pressure seemed re-
moved could not find the power to speak.

"My poor dear! What has made thy heart so
sore as to come and cry a-this-ons. Speak and tell

160 PEARL-FISHING.

me. Nay, cry on, poor wench, if thou canst not
speak yet. It will ease the heart, and then thou
canst tell me."

" Nanny is dead ! " said Susan. " I left her to
go to father, and she fell down stairs, and never
breathed again. Oh, that 's my sorrow ! but I ' ve
more to tell. Her mother is come — is in oui
house ! Come and see if it 's your Lizzie." Mrs.
Leigh could not speak, but, trembling, put on her
things, and went with Susan in dizzy haste back
to Crown-street.

As they entered the house in Crown-street, they
perceived that the door would not open freely on
its hinges, and Susan instinctively looked behind
to see the cause of the obstruction. She imme-
diately recognized the appearance of a little parcel,
wrapped in a scrap of newspaper, and evidently
containing money. She stooped and picked it up.
"Look I "said she, sorrowfully, "the mother was
bringing this for her child last night."

LIZZIE LEIGH. 161

But Mrs. Leigh did not answer. So near to
the ascertaining if it were her lost child or no, she
could not be arrested, but pressed onwards with
trembling steps and a beating, fluttering heart.
She entered the bed-room, dark and still. She
took no heed of the little corpse, over which
Susan paused, but she went straight to the bed,
and withdrawing the curtain, saw Lizzie, — but not
the former Lizzie, bright, gay, buoyant, and un-
dimmed. This Lizzie was old before her time ;
her beauty was gone; deep lines of care, and
alas ! of want (or thus the mother imagined) were
printed on the cheek, so round, and fair, and
smooth, when last she gladdened her mother's
eyes. Even in her sleep she bore the look of woe
and despair which was the prevalent expression
of her face by day ; even in her sleep she had for-
gotten how to smile. But all these marks of the
sin and sorrow she had passed through only made
her mother love her the more. She stood look-
ing at her with greedy eyes, which seemed as

though no gazing could satisfy their longing ; and
11

162 PEAKL-FlSHING.

at last she stooped down and kissed the pale, worn
hand that lay outside the bed-clothes. No touch
disturbed the sleeper ; the mother need not have
laid the hand so gently down upon the counter-
pane. There was no sign of life, save only now
and then a deep sob-like sigh. Mrs. Leigh sat down
beside the bed, and, still holding back the curtain,
looked on and on, as if she could never be satisfied.
Susan would fain have stayed by her darling
one ; but she had many calls upon her time and
thoughts, and her will had now, as ever, to be
given up to that of others. All seemed to de-
volve the burden of their cares on her. Her
father, ill-humored from his last night's intemper-
ance, did not scruple to reproach her with being
the cause of little Nanny's death ; and when, after
bearing his upbraiding meekly for some time, she
could no longer restrain herself, but began to cry,
he wounded her even more by his injudicious at-
tempts at comfort : for he said it was as well the
child was dead ; it was none of- theirs, and why
should they be troubled with it? Susan wrung

LIZZIE LEIGH. 163

lier hands at this, and came and stood before her
father, and implored him to forbear. Then she
had to take all requisite steps for the coroner's
inquest ; she had to arrange for the dismissal of
her school ; she had to summon a little neighbor,
and send his willing feet on a message to William
Leigh, who, she felt, ought to be informed of his
mother's whereabouts, and of the whole state of
affairs. She asked her messenger to tell him to
come and speak to her, — that his mother was at
her house. She was thankful that her father saun-
tered out to have a gossip at the nearest coach-
stand, and to relate as many of the night's adven-
tures as he knew ; for as yet he was in ignorance
of the watcher and the watched, who silently
passed away the hours up stairs.

At dinner-time Will came. He looked real
glad, impatient, excited. Susan stood calm and
white before him, her soft, loving eyes gazing
straight into his.

"Will," said she, in a low, quiet voice, "your
sister is up stairs."

164 PEAEL-FISHING.

" My sister ! " said lie, as if affrighted at the
idea, and losing Ms glad look in one of gloom.
Susan saw it, and her heart sank a little, but
she went on, as calm to all appearance as
ever.

" She was little Nanny's mother, as perhaps you
know. Poor little Nanny was killed last night by
a fall down stairs." All the calmness was gone;
all the suppressed feeling was displayed in spite of
every effort. She sat down and hid her face from
him, and cried bitterly. He forgot everything but
the wish, the longing to comfort her. He put his
arm round her waist, and bent over her. But all
he could say, was, " Oh, Susan, how can I comfort
you ! Don't take on so, — pray don't ! " He never
changed the words, but the tone varied every time
he spoke. At last she seemed to regain her power
over herself; and she wiped her eyes, and once
more looked upon him with her own quiet, earnest,
unfearing gaze.

" Your sister was near the house. She came in
on hearing my words to the doctor. She is asleep

LIZZIE LEIGH. 165

now, and your mother is watching her. I wanted
to tell you all myself. "Would you like to see your
mother?"

" ]STo ! " said he. " I would rather see none but •
thee. Mother told me thou knowest all." His
eyes were downcast in their shame.

But the holy and pure did not lower or vail her
eyes.

She said, " Yes, I know all — all but her suffer-
ings. Think what they must have been ! "

He made answer low and stern, " She deserved
them all ; every jot."

"In the eye of God perhaps she does. He is
the judge : we are not."

"Oh!" she said with a sudden burst, "Will
Leigh ! I have thought so well of you ; don't go
and make me think you cruel and hard. Good-
ness is not goodness unless there is mercy and ten-
derness with it. There is your mother who has
been nearly heart-broken, now full of rejoicing
over her child — think of your mother."

" I do think of her," said he. " I remember the

166 PEAKL-FlSHHSTG.

promise I gave her last night. Thou shouldst
give me time. I would do right in time. I never
think it o'er in quiet. But I will do what is right
and fitting, never fear. Thou hast spoken out
very plain to me; and misdoubted me, Susan; I
love thee so, that thy words cut me. If I did hang
back a bit from making sudden promises, it was
because not even for love of thee, would I say
what I was not feeling ; and at first I could not
feel all at once as thou wouldst have me. But I 'm
not cruel and hard ; for if I had been, I should
na' have grieved as I have done."

He made as if he were going away ; and indeed
he did feel he would rather think it over in quiet.
But Susan, grieved at her incautious words, which
had all the appearance of harshness, went a step or
two nearer — paused — and then, all over blushes,
said in a low soft whisper —

"Oh. "Will! I beg your pardon. I am very
sorry — won't you forgive me ? "

She who had always drawn back, and been so
reserved, said this in the very softest manner; with

LIZZIE LEIGH. 167

eyes now uplifted beseechingly, now dropped to
the ground. Her sweet confusion told more than
words could do ; and Will turned back, all joyous
in his certainty of being beloved, and took her in
his arms and kissed her."

" My own Susan ! " he said.

Meanwhile the mother watched her child in the
room above.

It was late in the afternoon L^fore she awoke;
for the sleeping draught had been very powerful.
The instant she awoke, her eyes were fixed on her
mother's face with a gaze as unflinching as if she
were fascinated. Mrs. Leigh did not turn away,
nor move. For it seemed as if motion would un-
lock the stony command over herself which, while
so perfectly still, she was enabled to preserve. But
by-and-bye Lizzie cried out in a piercing voice of
agony —

"Mother, don't look at me! I have been so
wicked? " and instantly she hid her face, and grov-
elled among the bedclothes, and lay like one dead
motionless was she.

168 PEARL-FISHING.

Mrs. Leigh knelt down by the bed, and spoke in
the most soothing tones.

" Lizzie, dear, don't speak so. I 'm thy mother,
darling; don't be afeard of me. I never left off
loving thee, Lizzie. I was always a-thinking of
thee. Thy father forgave thee afore he died."
(There was a little start here, but no sound was
heard). "Lizzie, lass, I'll do aught for thee; I'll
live for thee ; only don't be afeard of me. What-
e'er thou art or hast been, we'll ne'er speak on 't.
We'll leave th' oud times behind us, and go back
to the Upclose Farm. I but left it to find thee,
my lass ; and God has led me to thee. Blessed be
His name. And God is good too, Lizzie. Thou
hast not forgot thy Bible, I '11 be bound, for thou
wert always a scholar. I'm no reader, but I
learnt off them texts to comfort me a bit, and I 've
said them many a time a day to myself. Lizzie,
lass, don't hide thy head so, it 's thy mother as is
speaking to thee. Thy little child clung to me
only yesterday ; and if it 's gone to be an angel, it
will speak to God for thee. Nay, don't sob a

LIZZIE LEIGH. 169

that 'as; thou shalt have it again in Heaven; I
know thou 'It strive to get there for thy little Nan-
cy's sake — and listen! I'll tell thee God's prom-
ises to them that are penitent — only don't be
afeard."

Mrs. Leigh folded her hands, and strove to
speak very clearly, while she repeated every ten-
der and merciful text she could remember. She
could tell from the breathing that her daughter
was listening; but she was so dizzy and sick her-
self when she had ended, that she could not go on
speaking. It was all she could do to keep from
crying aloud.

At last she heard her daughter's voice.

" "Where have they taken her to ? " she asked.

" She is down stairs. So quiet, and peaceful,
and happy she looks."

"Could she speak? Oh, if God— if I might
but have heard her little voice! Mother, I used
to dream of it. May I see her*once again — Oh
mother, if I strive very hard, and God is very
merciful, and I go to heaven, I shall not know

170 PEARL- FISHING.

mj own again — she will shun me as a stranger
and cling to Susan Palmer and to you. Oh woe !
Oh woe ! " She shook with exceeding sorrow.

In her earnestness of speech she had uncovered
her face, and tried to read Mrs. Leigh's thoughts
through her looks. And when she saw those
aged eyes brimming fall of tears, and marked the
quivering lips, she threw her arms round the
faithful mother's neck, and wept there as she had
done in many a childish sorrow; but with a
deeper, a more wretched grief.

Her mother hushed her on her breast ; and
lulled her as if she were a baby; and she grew
still and quiet.

They sat thus for a long, long time. At last
Susan Palmer came up with some tea and bread
and butter for Mrs. Leigh. She watched the
mother feed her sick, unwilling child, with every
fond inducement to eat which she could devise ;
they neither of them took notice of Susan's pres-
ence. That night they lay in each other's arms ;
but Susan slept on the ground beside them.

LIZZIE LEIGH. 171

They took the little corpse (the little uncon-
scions sacrifice, whose early calling-home had re-
claimed her poor wandering mother,) to the hills,
which in her life-time she had never seen. They
dared not lay her by the stern grand-father in
Milne-Kow churchyard, but they bore her to a
lone moorland graveyard, where long ago the
quakers used to bury their dead. They laid her
there on the sunny slope, where the earliest spring-
flowers blow.

"Will and Susan live at the Upclose Farm. Mrs.
Leigh and Lizzie dwell in a cottage so secluded
that, until you drop into the very hollow where it
is placed, you do not see it. Tom is a school-
master in Eochdale, and he and "Will help to sup-
port their mother. I only know that, if the cot-
tage be hidden in a gresn hollow of the hills,
every sound of sorrow in the whole upland is
heard there — every call of suffering or of sickness
for help is listened to, by a sad, gentle-looking
woman, who rarely smiles (and when she does,
her smile is more sad than other people's tears),

1 xv 'V~A~'^>.,1

172 PEARL-FISHING.

"but who comes out of her seclusion whenever
there 's a shadow in any household. Many hearts
bless Lizzie Leigh, but she — she prays always and
ever for forgiveness — such forgiveness as may
enable her to see her child once more. Mrs. Leigh
is quiet and happy. Lizzie is to her eyes some-
thing precious, — as the lost piece of silver— found
once more. Susan is the bright one who brings
sunshine to all. Children grow around her and
call her blessed. One is called Nanny. Her, Lizzy
often takes to the sunny graveyard in the uplands,
while the little creature gathers the daisies, and
makes chains, Lizzie sits by a little grave, and
weeps bitterly.

Y.

©Ifc tfttrrrfc f m.

A PEOSE POEM.

rn HEBE is an old yew tree which stands by the
-*- wall in a dark quiet corner of the church-
yard.

And a child was at play beneath its wide-
spreading branches, one fine day in the early
spring. He had his lap full of flowers, which the
fields and lanes had supplied him with, and he
was humming a tune to himself as he wove them
into garlands.

And a little girl at play among the tombstones
crept near to listen; but the boy was so intent
upon his garland, that he did not hear the gentle
footsteps, as they trod softly over the fresh green
grass. When his work was finished, and all the
flowers that .were in his lap were woven together

174 PEARL-FISHING.

in one long wreath, he started up to measure its
length upon the ground, and then he saw the little
girl, as she stood with her eyes fixed upon him. .
He did not move or speak, but thought to himself
that she looked very beautiful as she stood there
with her flaxen ringlets, hanging down upon her
neck. The little girl was so startled by his sud-
den movement, that she let fall all the flowers she
nad collected in her apron, and ran away as fast
as she could. But the boy was older and taller
than she, and soon caught her, and coaxed her to
come back and play with him, and help him to
make more garlands ; and from that tune they
saw each other nearly every day, and became
great friends.

Twenty years passed away. Again he was
seated beneath the old yew tree in the church-
yard.

It was summer now ; bright, beautiful summer,
with the birds singing, and the flowers covering
the ground, and scenting the air with their per-
fume.

THE OLD CHURCHYARD TREE. 175

But he was not alone now, nor did the little girl
steal near on tiptoe, fearful of being heard. She
was seated by his side, and his arm was round her,
and she looked up into his face, and smiled as she
whispered : " The first evening of our lives we
were ever together was passed here : we will spend
the first evening of our wedded life in the same
quiet, happy place." And he drew her closer to
him as she spoke.

The summer is gone ; and the autumn ; and
twenty more summers and autumns have passed
away since that evening, in the old church-
yard.

A young man, on a bright moonlight night,
comes reeling through the little white gate, and
stumbling over the graves. He shouts and he
sings, and is presently followed by others like
unto himself or worse. So, they all laugh at the
dark solemn head of the yew tree, and throw
stones up at the place where the moon has sil-
vered the boughs.

Those same boughs are again silvered by the

176 PEARL-FISHING.

moon, and they droop over Ms mother's grave.
There is a little stone which bears this inscrip-
tion:—

"HER HEART BRAKE IN SILENCE."

But the silence of the churchyard fe now broken
by a voice — not of the youth — nor a voice of
laughter and ribaldry.

"My son ! — dost thou see this grave? and dost
thou read the record in anguish, whereof may
come repentance ? "

"Of what should I repent?" answers the son;
"and why should my young ambition for fame
relax in its strength because my mother was old
and weak ? "

" Is this in«deed our son ? " says the father,
bending in agony over the grave of his be-
loved.

" I can well believe I am not ; " exclaimeth the
youth. "It is well that you have brought me
here to say so. Our natures are unlike; our

THE OLD CHUBCHTAED TREE. 177

courses must be opposite. Your way lieth here —
mine yonder I "

So the son left the father kneeling by the grave.

Again a few years are passed. It is winter,
with a roaring wind and a thick gray fog. The
graves in the Church-yard are covered with snow,
and there are great icicles in the Church-porch.
The wind now carries a swathe of snow along the
tops of the graves, as though the " sheeted dead "
were at some melancholy play ; and hark ! the
icicles fall with a crash and jingle, like a solemn
mockery of the echo of the unseemly mirth of one
who is now coming to his final rest.

There are two graves near the old yew tree ;
and the grass has overgrown them. A third is
close by ; and the dark earth at each side has just
been thrown up. The bearers come ; with a
heavy pace they move along; the coffin heaveth
up and down, as they step over the intervening
graves.

Grief and old age had seized upon the father,

and worn out his life ; and premature decay soon
12

178 PEARL-FISHING.

seized upon the son, and gnawed away Ms vain
ambition, and Ms useless strength, till he prayed
to be borne, not the way yonder that was most
opposite to his father and his mother, but even
the same way they had gone — the way which
leads to the Old Churchyard Tree.

VI.

I. — JOINING THE REGIMENT.

" T HAVE got some very sad news to tell you,"
-*- wrote Lady Pelican to her friend, Mrs. Ver-
meil, a faded lady of fashion, who discontentedly
occupied a suite of apartments at Hampton Court ;
" our Irish estates are in such a miserable condi-
tion — absolutely making us out to be in debt to
them, instead of adding to our income, that poor
George — you will be shocked to hear it — is
actually obliged to go into the Infantry ! "

The communication of this distressing fact may
stand instead of the regular Gazette, announcing
the appointment of the Hon. George Spoonbill to
an Ensigncy, by purchase, in the 100th regiment
of foot. His military aspirations had been " Cay-

180 PEAKL-FlSHING.

airy," and lie had endeavored to qualify himself
for that branch of the service by getting up an
invisible moustache, when the Irish agent wrote to
say that no money was to be had in that quarter,
and all thoughts of the Household Brigade were,
of necessity, abandoned. But, though the more
expensive career was shut out, Lord Pelican's
interest at the Horse Guards remained as influen-
tial as before, and for the consideration of four
hundred and fifty pounds which — embarrassed as
he was — he contrived to muster, he had no diffi-
culty in procuring a commission for his son
George, in the distinguished regiment already
named. There were, it is true, a few hundred
prior claimants on the Duke's list; "but," as Lord
Pelican justly observed, "if the Spoonbill family
were not fit for the army, he should like to know
who were ! " An argument perfectly irresistible.
Gazetted, therefore, the young gentleman was, as
soon as the Queen's sign-manual could be obtained,
and the usual interval for preparation over, the
Hon. George Spoonbill set out to join. But before

MODERN "OFFICER'S" PROGRESS. 181

he does so, we must say a word of wliat that
11 preparation " consisted in.

Some persons may imagine that he forthwith
addressed himself to the study of Polybius, dab-
bled a little in Cormontaigne, got up Napier's His-
tory of the Peninsular War, or read the Duke's
Despatches; others, that he went down to Bird-
cage-Walk, and placed himself under the tuition
of Color-Sergeant Pike, of the Grenadier Guards, a
warrior celebrated for his skill in training military
aspirants, or that he endeavored by some other
means to acquire a practical knowledge, however
slight, of the profession for which he had always
been intended. The Hon. George Spoonbill knew
better. The preparation he made, was a visit, at
least three times a day, to Messrs. Gorget and
Plume, the military tailors in Jermyn Street,
whose souls he sorely vexed by the persistance
with which he adhered to the most accurate fit of
his shell-jacket and coatee, the set of his epaulettes,
the cut of his trowsers, and the shape of his chako.
He passed his days in "trying on his things," and

182 PEAKL-FISHING.

his evenings — when not engaged in the Casino,
the Gider Cellar, or the Adelphi — in dining with
his military friends at St. James's Palace, or at
Knightsbridge Barracks. In their society he
greatly improved himself, acquiring an accurate
knowledge of lansquenet and ecarte, cultivating
his taste for tobacco, and familiarizing his mind
with that reverence for authority which is engen-
dered by the anecdotes of great military command-
ers that freely circulate at the mess-table. His
education and his uniform being finished at about
the same time, George Spoonbill took a not un-
cheerful farewell of the agonized Lady Pelican,
whose maternal bosom streamed with the sacrifice
she made in thus consigning her offspring to the
vulgar hardships of a marching regiment.

An express train conveyed the honorable
Ensign in safety to the country town where the
"Hundredth" were then quartered, and in con-
formity with the instructions which he received
from the Assistant Military Secretary at the Horse
Guards — the only instructions, by-the-bye, which

MODERN "OFFICER'S" PROGRESS. 183

were given him by that functionary — he " report-
ed " himself at the Orderly -room on his arrival,
was presented by the Adjutant to the senior Major,
Oy the senior Major to the Lieutenant-Colonel, and
oy the Lieutenant-Colonel to the officers generally
when they assembled for mess.

The . " Hundredth," being " Light Infantry,"
called itself " a crack regiment : " the military
adjective signifying, in this instance, not so much
a higher reputation for discipline and warlike
achievements, as an indefinite sort of superiority
arising from the fact that no man was allowed to
enter the corps who depended on his pay only for
the figure he cut in it. Lieutenant-Colonel Tulip,
who commanded, was very strict in this particular,
and, having the good of the service greatly at
heart, set his face entirely against the admission of
any young man who did not enjoy a handsome
paternal allowance, or was not the possessor of a
good income. He was himself the son of a cele-
brated army clothier, and in the course of ten
years, had purchased the rank he now held, so

184 PEARL-FISHING.

that he had a right, as he thought, to see that his
regiment was not contaminated by contact with
poor men. His military creed was, that no man
had any business in the army who could not afford
to keep his horses or tilbury, and drink wine every
day ; that he called respectable, anything short of
it the reverse. If he ever relaxed from the sever-
ity of this rule, it was only in favor of those who
had high connections; "a handle to a name"
being as reverently worshipped by him as money
itself; indeed, in secret, he preferred a lord's son,
though poor, to a commoner, however rich; the
poverty of a sprig of nobility not being taken
exactly in a literal sense. Colonel Tulip had an-
other theory also : during the aforesaid ten years,
he had acquired some knowledge of drill, and pos-
sessing an hereditary taste for dress, considered
himself, thus endowed, a first-rate officer, though
what he would have done with his regiment in the
field is quite another matter. In the meantime he
was gratified by thinking that he did his best to
make it a crack corps, according to his notion of

MODERN "OFFICER'S" PROGRESS. 185

the thing, and such, minor points as the moral
training of the officers, and their proficiency in
something more than the forms of the parade
ground, were not allowed to enter into his consid-
eration. The "Hundredth" were acknowledged
to be "a devilish well-dressed, gentlemanly set of
fellows," and were looked after with great interest
at country -balls, races, and regattas; and if this
were not what a regiment ought to be, Colonel
Tulip was, he flattered himself, very much out in
his calculations.

The advent of the Hon. George Spoonbill was a
very welcome one, as the vacancy to which he
succeeded had been caused by the promotion of a
young baronet into "Dragoons," and the new
comer being the second son of Lord Pelican, with
a possibility of being graced one day by wearing
that glittering title himself, the hiatus caused by
Sir Henry Muff's removal was happily filled up
without any derogation to the corps. Having also
ascertained, in the course of five minutes' conver-
sation, that Mr. Spoonbill's "man" and two horses

186 PEARL-FISHING.

were to follow in a few days with the remainder
of his baggage ; and the young gentlemen having
talked rather largely of what the Governor allowed
him (two hundred a-year is no great sum, but he
kept the actual amount in the back ground, speak-
ing "promiscuously" of- "a few hundreds"), and
of his intimacy with " the fellows in the Life
Guards ; " Colonel Tulip at once set him down as
a decided acquisition to the "Hundredth," and
intimated that he was to be made much of
accordingly.

"When we described the regiment as being com-
posed of wealthy men, the statement must be re-
ceived with a certain reservation. It was Colonel
Tulip's hope and intention to make it so in time,
when he had sufficiently "weeded" it, but en
attendant there were three or four officers who did
not quite belong to his favorite category. There
were the senior Major, and an old Captain, both
of whom had seen a good deal of service, the Sur-
geon, who was a necessary evil, and the Quarter-
master, who was never allowed to show with the

MODEEN "OFFIOEE'S" PEOGEESS. 187

rest of the officers except at " inspection," or some
other unusual demonstration. But the rank and
"allowance " of the first, and something in the char-
acter of the second, which caused him to be looked
upon as a military oracle, made Colonel Tulip tol-
erate their presence in the corps, if he did not enjoy
it. Neither had the Adjutant quite as much money
as the commanding officer could have desired, but
as his position kept him close to his duties, doing
that for which Colonel Tulip took credit, he also
was suffered to pass muster ; he was a brisk, pre-
cise, middle-aged personage, who hoped in the
course of time to get his company, and whose mil-
itary qualifications consisted chiefly in knowing
"Torrens," the " Articles of War," the "Military
[Regulations," and the "Army List," by heart.
The last-named work was, indeed, very generally
studied in the regiment, and may be said to have
exhausted almost all the literary resources of its
readers, exceptions being made in favor of the
weekly military newspaper, the monthly military
magazine, and an occasional novel from the circu-

188 PEABL-FISHING.

lating library. The rest of the officers must speak
for themselves, as they incidentally make their
appearance. Of their character, generally, this
may be said ; none were wholly bad, but all of
them might easily have been a great deal better.

Brief ceremony attends a young officer's intro-
duction to his regiment, and the honorable prefix
to Ensign Spoonbill's name was anything but a
bar to his speedy initiation. Lieutenant-Colonel
Tulip took wine with him the first thing, and his
example was so quickly followed by all present,
that by the time the cloth was off the table, Lord
Pelican's second son had swallowed quite as much
of Duff Gordon's sherry as was good for him.
Though drinking is no longer a prevalent military
vice, there are occasions when the wine circulates
rather more freely than is altogether safe for
young heads, and this was one of them. Claret
was not the habitual " tipple," even of the crack
" Hundredth ; " but as Colonel Tulip had no objec-
tion to make a little display now and then, he had
ordered a dozen in honor of the new arrival, and

MODERN "OFFICER'S" PROGRESS. 189

all felt disposed to do justice to it. The young
Ensign had flattered himself that, amongst other
accomplishments, he possessed " a hard head ; "
but, hard as it was, the free circulation of the
bottle was not without its effect, and he soon
began to speak rather thick, carefully avoiding
such words as began with a difficult letter, which
made his discourse somewhat periphrastic, or
roundabout. But though his observations reached
his hearers circuitously, their purpose was direct
enough, and conveyed the assurance that he was
one of those admirable Crichtons who are " wide
awake " in every particular, and available for any-
thing that may chance to turn up.

The conversation which reached his ears from
the jovial companions who surrounded him, was
of a similarly instructive and exhilarating kind,
and tended greatly to his improvement. Captain
Hackett, who came from " Dragoon Guards," and
had seen a great deal of hard service in Ireland,
elaborately set forth every particular of " I '11 give
you my honor, the most remarkable steeple-chase

190 PEARL-FISHING.

that ever took place in the three kingdoms," of
which he was, of course, the hero. Lieutenant
"Wadding, who prided himself on his small waist,
broad shoulders, and bushy whiskers, and was
esteemed " a lady-killer," talked of every woman
he knew, and damaged every reputation he talked
about. Lieutenant Bray, who was addicted to
sporting and played on the French horn, came out
strong on the subject of hackles, May -flies, gray
palmers, badgers, terriers, dew-claws, snap-shots
and Eley's cartridges. Captain Cushion, a great
billiard-player, and famous — in every sense — for
" the one-pocket game," was eloquent on the supe-
riority of his own cues, which were tipped with
gutta percha instead of leather, and offered, as a
treat, to indulge " any man in garrison with the
best of twenty, one 'up/ for a hundred a-side."
Captain Huff, who had a crimson face, a stiff arm,
and the voice of a Stentor, and whose soul, like his
visage, was steeped in port and brandy, boasted of
achievements in the drinking line, which, fortun-
ately, are now only traditional, though he did his

MODERN "OFFICER'S" PROGRESS. 191

best to make them positive. From the upper end
of the table, where sat the two veterans and the
doctor, came, mellowed by distance, grim recollec-
tions of the Peninsula, with stories of Picton and
Crawford, "the fighting brigade" and "the light
division," interspersed with endless Indian narra-
tives, equally grim, of " how our fellows were car-
ried off by the cholera at Cawnpore," and how
many tigers were shot, " when we lay in Canton-
ments at Dum-dum ; " the running accompaniment
to the whole being a constant reference to so-and-
so "of ours" without allusion to which possessive
pronoun, few military men are able to make much
progress in conversation.

Nor was Colonel Tulip silent, but his conversa-
tion was of a very lofty and,, as it were, ethereal
order, — quite transparent, in fact, if any one had
been there to analyze it. It related chiefly to the
magnates at the Horse Guards, — to what "the
Duke " said to him on certain occasions specified,
— to Prince Albert's appearance at the last levee, —
to a favorite bay charger of his own, to the prob-

192 PEARL-FISHING.

ability that Lord Dawdle would get into the
corps on the first exchange, — and to a partly-
formed intention of applying to the Commander-
in-Chief to change the regimental facings from buff
to green.

The mess-table, after four hours' enjoyment of
it in this intellectual manner, was finally aban-
doned for Captain Cushion's "quarters," that
gallant officer having taken " quite a fancy to the
youngster," not so much, perhaps, on account of
the youngster being a Lord's youngster, as because,
in all probability, there was something squeezeable
in him, which was slightly indicated in his coun-
tenance. But whatever of the kind there might
indeed have been, did not come out that evening,
the amiable Captain preferring rather to initiate by
example and the show of good fellowship, than by
directly urging the neophyte to play. The rubber,
therefore, was made up without him, and the new
Ensign, with two or three more - of his rank, con-
fined themselves to cigars and brandy and water, a
liberal indulgence in which completed what the

MODEEN "OFFICER'S" PROGRESS. 193

wine had begun, and before midnight chimed the
Hon. George Spoonbill was — to use the mildest
expression, — as unequivocally tipsy as the fondest
parent or guardian could possibly have desired a
young gentleman to be on the first night of his
entering " the Service."

Not yet established in barracks, Mr. Spoonbill
slept at an hotel, and thither he was assisted by
two of his boon companions, whom he insisted on
regaling on devilled biscuits and more bran'dy and
•water, out of sheer gratitude for their kindness.
Nor was this reward thrown away, for it raised the
spirits of these youths to so genial a pitch that, on
their way back — with a view, no doubt, to give
encouragement to trade — they twisted off, as they
phrased it, " no end to knockers and bell-handles,"
broke half a dozen lamps, and narrowly escaping
the police (with whom, however, they would glo-
riously have fought rather than have surrendered)
succeeded at length in reaching their quarters, — a
little excited it is true, but by no means under the

impression that they had done anything — as the
13

194: PEARL-FISHING.

articles of war say — " unbecoming the character of
an officer and a gentleman."

In the meantime, the jaded waiter at the hotel
had conveyed their fellow-Ensign to bed, to dream
— if he were capable of dreaming — of the brilliant
future which his first day's experience of actual
military life held out.

ii. — A SUBALTERN'S DAY.

However interesting it might prove to the
noble relatives of Ensign Spoonbill to learn his
progress, step by step, we must — for reasons of
our own — pa'ss over the first few weeks of his new
career, with ouly a brief mention of the leading
facts.

His brother-officers had instructed him in the
art of tying on his sash, wearing his forage cap on
one side, the secret of distinguishing his right
hand from his left, and the mysteries of marching
and coTinter-marching. The art of holding up

MODERN "OFFICER'S" PROGRESS. 195

his head and throwing out his chest, had been
carefully imparted by the drill-serjeant of his com-
pany, and he had, accordingly, been pronounced
" fit for duty."

What this was may best be shown, by giving
an outline of "a subaltern's day," as he and the
majority of his military friends were in the habit
of passing it. It may serve to explain how it
happens that British officers are so far in advance
of their continental brethren in arms in the science
of their profession, and by what process they have
arrived at that intellectual superiority, which ren-
ders it a matter of regret that more serious in-
terests than the mere discipline and well-being of
only a hundred and twenty thousand men have
not been confided to their charge.

The scene' opens in a square room of tolerable
size which, if simply adorned with "barrack fur-
niture," (to wit, a deal table, two windsor-chairs, a
coal scuttle, and a set of fire-irons,) would give an
idea of a British subaltern's "interior," of rather
more Spartan-like simplicity than is altogether

196 PEARL-FISHING.

true. But to these were added certain elegant
"extras," obtained not out of the surplus of five
and three-pence a day — after mess and band sub-
scriptions, cost of uniform, servant's wages, &c.,
had been deducted — but on credit, which it was
easier to get than to avoid incurring expense. A
noble youth, like Ensign Spoonbill, had only to
give the word of command to be obeyed by
Messrs. Eosewood and Mildew, with the alacrity
shown by the slaves of the lamp, and in an incred-
ibly short space of time, the bare walls and floor
of his apartment were covered with the gayest
articles their establishment afforded. They in-
cluded those indispensable adjuncts to a young
officer's toilette, a full length cheval, and a par-
ticularly lofty pier-glass. A green-baize screen
converted the apartment into as many separate
rooms as its occupant desired, cutting it up, per-
haps, a little here and there, but adding, on the
whole, a great deal to its comfort and privacy.
What was out of the line of Messrs. Eosewood and
Mildew— and that, as Othello says, was "not

MODERN ''OFFICER'S" PROGRESS. 197

much" — the taste of Ensign Spoonbill himself
supplied. To his high artistic taste were due the
presence of a couple of dozen gilt-framed and
highly-colored prints, representing the reigning
favorites of the ballet, the winners of the Derby
and Leger, and the costumes of the "dressiest,"
and consequently the most distinguished corps in
the service ; the nice arrangement of cherry-stick
tubes, amber mouth-pieces, meerschaum bowls,
and embroidered bags of Latakia tobacco ; pleas-
ing devices of the well-crossed foils, riding whips,
and single sticks evenly balanced by fencing
masks and boxing gloves ; and, on the chimney-
piece, the brilliant array of nick-nacks, from the
glittering shop of Messrs. Moses, Lazarus and Son,
who called themselves "jewellers and dealers in
curiosities," and who dealt in a few trifles which
were not alluded to above their door-posts. ..>

The maxim of " Early to bed" was not known
in the Hundredth ; but the exigencies of the ser-
vice required that Ensign Spoonbill should rise
with the reveillee. He complained of it in more

198 PEARL-FISHING,

forcible language than Dr. "Watts' celebrated slug-
gard ; but discipline is inexorable, and he was not
permitted to "slumber again." This early rising
is a real military hardship. We once heard a lady
of fashion counselling her friend never to marry a
Guardsman. "You have no idea, love, what
you '11 have to go through ; every morning of
his life — in the season — he has to be out with the
horrid regiment at half-past six o'clock ! "

The Hon. Ensign Spoonbill then rose with the
lark, though much against .his will, his connection
with that fowl having by preference a midnight
tendency. Erect at last, but with a strong taste
of cigars in his mouth, and a slight touch of
whiskey -headache, the Ensign arrayed himself in
his blue frock coat and Oxford gray trowsers;
wound himself into his sash ; adjusted his sword
and cap ; and, with faltering step, made the best
of his way into the barrack-square, where the
squads were forming, which, with his eyes only
half-open, he was called upon to inspect, prior to
their being re-inspected by both lieutenant and

MODERN "OFFICER'S" PROGRESS. 199

captain. He then drew his sword, and "falling
in " in the rear of his company, occcupied that dis-
position till the regiment was formed and set in
motion.

His duties on the parade-ground were — as a su-
pernumerary— of a very arduous nature, and con-
sisted chiefly in getting in the way of his captain
as he continually "changed his flank," in making
the men " lock up," and in avoiding the personal
observation of the adjutant as much as possible ;
storing his mind, all the time, with a few of the
epithets, more vigorous than courtly, which the
commanding officer habitually made use of to
quicken the movements of the battalion. He en-
joyed this recreation for about a couple of hours,
sometimes utterly bewildered by a "change of
front," which developed him in the most inoppor-
tune manner ; sometimes inextricably entangled
in the formation of "a hollow square," when he
became lost altogether ; sometimes confounding
himself with "the points," and being confounded
by the senior-major for his awkwardness ; and

200 PEARL-FISHING.

sometimes following a " charge" at such a pace as
to take away his voice for every purpose of utility,
supposing he had desired to exercise it in the
way of admonitory adjuration to the rear-rank.
In this manner he learnt the noble science of
strategy, and by this means acquired so much
proficiency that, had he been suddenly called
upon to manoeuvre the battalion, it is possible he
might have gone on for five minutes without
" clubbing" it.

The regiment was then marched home ; and
Ensign Spoonbill re-entered the garrison with all
the honors of war, impressed with the conviction
that he had already seen an immense deal of
service; enough, certainly, to justify the ample
breakfast which two or three other famished subs
— his particular friends — assisted him in discuss-
ing, the more substantial part of which, involved
a private account with the messman, who had a
good many more of the younger officers of the
regiment on his books. At these morning feasts
—with the exception, perhaps, of a few remarks

MODERN "OFFICER'S" PROGRESS. 201

on drill as " a cussed bore" — no allusion was made
to the military exercises of the morning, or to the
prospective duties of the day. The conversation
turned, on the contrary, on lighter and more

agreeable topics ; — the relative merits of bull and

•,
Scotch terriers ; who made the best boots ; whether

"that gaerl at the pastrycook's" was "as fine a
woman" as " the barmaid of the Eose and Crown ; "
if Hudson's cigars didn't beat Pontet's all to
nothing ; who married the sixth daughter of Jones
of the Highlanders ; interspersed with a few bets,
a few oaths, and a few statements not strikingly
remarkable for their veracity, the last having
reference, principally, to the exploits for which
Captain Smith made himself famous, to the detri-
ment of Miss Bailey.

Breakfast over, and cigars lighted, Ensign
Spoonbill and his friends, attired in shooting
jackets of every pattern, and wearing felt hats of
every color and form, made their appearance in
front of the officers' wing of the barracks ; some
semi-recumbent on the door-steps, others lounging

202 PEAKL-FISHING.

with their hands in their coat pockets, others
gracefully balancing themselves on the iron rail-
ings,— all smoking and talking on subjects of the
most edifying kind. These pleasant occupations
were, however, interrupted by the approach of an
11 orderly," who, from a certain clasped bobk
which he carried, read out the unwelcome intelli-
gence that, at twelve o'clock that day, a regimental
court-martial, under the presidency of Captain
Huff, would assemble in the officers' mess-room
" for the trial of all such prisoners as might be
brought before it," and that two lieutenants and
two ensigns — of whom the honorable Mr. Spoon-
bill was one — were to constitute the members.
This was a most distressing and unexpected blow,
for it had previously been arranged that a badger
should be drawn by Lieutenant "Wadding's bull
bitch Juno, at which interesting ceremony all the
junior members of the court were to have "as-
sisted." It was the more provoking, because the
proprietor of the animal to be baited, — a gentle-
man in a fustian suit, brown legging, high-lows, a

MODERN "OFFICER'S" PROGRESS. 203

white hat with, a black crape round it, and a very
red nose, indicative of a most decided love for
"cordials and compounds" — had just "stepped
up" to say that "the badger must be dror'd that
mornin'," as he was under a particular engagement
to repeat the amusement in the evening for some
gents at a distant town, and " couldn't no how, not
for no money, forfeit his sacred word." The ma-
jority of the young gentlemen present understood
perfectly what this corollary meant, but, with
Ensign Spoonbill amongst them, were by no
means in a hurry to " fork out" for so immoral a
purpose as that of inducing a fellow-man to break
a solemn pledge. That gallant officer, however,
labored under so acute a feeling of disappoint-
ment, that regardless of the insult offered to the
worthy man's conscience, he at once volunteered
to give him "a couple of sovs" if he would just

" throw those snobs over," and defer his departure

«

till the following day ; and it was settled that the
badger should be u drawn" as soon as the patrons
of Joe Baggs could get away from the court-

204 PEAKL-FISHING.

martial, — for winch in no very equable frame of
mind they now got ready, — retiring to their sev-
eral barrack-rooms, divesting themselves of their
sporting costume and once more assuming military
attire.

At the appointed hour, the court assembled.
Captain Huff prepared for his judicial labors by
calling for a glass of his favorite "swizzle," which
he dispatched at one draught, and then, having
sworn in the members, and being sworn himself,
the business began by the appointment of Lieuten-
ant Hackett as secretary. There were two prison-
ers to be tried: one had "sold his necessaries" in
order to get drunk ; the second had made use of
" mutinous language " when drunk ; both of them
high military crimes, to be severely visited by
those who had no temptation to dispose of their
wardrobes, and could not understand why a sol-
dier's beer money was not sufficient for his daily
potations ; but who omitted the consideration that
they themselves, when in want of cash, occasionally
sent a pair of epaulettes to " my uncle," and had a

MODERN "OFFICER'S" PEOGEESS. 205

champagne supper out of the proceeds, at which
neither sobriety nor decorous language were
rigidly observed.

The case against him who had sold his necessa-
ries,— to wit, " a new pair of boots, a shirt, and a
pair of stockings," for which a Jew in the town
had given him two shillings — >was sufficiently
clear. The captain and the pay-serjeant of the
man's company swore to the articles, and the Jew
who bought them (an acquintance of Lieutenant
Hackett, to whom he nodded with pleasing famil-
iarity), stimulated by the fear of a civil prosecu-
tion, gave them up. and appeared as evidence
against the prisoner. He was found "guilty," and
sentenced to three months' solitary confinement,
and " to be put under stoppages," according to the
prescribed formula.

But the trial of the man accused of drunkenness
and mutinous language was not so readily disposed
of; though the delay occasioned by his calling
witnesses to character served only to add to the
irritation of his virtuous and impartial judges. He

206 PEAKL-FISHING.

was a fine-looking fellow, six feet high, and had
as soldier-like a bearing as any man in the Gren-
adier company to which he belonged. The spe-
cific acts which constituted his crime consisted in
having refused to leave the canteen when some-
what vexatiously ordered to do so by the orderly
serje'ant, who forthwith sent for a file of the guard
to compel him; thus urging him, when in an
excited state, to an act of insubordination, the gist
of which was a threat to knock the serjeant down,
a show of resistance, and certain maledictions on
the head of that functionary. In this, as in the
former instance, there could be no doubt that the
breach of discipline complained of had been com-
mitted, though several circumstances were pleaded
in extenuation of the offence. The man's previous
character, too, was very good ; he was ordinarily a
steady, well-conducted soldier, never shirked his
hour of duty, was not given to drink, and, there
fore, as the principal witness in his favor said,
" the more aisily overcome when he tuck a dhrop,
but as harrumless as a lamb, unless put upon."

MODERN "OFFICER'S" PROGRESS. 207

These things averred and shown, the Court was
cleared, and the members proceeded to deliberate.
It was a question only of the nature and extent of
the punishment to be awarded. The general
instructions, no less than the favorable condition
of the case, suggested leniency. But Captain
Huff was a severe disciplinarian of the old school,
an advocate for red-handed practice — the drum
head and the halberds — and his opinion, if it
might be called one, had only too much weight
with the other members of the Court, all of whom
were prejudiced against the prisoner, whom they
internally — if not openly — condemned for inter-
fering with their day's amusements. "Corporal
punishment, of course," said Captain Huff, angri-
ly; and his words were echoed by the Court,
though the majority of them little knew the fearful
import of the sentence, or they might have paused
before they delivered over a fine resolute young
man, whose chief crime was an ebullition of tem-
per, to the castigation of the lash, which destroys
the soldier's self-respect; degrades him in the eyes

208 PEAEL-FISHING.

of his fellows ; mutilates his body, and leaves an
indelible scar upon his mind. But the fiat went
forth, and was recorded in " hundreds " against the
unfortunate fellow; and Captain Huff having
managed to sign the proceedings, carried them off
to the commanding officer's quarters, to be "ap-
proved and confirmed ; " a ratification which the
Colonel was not slow to give ; for he was one of
that class who are in the habit of reconciling
themselves to an act of cruelty, by always assert-
ing in their defence that "an example is neces-
sary." He forgot in doing so, that this was not
the way to preserve for the "Hundredth" the
name of a crack corps, and that the best example
for those in authority is Mercy.

With minds buoyant and refreshed by the dis-
charge of the judicial functions, for which they
were in every respect so admirably qualified,
Ensign Spoonbill and his companions, giving
themselves leave of absence from the afternoon pa-
rade, and having resumed their favorite amufty,"
repaired to an obscure den in a stable-yard at the

MODERN "OFFICER'S" PROGRESS. 209

back of the Blue Boar — a low public house in the
filthiest quarter of the town — which Mr. Joseph
Baggs made his head-quarters, and there, fqr a
couple of hours, solaced themselves with the agree-
able exhibition of the contest between the badger
and the dog Juno, which terminated by the latter
being bitten, through both her fore-paws, and
nearly losing one of her eyes ; though, as Lieuten-
ant "Wadding exultingly observed, "she was a
deuced deal too game to give over for such trifles
as those." The unhappy badger, that only fought
in self-defence, was accordingly "dror'd," as Mr.
Baggs reluctantly admitted, adding, however, that
she was " nuffin much the wuss," which was more
than could be said of the officers of the " Hun-
dredth " who had enjoyed the spectacle.

This amusement ended, which had so far a mili-
tary character that it familiarized the spectator
with violence and bloodshed, though in an unwor-
thy and contemptible degree, badgers and dogs,
not men, being their subject, the young gentlemen

adjourned to the High Street, to loiter away half
14

210 PEARL-FISHING.

an hour at the shop of Messrs. Moses, Lazarus and
Son, whose religious observances and daily occu-
pations were made their jest, while they ran in
debt to the people from whom they afterwards
expected consideration and forbearance. But not
wholly did they kill their time there. The pretty
pastry-cook, an innocent, retiring girl, but com-
pelled to serve in the shop, came in for her share
of their half-admiring and all insolent persecutions,
and when their slang and sentiment were alike
exhausted, they dawdled back again to the bar-
racks, to dress for the fifth time for mess.

The events of the day, that is, the events on
which their thoughts had been centered, again fur-
nished the theme of the general conversation.
Enough wine was drunk, as Captain Huff said,
with the wit peculiar to him, " to restore the equi-
librium ;" the most abstinent person being Captain
Cushion, who that evening gave convincing proof
of the advantages of abstinence, by engaging
Ensign Spoonbill in a match at billiards, the result
of which was, that Lord Pelican's son found him-

MODERN "OFFICER'S" PROGRESS. 211

self, at midnight, minus a full half of the allowance
for which his noble father had given him liberty to
draw. But that he had fairly lost the money there
could be no doubt, for the officer on the main-
guard, who had preferred watching the game to
going his rounds, declared to the party, when they
afterwards adjourned to take a glass of grog with
him before he turned in, that, "except Jonathan,
he had never seen any man make so good a bridge
as his friend Spoonbill," and this fact Captain
Cushion himself confirmed, adding, that he
thought, perhaps, he could afford next time to
give points. With the reputation of making a
good bridge — a Pons asinorum over which his
money had travelled — Ensign Spoonbill was fain
to be content, and in this satisfactory manner he
closed one Subaltern's day, there being many like
it in reserve.

212 PEARL-FISHING.

i

III. — THE CATASTROPHE.

What the Psalmist said in sorrow, those who
witnessed the career of the Honorable Ensign
Spoonbill and his companions might have said,
not in sorrow only but in anger : tl One day told
another, and one night certified another."

When duty was to be performed — (for even
under the command of such an officer as Colonel
Tulip the routine of duty existed) — it was slurred
over as hastily as possible, or got through as it
best might be. When, on the other hand, pleasure
was the order of the day, — and this was sought
hourly, — no resource was left untried, no expedient
unattempted ; and strange things, in the shape of
pleasure, were often the result.

The nominal duties were multifarious, and, had
they been properly observed, would have left but
a comparatively narrow margin for recreation, —
foi there was much in the old forms which took
up time, without conveying any great amount of
military instruction.

MODERN "OFFICER'S" PROGRESS. 213

The orderly officer for the day — we speak of the
subaltern — was supposed to go through a great
deal. His duty it was to assist at inspections,
superintend drills, examine the soldiers' provisions,
see their breakfasts and dinners served, and attend
to any complaints, visit the regimental guards by
day and night, be present at all parades and mus-
ters, and, finally, deliver in a written report of the
proceedings of the four-and-twenty hours.

To go through this routine, required — as it re-
ceived in some regiments — a few days' training ;
but in the Hundredth there was none at all.
Every officer in that distinguished corps was . sup-
posed to be " a Heaven-born genius," and acquired
his military education as pigeon's pick up peas.
The Hon. Ensign Spoonbill looked at his men after
a fashion, ; could swear at them if they were ex-
cessively dirty, and perhaps awe them into silence
by a portentous scowl, or an exaggerated loudness
of voice ; but with regard to the real purpose of
inspection, he knew as little, and cared as much, as
the valet who aired his noble father's morning

214 PEAEL-FISHING.

newspaper. His eye wandered over the men's kits
as they were exposed to his view ; but to his
mind they only conveyed the idea of a kaleido-
scopic rag-fair, not that of an assortment of neces-
saries for the comfort and well-being of the soldier.
He saw large masses of beef, exhibited in a raw
state by the quartermaster, as the daily allowance
for the men ; but if any one had asked him if the
meat was good, and of proper weight, how could
he have answered, whose head was turned away in
disgust, with his face buried in a scented cambric
handkerchief, and his delicate nature loathing the
whole scene ? In the same spirit he. saw the men's
breakfasts and dinners served ; fortifying his opin-
ion, at the first, that coffee could only be made in
France, and wondering, at the second, what sort of
potane it could be that contrived to smell so dis-
agreeably. These things might be special affecta-
tions in the Hon. Ensign, and depended, probably,
on his own peculiar organization ; but if the rest
of the officers of the Hundredth did not manifest
as intense a dislike to this part of their duties, they

MODERN "OFFICER'S" PROGRESS. 215

were members of much too "crack" a regiment to
give themselves any trouble about the matter.
The drums beat, the messes were served, there was
a hasty gallop through the barrack-rooms, scarcely
looking right or left, and the orderly officer
was only too happy to make his escape with
out being stopped by any impertinent com
plaint.

The "turning out" of the barrack guard was a
thing to make an impression on a bystander. A
loud shout, a sharp clatter of arms, a scurry of
figures, a hasty formation, a brief inquiry if all
was right, and a terse rejoinder that all was re-
markably so, constituted the details of a visit to
the body of men on whom devolved the task 01
extreme watchfulness, and the preservation of
order. If the serjeant had replied "All wrong,"
it would have equally enlightened Ensign Spoon-
bill, who went towards the guardhouse because his
instructions told him to do so ; but why he went
there, and for what purpose he turned out the
guard, never entered into his comprehension. Not

216 PEARL-FISHING.

even did a sense of responsibility awaken in Mm
when, with much difficulty, he penned the report
which gave, in a narrative form, the summary of
the duties he had performed in so exemplary a
manner. Performed, do we say? Yes, once or
twice wholly, but for the most part with many
gaps in the schedule. Sometimes the dinners were
forgotten, now and then the tattoo, generally the
afternoon parade, and not unfrequently the whole
affair. For the latter omission, there was occasion-
ally a nominal "wigging" administered, not by
the commanding officer himself, but through the
adjutant ; and as that functionary was only looked
upon by the youngsters in the light of a bore,
without the slightest reverence for his office, his
words — like those of Cassius — passed like the idle
wind which none regarded. "When Ensign Spoon-
bill "mounted guard" himself, his vigilance on his
new post equalled the assiduity we have seen him
exhibit in barracks. After the formality of troop-
ing, marching down, and relieving, was over, the
Honorable Ensign generally amused himself by a

MODERN "OFFICER'S" PROGRESS. 217

lounge in the vicinity of the guardhouse, until the
field-officer's "rounds" had been made ; and that
visitation at an end for the day, a neighboring
uilliard-room, with Captain Cushion for his antag-
onist or " a jolly pool" occupied him until dinner-
time. It was the custom in the garrison where the
Hundredth were quartered, as it was, indeed, in
many others, for the officers on guard to dine with
their mess, a couple of hours or so being granted
for this indulgence. This relaxation was made up
for, by their keeping close for the rest of the even-
ing ; but as there were generally two or three off
duty sufficiently at leisure to find cigars and
brandy-and-water attractive, even when consumed
in a guard-room, the hardship of Ensign Spoon-
bill's official imprisonment was not very great.
With these friends, and these creature-comforts to
solace, the time wore easily away till night fell,
when the field-officer, if he was " a good-fellow,"
came early, and Ensign Spoonbill, having given
his friends their conge, was at liberty to " turn in"
for the night, the onerous duty of visiting sentries

218

PEARL-DISHING.

and inspecting the reliefs every two hours, devolv-
ing upon the Serjeant.

It may be inferred from these two examples of
Ensign Spoonbill's ideas of discipline and the ser-
vice, what was the course he generally adopted on
duty, without our being under the necessity of
going into further details. "What he did when off
duty helped him on still more effectually.

Lord Pelican's outfit having "mounted" the
young gentleman,' and the credit he obtained on
the strength of being Lord Pelican's son, keeping
his stud in order, he was enabled to vie with the
crackest of the crack Hundredth ; subject, how-
ever, to all the accidents which horseflesh is heir
to — especially when allied to a judgment of which
green was the prevailing color. A "swap" to a
disadvantage ; an indiscreet purchase ; a mis-
take tis to the soundness of an animal ; and such
other errors of opinion, entailed certain losses,
which might, after all, have been borne, without
rendering the applications for money at home
more frequent than agreeable ; but when under

MODERN "OFFICER'S" PROGRESS. 219

the influence of a natural obstinacy, or the advice
of some very " knowing ones," Ensign Spoonbill
proceeded to back his opinion ID. private matches,
handicaps, and steeple-chases, the privy purse of
Lady Pelican collapsed -in a most unmistakable
manner. Nor was this description of amusement
the only rock-a-head in th.e course of the Honora-
ble Ensign. The art or science of betting embraces
tho Tridest field, and the odds, given or taken, are
equally fatal, whether the subject that elicits them
be a match at billiards or a horse-race. Nor are
the stakes at blind-hookey or unlimited loo less
harmless, when you hav' n't got luck and have
such opponents as Captain Cushion.

In spite of the belief in his own powers, which
Ensign Spoonbill encouraged, he could not shut
his eyes to the fact that he was every day a loser ;
but wiser gamblers than he — if any there be — place
reliance on a " turn of luck," and all he wanted to
enable him to take advantage of it, was a com-
mand of cash ; for even one's best friends prefer the
coin of the realm to the most unimpeachable 1. 0. U.

220 PEARL-FISHING.

The want of money is a common dilemma, — not
the less disagreeable, however, .because it is com-
mon— but in certain situations this want is more
apparent than real. The Hon. Ensign Spoonbill
was in the predicament of impecuniosity ; but
there were — as a celebrated statesman is in the
habit of saying — three courses open to him. He
might leave off play, and do without the money ;
he might '- throw himself" on Lord Pelican's
paternal feelings ; or he might somehow contrive
to raise a supply on his own account. To leave
off just at the moment when he was sure to win
back all he had lost, would have been ridiculous ;
besides, every man of spirit in the regiment would
have cut him. To throw himself upon the gener-
osity of his sire was a good poetical idea ; but,
practically, it would have been of no value : for,
in the first place, Lord Pelican had no money to
give — in the next, there was an elder brother,
whose wants were more imperative than his own ;
and lastly, he had already tried "the experiment,
and failed in the most signal manner. There re-

MODERN "OFFICER'S" PROGRESS. 221

mained, therefore, only the last expedient ; and
being advised, moreover,- to have recourse to it, he
Went into the project tete baissee. The " advice"
was tendered in this form.

" Well, Spooney, my boy, how are you, this
morning ? " kindly inquired Captain Cushion, one
day on his return from parade, from which the
Honorable Ensign had been absent on the plea of
indisposition.

" Deuced queer," was the reply ; " that Eoman
punch always gives me the splittingest head-
aches ! "

" Ah ! you 're not used to it. I ?m as fresh as
a four-year-old. Well, what did you do last night,
f "Vpooney ? "

" Do ! why, I lost, of course ; you ought to
mow that."

" I — my dear fellow ! Give you my honor I got
up a loser ! "

" Not to me, though," grumbled the Ensign.

" Can't say as to that," replied the Captain ; " all
I know is, that I'm devilishly minus."

PEARL-FISHING.

" Who won, then ? " inquired Spoonbill.

" Oh ! " returned the Captain, after a slight
pause, " I suspect — Chowser — he has somebody's
luck and his own too ! "

" I think he must have mine," said the Ensign,
with a faint smile, as the alternations of the last
night's Blind Hookey came more vividly to his
remembrance. What did I lose to you, Cushion ? "
he continued, in the hope that his memory had
deceived him.

The Captain's pocket-book was out in an instant.

" Sixty-five, my dear fellow ; that was all. By-
the-bye, Spooney, I 'm regularly hard up ; can
you let me have the tin ? I wouldn't trouble you,
upon my soul, if I could possibly do without it,
but I Ve got a heavy bill coming due to-morrow,
and I can't renew."

The Honorable Ensign sank back on his pillow,
and groaned impotently. Eallying, however, from
this momentary weakness, he raised his head, and,
after apostrophising the spirit of darkness as his
best friend, exclaimed, "I '11 tell you what it is,

MODERN "OFFICER'S" PROGRESS. 223

Cushion, I 'm thoroughly cleaned out. I haven't
got a dump ! "

" Then you must fly a kite," observed the Cap-
tain, coolly. " No difficulty about that."

This was merely the repetition of counsel of the
same friendly nature previously urged. The shock
was not greater, therefore, than the young man's
nerves could bear.

" How is it to be done ? " asked the neophyte.

" Oh, I think I can manage that for you. Yes,"
pursued the Captain, musing, " Lazarus would let
you have as much as you want, I dare say. His
terms are rather high, to be sure ; but then the
cash is the thing. He '11 take your acceptance at
once. "Who will you get to draw the bill ? "

*' Draw ! " said the Ensign, in a state of some
bewilderment. "I don't understand these things
• — couldn't you do it ? "

" Why," replied the Captain, with an air of in-
tense sincerity, " I 'd do it for you with pleasure —
nothing would delight me more ; but I promised
my grandmother when first I entered the service,

224 PEAEL-FISHING.

that I never would draw a bill as long as I lived ;
and as a man of honor, YOU know, and a soldier, I
can't break mj word."

" But I thought you said you had a bill of your
own coming due to-morrow," observed the astute
Spoonbill.

" So I did," said the Captain, taken rather aback
in the midst of his protestations, "but then it
isn't — exactly — a thing of this sort ; it 's a kind of
a bond — as it were — old family matters — the es-
tate down in Lincolnshire — that I 'm clearing off.
Besides," he added hurriedly, " there are plenty
of fellows who '11 do it for you. There 's young
Brittles — the Manchester man, who joined just
after you. I never saw anybody screw into baulk
better than he does, except yourself — he 's the one.
Lazarus, I know, always prefers a young customer
to an old one ; knowing chaps, these Jews, arn't
they?"

Captain Cushion's last remark was, no doubt, a
just one — but he might have applied the term to
himself with little dread of disparagement ; and the

MODEEN "OFFICER'S" PEOGRESS. 225

end of the conversation was, that it was agreed a
bill should be drawn as proposed, " say for three
hundred pounds," the Captain undertaking to get
the affair arranged, and relieving Spoonbill of all
trouble, save that of "merely" writing his name
across a bit of stamped paper. These points being
settled, the Captain left him, and the unprotected
subaltern called for brandy and soda-water, by the
aid of which stimulus he was enabled to rise and
perform his toilette.

Messrs. Lazarus and Sons were merchants who
perfectly understood their business, and, though
they started difficulties, were only too happy to
get fresh birds into their net. They knew to a
certainty that the sum they were asked to advance
would not be repaid at the end of the prescribed
three months : it would scarcely have been worth
their while to enter into the matter if it had ; the
profit on the hundred pounds' worth of jewelry,
which Ensign Spoonbill was required to take as
part of the amount, would not have remunerated

them sufficiently. Guessing pretty accurately

15

226 PEARL-FISHING.

which, way the money would go, they foresaw
renewed applications, and a long perspective of
accumulating acceptances. Lord Pelican might be
a needy nobleman ; but he was Lord Pelican, and
the Honorable George Spoonbill was his son ; and
if the latter did not succeed to the title and family
estates, which was by no means improbable, there
was Lady Pelican's settlement for division amongst
the younger children. So they advanced the
money ; that is to say, they produced a hundred
and eighty pounds in cash, twenty they took for
the accommodation (half of which found its way
into the pocket of — never mind, we won't say
anything about Captain Cushion's private affairs),
and the value of the remaining hundred was made
up with a series of pins and rings of the most
stunning magnificence.

This was the Honorable Ensign Spoonbill's first
Ipillrtransaction, but, the ice once broken, the sec-
ond and third soon followed. He found it the
pleasantest way in the world of raising money,
and in a short time his affairs took a turn so decid^-

MODERN "OFFICER'S" PROGRESS. 227

edly commercial, that he applied the system to
all his mercantile transactions. He paid his tailors
after this fashion, satisfied Messrs. Mildew and his
upholsterers with negotiable paper, and did " bits
of stiff" with Galloper, the horse-dealer, to a very
considerable figure. He even became facetious,
not to say inspired, by this great discovery; for,
amongst his papers, when they were afterwards
overhauled by the official assignee — or some such
fiscal dignitary, — a bacchanalian song in manu-
script was found, supposed to have been written
about this period, the refrain of which ran as
follows : —

"When creditors clamor, and cash fails the till,
There is nothing so easy as giving a bill."

It needs no ghost to rise from the grave to
prophesy the sequel to this mode of " raising the
wind." It is recorded twenty times a month in
the daily papers — now in the Bankruptcy Court,
now in that for the Eelief of Insolvent Debtors.
Ensign Spoonbill's career lasted about eighteen
months, at the end of which period — not having

228 PEAKL-FISHING.

prospered by the means of gaining to the extent
he anticipated — he found himself under the neces-
sity of selling out and retiring to a continental
residence, leaving behind him debts, which were
eventually paid, to the tune of seven thousand,
two hundred and fourteen pounds, seventeen shil-
lings, and tenpence three farthings, the vulgar
fractions having their origin in the hair-splitting
occasioned by reduplication of interest. He chose
for his abode the pleasant town of Boulogne-sur-
Mer, where he cultivated his moustaches, acquired
a smattering of French, and an insight into the
mystery of pigeon-shooting. For one or other of
these qualifications — we cannot exactly say which
— he was subsequently appointed attache to a
foreign embassy, and at the present moment, we
believe, is considered one of those promising young
men whose diplomatic skill will probably declare
itself one of these days, by some stroke of finesse,
which shall set all Europe by the ears.

"With respect to Colonel Tulip1s "crack" regi-
ment, it went, as the saying is, "to. the Devil."

MODERN "OFFICER'S" PROGRESS. 229

The exposure caused by the affair of Ensign
Spoonbill — the smash of Ensign Brittles, which
shortly followed — the duel between Lieutenant
"Wadding and Captain Cushion, the result of which
was a ball (neither "spot" nor "plain," but a
bullet) through the head of the last-named gentle-
man, and a few other trifles of a similar descrip-
tion, at length attracted the "serious notice" of
his Grace the Commander-in-Chief. It was signi-
ficantly hinted to Colonel Tulip that it would be
for the benefit of the service in general, and that
of the Hundredth in particular, if he exchanged to
half-pay, as the regiment required re-modelling.
A smart Lieutenant-Colonel who had learnt some-
thing, not only of drill, but of discipline, under
the hero of " Young Egypt," in which country he
had shared that general's laurels, was sent down
from the Horse Guards. " Weeding" to a consid-
erable extent took place; the Majors and the Ad-
jutant were replaced by more efficient men, and,
to sum up all, the Duke's "Circular" came out,
laying down a principle of practical military educa-

230 PEAEL-FISHING.

tion, while on service, which, if acted up to, — and
there seems every reason to hope it will now be, —
bids fair to make good officers of those who here-
tofore were merely idlers. It will also diminish
the opportunities for gambling, drinking, and bill
discounting, and substitute, for the written words
on the Queen's Commission, the real character of
a soldier and a gentleman.

VII.

evening in the month of March, 1798, —
that dark time in Ireland's rmnals whose
memory (overlooking all minor subsequent emeutes)
is still preserved among us, as " the year of the
rebellion" — a lady and gentleman were seated
near a blazing fire in the old-fashioned dining-
room of a large lonely mansion. They had just
dined ; wine and fruit were on the table, both un-
touched, while Mr. Hewson and his wife sat
silently gazing at the fire, watching its flickering
light becoming gradually more vivid as the short
Spring twilight faded into darkness.

At length the husband poured out a glass of
wine, drank it off, and then broke silence, by
saying —

"Well, well, Charlotte, these are awful times;

232 PEARL-FISHING.

there were ten men taken up to-day for burning
Cotter's house at Knockane ; and Tom Dycer says
that every magistrate in the country is a marked
man."

Mrs. Hewson cast a frightened glance towards
the windows, which opened nearly to the ground,
and gave a view of the wide tree-besprinkled lawn,
through whose centre a long straight avenue led to
the high-road. There was also a footpath at either
side of the house, branching off through close
thickets of trees, and reaching the road by a circui-
tous route.

" Listen, James ! " she said, after a pause ; " what
noise is that ? "

" Nothing but the sighing of the wind among
the trees. Come, wife, you must not give way to
imaginary fears."

" But really I heard something like footsteps on
the gravel, round the gable-end — I wish " —

A knock at the parlor door interrupted her.

"Come in."

The door opened, and Tim Grahan, Mr. Hewson's

FATHEE AND SON. 233

confidential steward and right-hand man, entered,
followed by a fair-haired delicate-looking boy of
six years' old, dressed in deep mourning.
" Well, Gahan, what do you want? "
" I ask your Honor's pardon for disturbing you
and the mistress ; but I thought it right to come
tell you the bad news I heard."

" Something about the rebels, I suppose ? "
"Yes, Sir; I got a whisper just now that there's
going to be a great rising intirely, to-morrow;
thousands are to gather before daybreak at Kil-
crean bog, where I 'm told they have a power of
pikes hiding ; and then they 're to march on and
sack every house in the country. I'll engage,
when I heard it, I didn't let the grass grow under
my feet, but came off straight to your Honor, ^
thinking maybe you 'd like to walk over this fine
evening to Mr. "Warren's, and settle with him
what 's best to be done."

"Oh, James! I beseech you, don't think of
going."

"Make your mind easy, Charlotte; I. don't

234: PEAKL-FISHING.

intend it : not that I suppose there would be much
risk ; but, all things considered, I think I 'm just
as comfortable at home."

The steward's brow darkened, as he glanced
nervously towards the end window, which, jutting
out in the gable, formed a deep angle in the outer
wall.

<: Of course 'tis just as your honor plases, but
I '11 warrant you there would be no harm in going.
Come, Billy," he added, addressing the child, who
by this time was standing close to Mrs. Hewson,
"make your bow, and bid good night to master
and mistress."

The boy did not stir, and Mrs. Hewson, taking
his little hand in hers, said —

"You need not go home for half-an-hour,
Gahan ; stay and have a chat with the servants in
the kitchen, and leave little Billy with me — and
with the apples and nuts " — she added, smiling as
she filled the child's hands with- fruit.

" Thank you, Ma'am," said the steward hastily.
"I can't stop — I'm in a hurry home, where I

FATHER AND SON.' 235

wanted to leave this brat to-night ; but he would
follow me. Come, Billy ; come this minute, you
young rogue."

Still the child looked reluctant, and Mr. Hewson
said preremptorily.

" Don't go yet, Gahan ; I want to speak to you
by-and-bye; and you know the mistress always
likes to pet little Billy."

Without replying, the steward left the room;
and the next moment his hasty footsteps resounded
through the long flagged passage that led to the
offices.

" There 's something strange about Gahan, since
his wife died," remarked Mrs. Hewson. "I sup-
pose 'tis grief for her that makes him look so dark-
ly, and seem almost jealous when any one speaks
to his child. Poor little Billy ! your mother was
a sore loss to you."

The child's blue eyes filled with tears, and press-
ing closer to the lady's side, he said : —

" Old Peggy doesn't wash and dress me as nicely
as mammy used."

236 PEAKL-FISHING.

" But your father is good to you? "

" Oh, yes, Ma'am, but he 's out all day busy, and
I 've no one to talk to me as mammy used ; for
Peggy is quite deaf, and besides she 's always busy
with the pigs and chickens."

"I wish I had you, Billy, to take care of, and to
teach, for your poor mother's sake."

"And so you may, Charlotte," said her hushand.
" I 'm sure Gahan, with all his odd ways, is too
sensible a fellow not to know how much it would
be for his child's benefit to be brought up and edu-
cated by us, and the boy would be an amusement
to us in this lonely house. I'll speak to him
about it before he goes home. Billy, my fine fel-
low, come here," he continued, "jump up on my
knee, and tell me if you 'd like to live here always,
and learn to read and write."

"I would, Sir, if I could be with father
too."

" So you shall ; — and what about old Peggy ? "

The child paused —

" I 'd like to give her a pen'north of snuff and a

FATHEK AND SON. 237

piece of tobacco every week, for she said the other
day that that would make her quite happy."

Mr. Hewson laughed, and Billy prattled on, still
seated on his knee ; when a noise of footsteps on
the ground, mingled with low suppressed talking,
was heard outside.

"James, listen ! there 's the noise again."

It was now nearly dark, but Mr. Hewson, still
holding the boy in his arms, walked towards the
window and looked out.

"I can see nothing," he said — "stay — there are
figures moving off among the trees, and a man
running round to the back of the house — very like
Gahan he is too ! "

Seizing the bell-rope he rang it loudly, and said
to the servant who answered his summons : —

"Fasten the shutters and put up the bars,
Connell; and then tell Gahan I want to see
him."

The man obeyed; candles were brought, and
Gahan entered the room.

Mr. Hewson remarked that, though his cheeks

238 PEARL-FISHING.

were flushed, his lips were very white, and his
bold dark eyes were cast on the ground.

"What took you round the house just now,
Tim ? " asked his master, in a careless manner.

" What took me round the house is it? Why,
then, nothing in life, Sir, but that just as I went
outside the kitchen door to take a smoke, I saw
the pigs that Shaneen forgot to put up in their
stye, making right for the mistress' flower-garden ;
so I just put my dudheen, lighting as it was, into
my pocket, and ran after them. I caught them on
the grand walk under the end window, and indeed,
Ma'am, I had my own share of work turning them
back to their proper spear."

Gahan spoke with unusual volubility, but with-
out raising his eyes from the ground.

u Who were the people," asked his master,
" whom I • saw moving through the western
grove ? "

"People! your Honor — not a sign of any
people moving there, I '11 be bound, barring the
pigs."

FATHER AND SON. 239

" Then," said Mr. Hewson, smiling, to his wife,
" the miracle of Circe must have been reversed
and swine turned into men ; for, unftoubtedl y, the
dark figures I saw were human beings."

"Come, Billy," said Gahan, anxious to turn the
conversation, " will you come home with me
now ? I am sure 'twas very good of the mistress
to give you all them fine apples."

Mrs. Hewson was going to propose Billy's re-
maining, but her husband whispered: — "Wait
till to-morrow." So Gahan and his child were al-
lowed to depart.

Next morning the magistrates of the district
were on the alert, and several suspicious-looking
men found lurking about, were taken up. A hat
which fitted one of them was picked up in Mr.
Hewson's grove; the gravel under the end win-
dow bore many signs of trampling feet ; and there
were marks on the wall as if guns had rested
against it. Gahan's information touching the in-
tended meeting at Kilcrean bog proved to be
<*>tally without foundation; and after a careful

240 PEAKL-FlSHING.

search not a single pike or weapon of any descrip-
tion could be found there. All these circum-
stances comMned certainly looked suspicious;
but, after a long investigation, as no guilt could be
actually brought home to Grahan, he was dis-
missed. One of his examiners, however, said pri-
vately, " I advise you take care of that fellow,
Hewson. If I were in your place, I 'd just trust
him as far as I could throw him, and not an inch
beyond."

An indolent hospitable Irish country gentleman,
such as Mr. Hewson, is never without an always
shrewd and often roguish prime minister, who
saves his master the trouble of looking after his
own affairs, and manages everything that is to be
done in both the home and foreign departments, —
from putting a new door to the pig-stye, to letting
a farm of an hundred acres on lease. Now in this,
or rather these capacities, Gahan had long served
Mr. Hewson ; and some seven years previous to
the evening on which our story commences, he had
strengthened the tie and increased his influence

FATHER AND SON. 241

considerably "by marrying Mrs. Hewson's favorite
and faithful maid. One child was the result of
this union ; and Mrs. Hewson, who had no family
of her own, took much interest in little Billy, —
more especially after the death of his mother, who,
poor thing! the neighbors said, was not very
happy, and would gladly, if she dared, have ex-
changed her lonely cottage for the easy service of
her former mistress.

Thus, though for a time Mr. and Mrs. Hewson
regarded Gahan with some doubt, the feeling
gradually wore away, and the steward regained
Ids former influence.

After the lapse of a few stormy months the re-
bellion was quelled: all the prisoners taken up
were severally disposed of by hanging, transporta-
tion or acquittal, according to the nature and
amount of the evidence brought against them ;
and the country became as peaceful as it is in the
volcanic nature of our Irish soil ever to be.

The Hewsons' kindness towards Gahan's child

was steady and unchanged* They took him into
16

242 PEARL-FISHING.

their house, and gave him a plain but solid educa-
tion ; so that William, while yet a boy, was en-
abled to be of some use to his patron, and daily
enjoyed more and more of his confidence.

Another Evening, the twentieth anniversary of
that with which this narrative commenced, came
round. Mr. and Mrs. Hewson were still hale
and active, dwelling in their hospitable home.
About eight o'clock at night, Tim Grahan, now a
stooping, gray-haired man, entered Mr. Hewson's
kitchen, and took his seat on the corner of the
settle, near the fire.

The cook directing a silent significant glance of
compassion towards her fellow-servants, said :

" Would you like a drink of cider, Tim, or will
you wait and take a cup of tay with myself and
Kitty?"

The old man's eyes were fixed on the fire, and a
wrinkled hand was planted firmly on each knee,
as if to check their involuntary trembling. " I '11

FATHER AND S ON. 243

not drink anything this night, thank you kindly,
Nelly," he said, in a slow musing manner, dwell-
ing long on each word.

" Where 's Billy ? " he asked, after a pause, in a
quick hurried tone, looking up suddenly at the
cook, with an expression in his eyes, which, as she
afterwards said, "took away her breath."

" Oh, never heed Billy ! I suppose he 's busy
with the master."

" Where 's the use, Nelly," said the coachman,
"in hiding it from him? Sure, sooner or later he
must know it. Tim," he continued, " Grod knows
'tis sorrow to my heart this blessed night to make
yours sore, — but the truth is, that William has
done what he oughtn't to do to the man that was
all one as a father to him."

" What has he done ? what will you dar say
again my boy ? "

" Taken money, then," replied the coachman,
" that the master had marked and put by in his
desk ; for he suspected this some time past that
gold was missing. This morning 'twas gone; a

244 PEARL-FISHING.

search was made, and the marked guineas were
found with your son William."

The old man covered his face with his hands,
and rocked himself to and fro.

"Where is he now?" at length he asked, in a
hoarse voice.

" Locked up safe in the inner store-room ; the
master intends sending him to gaol early to-mor-
row morning."

"He will not," said Gahan slowly, "kill the
boy that saved his life ! — no, no."

" Poor fellow ! the grief is setting his mind
astray — and sure no wonder ! " said the cook,
compassionately.

"I'm not astray!" cried the old man, fiercely.

" Where 's the master ? — take me to him."

" Come with me," said the butler; "and I'll ask
him will he see you ? "

With faltering steps the father complied; and
when they reached the parlor, he trembled exceed-
ingly, and leant against the wall for support,
while the butler opened the door, and said :

FATHER AND SON. 245

" Gahan is here, Sir, and wants to know will
you let him speak to you for a minute ? "

" Tell him to come in," said Mr. Hewson, in a
solemn tone of sorrow, very different from his or-
dinary cheerful voice.

" Sir," said the steward, advancing, " they tell
me you are going to send my boy to prison, — is it
true ? "

"Too true, indeed, Gahan. The lad who was
reared in my house, whom my wife watched over
in health, and nursed in sickness — whom we loved
almost as if he were our own, has robbed us, and
that not once or twice, but many times. He is
silent, and sullen, too, and refuses to tell why he
stole the money, which was never withheld from
him when he wanted it. I can make nothing of
him, and must only give him up to justice in the
morning."

"No, Sir, no The boy saved your life; you
can't take his"

" You 're raving, Gahan."

"Listen to me, Sir, and you won't say so. You

246 PEAEL-FISHING.

remember this night twenty years ? I came here
with my motherless child, and yourself and the
mistress pitied us, and spoke loving words to him.
Well for us all you did so ! That night — little
you thought it! — I was banded with them that
were sworn to take your life. * They were watch-
ing you outside the window, and I was sent to
inveigle you out, that they might shoot you. A
faint heart I had for the bloody business, for you
were ever and always a good master to me ; but I
was under an oath to them that I darn't break,
supposing they ordered me to shoot my own
mother. Well ! the hand of God was over you,
and you wouldn't come with me. I ran out to
them, and I said — "Boys, if you want to shoot
him, you must do it through the window," think-
ing they 'd be afeard of that ; but they weren't —
they were daring fellows, and 'one of them,
sheltered by the angle of the window, took deadly
aim at you. That very moment you took Billy
on your knee, and I saw his fair head on a line
with the musket. I don't know exactly then what

FATHER AND SON. 247

I said or did, but I remember I caught the man's
band, threw it up, and pointed to the child.
Knowing I was a determined man, I believe they
didn't wish to provoke me ; so they watched you
for awhile, and when you didn't put him down
they got daunted, hearing the sound of soldiers
riding by the road, and they stole away through
the grove. Most of that gang swung on the
gallows, but the last of them died this morning
quietly in his bed. Up to yesterday he used to
make me give him money, — sums of money to
buy his silence — and it was for that I made my
boy a thief. It was wearing out his very life.
Often he went down on his knees to me, and said :
'Father, I 'd die myself sooner than rob my master,
but I can't see you disgraced. Oh, let us fly the
country ! ' Now, Sir, I have told you all — do what
you like with me — send me to goal, I deserve it —
but spare my poor, deluded, innocent boy ! "

It would be difficult to describe Mr. Hewson's
feelings, but his wife's first impulse was to hasten
to liberate the prisoner. With a few incoherent

248 PEARL-FISHING,

words of explanation she led him into the presence
of his master, who, looking at him sorrowfully but
kindly, said :

"William, you nave erred deeply, but not so
deeply as I supposed. Your father has told me
everything. I forgive him freely and you also."

The young man covered his face with his hands,
and wept tears more bitter and abundant than he
had ever shed since the day when he followed his
mother to the grave. He could say but little, but
he knelt on the ground, and clasping the kind
hand of her who had supplied to him that mother's
place, he murmured :

" "Will you tell him I would rather die than sin
again.

Old Gahan died two years afterwards, truly
penitent, invoking 'blessings on his son and on his
benefactors; and the young man's conduct, now
no longer under evil influence, was so steady and
so upright, that his adopted parents felt that their
pious work war- rewarded, and that, in William
Gahan, they had indeed a son.

VIII.

i. — THE CHILD'S TKAGEDY.

mHEKE is no really beautiful part of this king-
-*' dom so little known as the Peak of Derby-
shire. Matlock, with its tea-garden trumpery, and
mock-heroic wonders ; Buxton, with its bleak hills
and fashionable bathers; the truly noble Chats-
worth and the venerable Haddon, engross almost
all that the public generally have seen of the Peak.
It is talked of as a land of mountains, which in
reality are only hills ; but its true beauty lies in
valleys that have been created by the rending of
the earth in some primeval convulsion, and which
present a thousand charms to the eyes of the lover
of nature. How deliciously do the crystal waters
of the Wye and the Dove rush along such valleys,
or dales, as they are called. With what a wild

250 PEAKL -FISHING.

variety do the gray rocks soar up amid their
woods and copses. How airily stand in the clear
heavens the lofty limestone precipices, and the
gray edges of rock gleam out from the bare green
downs — there never called downs. What a genu-
ine Saxon air is there cast over the population,
what a Saxon, bluntness salutes you in their
speech !

It is into the heart of this region that we pro-
pose now to carry the reader. Let him suppose
himself with us now on the road from Ashford-in-
the-water to Tidesi7ell. "We are at the Bulls-
Head, a little inn on that road. There is nothing
to create wonder, or a suspicion of a hidden Ar-
cadia in anything you see, but another step for-
ward, and — there ! There sinks a world of valleys
at your feet. To your left lies the delicious Mon-
sol Dale. Old Finn Hill Hfts his gray head grand-
ly over it. Hobthrush's Castle stands bravely
forth in the hollow of his side — gray, and deso-
late, and mysterious. The sweet Wye goes wind-
ing and sounding at his feet, amid its narrow

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 251

green meadows, green as the emerald, and its dark
glossy alders. Before us stretches on, equally
beautiful, Cressbrook Dale ; Little Edale shows its
cottages from amidst its trees ; and as we advance,
the Mousselin-de-laine Mills stretch across the
mouth of Miller's Dale, and startle with the aspect
of so much life amid so much solitude.

But our way is still onward. "We resist the
attraction of Cressbrook village on its lofty emi-
nence, and plunge to the right, into Wardlow
Dale. Here we are buried deep in woods, and yet
behold still deeper the valley descend below us.
There is an Alpine feeling upon us. We are
carried once more, as in a dream, into the Saxon
Switzerland. Above us stretch the boldest ranges
of lofty precipices, and deep amid the woods are
heard the voices of children. These come from a
few workman's houses couched at the foot of a
cliff that rises high and bright amid the sun.
That is Wardlow Cop ; and there we mean to halt
for a moment. Forwards lies a wild region of
hills, and valleys, and lead mines, but forward

252 PEARL-FISHING.

goes no road, except such as you can make your-
self through the tangled woods.

At the foot of Wardlow Cop, before this little
hamlet of Bellamy Wick was built, or the glen
was dignified with the name of Kaven Dale, there
lived a miner who had no term for his place of
abode. He lived, he said, under Wardlow Cop,
and that contented him.

His house was one of those little, solid, gray
limestone cottages, with gray flagstone roofs which
abound in the Peak. It had stood under that
lofty precipice when the woods which now so
densely fill the valley were but newly planted.
There had been a mine near it, which had no
doubt been the occasion of its erection in so soli-
tary a place ; but that mine was now worked out,
and David Dunster, the miner, now worked at a
mine right over the hills in Miller's Dale. He was
seldom at home, except at night, and on Sundays.
His wife, besides keeping her little house, and dig-
ging and weeding in the strip of garden that lay
on the steep slope above the house, hemmed in

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 253

with a stone wall, also seamed stockings for a
framework-knitter in Ashford, whither she went
once or twice in the week.

They had three children, a boy and two girls.
The boy was about eight years of age ; the girls
were about five and six. These children were
taught their lessons of spelling and reading by the
mother, amongst her other multifarious tasks ; for
she was one of those who are called regular plod-
ders. She was quiet, patient, and always doing,
though never in a bustle. She was not one of
those who acquire a character for vast industry by
doing everything in a mighty flurry, though they
contrive to find time for a tolerable deal of gossip
under the plea of resting a bit, and " which rest-
ing a bit " they always terminate by an exclama-
tion that " they must be off, though, for they
have a world of work to do." Betty Dunster, on
the contrary, was looked on as rather " a slow
coach." If you remarked that she was a hard-
working woman, the reply was, "Well, she's
always doing — Betty's work 's never done ; but

254: PEAEL-FISHING.

then she does na hurry hersen." The fact was,
Betty was a thin, spare woman, of no very strong
constitution, but of an untiring spirit. Her pleas-
ure and rest were, when David came home at
night, to have his supper ready, and to sit down
opposite to him at the little round table, and help
him, giving a bit now and then to the children,
that came and stood round, though they had had
their suppers, and were ready for bed as soon as
they had seen something of their " dad."

David Dunster was one of those remarkably
tall fellows that you see about these hills, who
seem of all things the very worst made men to
creep into the little mole holes on the hill sides
that they call lead-mines. But David did manage
to burrow under and through the hard limestone
rocks as well as any of them. He was a hard-
working man, though he liked a sup of beer, as
most Derbyshire men do, and sometimes came
home none of the soberest. He was naturally of
a very hasty temper, and would fly into great
rages ; and if he were put out by anything in the

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 255

working of the mines, or the conduct of his fellow-
workmen, he would stay away from home for
days, drinking at Tideswell, or the Bull's Head at
the top of Monsal Dale, or down at the Miners'
Arms at Ashford-in-the- water.

Betty Dunster bore all this patiently. She
looked on these things somewhat as matters of
course. At that time, and even now, how few
miners do not drink and "roll a bit," as they
call it. She was, therefore, tolerant, and let the
storms blow over, ready always to persuade her
husband to go home and sleep off his drink and
anger, but if he were too violent, leaving him till
another attempt might succeed better. She was
very fond of her children, and not only taught
them on week days their lessons, and to help her
to seam, but also took them to the Methodist
Chapel in " Tidser," as they called Tideswell,
whither, whenever she could, she enticed David.
David, too, in his way, was fond of the children,
especially of the boy, who was called David after
him. He was quite wrapped up in the lad, to use

256 PEARL-FISHING.

the phrase of the people in that part ; in fact, he
was foolishly and mischievously fond of him.
He would give him beer to drink, "to make a
true Briton on him," as he said, spite of Betty's
earnest endeavor to prevent it, — telling him that
he was laying the foundation in the lad of the
same faults that he had himself. But David
Dunster did not look on drinking as a fault at all.
It was what he had been used to all his life. It
was what all the miners had been used to for gen-
erations. A man was looked on as a milk-sop
and a Molly Coddle, that would not take his mug
of ale, and be merry with his comrades. It re- *
quired the light of education, and the efforts that
have been made by the Temperance Societies, to
break in on this ancient custom of drinking,
which, no doubt, has flourished in these hills since
the Danes and other Scandinavians, bored and
perforated them of old for the ores of lead and
copper. To Betty Dunster's .remonstrances, and
commendations of tea, David would reply, —
" Botheration Betty, wench ! Dunna tell me

THE MINER'S DAUGHTEK. 257

about thy tea and such-like pig's-wesh. It's all
very well for women] but a man, Betty, a man
mun ha' a sup of real stingo, lass. He mun haj
summut to prop his ribs out, lass, as he delves
through th' chert and tood-stone. When tha
weylds th' maundrel (the pick), and I wesh th7
dishes, tha shall ha' th' drink, my wench, and I '11
ha' th' tea. Till then, prithee let me aloon, and
dunna bother me, for it 's no use. It only kicks
my monkey up."

And Betty found that it was of no use ; that it
did only kick his monkey up, and so she let him
alone, except when she could drop in a persuasive
word or two. The mill-owners at Cressbrook and
Miller's Dale had forbidden any public-house
nearer than Edale, and they had more than once
called the people together to point out to them the
mischiefs of drinking, and the advantages to be
derived from the very savings of temperance. But
all these measures, though they had some effect on
the mill people, had very little on the miners.
They either sent to Tideswell or Edale for kegs of

258 . PEARL-FISHING.

beer to peddle at the mines, or they went thither
themselves on receiving their wages.

And let no one suppose that David Dunster
was worse than his fellows ; or that Betty Dunster
thought her case a particularly hard one. David
*( was pretty much of a muchness," according to
the country phrase, with the rest of his hard-work-
ing tribe, which was, and always had been, a hard-
drinking tribe ; and Betty, though she wished it
different, did not complain, just because it was of
no use, and because she was no worse off than her
neighbors.

Often when she went to "carry in her hose" to
Ashford, she left the children at home by them-
selves. She had no alternative. They were there in
that solitary valley for many hours playing alone.
And to them it was not solitary. It was all that
they knew of life, and that all was very pleasant
to them. In spring, they hunted for bird's-nests
in the copses, and amongst the rocks and gray
stones that had fallen from them. In the copses
built the blackbirds and thrushes: in the rocks

THE MINSK'S DAUGHTEE. 259

tlie firetails ; and tlie gray wagtails in the stones,
•which were so exactly of their own color, as to
make it difficult to see them. In summer, they
gathered flowers and berries, and in the winter
they played at horses, kings, and shops, and sun-
dry other things in the house.

On one of these occasions, a bright afternoon in
autumn, the three children had rambled down the
glen, and found a world of amusement in being
teams of horses, in making a little mine at the foot
of a tall cliff,, and in marching for soldiers, for they
had one day — the only time in their lives — seen
some soldiers go through the village of Ashford,
when they had gone there with their mother, for
she now and then took them with her when she
had something from the shop to carry besides her
bundle of hose. At length they came to the foot
of an open hill which swelled to a considerable
height, with a round and climbable side, on which
grew a wilderness- of bushes, amid which lay scat-
tered masses of gray crag. A small winding path
went up this, and they followed it. It was not

260 PEAEL-FISHING.

long, however, before they saw something which
excited their eager attention. Little David, who
was the guide, and assumed to himself much im-
portance as the protector of his sisters, exclaimed,
" See here ! " and springing forward, plucked a fine
crimson cluster of the mountain bramble. His
sisters, on seeing this, rushed on with like eager-
ness. They soon forsook the little winding and
craggy footpath, and hurried through sinking
masses of moss and dry grass, from bush to bush
and place to place. They were soon far up above
the valley, and almost every step revealed to them
some delightful prize. The clusters of the moun-
tain-bramble, resembling mulberries^nd known
only to the inhabitants of the hills, were abundant,
and were rapidly devoured. The dewberry was
as eagerly gathered, — its large, purple fruit passing
with them for blackberries. In their hands were
soon seen posies of the lovely grass of Parnassus,
the mountain cistus, and the bright blue geranium.
Higher and higher the little group ascended in
this quest, till the sight of the wide, naked hills,

THE MINSK'S DAUGHTER. 261

and the hawks circling round the lofty, tower-like
crags over their heads, made them feel serious and
somewhat afraid.

"Where are we?" asked Jane, the elder sister.
" Arn't we a long way from horn ? "

"Let us go horn," said little Nancy. "I'm
afreed here ;" clutching hold of Jane's frock.

"Pho, nonsense!" said David, "what are you
afreed on ? I '11 tak care on you, niver fear."

And with this he assumed a bold and defying
aspect, and said, "Come along; there are nests in
th' hazzels up yonder."

He began to mount again, but the two girls
hung back%nd said, "Nay, David, dunna go
higher; we are both afreed;" and Jane added,
" It 's a long wee from horn, I 'm sure."

" And those birds screechin' so up there ; I
darna go up," added little Nancy. They were the
hawks that she meant, which hovered, whimpering
and screaming, about the highest cliffs. David
called them little cowards, but began to descend ;
and, presently, seeking for berries and flowers as

262 PEAKL-FISHING.

they descended, they regained the little winding,
craggy road, and, while they were calling to each
other, discovered a remarkable echo on the oppo-
site hill side. On this they shouted to it, and
laughed, and were half-frightened when it laughed
and shouted again. Little Nancy said it must be
an old man in the inside of the mountain; at
which they were all really afraid, though David
put on a big look, and said, "Nonsense! it was
nothing at all." But Jane asked how nothing at
all could shout and laugh as it did ? and on this
little Nancy plucked her again by the frock, and
said in turn, " Oh, dear, let 's go horn ! "

But at this David gave a wild whoop to frighten
them, and when the hill whooped again, and the
sisters began to run, he burst into laughter, and
the strange spectral Ha! ha! ha! that ran along
the inside of the hill as it were, completed theii
fear, and they stopped their ears with their hands,
and scuttled away down the hill. But now David
seized them, and pulling their hands down from
their heads, he said, "See here! what a nice place,

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 263

with, the stones sticking out like seats. Why it Js
like a little house ; let us stay and play a bit here."
It was a little hollow in the hill side surrounded
by projecting stones like an amphitheatre. The
sisters were still afraid, but the sight of this little
hollow with its seats of crag had such a charm for
them that they promised David they would stop
awhile, if he would promise not to shout and
awake the echo. David readily promised this, and
so they sat down; David proposed to keep a
school, and cut a hazel wand from a bush and
began to lord it over his two scholars in a very
pompous manner. The two sisters pretended to
oe much afraid, and to read very diligently on
pieces of flat stone which they had picked up.
And then David became a serjeant and was drill-
ing them for soldiers, and stuck pieces of fern into
their hair for cockades. And then, soon after,
they were sheep, and he was the shepherd ; and he
was catching his flock and going to shear them,
and made so much noise that Jane cried, "Hold I
there 's the echo mocking us."

264: PEARL-FISHING.

At. this they all were still. But David said,
" Pho ! never mind the echo ; I must shear my
sheep ;" but just as he was seizing little Nancy to
pretend to shear her with a piece of stick, Jane
cried out, "Look! look! how black it's coming
down the valley there! There's going to be a
dreadful starm ; let us hurry horn ! "

David and Nancy both looked up, and agreed
to run as fast down the hill as they could. But
the next moment the driving storm swept over
the hill, and the whole valley was hid in it. The
three children still hurried on, but it became quite
dark, and they soon lost the track, and were
tossed about by the wind, so that they had diffi-
culty to keep on ilheir legs. Little Nancy begau
to cry, and the three taking hold of each other en-
deavored in silence to make their way homewards.
But presently they all stumbled over a large
stone, and fell some distance down the hill. They
were not hurt, but much frightened, for they now
remembered the precipices, and were afraid every
minute of going over them. They now strove to

THE MINEB'S DAUGHTEK. 265

find the track by going up again, but they could
not find it anywhere. Sometimes they went up-
wards till they thought they were quite too far,
and then they went downwards till they were
completely bewildered ; and then, like the Babes
in the Wood, " They sate them down and
cried."

But ere they had sate long, they heard footsteps,
and listened. They certainly heard them and
shouted, but there was no answer. David shouted,
" Help ! fayther ! mother ! help ! " but there was
no answer. The wind swept fiercely by; the
hawks whimpered from the high crags, lost in the
darkness of the storm ; and the rain fell, driving
along icy cold. Presently, ther&^was a gleam of
light through the clouds; the hill-side became
visible, and through the haze they saw a tall
figure as of an old man ascending the hill. He
appeared to carry two loads slung from his shoul-
ders by a strap ; a box hanging before, and a bag
hanging at his back. He wound up the hill
slowly and wearily, and presently he stopped, and

266 PEAKL-FISHING.

relieving himself of his load, seated himself on a
piece of crag to rest. Again David shouted, but
there still was no answer. The old man sate as if
no shout had been heard — immovable.

" It is a man," said David, " and I will mak him
hear ; " and with that he shouted once more with
all his might. But the old man made no sign of
recognition. He did not even turn his head, but
he took off his hat and began to wipe his brow as
if warm with the ascent.

" What can it be ? " said David in astonishment.
" It is a man, that 's sartain. I '11 run and see."

"Nay, nay!" shrieked the sisters. "Don't,
David ! don't ! It 's perhaps the old man out of
the mountain that 's been mocking us. Perhaps,"
added Jane, " he only comes out in starms and
darkness."

"Stuff I" said David, "an echo isn't a man;
it 's only our own voices. I '11 see who it is ; "
and away he darted, spite of the poor girls'
crying in terror, "Don't; don't, David I Oh,
don't."

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 267

But David was gone. He was not long in
reaching the old man, who sate on his stone
breathing hard, as if out of breath with his ascent,
but not appearing to perceive David's approach.
The rain and the wind drove fiercely upon him, but
he did not seem to mind it. David was half afraid
to approach close to him, but he called out, "Help;
help, mester ! " The old man remained as uncon-
scious of his presence. " Hillo ! " cried David
again. " Can you tell us the way down, mester? "
There was no answer, and David was beginning to
feel a shudder of terror run through every limb,
when the clouds cleared considerably, and he
suddenly exclaimed, " Why it 's old Tobias Tur-
ton of top of Edale, and he 's as deaf as a door-
nail!"

In an instant, David was at his side ; seized his
coat to make him aware of his presence, and, on
the old man perceiving him, shouted in his ear,
" Which is the way down liere, Mester Turton ?
Where's the track?"

"Down? Weighs o' the back?" said the old

268 PEAEL-FISHING.

man ; " ay, my lad, I was fain to sit down ; it does
weigh o' th' back, sure enough."

"Where's the foot-track?" shouted David
again.

" Th' foot-track ? Why, what art ta doing here,
my lad, in such a starm? Is'nt it David Dun-
ster'slad?"

David nodded. " Why, the track 's here ! see ; "
and the old man stamped his foot. " Get down
horn, my lad, as fast as thou can. What dun they
do letting thee be upon th' hills in such a dee as
this?"

David nodded his thanks, and turned to descend
the track, while the old man adjusting his burden
again, silently and wearily recommenced his way
upwards.

David shouted to his sisters as he descended,
and they quickly replied. He called to them to
come towards him, as he was on the track, and
was afraid to quit it again. They endeavored .to
do this ; but the darkness was now redoubled,
and the wind and rain became more furious than

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 269

ever. The two sisters were soon bewildered
amongst the bushes, and David, who kept calling
to them at intervals to direct their course towards
him, soon heard them crying bitterly. At this,
he forgot the necessity of keeping the track,
and darting towards them, soon found them
by continuing to call to them, and took their
hands to lead them to the track. But they
were now drenched through with the rain, and
shivered with cold and fear. David with a
stout heart endeavored to cheer them. He told
them the track was close by, and that they
would soon be at home. But though the track
was not ten yards off, somehow they did not find
it. Bushes and projecting rocks turned them out
of their course ; and owing to the confusion caused
by the wind, the darkness, and their terror, they
searched in vain for the track. Sometimes they
thought they had found it, and went on a few
paces, only to stumble over loose stones, or get
entangled in the bushes.

It was now absolutely becoming night. Their

270 PEAKL-FISHING.

terrors increased greatly. They shouted and
cried aloud, in the hope of making their parents
hear them. They felt sure that both father and
mother must be come home; and as sure that
they would be hunting for them. But they did
not reflect that their parents could not tell in what
direction they had gone. Both father and mother-
were come home, and the mother had instantly
rushed out to try to find them, on perceiving that
they were not in the house. She had hurried to
and fro, and called — not at first supposing they
would be far. But when she heard nothing of
them, she ran in, and begged of her husband to
join in the search. But at first David Dunster
would do nothing. He was angry at them for
going away from the house, and said he was too
tired to go on a wild-goose chase through the
plantations after them. "They are i' th' planta-
tions," said he; "they are sheltering there some-
where. Let them alone, and they '11 come home,
with a good long tail behind them."

With this piece of a child's song of sheep, David

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 271

sat down to his supper, and Betty Dunster hurried
up the valley, shouting — "Children, where are
you ? David ! Jane 1 Nancy ! where are you ? "

When she heard nothing of them, she hurried
still more wildly up the hill towards the village.
"When she arrived there — the distance of a mile —
she inquired from house to house, but no one had
seen anything of them. It was clear they had not
been in that direction. An alarm was thus created
in the village ; and several young men set out to
join Mrs. Dunster in the quest. They again de-
scended the valley towards Dunster's house, shout-
ing every now and then, and listening. The
night was pitch dark, and the rain fell heavily;
but the wind had considerably abated, and once
they thought they heard a faint cry in answer to
their call, far down the valley. They were right ;
the children had heard the shouting, and had re-
plied to it. But they were far off. The young
men shouted again, but there was no answer ; and
after shouting once more without success, they
hastened on. When they reached David Dun-

272 PEAKL-FISHING.

ster's house, they found the door open, and no one
within. They knew that David had set off in
quest of the children himself, and they determined
to descend the valley. The distracted mother
went with them, crying silently to herself, and
praying inwardly, and every now and then trying
to shout. But the young men raised their strong
voices above hers, and made the cliffs echo with
their appeals.

Anon a voice answered them down the valley.
They ran on as well as the darkness would let
them, and soon found that it was David Dunster,
who had been in the plantations on the other side
of the> valley ; but hearing nothing of the lost chil-
dren, now joined them. He said he had heard the
cry from the hill-side farther down, that answered
•to their shouts, and he was sure that it was his
boy David's voice. But he had shouted again,
and there had been no answer but a wild scream
as of terror, that made his blood run cold.

"0 God!" exclaimed the distracted mother,
"what can it be? David! David! Jane! Nancy!"

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 273

There was no answer. The young man bade
Betty Dunster to contain, herself, and they would
find the children before they went home again.
All held on down the valley, and in the direction
whence the voice came. Many times did the
young men and the now strongly agitated father
shout and listen. At length they seemed to hear
voices of weeping and moaning. They listened —
they were sure they heard a lamenting — it could
only be the children. But why then did they not
answer? On struggled the men, and Mrs. Dun-
ster followed wildly after. Now, again, they stood
and shouted, and a kind of terrified scream followed
the shout.

"God in heaven!" exclaimed the mother;
"what is it? There is something dreadful. My
children ! my children ! where are you ? "

"Be silent, pray do, Mrs. Dunster," said one of
the young men, " or we cannot catch the sounds so
as to follow them." They again listened, and the
wailings of the children were plainly heard. The

whole party pushed forward over stock and stone up

18

274 PEAKL-FISHING.

the hill. They called again, and there was a cry of
" Here ! here ! fayther 1 mother ! where are you ? "

In a few moments more the whole party had
reached the children, who stood drenched with
rain, and trembling violently, under a cliff that
gave no shelter, but was exposed especially to the
wind and rain.

"0 Christ! My children !" cried the mother,
wildly, struggling forwards and clasping one in her
arms. "Nancy! Jane! But where is David?
David ! David ! Oh, where is David ? Where is
your brother ? "

The whole party was startled at not seeing the
boy, and joined in a simultaneous " Where is he ?
Where is your brother ? "

The two children only wept and trembled more
violently, and burst into loud crying.

"Silence I" shouted the father. "Where is
David, I tell ye? Is he lost? David, lad, where
arta?"

All listened, but there was no answer but the
renewed crying of the two girls.

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 275

"Where is the lad, then? " thundered forth the
father with a terrible oath.

The two terrified children cried, "Oh, down
there ! down there ! "

" Down where ? Oh, (rod ! " exclaimed one of the
young men ; " why it 's a precipice ! Down there? "

At this dreadful intelligence the mother gave a
wild shriek, and fell senseless on the ground. The
young men caught her, and dragged her back from
the edge of the precipice. The father in the same
moment, furious at what he heard, seized the
younger child that happened to be near him, and
shaking it violently, swore he would fling it down
after the lad.

He was angry with the poor children, as if they
had caused the destruction of his boy. The young
men seized him, and bade him think what he was
about ; but the man believing his boy had fallen
down the precipice, was like a madman. He
kicked at his wife as she lay on the ground, as if
she were guilty of this calamity by leaving the
children at home. He was furious against the

276 PEARL-FISHING.

poor girls, as if they had led their brother into
danger. In his violent rage he was a perfect
maniac, and • the young men, pushing him away,
cried shame on him. In a while, the desperate
man, torn by a hurricane of passion, sate himself
down on a crag, and burst into a tempest of tears,
and struck his head violently with his clenched
fists, and cursed himself and everybody. It was a
dreadful scene.

Meantime, some of the young men had gone
down below the precipice on which the children
had stood, and, feeling amongst the loose stones,
had found the body of poor little David. He was
truly dead!

When he had heard the shout of his father, or
of the young men, he had given one loud shout in
answer, and saying " Come on ! never fear now ! "
sprang forward, and was over the precipice in the
dark, and flew down and was dashed to pieces.
His sisters heard a rush, a faint shriek, and sud-
denly stopping, escaped the destruction that poor
David had found.

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 277

II. — MILL LIFE.

We must pass over the painful and dreadful
particulars of that night, and of a long time to
come; the maniacal rage of the father, the shat-
tered heart and feelings of the mother, the dreadful
state of the two remaining children, to whom their
brother was one of. the most precious objects in a
world which, like theirs, contained so few. One
moment to have seen him full of life, and fun, and
bravado, and almost the next a lifeless and battered
corpse, was something too strange and terrible to
be soon surmounted. But this was wofully aggra-
vated by the cruel anger of their father, who
continued to regard them as guilty of the death of
his favorite boy. He seemed to take no pleasure
in them. He never spoke to them but to scold
them. He drank more deeply than ever, and
came home later ; and when there was sullen and
morose. When their mother, who suffered severe-
ly, but still plodded on with all her duties, said,
" David, they are thy children too ;" he would

278 PEAEL-FISHING,

reply savagely, "Hod thy tongue! "What's a
pack o' wenches to my lad ? "

"What tended to render the minei more hard
towards the two girls was a circumstance which
would have awakened a better feeling in a softer
father's heart. Nancy, the younger girl, since the
dreadful catastrophe, had seemed to grow gradu-
ally dull and defective in her intellect, she had a
slow and somewhat idiotic air and manner. Her
mother perceived it, and was struck with conster-
nation by it. She tried to rouse her, but in vain.
She could not perform her ordinary reading and
spelling lessons. She seemed to have forgotten
what was already learned. She appeared to have
a difficulty in moving her legs, and carried her
hands as if she had suffered a partial paralysis.
Jane, her sister, was dreadfully distressed at it,
and she and her mother wept many bitter tears
over her. One day, in the following spring, they
took her with them to Ashford, and consulted the
doctor there. On examining her, and hearing
fully what had taken place at the time of the

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 279

"brother's death — the fact of which he well knew,
for it, of course, was known to the whole country
round — he shook his head, and said he was afraid
they must make up their minds to a sad case; that
the terrors -of that night had affected her brain, and
that, through it, the whole nervous system had
suffered, and was continuing to suffer the most
melancholy effects. The only thing, he thought,
in her favor, was her youth; and added, that it

might have a good effect if they could leave the

*
place where she Had undergone such a terrible

shock. But whether they did or not, kindness
and soothing attentions to her would do more than
anything else.

Mrs. Dunster and little Jane returned home with
heavy hearts. The doctor's opinion had only con-
firmed their fears; for Jane, though but a child,
had quickness and affection for her sister enough
. to make her comprehend the awful nature of poor
Nancy's condition. Mrs. Dunster had told her
husband the doctor's words, for she thought they
would awaken some tenderness in him towards the

280 PEARL -FISHING,

unfortunate child. But he said, " That 's just what
I expected. Hou '11 grow soft, and then who 's to
maintain her ? Hou mun goo to th' workhouse."

With that he took his maundrel and went off to
his work. Instead of softening his nature, this
intelligence seemed only to harden and brutalize
it. He drank now more and more. But all that
summer the mother and Jane did all they could
think of to restore the health and mind of poor
Nancy. Every morning, when the father was
gone to work, Jane went to a spring up in the
opposite wood, famed for the coolness and sweet-
ness of its waters. On this account the proprietors
of the mills at Cressbrook had put down a large
trough there under the spreading trees, and the
people fetched the water even from the village.
Hence Jane brought, at many journeys, this cold,
delicious water to bathe her sister in ; they then
rubbed her warm with cloths, and gave her new
milk for her breakfast. Her lessons were not left
off, lest the mind should sink into fatuity, but
were made as easy as possible. Jane continued to

THE MlNER'sDAUGHTER. 281

talk to her, and laugh with her, as if nothing was
amiss, though she did it with a heavy heart, and
she engaged her to weed and hoe with her in their
little garden. She did not dare to lead her far out
into the valley, lest it might excite her memory of
the past fearful time, but she gathered her flowers,
and continued to play with her at all their accus-
tomed sports, of building houses with pieces of
pots and stones, and imagining gardens and parks.
The anxious mother, when some weeks were gone
by, fancied that there was really some improve-
ment. The cold-bathing seemed to have strength-
ened the system : the poor child walked, and bore
herself vdth more freedom and firmness. She
became ardently fond of being with her sister, and
attentive to her directions. But there was a dull
cloud over her intellect, and a vacancy in her eyes
and features. She was quiet, easily pleased, but
seemed to have little volition of her own. Mrs.
Dunster thought if they could but get her away
from that spot, it might rouse her mind from its
sleep. But perhaps the sleep was better than the

282 PEARL-FISHING.

awakening might be ; however, the removal came,
though in a more awful way than was looked for.
The miner, who had continued to drink more and
more, and seemed to have almost estranged him-
self from his home, staying away in his drinking
bouts for a week or more together, was one day
blasting a rock in the mine, and being half-stupe-
fied with beer, did not take care to get out of the
way of the explosion, was struck with a piece of
.the flying stone, and killed on the spot.

The poor widow and her children were now
obliged to remove from under Wardlow-Cop. The
place had been a sad one to her; the death of her
husband, though he had been latterly far from a
good one, and had left her with the children in
deep poverty, was a fresh source of severe grief to
her. Her religious mind was struck down with a
weight of melancholy by the reflection of the life
he had led, and the sudden way in which he had
been summoned into eternity. When she looked
forward, what a prospect was there for her chil-
dren 1 it was impossible for her to maintain them

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 283

from her small earnings, and as to Nancy, would
she ever be able to earn her own bread, and pro-
tect herself in the world ?

It was amid such reflections that Mrs. Dunster
quitted this deep, solitary, and, to her, fatal
valley, and took up her abode in the village of
Cressbrook. Here she had one small room, and
by her own labors, and some aid from the parish,
she managed to support herself and the children.
For seven years she continued her laborious life,
assisted by the labor of the two daughters, who
also seamed stockings, and in the evenings were
instructed by her. Her girls were now thirteen
and fifteen years of age ; Jane was a tall and very
pretty girl of her years ; she was active, industri-
ous, and sweet-tempered: her constant affection
for poor Nancy was something as admirable as it
was singular. Nancy had now confirmed good
health, but it had affected her mother to per-
ceive that, since the catastrophe of her brother's
death, and the cruel treatment of her father at that
time, she had never grown in any degree as she

284: PEARL-FISHING.

ought ; she was short, stout, and of a pale and very
plain countenance. It could not be now said that
she was deficient in mind, but she was slow in its
operations. She displayed, indeed, a more than
ordinary depth of reflection, and a shrewdness of
observation, but the evidences of this came forth
in a very quiet way, and were observable only to
her mother and sister. To all besides she was ex-
tremely reserved: she was timid to excess, and
shrunk from public notice into the society of her
mother and sister. There was a feeling abroad in
the neighborhood that she was "not quite right,"
but the few who were more discerning, shook
their heads, and observed, " Eight she was not,
poor thing, but it was not want of sense ; she had
more of that than most."

And such was the opinion of her mother and
sister. They perceived that Nancy had received i
shock of which she must bear the effects thrcugl
life. Circumstances might bring her feeble bui
sensitive nerves much misery. She ^required to
be guarded and sheltered from the rudeness of the

J

THE MINSK'S DAUGHTEE. 285

world, and the mother trembled to think how
much she might be exposed to them. But in
everything that related to sound judgment, they
knew that she surpassed not only them, but any
of their acquaintance. If any difficulty had to be
decided, it was Nancy who pondered on it, and
perhaps at some moment when least expected,
pronounced an opinion that might be taken as
confidently as an oracle.

The affection of the two sisters was something
beyond the ties of this world. Jane had watched
and attended to her from the time of her constitu-
tional injury with a love that never seemed to
know a moment's weariness or change ; and the
affection which Nancy evinced for her was
equally intense and affecting. She seemed to
hang on her society for her very life. Jane felt
this, and vowed that they would never quit one
another. The mother sighed. How many things,
she thought, might tear asunder that beautiful re-
solve .

»

But now they were of an age to obtain work in

286 PEARL-FlSHING.

the mill. Indeed, Jane could have had employ-
ment there long before, but she would not quit
her sister till she could go with her, — and now
there they went. The proprietor, who knew the
case familiarly, so ordered it that the two sisters
should work near each other ; and that poor Nancy
should be as little exposed to the rudeness of the
work-people as possible. But at first so slow and
awkward were Nancy's endeavors, and such an
effect had it on her frame, that it was feared she
must give it up. This would have been a terrible
calamity ; and the tears of the two sisters, and the
benevolence of the employer, enabled Nancy to
pass through this severe ordeal. In a while she
acquired sufficient dexterity, and thenceforward
went through her work with great accuracy and
perseverance. As far as any intercourse with the
work-people was concerned, she might be said to
be dumb. Scarcely ever did she exchange a word
with any one, but she returned kind nods and
smiles ; and every morning and evening, and at
dinner-time, the two sisters might be seen going to

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 287

and fro, side by side, — Jane often talking with
some of them ; the little, odd-looking sister walk-
ing silent and listening.

Five more years and Jane was a young woman.
Amid her companions, who were few of them
above the middle size, she had a tall and striking
appearance. Her father had been a remarkably
tall and strong man, and she possessed something
of his stature, though none of his irritable disposi-
tion. She was extremely pretty, of a blooming
fresh complexion, and graceful form. She was re-
markable for the sweetness of her expression,
which was the index of her disposition. By her
side still went that odd, broad-built, but still pale
and little sister. Jane was extremely admired by
the young men of the neighborhood, and had
already many offers, but she listened to none.
" Where I go must Nancy go," she said to herself,
" and of whom can I be sure ? ;'

Of Nancy no one took notice. Her pale, some-
what large features, her thoughtful silent look,
and her short, stout figure, gave you an idea of a

288 PEARL-FISHING.

dwarf, though she could not strictly be called one.
No one would think of Nancy as a wife, — where
Jane went she must go ; the two clung together
with one heart and soul. The blow which de-
prived them of their brother seemed to bind them
inseparably together.

Mrs. Dunster, besides her seaming, at which, in
truth, she earned, a miserable sum, had now for
some years been the post- woman from the village
to the Bull's Head, where the mail, going on to
Tideswell, left the letter-bag. Thither and back,
wet or dry, summer or winter, she went every
day, the year round. With her earnings and
those of the girls', she kept a neat, small cottage ;
and the world went as well with them as the
world goes on the average with the poor. Cramps
and rheumatisms she began to feel sensibly from
so much exposure to rain and cold ; but the never-
varying and firm affection of her two children was
a balm in her cup, which made her contented with
everything else.

When Jane was about two-and-twenty, poor

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 289

Mrs. Dunster, seized with rheumatic fever, died.
On her death-bed she said to Jane, " Thou wilt
never desert poor Nancy ; and that 's my comfort.
God has been good to me. After all my trouble,
he has given me this faith, that come weal come
woe, so long as thou has a home, Nancy will
never want one. God bless thee for it ! God bless
you both ; and he will bless you ! " So saying,
Betty Dunster breathed her last.

The events immediately following her death did
not seem to bear out her dying faith ; for the two
poor girls were obliged to give up their cottage.
There was a want of cottages. Not half of the
working people could be entertained in this vil-
lage ; they went to and fro for many miles. Jane
and Nancy were now obliged to do the same.
Their cottage was wanted for an overlooker, — and
they removed to Tideswell, three miles off. They
had thus six miles a day to walk, besides standing
at their work ; but they were young, and had
companions. In Tideswell they were more cheer-
ful. They had a snug little cottage ; were near a

290 PEARL-FISHING.

Meeting ; and found friends. They did not com-
plain. Here, again, Jane Dunster attracted great
attention, and a young, thriving grocer paid his
addresses to her. It was an offer that made Jane
take time to reflect. Every one said it was an op-
portunity not to be neglected ; but Jane weighed
in her mind, " Will he keep faith in my compact
with Nancy ? " Though her admirer made every
vow on the subject, Jane paused and determined
to take the opinion of Nancy. Nancy thought
for a day, and then said, " Dearest sister, I don't
feel easy; I fear that from some cause it would
not do in the end."

Jane from that moment gave up the idea of the
connection. There might be those who would
suspect Nancy of a selfish bias in the advice she
gave ; but Jane knew that no such feeling influ-
enced her pure soul. For one long year the two
sisters traversed the hills between Cressbrook and
Tideswell. But they had companions, and it was
pleasant in the summer months. But winter came,
and then it was a severe trial. To rise in the

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 291

dark, and traverse those wild and bleak hills ; to
go through snow and drizzle, and face the sharpest
winds in winter, was no trifling matter. Before
winter was over, the two young women began
seriously to revolve the chances of a nearer resi-
dence, or a change of employ. There were no
few who blamed Jane excessively for the folly of
refusing the last good offer. There were even
more than one who, in the hearing of Nancy,
blamed her. Nancy was thoughtful, agitated, and
wept. " If I can, dear sister," she said, " have ad-
vised you to your injury, how shall I forgive my-
self? What shall become of me ? "

But Jane clasped her sister to her heart, and
said, " No ! no ! dearest sister, you are not to
blame. I feel you are right ; let us wait, and we
shall see ! "

III. — THE COUETSHIP AND ANOTHER SHIP.

One evening, as the two sisters were hastening
along the road through the woods on their way

292 PEARL-FISHING.

homewards, a young farmer drove up in his
spring-cart, cast a look at them, stopped, and said :
" Young women, if you are going my way, I shall
be glad of your company. You are quite welcome
to ride."

The sisters looked at each other. "Dunnabe
afreed," said the young farmer ; " my name 's
Tames Cheshire. I 'm well known in these parts ;
you may trust yersens wi' me, if it 's agreeable."

To James' surprise, Nancy said, " No, sir, we
are not afraid ; we are much obliged to you."

The young farmer helped them up into the cart,
and away they drove.

" I 'm afraid we shall crowd you," said Jane.

u Not a bit of it," replied the young farmer.
" There 's room for three bigger nor us in this seat,
and 1 7m no ways tedious."

The sisters saw nothing odd in his use of the
word "tedious," as strangers would have done;
they knew it merely meant " not at all particular."
They were soon in active talk. As he had told
them who he was, he asked them in their turn if

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 293

they worked at the mills there. They replied in
the affirmative, and the young man said : —

" I thought so. I Ve seen you sometimes going
along together. I noticed you because you seemed
so sisterly like, and you are sisters, I reckon."

They said " Yes."

" I Ve a good spanking horse, you see," said
James Cheshire. "I shall get over th' ground
ray ther faster than you done a-foot, eh ? My word,
though, it must be nation cold on these bleak hills
i' winter."

The sisters assented, and thanked the young
farmer for taking them up.

" We are rather late," said they, "for we looked
in on a friend, and the rest of the mill-hands were
gone on."

""Well," said the young farmer, "never mind
that. I fancy Bess, my mare here, can go a little
faster nor they can. We shall very likely be at
Tidser as soon as they are."

" But you are not going to Tidser," said Jane,
"your farm is just before us there."

294 PEARL-FISHING.

" Yay, I'm going to Tidser though. I've a bit
of business to do there before I go horn."

On drove the farmer at what he called a spank-
ing rate ; presently they saw the young mill-people
on the road before them.

" There are your companions," said James
Cheshire, " we shall cut past them like a flash of
lightning.

" Oh," exclaimed Jane Dunster, "what will they
say at seeing us riding here ? " and she blushed
brightly.

" Say ! " said the young farmer, smiling, " never
mind what they'll say; depend upon it, they'd
like to be here theirsens."

James Cheshire cracked his whip. The horse
flew along. The party of the young mill-hands
turned round, and on seeing Jane and Nancy in
the cart, uttered exclamations of surprise.

" My word, though ! " said Mary Smedley, a
fresh buxom lass, somewhat inclined to stoutness.

"Well, if ever!" cried smart little Hannah
Bowyer.

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 295

"Nay, then, what next! " said Tetty Wilson, a
tall, thin girl, of very good looks.

The two sisters nodded and smiled to their com-
panions ; Jane still blushing rosily, but Nancy
sitting as pale and as gravely as if they were going
on some solemn business.

The only notice the farmer took was to turn
with a broad smiling face, and sV.ut to them,
" "Wouldn't you like to be here too ? "

" Ay, take us up," shouted a number of voices
together; but the farmer cracked his whip, and
giving them a nod and a dozen smiles in one, said,
" I can't stay. Ask the next farmer that comes up."

"With this they drove on; the young farmer
very merry and full of talk. They were soon by
the side of his farm. " There 's a flock of sheep on
the turnips there," he said, proudly; "they're not
to be beaten on this side Ashbourne. And there
are some black oxen going for the night to the
straw-yard. Jolly fellows, those — eh? But I
reckon you don't understand much, of farming
stock?"

296 PEARL-FISHING.

• "No," said Jane, and was again surprised at
Nancy adding, " I wish we did. I think a farm-
er's life must be the very happiest of any."

" You think so ? " said the farmer, turning and
looking at her earnestly, and evidently with some
wonder. " You are right," said he. " You little
ones are knowing ones. You are right ; it 's the
life for a king."

They were at the village. " Pray stop," said
Jane, "and let us go down. I would not for the
world go up the village thus. It would make such
a talk!"

"Talk, who cares for talk?" said the farmer;
" won't the youngsters we left on the road talk ? "

" Quite enough," said Jane.

" And are you afraid of talk ? " said the farmer
to Nancy.

"I'm not afraid of it when I don't provoke it
wilfully," said Nancy; "but we are poor girls, and
can't afford to lose even the good word of our
acquaintance. You 've been very kind in taking
us up on the road, but to drive us to our door

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 297

would cause such wonder as would perhaps make
us wish we had not been obliged to you."

" Blame me, if you arn't right again ! " said the
young farmer, thoughtfully. •" These are scandal-
loving times, and th' neebors might plague you.
That's a deep head of yourn, though, — Nancy, I
think your sister caw'd JOVL. Well, here I stop
then."

He jumped down and helped them out.

" If you will drive on first," said Jane, " we will
walk on after, and we're greatly obliged to you."

" Nay/' said the young man, " I shall turn again
here."

" But you Ve business."

"Oh! my business was to drive you here —
that 'sail."

James Cheshere was mounting his cart, when
Nancy stepped up, and said: "Excuse me, Sir,
but you'll meet the mill-people on your return,
and it will make them talk all the more as you
have driven us past your farm. Have you no
business that you can do in Tidser, Sir? "

298 PEAEL-FISHING.

"Gad! but thou'rt right again! Ay, I'll go
on ! " and with a crack of his whip, and a " Good
night ! " he whirled into the village before them.

No sooner was he gone than Nancy, pressing her
sister's arm to her side, said: "There's the right
man at last, dear Jane."

" What ! " said Jane, yet blushing deeply at the
same time, and her heart beating quicker against
her side. " Whatever are you talking of, Nancy ?
That young farmer fall in love with a mill-girl ? "

"He's done it," said Nancy; "I see it in him.
I feel it in him. And I feel, too, that he is true
and staunch as steel."

Jane was silent. They walked on in silence.
Jane's own heart responded to what Nancy had
said ; she thought again and again on what he
said. " I have seen you sometimes ; " "I noticed
you because you seemed so sisterly." " He must
have a good heart," thought Jane ; " but then he
can never think of a poor mill-girl like me."

The next morning they had to undergo plenty
of raillery from their companions. We will pass

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 299

that over. For several days, as they passed to and
fro, they saw nothing of the young farmer. But
one evening, as they were again alone, having staid
at the same acquaintance's as before, the young
farmer popped his head over a stone wall, and
said, " Good evening to you, young women," He
was soon over the wall, and walked on with them
to the end of the town. On the Sunday at the
chapel Jane saw Nancy's grave face fixed on some
object steadily, and, looking in the same direction,
was startled to see James Cheshire. Again her
heart beat pit-a-pat, and she thought " Can he
really be thinking of me ? "

The moment chapel was over, James Cheshire
was gone, stopping to speak to no one. Nancy
again pressed the arm of Jane to her side as they
walked home, and said — "I was not wrong."
Jane only replied by returning her affectionate
pressure.

Some days after, as Nancy Dunster was coming
out of a shop in the evening after their return
home from the mill, James Cheshire suddenly put

300 PEARL-FISHING.

his hand on her shoulder, and, on her turning,
shook her hand cordially, and said, " Come along
with me a bit. I must have a little talk with you."

Nancy consented without remark or hesitation.
James Cheshire walked on quickly till they came
near the fine old church which strikes travellers as
so superior to the place in which it is located ;
when he slackened his pace, and taking Nancy's
hand, began in a most friendly manner to tell her
how much he liked her and her sister. That, to
make a short matter of it, as was his way, he had
made up his mind that the woman of all others in
the world that would suit him for a wife was her
sister. " But, before I said so to her, I thought I
would say so to you, Nancy, for you are so sensi-
ble, I 'm sure you will say what is best for us all."

Nancy manifested no surprise, but said, calmly :
" You are a well-to-do farmer, Mr. Cheshire. You
have friends of property ; my sister, and — "

" Ay, and a mill-girl ; I know all that. I 've
thought it all over, and so far you are right again,
my little one. But just hear what I 've got to say.

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 301

I *m no fool, though I say it. I Ve an eye in my
head and a head on my shoulders, eh ? "

Nancy smiled.

" Well now, it 's not any mill-girl ; mind you,
it 's not any mill-girl ; no, nor perhaps another in
the kingdom, that would do for me. I don't think
mill-girls are in the main cut out for farmers'
wives, any more than farmers' wives are fit for
mill-girls ; but you see, I Ve got a notion that
your sister is not only a very farrantly lass, but
that she 's one that has particular good sense,
though not so deep as you, Nancy, neither. Well,
I Ve a notion she can turn her hand to anything,
and that she 's a heart to do it, when it 's a duty.
Isn't that so, eh ? And if it is so, then Jane
Dunster 's the lass for me ; that is, if it 's quite
agreeable."

Nancy pressed James Cheshire's hand, and said,
"You are very kind."

" Not a bit of it," said James.

" Well," continued Nancy ; " but I would have
yon to consider what your friends will say ; and

302 PEAEL-FISHING.

whether you will not be made unhappy b}
them."

" Why, as to that," said James Cheshire, inter-
rupting her, "mark me, Miss Dunster. I don't
ask my friends for anything. I can farm my own
farm ; buy my own cattle ; drive my spring-cart,
without any advice or assistance of theirs ; and
therefore I don't think I shall ask their advice in
the matter of a wife, eh ? No, no, on that score
I 'm made up. My name 's Independent, and,
at a word, the only living thing I mean to ask
advice of is yourself. If you, Miss Dunster, ap-
prove of the match, it 's settled, as far I 'm con-
cerned."

" Then so far," said Nancy, " as you and my
sister are concerned, without reference to worldly
circumstances — I approve it with all my heart. I
believe you to be as good and honest as I know
my sister to be. Oh ! Mr. Cheshire ! she is one
of ten thousand."

u "Well, I was sure of it ; " said the young farm-
er ; " and so now you must tell your sister all

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 303

about it ; and if all 's right, chalk me a white chalk
inside of my gate as you go past i' th' morning,
and to-morrow evening I '11 come up and see you."

Here the two parted with a cordial shake of the
hand. The novel signal of an accepted love was
duly discovered by James Cheshire on his gate-
post, when he issued forth at daybreak, and that
evening he was sitting at tea with Jane and Nancy
in the little cottage, having brought in his cart a
basket of eggs, apples, fresh butter, and a pile of
the richest pikelets (crumpets), country pikelets,
very different to town-made ones, for tea.

"We need not follow out the courtship of James
Cheshire and Jane Dunster. It was cordial and
happy. James insisted that both the sisters should
give immediate notice to quit the mill-work, to
spare themselves the cold and severe walks which
the winter now occasioned them. The sisters had
improved their education in their evenings. They
were far better read and informed than most
farmers' daughters. They had been, since they
came to Tideswell, teachers in the Sunday-school.

304 PEARL-FISHING.

There was comparatively little to be learned in a
farm-house for the wife in winter, and James
Cheshire therefore proposed to the sisters to go for
three months to Manchester into a wholesale house,
to learn as much as they could of. the plain sewing
and cutting out of household linen. The person
in question made up all sorts of household linen,
sheets, pillow-cases, shirts, and other things ; in
fact, a great variety of articles. Through an old
acquaintance he got them introduced there, avow-
edly to prepare them for house-keeping. It was a
sensible step, and answered well. At spring, to
cut short opposition from his own relatives, which
began to show itself, for these things did not fail
to be talked of, James Cheshire got a license, and
proceeding to Manchester, was then and there
married, and came home with his wife and sister.

The talk and gossip which this wedding made
all round the country, was no little ; but the par-
ties themselves were well satisfied with their mu-
tual choice, and were happy. As the spring ad-
ranced, the duties of the household grew upon

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 805

Mrs. Cheshire. She had to learn the art of
cheese-making, butter-making, of all that relates
to poultry, calves, and household management.
But in these matters she had the aid of an old
servant who had done all this for Mr. Cheshire,
since he began farming. She took a great liking
to her mistress, and showed her with hearty good-
will how everything was done ; and as Jane took
a deep interest in it, she rapidly made herself mis-
tress of the management of the house, as well as
of the house itself. She did not disdain, herself,
to take a hand at the churn, that she might be
familiar with the whole process of butter-making,
and all the signs by which the process is con-
ducted to a successful issue. It was soon seen
that no farmer's wife could produce a firmer,
fresher, sweeter pound of butter. It was neither
swelled by too hasty churning, nor spoiled, as is
too often the case, by the buttermilk or by water
being left in it, for want of well kneading and
pressing. It was deliciously sweet, because the

cream was carefully put up in the cleanest vessels

20

306 PEARL-FISHING.

and well attended to. Mrs. Cheshire, too, might
daily be seen kneeling by the side of the cheese-
pan, separating the curd, taking off the whey, fill-
ing the cheese- vat with the curd, and putting the
cheese herself into press. Her cheese-chamber
displayed as fine a set of well-salted, well-colored,
well-turned and regular cheeses as ever issued
from that or any other farm-house.

James Cheshire was proud of his wife ; and
Jane herself found a most excellent helper in
Nancy. Nancy took particularly to housekeeping ;
saw that all the rooms were exquisitely clean ;
that everything was in nice repair ; that not only
the master and mistress, but the servants had their
food prepared in a wholesome and attractive man-
ner. The eggs she stored up ; and as fruit came
into season, had it collected for market, and for a
judicious household use. She made the tea and
coffee morning and evening, and did everything
but preside at the table. There was not a farm-
house for twenty miles round that wore an air of
BO much brightness and evident, good management

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 307

as that of James Cheshire. For Nancy, from the
first moment of their acquaintance, he had con-
ceived a most profound respect. In all cases that
required counsel, though he consulted freely with
his wife, he would never decide till they had had
Nancy's opinion and sanction.

And James Cheshire prospered. But, spite of
this, he did not escape the persecution from his
relations that Nancy had foreseen. On all hands
he found coldness. None of them called on him.
They felt scandalized at his evening himself, as
they called it, to a mill-girl. He was taunted
when they met at market, with having been
caught with a pretty face ; and told that they
thought he had had more sense than to marry a
dressed doll with a witch by her side.

At first James Cheshire replied with a careless
waggery, " The pretty face makes capital butter,
though, eh ? The dressed doll turns out a toler-
able dairy, eh ? Better," added James, "than a good
many can, that I know, who have neither pretty
faces, nor have much taste in dressing to crack of."

308 PEAKL-FISHING.

The allusion to Nancy's dwarfish, plainness was
what peculiarly provoked James Cheshire. He
might have laughed at the criticisms on his wife,
though the envious neighbors' wives did say that
it was the old servant and not Mrs. Cheshire who
produced such fine butter and cheese ; for where-
ever she appeared, spite of envy and detraction,
her lovely person and quiet good sense, and the
growing rumor of her good management, did not
fail to produce a due impression. And James had
prepared to laugh it off; but it would not do. He
found himself getting every now and then angry
and. unsettled by it. A coarse jest on Nancy at
any time threw him into a desperate fit of indigna-
tion. The more the superior merit of his wife was
known, the more seemed to increase the envy and
venom of some of his relatives. . He saw, too, that
it had an effect on his wife. She was often sad,
and sometimes in tears.

One day when this occurred, James Cheshire
said, as they sat at tea, "I've made up my mind.
Peace in this life is a jewel. Better is a dinner of

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 309

herbs with peace, than a stalled ox with strife.
" "Well, now, I 'm determined to have peace.
Peace and luv," said he, looking affectionately
at his wife and Nancy, "peace and luv, by God's
blessing, have settled down on this house ; but
there are stings here and stings there, when
we go out of doors. "We must not only have
peace and luv in the house, but peace all round it.
So I 've made up my mind. I ?m for America ! "

" For America 1 " exclaimed Jane. " Surely
you cannot be in earnest."

" I never was more in earnest in my life," said
James Cheshire. " It is true I do very well on this
farm here, though it 's a cowdish situation ; but
from all I can learn, I can do much better in
America. I can there farm a much better farm
of my own. We can have a much finer climate
jjhan this Peak country, and our countrymen still
about us. Now, I want to know what makes a
man's native land pleasant to him ? — the kindness
of his relations and friends. But then, if a man's
relations are not kind ? — if they get a conceit into

310 PEARL-FISHING.

them, that because they are relations they are to
choose a man's wife for him, and sting him and
snort at him because he has a will of his own ? —
why, then I say, God send a good big herring-pool
between me and such relations ! My relations, by
way of showing their natural affection, spit spite
and bitterness. You, dear wife and sister, have
none of yourn to spite you. In the house we
have peace and luv. Let us take the peace and
luv, and leave the bitterness behind."

There was a deep silence.

"It is a serious proposal," at length said Jane,
with tears in her eyes.

" "What says Nancy ? " asked James.

" It is a serious proposal," said Nancy, " but it
is good. I feel it so."

There was another deep silence ; and James
Cheshire said, " Then it is decided."

"Think of it," said Jane earnestly, — •" think
well of it."

" I have thought of it long and well, my dear.
There are some of these chaps that call me rela-

THE MINER'S DAUGHTER. 311

tk>n that I shall not keep my hands off, if I stay
amongst them, — and I fain would. But for the
present I will say no more ; but, added he, rising
and bringing a book from his desk, "here is a
book by one Morris Birkbeck, — read it, both of
you, and then let me know your minds."

The sisters read. On the following Lady-day,
James Cheshire had turned over his farm advan-
tageously to another, and he, his wife, Nancy, and
the old servant, Mary Spendlove, all embarked at
Liverpool, and transferred themselves to the
"United States, and then to the State of Illinois.
Five-and-twenty years have rolled over since that
day. We could tell a long and curious story
of the fortunes of James Cheshire and his family :
from the days when, half-repenting of his emigra-
tion and his purchase, he found himself in a
rough country, amid rough and spiteful squatters,
and lay for months with a brace of pistols under
his pillow, and a great sword by his bedside for
fear of robbery and murder. But enough, that at
this moment, James Cheshire, in a fine cultivated

812 PEARL -FISHING.

country, sees Ms ample estate cultivated by his
sons, while as Colonel and magistrate he dispenses
the law and receives the respectful homage of the
neighborhood. Nancy Dunster, now styled Mrs.
Dunster, the Mother in Israel — the promoter of
schools and the councillor of old and young —
still lives. Years have improved rather than dete-
riorated her short and stout exterior. The long
exercise of wise thoughts and the play of benevo-
lent feelings, have given even a sacred beauty to
her homely features. The dwarf has disappeared,
and there remains instead, a grave but venerable
matron, — honored like a queen.

IS.

A YAKN ASHOEE.

"' T TICK ! ' nonsense. There is no such thing.

-" Life is not a game of chance any more than
chess is. If yon lose, you have no one but your-
self to blame."

This was said by a young lieutenant in the
Eoyal Navy, to a middle-aged midshipman, his
elder brother.

" Do you mean to say that luck had nothing to
do with Fine Gentleman Bobbin passing for lieu-
tenant, and my being turned back ? " was the
rejoinder.

"Bobbin, though a dandy, is a good seaman,
and — and - ." The speaker looked another way,
and hesitated.

"I am not, you would add — if you had cour-

314 PEAKL-FISHING.

age. But I say I am, and a better seaman than
Bobbin."

'• Practically, perhaps, for you are ten years
older in the service. But it was in the theoretical
part of seamanship — which is equally important —
that you broke down before the examiners," con-
tinued the younger officer, in tones of earnest but
sorrowful reproach, " You never would study."

"I '11 tell you what it is, master Ferdinand," said
the elder middy, not without a show of displeasure.
"I don't think this is the correct sort of conversa-
tion to be going . on between two brothers after a
five years' separation."

The young lieutenant laid his hand soothingly
on his brother's arm, and entreated him to take
what he said in good part.

" Well, well ! " rejoined the middy, with a laugh
half-forced. " Take care what you are about, or,
by Jove, I '11 inform against you."

" What for?"

"Why, for preaching without a license. Be-
sides, you were once as bad as you pretend I am."

THE GHOST OF JAMES BARBER. 315

"I own it with sorrow; but I was warned
in time by the wretched end of poor James
Barber "

"Of whom?" asked the elder brother, starting
back as he pushed his glass along the table. "You
don't mean Jovial Jemmy, as we used to call him ;
once my messmate in the brig ( Bollock.' "

" Yes, I do."

"What! dead?"

"Yes."

" Why, it was one of our great delights, when in
harbor and on shore, to 'go the rounds' — as he
called it — with Jovial Jemmy. He understood
life from stem to stern- — from truck to keel. He
knew everybody, from the First Lord downwards.
I have seen him recognized by the Duke one min-
ute, and the next pick up with a strolling player,
and familiarly treat him at a tavern. He once took
me to a quadrille party at the Duchess of Durring-
ton's, where he seemed to know and be known to
everybody present, and then adjourned to the
Cider Cellars, where he was equally intimate with

816 PEARL-FISHING.

all sorts of queer characters. Though a favorite
among the aristocracy, he was equally welcome in
less exclusive societies. He was ' Brother,' ' Past
Master,' 'Warden,' 'Noble Grand,' or 'President'
of all sorts of Lodges and Fraternities. Uncom-
monly knowing was Jemmy in all sorts of club
and fashionable gossip. He knew who gave the
best dinners, and was always invited to the best
balls. He was a capital judge of champagne, and
when he betted upon a horse-race everybody
backed him. He could hum all the fashionable
songs, and was the fourth man who could dance
the polka when it was first imported. Then he
was as profound in bottled stout, "Welsh rabbits,
Burton ale, devilled kidneys, and bowls of Bishop,
as he was in Eoman punch, French cookery, and
Italian singers. Afloat, he was the soul of fun : —
he got up all our private theatricals, told all the
best stories, and sung comic songs that made even
the Purser laugh."

"An extent and variety of knowledge and
accomplishments," said Lieutenant Fid, "which

THE GTHOST OF JAMES BARBER. 317

had the precise effect of blasting his prospects in
life. He was, as you remember, at last dismissed
the service for intemperance and incompetence."

" When did you see him last? "

" What, alive f " inquired Ferdinand Fid, chang-.
ing countenance.

" Of course ! Surely you do not mean to insin-
uate that you have seen his ghost ! "

The lieutenant was silent ; and the midshipman
took a deep draught of his favorite mixture — equal
portions of rum and water — and hinted to his
younger brother, the lieutenant, the expediency of
immediately confiding the story to the Marines;
for he declined to credit it. He then ventured an-
other recommendation, which was that Ferdinand
should throw. the impotent temperance tipple he
was then imbibing " over the side of the Ship " —
which meant the tavern of that name in Green-
wich, at the open bow-window of which they were
then sitting — and clear his intellects by something
stronger.

"I can afford to be laughed at," said the younger

318 PEAEL- FISHING.

Fid, "because I have gained immeasurably by the
delusion, if it be one ; but if ever there was a
ghost, I have seen the ghost of James Barber. I,
like yourself and he, was nearly ruined by love of
amusement and intemperance, when he — or what-
ever else it might have been — came to my aid."

"Let us hear. I see I am 'in' for a ghost
story."

" Well ; it was eighteen forty-one when I came
home in the { Arrow ' with despatches from the
coast of Africa : you were lying in the Tagus in
the 'Bobstay.' Ours, you know, was rather a
thirsty station ; a man inclined for it comes home
from the Slaving Coasts with a determination to
make up his lee way. I did mine with a ven-
geance. As usual, I looked up ' Jovial Jemmy.' "

"'Twas easy to find, him if you knew where
to go."

"I did know, and went. He had by that time
got tired of his more aristocratic friends. Eespect-
ability was too ' slow ' for him, so I found him pre-
siding over the * Philanthropic Easpers,' at the

THE GHOST OF JAMES BARBEK. 319

* Union Jack.' He received me with open arms,
and took' me, as you say, the 'rounds.' I can't
recall that week's dissipation without a shudder.
"We rushed about from ball to tavern, from theatre
to supper-room, from club to gin-palace, as if our
lives depended on losing not a moment. We had
not time to walk, so we galloped about in cabs.
On the fourth night, when I was beginning to
feel knocked up, and tired of the same songs, the
same quadrilles, the bad whiskey, the suffocating
tobacco smoke, and the morning's certain and des-
perate penalties, I remarked to Jemmy that it was
a miracle how he had managed to weather it for so
many years. * What a hardship you would deem
it,' I added, 'if you were obliged to go the same
weary round from one year's end to another.' "

" What did he say to that ? " asked Philip.

" Why, I never saw him so taken aback. He
looked quite fiercely at me, and replied, 'I am
obliged!"

" How did he make that out? "

" Why, he had tippled and dissipated his consti-

320 PEARL -FISHING.

tiition into such a state that use had become second
nature. Excitement was his natural condition, and
he dared not become quite sober for fear of a total
collapse — or dropping down like a shot in the
water."

The midshipman had his glass in his hand, but
forebore to taste it. — " Well, what then? "

« iji]^ i roun(js ' lasted two nights longer. I was
fairly beaten. Cast-iron could not have stood it.
I was prostrated in bed with fever — and worse."
Ferdinand was agitated, and took a large draught
of his lemonade.

" Well, well, you need not enlarge upon that,"
replied Phil Phid, raising his glass towards his lips,
but again thinking better of it ; "I heard how
bad you were from Seton, who shaved your head."

" I had scarcely recovered when the 'Arrow'
was ordered back, and I made a vow."

" Took the pledge, perhaps ! " interjected the
mid, with a slight curl of his lip.

" No I I determined to work more and play
less. We had a capital naval instructor aboard,

THE GHOST OF JAMES BARBER. 321

and our commander was as good an officer as ever
trod the deck. I studied — a little too hard per-
haps, for I was laid up again. The 4 Arrow7 was,
as usual, as good as her name, and we shot across
•to Jamaica in five weeks. One evening as we
were lying in Kingston harbor, Seton, who had
come over to join the Commodore as full surgeon,
told me .what he had never ventured to divulge
before."

" What was that ? "

" Why, that, on the very day I left London,
James Barber died of a frightful attack of delirium
tremens I "

" Poor Jemmy 1 " said the elder Fid, sorrow-
fully, taking a long pull of consolation from his
rummer. " Little did I think, while singing some
of your best songs off Belem Castle, that I had seen
you for the last time ! "

" I hadn't seen him for the last time," returned
the lieutenant, with awful significance.

Philip assumed a careless air, and said, " Go

21

322 PEARL-FlSHING.

" "We were ordered home in eighteen forty-five,
and paid off in January. I went to Portsmouth ;
was examined, and passed as lieutenant."

This allusion to his brother's better condition
made poor Philip look rather blank.

" On being confirmed* at the Admiralty," con-
tinued Ferdinand, " I had to give a dinner to the
* Arrows ; ' which I did at the Salopian, Charing
Cross. In the excess of my joy at promotion, my
determination of temperance and avoidance of
what is called ' society ' was swamped. I kept it
up once more ; I went the ' rounds,' and accepted
all the dinner, supper, and ball invitations I could
get, invariably ending each morning in one of the
old haunts of dissipation. Old associations with
James Barber returned, and like causes produced
similar effects. One morning while maundering
home, I began to feel the same wild confusion
as had previously commenced my dreadful mal-
ady."

"Ah I a little touched in the top -hamper."

" It was just day -light Thinking to cool my

THE G-HOST OF JAMES BARBER. 323

self, I jumped into a wherry to get pulled down
here to Greenwich."

" Of course you were not quite sober."

" Don't ask ! I do not like even to allude to
my sensations, for fear of recalling them. My
brain seemed in a flame. 'The boat appeared to be
going at the rate of twenty miles an hour. Fast
as we were cleaving the current, I heard my name
distinctly called out. I reconnoitred, but could see
nobody. I looked over on one side of the gun-
wale, and, while doing so, felt something touch me
from the other ; I felt a chill ; I turned round and
saw "

" Whom ? " asked the midshipman, holding his
breath.

" What seemed to be James Barber."

11 Was he wet ? "

" As dry as you are."

" I summoned courage to speak. * Hillo I
some mistake ! ' I exclaimed.

"'Not at all,' was the reply. 'I'm James
Barber. Don't be frightened, I 'm harmless.7

•

324 PEAKL-FISHING.

"'But '

" ' I know what you are going to say,' inter-
rupted the intruder. ' Seton did not deceive you
• — I am only an occasional visitor up here?

" This brought me up with a round turn, and I
had sense enough to wish my friend would vanish
as he came. * Where shall we land you? ' I asked.

" i Oh, any where — it don't matter. I have got
to be out every night and all night ; and the nights
are plaguy long just now.'

" I could not muster a word.

u * Ferd Fid/ continued the voice, which now
seemed about fifty fathoms deep ; and fast as we
were dropping down the stream, the boat gave a
heel to starboard, as if she had been broadsided
by a tremendous wave — ' Ferd Fid, you recollect
how I used to kill time ; how I sang, drank,
danced, and supped all night long, and then slept
and soda-watered it all day. You remember what
a happy fellow I seemed. Fools like yourself
thought I was so ; but I say again, I wasn't,'
growled the voice, letting itself down a few

THE GHOST or JAMES BARBER. 325

fathoms deeper. £ Often and often I would have
given the world to have been a market-gardener
or a dealer in chick-weed while roaring " He is a
jolly good fellow," and " We won't go home till
morning ! " as I emerged with a group from some
tavern into Covent Garden market. But I 'm
punished fearfully for my sins now. What do
you think I have got to do every night of my — •
never mind — what do you think is now marked
out as my dreadful punishment ? '

" ' Well, to walk the earth, I suppose,' said I.

" ' No.'

" ' To paddle about in the Thames from sunset
to sun-rise ? '

" ' Worse. Ha, ha ! ' (his laugh sounded like
the booming of a gong). ' I only wish my doom
was merely to be a mud-lark. No, no, I 'm con-
demned to rush about from one evening party and
public house to another. At the former I am
bound for a certain term on each night to dance all
the quadrilles, and a few of the polkas and waltzes
with clumsy partners ; and then I have to eat stale

826 PEAEL-FISHING.

pastry and tough poultry before I am let off from
that place. After, I arn bound to go to some cellar
or singing place to listen to " Hail smiling morn,"
" 'Mynheer Yan Dunk," "The monks of old,"
" Happy land," imitations of the London actors,
and to hear a whole canto of dreary extempore
verses. I must also smoke a dozen of cigars,
knowing — as in my present condition I must
know, — what they are made of. The whole to
end on each night with unlimited brandy (British)
and water, and eternal intoxication. Oh, F. F., be
warned ! Take my advice ; keep up your resolu-
tion, and don't do it again. When afloat, drink
nothing stronger than purser's tea. "When on
shore be temperate in your pleasures ; don't
turn night into day ; don't exchange whole-
some amusements for rabid debauchery, robust
health for disease and — well, I won't " men-
tion it. When afloat, study your profession
and don't get cashiered and cold-shouldered
as I was. Promise me — nay, you must
swear I '

THE G-HOST OF JAMES BARBER. 327

"At this word I thought I heard a gurgling
sound in the water.

" ' If I can get six solemn pledges before the
season 's over, I 'm only to go these horrid rounds
during the meeting of Parliament.'

"( Will you swear?7 again urged the voice,
with persuasive agony.

" I was just able to comply.

" ' Ten thousand thanks I '• were the next words
I heard ; ' I 'm off, for there is an awful pint of
pale ale, a chop, and a glass of brandy and water
overdue yet, and I must devour them at the
Shades.7 (We were then close to London Bridge.)
* Don't let the waterman pull to shore ; I can get
there without troubling him.'

" I remember no more. "When sensation re-
turned, I was in bed, in this very house, a shade
worse than I had been from the previous attack."

" That," said Philip, who had left his tumbler
untasted, " must have been when you had your
head shaved for the second time."

" Exactly so."

328 PEAKL-FISHING.

" And yon really believe it was Jovial James*
ghost," inquired Fid, earnestly.

" Would it be rational to doubt it ? "

Philip rose and paced the room in deep thought
for several minutes. He cast two or three earnest
looks at his brother, and a few longing ones at his
glass. In the course of his cogitation, he groaned
out more than once an apostrophe to poor " James
Barber." At length he declared his mind was
made up.

" Ferd ! " he said, " I told you awhile ago to
throw your lemonade over the side of the Ship.
Don't. Souse out my grog instead."

The lieutenant did as he was bid.

" And now," said Fid the elder, " ring for soda
water ; for one must drink something}'1

Last year it was my own good fortune to sail
with Mr. Philip Fid in the "Bombottle" (74).
He is not exactly a tee-totaller ; but he never
drinks spirits, and will not touch wine unmixed

THE GHOST OF JAMES BAEBEE. 329

with water, for fear of its interfering with his
studies, at which he is, with the assistance of the
naval instructor (who is also the chaplain), assid-
uous. He is our first mate, and the smartest offi-
cer in the ship. Seton is our surgeon.

One day, after a cheerful ward-room dinner (of
which Fid was a guest), while we were at anchor
in the Bay of Cadiz, the conversation happened to
turn upon Jovial Jemmy's apparition, which had
become the best-authenticated ghost story in Her
Majesty's Naval service. On that occasion Seton
undertook to explain the mystery upon medical
principles.

" The fact is," he said, " what the commander
of the 'Arrow' saw (Ferdinand had by this time
got commissioned in his old ship) was a spectrum,
produced by that morbid condition of the brain,
which is brought on by the immoderate use of
stimulants, and by dissipation ; we call it Transient
Monomania. I could show you dozens of such
ghosts in the books, if you only had patience while
I turned them up."

330 PEARL-FISHING.

Everybody declared that was unnecessary. "We
would take the doctor's word for it ; though I
feel convinced not a soul besides the chaplain and
myself had one iota of his faith shaken in the real
presence of Jovial Jemmy's post-mortem appearance
to Fid the younger.

Ghost or no ghost, however, the story had had
the effect of converting Philip Fid from one of the
most intemperate and inattentive to one of the
soberest and best of Her Majesty's officers. May
his promotion be steady !

X.

Isle jrf <Sjro& ©Mr ®im.cs.

1 N alderman of tlie ancient borough of Beetle-
•^•*- bury, and churchwarden of the parish of St.
"Wulfstan's in the said borough, Mr. Blenkinsop
might have been called, in the language of the
sixteenth century, a man of worship. This title
would probably have pleased him very much, it
being an obsolete one, and he entertaining an ex-
traordinary regard for all things obsolete, or
thoroughly deserving to be so. He looked up with
profound veneration to the griffins which formed
the water-spouts of St. Wulfstan's Church, and he
almost worshipped an old boot under the name of
a black jack, which on the affidavit of a forsworn
broker, he had bought for a drinking vessel of the
sixteenth century. Mr. Blenkinsop even more
admired the wisdom of our ancestors than he did

332 PEAKL-FlSHING.

their furniture and fashions. He believed that
none of their statutes and ordinances could possi-
bly be improved on, and in this persuasion had
petitioned Parliament against every just or merci-
ful change, which, since he had arrived at man's
estate, had been made in the laws. He had suc-
cessively opposed all the Beetlebury improve-
ments, gas, waterworks, infant schools, mechanics'
institute, and library. He had been active in an
agitation against any measure for the improve-
ment of the public health, and being a strong ad-
vocate of intramural interment, was instrumental
in defeating an attempt to establish a pretty ceme-
tery outside Beetlebury. He had successfully re-
sisted a project for removing the pig-market from
the middle of the High Street. Through his influ-
ence the shambles,- which were corporation prop-
erty, had been allowed to .remain where they
were ; namely, close to the Town-Hall, and imme-
diately under his own and his brethren's noses.
In short, he had regularly, consistently, and nobly
done his best to frustrate every scheme that was

A TALE OF THE GOOD OLD TIMES. 333

proposed for the comfort and advantage of his fel-
low creatures. For this conduct he was highly
esteemed and respected, and; indeed, his hostility
with any interference of disease, had procured
him the honor of a public testimonial; — shortly
after the presentation of which, with several
neat, speeches, the cholera broke out in Beetle-
bury.

The truth is, that Mr. Blenkinsop's views on
the subject of public health and popular institu-
tions were supposed to be economical (though
they were, in truth, desperately costly), and so
pleased some of the rate-payers. Besides, he with-
stood ameliorations, and defended nuisances and
abuses with all the heartiness of an actual philan-
thropist. Moreover, he was a jovial fellow, — a
boon companion ; and his love of antiquity leant
particularly towards old ale and old port wine.
Of both of these beverages he had been partaking
rather largely at a visitation-dinner, where, after,
the retirement of the bishop and his clergy, festiv-
ities were kept up till late, under the presidency

334: PEAEL-FIS HIKG.

of the deputy-registrar. One of the last to quit
the Crown and Mitre was Mr. Blenkinsop.

He lived in a remote part of the town, whither,
as he did not walk exactly in a right line, it may
be allowable, perhaps, to say that he bent his
course. Many of the dwellers in Beetlebury High-
street, awakened at half-past twelve on that night,
by somebody passing below, singing, not very
distinctly,

" With a jolly full bottle let each man be armed,"

were indebted, little as they may have suspected
it, to Alderman Blenkinsop, for their serenade.

In his homeward way stood the Market Cross ;
a fine mediaeval structure, supported on a series
of circular steps by a groined arch; which served
as a canopy to the stone figure of an ancient
burgess. This was the effigies of Wynkyn de
Yokes, once Mayor of Beetlebury, and a great
benefactor to the town ; in which he had founded
alms-houses and a grammar-school, A. D. 1440.
The post was formerly occupied by St. Wulfstan ;
but De Yokes had been removed from the Town

A TALE OF THE GOOD OLD TIMES. 335

Hall in Cromwell's time, and promoted to the
vacant pedestal, vice Wulfstan, demolished. Mr.
Blenkinsop highly revered this work of art, and
he now stopped to take a view of it by moonlight.
In that doubtful glimmer, it seemed almost life-
like. Mr. Blenkinsop had not much imagination,
yet he could well nigh fancy he was looking upon
the veritable Wynkyn, with his bonnet, beard,
furred gown, and staff, and his great book under
his arm. So vivid was this impression, that it im-
pelled him to apostrophize the Statue.

" Fine old fellow I " said Mr. Blenkinsop. " Bare
old buck ! We shall never look upon your like
again. Ah 1 the good old times — the jolly good
old times I No times like the good old times — my
ancient worthy. No such times as the good old
times 1 "

"And pray, Sir, what times do you call the
good old times?" in distinct and deliberate ac-
cents, answered — according to the positive affir-
mation of Mr. Blenkinsop, subsequently made be-
fore divers witnesses— -the Statue.

336 PEAEL-FISHING.

Mr. Blenkinsop is sure that he was in the per-
fect possession of his senses.' He is certain that
he was not the dupe of ventriloquism, or any
other illusion. The value of these convictions
must be a question between him and the world, to
whose perusal the facts of his tale, simply .as
stated by himself, are here submitted.

When first he heard the Statue speak, Mr.
Blenkinsop says, he certainly experienced a kind
of sudden shock, a momentary feeling of conster-
nation. But this soon abated in a wonderful man-
ner. The Statue's voice was quite mild and gen-
tle— not in the least grim — had no funeral twang
in it, and was quite different from the tone a
statue might be expected to take by anybody who
had derived his notions on that subject from hav-
ing heard the representative of the class in " Don
Giovanni.'1

" "Well ; what times do you mean by the good
old times ? " repeated the Statue, quite familiarly.
The churchwarden was able to reply with some
composure, that such a question coming from

A TALE OF THE GOOD OLD TIMES. 837

such a quarter had taken him a little by sui>
prise.

" Come, come, Mr. Blenkinsop," said the Statue,
1 1 don't be astonished. 'Tis half-past twelve, and
a moonlight night, as your favorite police, the
sleepy and infirm old watchman, says. Don't you
know that we statues are apt to speak when
spoken to, at these hours? Collect yourself. I
will help you to answer my own questions. Let
us go back step by step ; and allow me to lead
you. To begin. By the good old times, do you
mean the reign of George the Third ? "

"The last of them, Sir," replied Mr. Blenkinsop,
very respectfully, " I am inclined to think, were
seen by the people who lived in those days."

" I should hope so," the Statue replied. " Those
the good old times ? What ! Mr. Blenkinsop,
when men were hanged by dozens, almost weekly,
for paltry thefts. "When a nursing woman was
dragged to the gallows with a child at her breast,
for shop-lifting, to the value of a shilling. When

you lost your American colonies, and plunged
22

PEARL-FISHING. ,,

into war with France, which, to say nothing of
the useless bloodshed it cost, has left you saddled
with the national debt. Surely you will not call
these the good old times, will you, Mr. Blenkin-
sop-?"

"Not exactly, Sir: no; on reflection I don't
know that I can," answered Mr. Blenkinsop. He
had now, it was such a civil, well-spoken statue —
lost all sense of the preternatural horror of his sit-
uation, and scratched his head just as if he had
been posed in argument by an ordinary mortal.

"Well, then," resumed the Statue, "my dear
Sir, shall we take the two or three reigns preced-
ing. What think you of the then existing state of
prisons and prison discipline ? Unfortunate debt-
ors confined indiscriminately with felons, in the
midst of filth, vice, and misery unspeakable.
Criminals under sentence of death tippling in the
condemned cell with the Ordinary for their pot
companion. Flogging, a common punishment of
women convicted of larceny. What say you of
the times when London streets were absolutely

A TALE OF THE GOOD OLD TIMES. 339

dangerous, and the passenger ran the risk of being
hustled and robbed even in the day-time ? When
not only Hounslow and Bagshot Heath, but the
public road swarmed with robbers, and a stage-
coach was as frequently plundered as a hen-roost.
When, indeed, 'the road' was esteemed the legiti-
mate resource of a gentleman in difficulties, and a
highwayman was commonly called i Captain ' if
not respected accordingly. When cock-fighting,
bear-baiting, and bull-baiting were popular, nay,
fashionable amusements. When the bulk of the
landed gentry could barely read and write, and
divided their time between fox-hunting and guz-
zling. When a duellist was a hero, and it was an
honor to have ' killed your man.' When a gentle-
man could hardly open his mouth without uttering
a profane or filthy oath. When the country was
continually in peril of civil war through a disputed
succession ; and two murderous insurrections, fol-
lowed by more murderous executions, actually
took place. This era of inhumanity, shamelessness,
brigandage, brutality, and personal and political

340 PEARL-FISHING.

insecurity, what say you of it, Mr. Blenkinsop?
Do you regard this wig and pigtail period as con-
stituting the good old times, respected friend ? "

"There was Queen Anne's golden reign, Sir,"
deferentially suggested Mr. Blenkinsop.

" A golden reign ! " exclaimed the Statue. " A
reign of favoritism and court trickery at home, and
profitless war abroad. The time of Bolingbroke's,
and Harley's, and Churchill's intrigues. The
reign of Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, and Mrs.
Masham. A golden fiddlestick ! I imagine you
must go farther back yet for your good old times,
Mr. Blenkinsop."

""Well," answered the churchwarden, "I sup-
pose I must, Sir, after what you say."

" Take William the Third's rule," pursued the
Statue. " War, war again ; nothing but war. I
don't think you '11 particularly call these the good
old times. Then what will you say to those of
James the Second ? Were they the good old times
when Judge Jeffries sat on the bench? When
Monmouth's rebellion was followed by the Bloody

A TALE OF THE GOOD OLD TIMES. 841

Assize. When the King tried to set himself above
the law, and lost his crown in consequence. Does
your worship fancy that these were the good old
times?"

Mr. Blenkinsop admitted that he could not very
well imagine that they were.

" Were Charles the Second's the good old
times?" demanded the Statue. "With a court
full of riot and debauchery — a palace much less
decent than any modern casino — whilst Scotch
Covenanters were having their legs crushed in the
" Boots," under the auspices and personal superin-
tendence of His Eoyal Highness the Duke of
York. The time of Titus Gates, Bedloe, and
Dangerfield, and their sham-plots, with the hang-
ings, drawings, and quarterings, on perjured evi-
dence, that followed them. When Eussell and
Sidney were judicially murdered. The time of the
Great Plague and Fire of London. The public
money wasted by roguery and embezzlement,
while sailors lay starving in the streets for want of
their just gay; the Dutch about the same time

342 PEARL-FISHING.

burning our ships in the Medway. My friend, I
think you will hardly call the scandalous mon-
archy of the 'Merry Monarch' the good old
times."

"I feel the difficulty which you suggest, Sir,"
owned Mr. Blenkinsop.

"Now, that a man of your loyalty," pursued the
Statue, " should identify the good old times with
Cromwell's Protectorate, is of course out of the
question."

" Decidedly, Sir ! " exclaimed Mr. Blenkinsop.
" He shall not have a statue, though you enjoy that
honor," bowing.

"And yet," said the Statue, "with all its faults,
this era was perhaps no worse than -any we have
discussed yet. Never mind! It was a dreary,
cant-ridden one, and if you don't think those Eng-
land's palmy days, neither do I. There's the
previous reign then. During the first part of it,
there was the king endeavoring to assert arbitrary
power. During the latter, the -Parliament were
fighting against him in the open field. What

ATALEi OF THE GrOOD OLD TlMES. 343

ultimately became of him I need not say. At
what stage of King Charles the First's career did
the good old times exist, Mr. Alderman ? I need
barely mention the Star Chamber and poor
and Prynne ; I merely allude to the fate of Straf-
ford and of Laud, On consideration, should you
fix the good old times anywhere thereabouts ? "

"I am afraid not, indeed, Sir? " Mr. Blenkinsop
responded, tapping his forehead.

"What is your opinion of James the First's
reign ? Are you enamored of the good old times
of the Gunpowder Plot? or when Sir Walter
Raleigh was beheaded ? or when hundreds of poor
miserable old women were burnt alive for witch-
craft, and the royal wiseacre on the throne wrote
as wise a book, in defence of the execrable super-
stition through which they suffered? "

Mr. Blenkinsop confessed himself obliged to
give up the times of James the First.

"Now, then," continued the Statue, "we come
to Elizabeth."

"There I've got you!" interrupted Mr. Blen-

PEARL-FISHING.

kinsop, exultingly. " I beg your pardon, Sir," lie
added, with a sense of the freedom lie had taken ;
" but everybody talks of the times of good Queen
Bess, you know ! "

"Ha, ha!" laughed the Statue, not at all like
Zamiel, or Don Guzman, or a pavior's rammer, but
really with unaffected gaiety. " Everybody some-
times says very foolish things. Suppose Every-
body's lot had been cast under Elizabeth ! How
would Everybody have relished being subject to
the jurisdiction of the Ecclesiastical Commission,
with its power of imprisonment, rack, and torture?
How would Everybody have liked to see his
Eoman Catholic and dissenting fellow-subjects,
butchered, fined, and imprisoned for their opin-
ions ; and charitable ladies butchered, too, for
giving them shelter in the sweet compassion of
their hearts? What would Everybody have
thought of the murder of Mary Queen of Scots ?
Would Everybody, would Anybody, would you,
wish to have lived in these days, whose emblems
are cropped ears, pillory, stocks, thumb-screws,

A TALE OF THE GOOD OLD TIMES. 345

gibbet, axe, chopping-block, and Scavenger's
daughter ? Will you take your stand upon this
stage of History for the good old times, Mr. Blen-
kinsop ? "

"I should rather prefer firmer and safer ground,
to be sure, upon the whole," answered the worship-
per of antiquity, dubiously.

" Well, now," said the Statue, " 'tis getting late,
and, unaccustomed as I am to conversational speak-
ing, I must be brief. Were those the good old
times when Sanguinary Mary roasted bishops, and
lighted the fires of Smithfield? When Henry the
Eighth, the British Bluebeard, cut his wives' heads
off, and burnt Catholic and Protestant at the same
stake? When Kichard the Third smothered his
nephews in the Tower? When the Wars of the
Eoses deluged the land with blood ? When Jack
Cade marched upon London? When we were,
disgracefully driven out of France under Henry
the Sixth, or, as disgracefully, went marauding
there, under Henry the Fifth? Were the good
old times those of Northumberland's rebellion?

346 PEARL-FISHING.

Of Kichard the Second's assassination? Of the
battles, burnings, massacres, cruel tormentings, and
atrocities, which form the sum of the Plantagenet
reigns? Of John's declaring himself the Pope's
vassal, and performing dental operations on the
Jews ? Of the Forest Laws and Curfew under the
Norman kings ? At what point of this series of
bloody and cruel annals will you place the times
which you praise? Or do your good old times
extend over all that period when somebody or
other was constantly committing high treason, and
there was a perpetual exhibition of heads on Lon-
don Bridge and Temple Bar ? "

It was allowed by Mr. Blenkinsop that either
alternative presented considerable difficulty.

"Was it in the good old times that Harold fell
at Hastings, and William the Conqueror enslaved
England ? Were those blissful years the ages of
monkery; of Odo and Dunstan, bearding mon-
archs and branding queens? Of Danish ravage
and slaughter ? Or were they those of the Saxon
Heptarchy, and the worship of Thor and Odin?

A TALE OF THE GOOD OLD TIMES. 347

Of the advent of Hengist and Horsa ? Of British
subjugation by the Eomans ? Or, lastly, must we
go back to the Ancient Britons, Druidism, and
human sacrifices ; and say that those were the real,
unadulterated, genuine, good old times when the1
true-blue natives of this island went naked, paint-
ed with woad ? "

" Upon my word, Sir," replied Mr. Blenkinsop,
" after the observations that I have heard from you
this night, I acknowledge that I do feel myself
rather at a loss to assign a precise period to the
times in question."

" Shall I do it for you? " asked the Statue.

"If you please, Sir. I should be very much
obliged if you would," replied the bewildered
Blenkinsop, greatly relieved.

"The best times, Mr. Blenkinsop," said the
Statue, "are the oldest. They are wisest; for
the older the world grows the more experi-
ence it acquires. It is older now than ever it
was. The oldest and best times the world has
yet seen are the present. These, so far as we

348 PEARL- FISH ING.

have yet gone, are the genuine good old times,
Sir."

li Indeed, Sir? " ejaculated the astonished Alder-
man.

" Yes, my good friend. These are the best times
that we know of — bad as the best may be. But in
proportion to their defects they afford room for
amendment. Mind that, Sir, in the future exercise
of your municipal and political wisdom. Don't
continue to stand in the light which is gradually
illuminating human darkness. The Future is the
date of that happy period which your imagination
has fixed in the Past. It will arrive when all shall
do what is right ; hence none shall suffer what is
wrong. The true good old times are yet to come."

" Have you any idea when, Sir ?" Mr. Blenkin-
sop inquired, modestly.

"That is a little beyond me," the Statue an-
swered. " I cannot say how long it will take to
convert the Blenkinsops. I devoutly wish you
may live to see them. And with that, I wish you
good night, Mr. Blenkinsop."

A TALE OF THE GOOD OLD TIMES. 349

"Sir," returned Mr. Blenkinsop with a pro-
found bow, "I have the honor to wish you the
same."

• Mr. Blenkinsop returned home an altered man.
This was soon manifest. In a few days he aston-
ished the Corporation by proposing the appoint-
ment of an Officer of Health to preside over sani-
tary affairs of Beetlebury. It had already trans-
pired that he had consented to the introduction of
lucifer-matches into his domestic establishment, in
which, previously, he had insisted on sticking to
the old tinder-box. Next, to the wonder of all
Beetlebury, he was the first to propose a great
new school, and to sign a requisition that a county
penitentiary might be established for the reforma-
tion of juvenile offenders. The last account of
him is that he has not only become a subscriber
to the mechanics' institute, but that he actually
presided thereat, lately, on the occasion of a lec-
ture on Geology.

The remarkable change which has occurred in
Mr. Blenkinsop's views and principles, he himself

350 PEARL-FISHING.

refers to his conversation with the Statue as above
related. The narrative, however, his fellow towns-
men receive with incredulous expressions, accom-
panied by gestures and grimaces of like import.
They hint, that Mr. Blenkinsop had been thinking
for himself a little, and only wanted a plausible
excuse for recanting his errors. Most of his fellow-
aldermen believe him mad ; not less on account of
his new moral and political sentiments, so very
different from their own, than of his Statue story.
"When it has been suggested to them that he has
only had his spectacles cleaned, and has been
looking about him, they shake their heads, and
say that he had better have left his spectacles
alone, and that a little knowledge is a dangerous
thing, and a good deal of dirt quite the contrary.
Their spectacles have never been cleaned, they
say, and any one may see they don't want clean-
ing.

The truth seems to be, that Mr. Blenkinsop has
found an altogether new pair of spectacles, which
enable him to see in the right direction. Formerly,

A TALE OP THE GOOD OLD TIMES. 351

he could only look backwards ; lie now" looks
forwards to the grand object that all human
eyes should have in view- — progressive improve-
ment.

THE END.

IMMENSE SALE !

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