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DICKENS' SHORT STORIES.

CONTAINING

THE DETECTIVE POLICE. THREE DETECTIVE ANFCDOTES. THE PAIR
OF GLOVES. THE ARTFUL TOUCH. THE SOFA. SUNDAY IN A WORK
HOUSE. THE NOBLE SAVAGE. OUR SCHOOL. OUR VESTRY. OUR
BORE. A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY. A CHRISTMAS
TREE; AS WELL AS TWENTY OTHER STORIES NEVER
BEFORE PUBLISHED IN THIS COUNTRY.

BY CHARLES DICKENS,

("BO Z.")

PETERSONS' UNIFORM EDITION OF DICKENS' WORKS,

CONTAINING

THE PICKWICK PAPERS.

NICHOLAS NICKLEBY.

DOMBEY AND SON.

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

BLKAK HOUSE.

LITTLE DORRIT.

DICKENS' NEW YEARS' STORIES.

OLIVER TWIST.

MARTIN CHOZZLEWIT.

OLD CURI^ITY SHOP.

BARNABY RUDGE.

DICKENS' HOLIDAY STORIES.

SKETCHES BY BOZ.

CHRISTMAS STORIES.

THE HAUNTED HOUSE.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

THE CHIMES.

CRICKET ON THE HEARTH.

THE BATTLE OF LIFE.

THE HAUNTED MAN.

THE GHOST'S BARGAIN.

A TALE OF TWO CITIES.
AMERICAN NOTES.
DICKENS' SHORT STORIES.
PICTURES FROM ITALY.
SKETCHES FROM OUR PARISH.
STREET SCENES,
REAL CHARACTERS.
LIFE OF MR. TULRUMBLE.
DICKENS' NEW STORIES.
HARD TIMES.

SEVEN POOR TRAVELLERS.
THE SCHOOLBOY'S STORY.
THE OLD LADY'S STORY.
OVER THE WAY'S STORY.
THE ANGEL'S STORY.
THE SQUIRE'S STORY. -
UNCLE GEORGE'S STORY.
THE SCHOLAR'S STORY.
THE BOARDING HOUSE.
THE TWO APPRENTICES.
A HOUSE TO LET, ETC., ETC.

I) i I a & e 1 p I) i a :

T, B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;

306 CHESTNUT STREET.

647699

CONTENTS.

THE DETECTIVE POLICE ;. 35

THREE "DETECTIVE" ANECDOTES '. 45

I. — THE PAIR OP GLOVES 45

II. — THE AETFUL TOUCH 48

III. — THE SOFA 49

ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD 50

DOWN WITH THE TIDE 58

A WALK IN A WORKHOUSE 63

THE LONG VOYAGE 67

THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER .y 72

A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR 77

OUR ENGLISH WATERING-PLACE „ 78

OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE 83

BILL-STICKING 91

"BIRTHS. MRS. MEEK, OF A SON 97

LYING AWAKE 100

THE POOR RELATION'S STORY .^ 1Q4^/

THE CHILD'S STORY 110

THE GHOST OF ART 112

OUT OF TOWN 116

OUT OF THE^SEASON 120

A POOR MAN'S TALE OF A PATENT 124

THE NOBLE SAVAGE 128

A FLIGHT 131

PRINCE BULL. A FAIRY TALE 137

A PLATED ARTICLE 140

OUR HONORABLE FRIEND 145

OUR SCHOOL ' 148

OUR VESTRY 152

OUR BORE 156

A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY ; 180

A CHRISTMAS TREE 167

(19)

THE DETECTIVE POLICE:

AND OTHER NOTJVELLETTES,
BY CHAELES DICKENS.

WE are not by any means devout be
lievers in the Old Bow Street Police.
To say the truth, we think there was a
vast amount of humbug about those
worthies. Apart from many of them
being men of very indifferent character,
and far too much in the habit of con
sorting with thieves and the like, they
never lost a public occasion of jobbing
and trading in mystery and making the
most of themselves. Continually puffed
besides by incompetent magistrates anx
ious to conceal their own deficiencies,
and hand-in-glove with the penny-a-
liners of that time, they became a sort
of superstition. Although as a Pre
ventive Police they were utterly inef
fective, and as a Detective Police were
rery loose and uncertain in their opera
tions, they remain with some people a
superstition to the present day.

On the other hand, the Detective
Force organized since the establishment
of the existing Police, is so well chosen
and trained, proceeds so systematically
and quietly, does its business in such a
workman-like manner, and is always so
calmly and steadily engaged in the ser
vice of the public, that the public really
do not know enough of it, to know a
tithe of its usefulness. Impressed with
this conviction, and interested in the
men themselves, we represented to the
authorities at Scotland Yard, that we
should be glad, if there were no official
objection, to have some talk with the
Detectives. A most obliging and ready
permission being given, a certain even
ing was appointed with a certain In
spector for a social conference between
ourselves and the Detectives, at The
Household Words Office in Wellington

Street, Strand, London. In Conse
quence of which appointment the party
" came off," which we are about to de
scribe. And we beg to repeat that,
avoiding such topics as it might for ob
vious reasons be injurious to the public,
or disagreeable to respectable indi
viduals, to touch upon in print, our
description is as exact as we can make
it.

The reader will'have the goodness to
imagine the Sanctum Sanctorum of
Household Words. Any thing that
best suits the reader's fancy, will best
represent that magnificent chamber.
We merely stipulate for a round table
in the middle, with some glasses and
cigars arranged upon it ; and the edito
rial sofa elegantly hemmed in between
that stately piece of furniture and the
wall.

It is a sultry evening at dusk. The
stones of Wellington Street are hot and
gritty, and the watermen and hackney-
coachmen at the Theatre opposite, are
much flushed and aggravated. Car
riages are constantly setting down the
people who have come to Fairy-Land ;
and there is a mighty shouting and bel
lowing every now and then, deafening
us for the moment, through the open
windows.

Just at dusk, Inspectors Wield and
Stalker are announced ; but we do not
undertake to warrant the orthography
of any of the names here mentioned.
Inspector Wield presents Inspector
Stalker. Inspector Wield is a middle-
aged man of a portly presence, with a
large, moist, knowing eye, a husky
voice, and a habit of emphasizing his
conversation by the aid of a corpulent

C35)

THE DETECTIVE POLICE.

fore-finger, which is constantly in juxta
position with his eyes and nose. In
spector Stalker is a shrewd, hard-head
ed Scotchman — in appearance not at
all unlike A very acute, thoroughly-
trained schoolmaster, from the Normal
Establishment at Glasgow. Inspector
Wield one might have known, perhaps,
for what he is — Inspector Stalker,
never.

The ceremonies of reception over,
Inspectors Wield and Stalker observe
that they have brought some sergeants
with them. The sergeants are present
ed — five in number, Sergeant Dornton,
Sergeant Witchem, Sergeant Mith, Ser
geant Fendall, and Sergeant Straw.
We have the whole Detective Force
*rom Scotland Yard, with one excep
tion. They sit down in a semi-circle
\ihe two Inspectors at the two ends) at
a little distance from the round table,
facing the editorial sofa. Every man
of them, in a glance, immediately takes
an inventory of the furniture and an
ftfcurate sketch of the editorial pres
ent. The Editor feels that any gen
tleman in company could take him up,
if need should be, without the smallest
hesitation twenty years hence.

The whole party are in plain clothes.
Sergeant Dornton, about fifty years of
age, with a ruddy face and a high sun
burnt forehead, has the air of one who
has been a Sergeant in the army — he
might have sat to Wilkie for the Soldier
in the Reading of the Will. He is
famous for steadily pursuing the induc
tive process, and, from small beginnings,
working on from clue to clue until he
bags his man. Sergeant Witchem,
shorter and thicker-set, and marked
with the small-pox, has something of a
reserved and thoughtful air, as if he
were engaged in deep arithmetical cal
culations. He is renowned for his ac
quaintance with the swell mob. Ser
geant Mith, a smooth-faced man with a
fresh, bright complexion, and a strange
air of simplicity, is a dab at house
breakers. Sergeant Fendall, a light-
haired, well-spoken, polite person, is a
prodigious hand at pursuing private in
quiries of a delicate nature. Straw, a
little wiry Sergeant of meek demeanor
and strong sense, would knock at a door
and ask a series of questions in any
m/ld character you choose to prescribe

to him, from a charity-boy upward, and
seem as innocent as an infant. They
are, one and all, respectable-looking
men ; of perfectly good deportment and
unusual intelligence ; with nothing
lounging or slinking in their manners ;
with an air of keen observation and
quick perception when addressed ; and
generally presenting in their faces,
traces more or less marked of habitu
ally leading lives of strong mental ex
citement. They have all good eyes ;
and they all can, and they all do, look
full at whomsoever they speak to.

We light the cigars, and hand round
the glasses (which are very temperately
used indeed), and the conversation be
gins by a modest amateur reference on
the Editorial part to the swell mob.
Inspector Wield immediately removea
his cigar from his lips, waves his right
hand, and says, "Regarding the swell
mob, sir, I can't do better than call
upbn Sergeant Witchem. Because the
reason why ? I'll tell you. Sergeant
Witchem is better acquainted with the
swell mob than any officer in Lon
don."

Our heart leaping up when we beheld
this rainbow in the sky, we turn to Ser
geant Witchem, who very concisely, and
in well-chosen language, goes into the
subject forthwith. Meantime, the whole
of his brother officers are closely inter
ested in attending to what he says, and
observing its effect. Presently they"
begin to strike in, one or two tSgether,
when an opportunity offers, and the
conversation becomes general. But
these brother officers only come in to
the assistance of each other — not to the
contradiction — and a more amicable
brotherhood there could not be. From
the swell mob, we diverge to the
kindred topics of cracksmen, fences,
public-house dancers, area-sneaks, de
signing young people who go out
" gonophing," and other " schools." It
is observable throughout these revela
tions, that Inspector Stalker, the Scotch
man, is always exact and statistical,
and that when any question of figures
arises, everybody as by one consent
pauses, and looks to him.

When we have exhausted the various
schools of Art — during which discussion
the whole body have remained pro
foundly attentive, except when some

THE DETECTIVE POLICE.

unusual noise at the Theatre over the
way has induced some gentleman to
glance inquiringly toward the window
in that direction, behind his next neigh
bor's back — we burrow for information
on such points as the following. Whe
ther there really are any highway rob
beries in London, or whether some
circumstances not convenient to be men
tioned by the aggrieved party, usually
precede the robberies complained of,
under that head, which quite change
their character ? Certainly the latter,
almost always. "Whether in the case
of robberies in houses, where servants
are necessarily exposed to doubt, inno
cence under suspicion ever becomes so
like guilt in appearance, that a good
officer need be cautious how he judges
it ? Undoubtedly. Nothing is so com
mon or deceptive as such appearances
at first. Whether in a place of public
amusement, a thief knows an officer,
and an officer knows a thief — supposing
them, beforehand, strangers to each
other — because each recognizes in the
other, under all disguise, an inattention
to what is going on, and a purpose that
is not the purpose of being entertained ?
Yes. That's the way exactly. Whether
it is reasonable or ridiculous to trust to
the alleged experiences of thieves as
narrated by themselves, in prisons, or
penitentiaries, or anywhere ? In general,
nothing more absurd. Lying is their
habit and their trade ; and they would
rather lie — even if they hadn't an inter
est in it, and didn't want to make them
selves agreeable — than tell the truth.

From these topics, we glide into a
review of the most celebrated and hor
rible of the great crimes that have been
committed within the last fifteen or
twenty years. The men engaged in the
discovery of almost all of them, and in
the pursuit/or apprehension of the mur
derers, are here, down to the very last
instance. One of our guests gave chase
to and boarded the emigrant ship, in
which the murderess last hanged in
London was supposed to have embark
ed. We learn from him that his errand
was not announced to the passengers,
who may have no idea of it to this hour.
That he went below, with the captain,
lamp in hand — it being dark, and the
whole steerage abed and sea-sick — and
engaged the Mrs. Manning who was on

board, in a conversation about her Ing-
gage, until she was, with no small
pains, induced to raise her head, and
turn her face toward thg light. Satis
fied that she was not the object of 4ns
search, he quietly re-embarked in the
Government steamer alongside, and
steamed home again with the intelli
gence.

When we have exhausted these sub
jects, too, which occupy a considerable
time in the discussion, two or three
leave their chairs, whisper Sergeant
Witchem, and resume their seats. Ser
geant Witchem leaning forward a little,
and placing a hand on each of his legs,
then modestly speaks as follows :

" My brother-officers wish me to re
late a little account of my taking Tally-
ho Thompson. A man oughn't to tell
what he has done himself; but still, as
nobody was with me, and, consequently,
as nobody but myself can tell it, I'll do
it in the best way I can, if it should
meet your approval."

We assure Sergeant Witchem that
he will oblige us very much, and we all
compose ourselves to listen with great
interest and attention.

" Tally-ho Thompson," says Sergeant
Witchem, after merely wetting his lips
with his brandy-and-water, " Tally-ho
Thompson was a famous horse-stealer,
couper, and magsman. Thompson, in
conjunction with a pal that occasion
ally worked with him, gammoned a
countryman out of a good round sum
of money, under pretence of getting
him a situation — the regular old dodge
— and was afterward in the 'Hue and
Cry' for a horse — a horse that he stole,
down in Hertfordshire. I had to look
after Thompson, and I applied myself,
of course, in the first instance, to dis
covering where he was. Now, Thomp
son's wife 'lived, along with a little
daughter, at Chelsea. Knowing that
Thompson was somewhere in the coun
try, I watched the house— especially at
post-time in the morning — thinking
Thompson was pretty likely to write to
her. Sure enough, one morning the
postman comes up, and delivers a letter
at Mrs. Thompson's door. Little girl
opens the door, and takes it in. We're
not always sure of postmen, though the
people at the post-offices are always
very obliging. A postman may help

THE DETECTIVE POLICE.

us, or le may not, — -just as it happens.
However, I go across the road, and I
say to the postman, after he has left the
letter, ' Good-morning ! how are you ?'
' How are you ?' says he. ' You've just
delivered a letter for Mrs. Thompson.'
' Yes, I have.' ' You didn't happen to
remark what the post-mark was, per
haps?' 'No,' says he, 'I didn't.' 'Come,'
Bays I, ' I'll be plain with you. I'm in
a small way of business, and I have
given Thompson credit, and I can't
afford to lose what he owe? me. I know
he's got money, and I know"he's in the
country, and if you could tell me what
the post-mark was, I should be very
much obliged to you, and you'd do a
service to a tradesman in a small way
of business that can't afford a loss.'
'Well, 'he said, 'I do assure you that I
did not observe what the post-mark
was ; all I know is, that there was
money in the letter — I should say a
sovereign.' This was enough for me,
because of course I knew that Thomp
son having sent his wife money, it was
probable she'd write to Thompson, by
return of post, to acknowledge the re
ceipt. So I said ' Thankee' to the post
man, and I kept on the watch. In the
afternoon I saw the little girl come out.
Of course I followed her. She went
into a stationer's shop, and I needn't
say to you that I looked in at the win
dow. She bought some writing-paper
and envelopes, and a pen. I think to
myself, ' That'll do !' — watch her home
again — and don't go away, you may be
sure, knowing that Mrs. Thompson was
writing her letter to Tally-ho, and that
the letter would be posted presently.
In about an hour or so, out came the
little girl again, with the letter in her
hand. I went up, and said something
to the child, whatever it might have
been ; but I couldn't see the direction
of the letter, because she held it with
the seal upward. However, I observed
that on the back of the letter there was
what we call a kiss — a drop of wax by
the side of the seal — and again, you
understand, that was enough for me. I
saw her post the letter, waited till she
was gone, then went into the shop, and
asked to see the Master. When he
came out, I told him, ' Now, I'm an Offi
cer in the Detective Force ; there's a
letter with a kiss been posted here just

now, for a man that I'm in search ofj
and what I have to ask of y^n, is, that
you will let me look at the direction
of that letter.' He was very civil —
took a lot of letters from the box in the
window — shook 'em out on the counter
with the faces downward — and there
among 'em was the identical letter with
the kiss. It was directed, Mr. Thomas

Pigeon, Post Office, B , to be

left till called for. Down I went to

•B (a hundred and twenty miles

or so) that night. Early next morning
I went to the Post Office ; saw the gen
tleman in charge of that department^
told him who I was ; and that my object
was to see, and track, the party that
should come for the letter for Mr.
Thomas Pigeon. He was very polite,
and said, ' You shall have every assist
ance we can give you ; you can wait
inside the office ; and we'll take care to
let you know when anybody comes for
the letter.' Well, I waited there three
days, and began to think that nobody
ever would come. At last the clerk
whispered to me, ' Here ! > Detective !
Somebody's come for the letter 1'
' Keep him a minute,' said I, and I ran
round to the outside of the office.
There I saw a young chap with the ap
pearance of an Ostler, holding a horse by
the bridle — stretching the bridle across
the pavement, while he waited at the
Post Office Window for the letter. I
began to pat the horse, and that ; and
I said to the boy, 'Why, this is Mr.
Jones's Mare !' 'No. It an't.' 'No?'
said I. 'She's very like Mr. Jones'a
Mare !' ' She "an't Mr. Jones's Mare,
anyhow,' says he. 'It's Mr. So and
So's, of the Warwick Arms.' And up
he jumped, and off he went — letter and
all. I got a cab, followed on the box,
and was so quick after him that I came
into the stable-yard of the Warwick
Arms, by one gate, just as he came in
by another. I went into the bar,
where there was a young woman serv
ing, and called for a glass of brandy-
and-water. He came in directly, and
handed her the letter. She casually
looked at it, without saying any thing,
and stuck it up behind the glass over
the chimney-piece. What was to b«
done next ?

" I turned it over in my mind while
I drank my brandy-and-water (looking

THE DETECTIVE POLICE

pretty sharp at the letter the while) but
I couldn't see my way out of it all. I
tried to get lodgings in the house, but
there had been a horse-fair, or some
thing of that sort, and it was full. I
was obliged to put up somewhere else,
but I came backward and forward to
the bar for a couple of days, and there
was the letter always behind the glass.
At last I thought I'd write a letter to
Mr. Pigeon myself, and see what that
would do. So I wrote one, and posted
it, but I purposely addressed it, Mr.
John Pigeon, instead of Mr. Thomas
Pigeon, to see what that would do. In
the morning (a very wet morning it
was) I watched the postman down the
street, and cut into the bar, just before
he reached the Warwick Arms. In he
came presently with my letter. 'Is
there a Mr. John Pigeon staying here ?'
' No ! — stop a bit though,' says the bar
maid ; and she took down the letter be
hind the glass. 'No,' says she, 'it's
Thomas, and he is not staying here.
Would you do me a favor, and post
this for me, as it is so wet ?' The
postman said Yes ; she folded it in an
other envelope, directed it, and gave it
him. He put it in his hat, and away
he went.

" I had no difficulty in finding out the
direction of that letter. It was ad
dressed to Mr. Thomas Pigeon, Post-

Office, II , Northamptonshire, to be

left till called for. Off I started directly
for R ; I said the same at the Post-
Office there, as I had said at B ;

and again I waited three days before
anybody came. At last another chap
on horseback came. 'Any letters for
Mr. Thomas Pigeon ?' ' Where do you

come from ?' ' New Inn, near R .'

He got the letter, and away he went at
a canter.

" I made my inquiries about the New

Inn, near R , and hearing it was a

solitary sort of a house, a little in the
horse line, about a couple of miles from
the station, I thought I'd go and have
a look at it. I found it what it had
been described, and sauntered in, to
look about me. The landlady was in
the bar, and I was trying to get into
conversation with her ; asked her how
business was, and spoke about the wet
weather, and so on ; when I saw,
through an open door, three men sitting

by the fire in a sort of parlor, or kitch
en ; and one of those men, according: to
the description I had of him, was Tal
ly-ho Thompson !

"I went and sat down among 'em,
and tried to make things agreeable ;
but they were very shy — wouldn't talk
at all— looked at me, and at one anoth
er, in a way quite the reverse of socia
ble. I reckoned 'em up, and finding
that they were all three bigger men
than me, and considering that their
looks were ugly — that it was a lonely
place — railroad station two miles off —
and night coming on — thought I
couldn't do better than have a drop of
brandy-and-water to keep my courage
up. So I called for my brandy-and-
water ; and as I was sitting drinking it
by the fire, Thompson got up and went
out.

" Now the difficulty of it was, that I
wasn't sure it was Thompson, because I
had never set eyes on him before ; and
what I had wanted was to be quite cer
tain of him. However, there was noth
ing for it now, but to follow, and put a
bold face upon it. I found him talking,
outside ift the yard, with the landlady.
It turned out afterward that he wag
wanted by a Northampton officer for
something else, and that, knowing that
officer to be pock-marked (as I am my
self), he mistook me for him. As
have observed, I found him talking to
the landlady, outside. I put my hand
upon his shoulder — this way — and. said,
'Tally-ho Thompson, it's no use, I
know you. I'm an officer from London,
and I take you into custody for felony I'
'That be d— d 1' says Tally-ho Thomp
son.

" We went back into the house, and
the two friends began to cut up rough,
and their looks didn't please me at all,
I assure you. ' Let the man go. What
are you going to do with him ?' ' I'll
tell you what I'm going to do with him.
Pm going to take him to London to
night, as sure as Pm alive. I'm not
alone here, whatever you may think.
You mind your own business, and keep
yourselves to yourselves. It'll be bet
ter for you, for I know you both very
well.' J'd never seen or heard of 'em
in all my life, but my bouncing cowed
'em a bit, and they kept off, while
Thompson was making ready to go. I

THE DETECTIVE POLICE.

thought to myself, however, that they
might be coming after me on the dark
road, to rescue Thompson ; so I said to
the landlady, ' What men have you got
in the house, Missis ?' ' We haven't
got no men here,' she says, sulkily.
' You have got an ostler, I suppose ?'
'Yes, we've got an ostler.' 'Let me
see him.' Presently he came, and a
shaggy-headed young fellow he was.
4 Now attend to me, young man,' says
I; 'I'm a Detective Officer from Lon
don. This man's name is Thompson.
I have taken him into custody for felony.
I'm going to take him to the railroad
station. I call upon you in the Queen's
name to assist me ; and mind you, my
friend, you'll get yourself into more
trouble than you know of, if you don't !'
You never saw a person open his eyes
so wide. ' Now, Thompson, come
along !' says I. But when I took out
the handcuffs, Thompson cries, ' No !
None of that ! I won't stand them !
I'll go along with you quiet, but I won't
bear none of that !' ' Tally-ho Thomp
son,' I said, 'I'm willing to behave as a
man to you, if you are willing to be
have as a man to me. Give me your
word that you'll come peaceably along,
and I don't want to handcuff you.' 'I
will,' says Thompson, ' but I'll have a
glass of brandy first.' 'I don't care if
I've another,' said I. ' We'll have two
more, Missis,' said the friends, ' and con
found you, Constable, you'll give yonr
m^n a drop, won't you ?' I was agree
able to that, so we had it all round,
and then my man and I took Tally-ho
Thompson safe to the railroad, and I
carried him to London that night. He
was afterward acquitted, on account of
a defect in the evidence ; and I under
stand he always praises me up to the
skies, and says I'm one of the best of
men."

This story coming to a termination
amidst general applause, Inspector
Wield, after a little grave smoking,
fixes his eye on his host, and thus de
livers himself :

" It wasn't a bad plant that of mine,
on Fikey, the man accused of 'forging
the Sou' Western Railway debentures-
it was only t'other day — because the
reason why ? I'll tell you.

" I had information that Fikey and
hia brother kept a factory over yonder

there," — indicating any region on the
Surry side of the river — "where he
bought second-hand carriages ; so after
I'd tried in vain to get hold of him by
other means, I wrote him a letter in an
assumed name, saying that I'd got a
horse and shay to dispose of, and would
drive down next day that he might
view the lot, and make an offer — very
reasonable it was, I said — a reg'lar bar
gain. Straw and me then went off to
a friend of mine that's in the livery and
job business, and hired a turn-out for
the day, a precious smart turn-out it
was — quite a slap-up thing ! Down we
drove, accordingly, with a friend (who's
not in the force himself); and leaving
my friend in the shay near a public-
house, to take care of the horse, we went
to the factory, which was some little way
off. In the factory, there was a number
of strong fellows at work, and after
reckoning 'em up, it was clear to me
that it wouldn't do to try it on there.
They were too many for us. We must
get our man out of doors. ' Mr. Fikey
at home ?' ' No, he ain't.' ' Expected
home soon?' 'Why, no, not soon.'
' Ah ! is his brother here ?' ' /'m his
brother.' ' Oh 1 well, this is an ill-con-
wenience, this is. I wrote him a letter
yesterday, saying I'd got a little turn
out to dispose of, and I've took the
trouble to bring the turn-out down, a'
purpose, and now he ain't in the way.'
1 No, he ain't in the way. You couldn't
make it convenient to call again, could
you ?' ' Why, no, I couldn't. I want
to sell ; that's the fact ; and I can't put
it off. Could you find him anywheres ?'
At first he said No he couldn't, and
then he wasn't sure about it, and then
he'd go and try. So, at last he went
up-stairs, where there was a sort of loft,
and presently down comes my man him
self, in his shirt-sleeves.

"'Well,' he says, 'this seems to be
rayther a pressing matter of yours.'
' Yes,' I says, ' it is rayther a pressing
matter, and you'll find it a bargain —
dirt-cheap.' 'I ain't in particular want
of a bargain just now,' he says, 'but
where is it ?' 'Why,' I says, 'the turn
out's just lutside. Come and look at
it.' He hasn't any suspicions, and
away we go. And the first thing that
happens is, that the horse runs away
with my friend (who knows no more of

THE DETECTIVE 1C LICE.

driving than a child) when he takes a
little trot along the road to show his
paces. You never saw such a game in
your life 1

" When the bolt is over, and the turn
out has come to a stand-still again,
Fikey walks round and round it as
grave as a judge — me too. ' There,
Bir!' I says. 'There's a neat thing!'
' It ain't a bad style of thing,' he says.
'I believe you,' says I. 'And there's a
horse !' — for I saw him looking at it.
' Rising eight !' I says, rubbing his
fore-legs. (Bless you, there ain't a man
in the world knows less of horses than
I do, but I'd heard my friend at the
Livery Stables say he was eight year
old, so I says, as knowing as possible
' Rising Eight.') ' Rising eight, is he ?'
says he. ' Rising eight,' says I. 'Well,'
he says, 'what do you want for it?'
'Why, the first and last figure for the
whole concern is five-and-twenty
pound !' ' That's very cheap 1' he says,
looking at me. ' Ain't it ?' I says. ' I
told you it was a bargain ! Now, with
out any higgling and haggling about it,
what I want is to sell, and that's my
price. Further, I'll make it easy to
you, and take half the money down,
and you can do a bit of stiff* for the
balance.' ' Well,' he says again, ' that's
very cheap.' ' I believe you,' says I ;
'get in and try it, and you'll buy it.
Come ! take a trial !'

" Ecod he gets in, and we get in, and
we drive along the road, to show him
to one of the railway clerks that was-
hid in the public-house window to iden
tify him. But 'the clerk was bothered,
and didn't know whether it was him, or
wasn't — because the reason why ? I'll
tell you, — on account of his having
Bhaved his whiskers. ' It's a clever lit
tle horse,' he says, ' and trots well ; and
the shay runs light.' ' Not a doubt
about it,' I says. ' And now, Mr. Fikey,
I may as well make it all right, without
wasting any more of your time. The
fact is, I'm Inspector Weild, and you're
my prisoner.' 'You don't mean that ?'
he says. 'I do, indeed.' 'Then burn
my body,' says Fikey, 'if this ain't too
bad!'

" Perhaps you never saw a man so
knocked over with surprise. 'I hope

* Give a bill.

you '11 let me have my coat ?' he sayg.
' By all means.' ' Well, then, let's drive
to the factory.' ' Why, not exactly that,
I think,' said I ; ' I've been there, once
before, to-day. Suppose we send for
it.' He saw it was no go, so he sent for
it, and put it on, and we drove him up
to London, comfortable."

This reminiscence is in the height of
its success, when a general proposal is
made to thefresh-complexioned, smooth
faced officer, with the strange air of sim
plicity, to tell the "Butcher's story."

The fresh-complexioned, smooth-faced
officer, with the strange air of simpli
city, began, with a rustic smile, and in
a soft, wheedling tone of voice, to re
late the Butcher's Story, thus :

" It's just about six years ago, now,
since information was given at Scotland
Yard of there being extensive robberies
of lawns and silks going on, at some
wholesale houses in the City. Direc
tions were given for the business being
looked into ; and Straw, and Fendall,
and me, we were all in it."

"When you received your instruc
tions," said we, "you went away, and
held a sortrtrf Cabinet Council together?"

The smooth-faced officer coaxingly
replied, " Ye-es. Just so. We turned
it over among ourselves a good deaL
It appeared, when we went into it, that
the goods were sold by the receivers ex
traordinarily cheap — much cheaper than
they could have been if they had been
honestly come by. The receivers were
in the trade, and kept capital shops —
establishments of the first respectability
— one of 'em at the West End, one
down in Westminster. After a lot of
watching and inquiry, and this and that
among ourselves, we found that the job
was managed, and the purchases of the
stolen goods made, at a little public-
house near Smithfield, down by St. Bar
tholomew's ; where the Warehouse Por
ters, who were the thieves, took 'em for
that purpose, don't you see ? and made
appointments to meet the people that
went between themselves and the re
ceivers. This public-house was princi
pally used by journeymen butchers from
the country, out of place, and in want
of situations ; so, what did we do, but— §
ha, ha, ha ! — we agreed that I should
be dressed up like a butcher myself, and
go and live there 1"

THE DETECTIVE POLICE.

Never, surely, was a faculty of obser-
ration better brought to bear upon a
purpose, than that which picked out
this officer for the part. Nothing in all
creation, could have suited him better.
Even while he spoke, he became a greasy,
sleepy, shy, good-natured, chuckle-head
ed, unsuspicious, and confiding young
butcher. His very hair seemed to have
&uet in it, as he made it smooth upon
his head, and his fresh complexion to
be lubricated by large quantities of ani
mal food.

" So I — ha, ha, ha !" (always

with the confiding snigger of the fool
ish young butcher,) " so I dressed my
self in the regular way, made up a little
bundle of clothes, and went to the pub
lic-house, and asked if I could have a
lodging there ? They says, ' yes, you
can have a lodging here,' and I got a
bed-room, and settled myself down in
the tap. There was a number of people
about the place, and coming backwards
and forwards to the house ; and first one
gays, and then another siys, 'Are you
from the country, young man ?' ' Yes,' I
gays, ' I am. I'm come out of Northamp
tonshire, and I'm quite lonelyhere, for I
don't know London at all, and it's such
a mighty big town ?' 'It is a big town,'
they says. "Oh, its a very big town !' I
says. ' Really and truly I never was in
such a town. It quite confuses me 1' —
and all that, you know.

"When some of the Journeymen
Butchers that used the house, found that
I wanted a place, they says, ' Oh, we'll
get you a place I' And they actually
took me to a sight of places, in New
gate Market, Newport Market, Clare,
Carnaby — I don't know where all. But
the wages was — ha, ha, ha ! — was not
quite sufficient, and I never could suit
myself, don't you see ? Some of the
queer frequenters of the house, were a
little suspicious of me at first, and I
was obliged to be very cautious indeed,
how I communicated with Straw or Fen-
dall. Sometimes, when I went out, pre
tending to stop and look into the shop-
windows, and just casting my eye round,
I used to see some of 'em following me ;
but, being perhaps better accustomed
than they thought for, to that sort of
thing, I used to lead 'em on as far as I
thought necessary or convenient — some
times a long way — and then turn sharp

round, and meet 'em, and say, ' Oh, dear,
how glad I am to come upon you so
fortunate ! This London's such a place,
I'm blowed if I an't lost again !' And
then we'd go back all together, to the
public-house, and — ha, ha, ha ! and
smoke our pipes, don't you see ?

" They were very attentive to me, I
am sure. It was a common thing, while
I was living there, for some of 'em to
take me out and show me London. They
showed me the Prisons — showed me
Newgate — and when they showed me
Newgate, I stops at the place where the
Porters pitch their loads, and says, ' Oh
dear, is this where they hang the men !
Oh Lor !' ' That !' they says, ' what a
simple cove he is ! That an't it !' And
then, they pointed out which was it, and
I says ' Lor !' and they says, ' Now,
you'll know it agen, won't you ?' And
I said I thought I should if I tried hard
• — and I assure you I kept a sharp look
out for the City Police when we were
out in this way, for if any of 'em had
happened to know me, and had spoke
*o me, it would have been all up in a
minute. However, by good luck, such
a thing never happened, and all went on
quiet : though the difficulties I had in
communicating with my brother officers
Were quite extraordinary.

" The stolen goods that were brought
to the public-house by the Warehouse^
Porters, were always disposed of in a
back parlor. For a long time, I never
could get into this parlor, or see what
was done there. As I sat smoking my
pipe, like an innocent young chap, by
the tap-room fire, I'd hear some of the
parties to the robbery, as they came in
and out, say softly to the landlord,
' Who's that ? What does he do here ?'
'Bless your soul,' says the landlord,
' He's only a' — ha, ha, ha 1 — ' he's only
a green young fellow from the country,
as is looking for a butcher's sitiwation.
Don't mind him /' So, in course of time,
they were so convinced of my being
green, and got to be so accustomed to me,
that I was as free of the parlor as any
of 'em, and I have" seen as much as
Seventy Pounds worth of fine lawn sold
there, in one night, that was stolen from
a warehouse in Friday Street. After
the sale the buyers always stood treat —
hot supper, or dinner, or what not — and
they'd say on those occasion, ' Come

THE DETECTIVE POLICE.

on, Butcher ? Pat your best leg fore
most, young 'un, and walk into it !'
Which I used to do — and hear, at table,
all manner of particulars that it was
very important for us Detectives to
know.

" This went on for ten weeks. I lived
in the public-house all the time, and
never was out of the Butcher's dress —
except in bed. At last, when I had fol
lowed seven of the thieves, and set 'em
to rights — that's an expression of ours,
don't you see, by which I mean to say
that I traced 'em, and found out where
the robberies were done, and all about
'em — Straw, and Fendall, and I, gave
one another the office, and at a time
agreed upon, a descent was made upon
the public-house, and the apprehensions
effected. One of the first things the
officers did, was to collar me — for the
parties to the robbery weren't to sup
pose yet, that I was anything but a
Butcher — on which the landlord cries
out, ' Don't take him,'1 he says, ' what
ever you do ! He's only a poor young
chap from the country, and butter
wouldn't melt in his mouth !' How
ever, they — ha, ha, ha ! — they took me,
and pretended to search my bedroom,
where nothing was found but an old
fiddle belonging to the landlord, that
had got there somehow or another.
But it entirely changed the landlord's
opinion, for when it was produced, he
says, ' My fiddle 1 The Butcher's a pur
loin er ! I give him into custody for the
robbery of a musical instrument !'

" The man that had stolen the goods
in Friday Street was not taken yet. He
had told me, in confidence, that he had
his suspicions there was something
wrong (on account of the City Police
having captured one of the party), and
that he was going to make himself
scarce. I asked him, 'Where do you
mean to go, Mr. Shepherdson ?' ' Why,
Butcher,' says he, ' the Setting Moon, in
the Commercial Road, is a snug house,
and I shall hang out there for a time.
I shall call myself Simpson, which ap
pears to me to be a modest sort of a
name. Perhaps you'll give us a look
in, Butcher ?' ' Well,' says I, ' I think
I will give you a call' — which I fully
intended, don't you see, because, of
course, he was to be taken ! I went
over to the Setting Moon next day,

with a brother officer, and asked at the
bar for Simpson. They pointed out big
room, upstairs. As we were going up,
he looks down over the banisters, and
calls out, 'Halloa, Butcher ! is that you ?'
' Yes, it's me. How do you find your
self ?' ' Bobbish,' he says ; ' but who's
that with you ?' ' It's only a young
man, that's a friend of mine,' I says.
' Come along, then,' says he, ' any friend
of the Butcher's is as welcome as the
Butcher 1' So, I made my friend ac
quainted with him, and we took hi*
into custody.

" You have no idea, sir, what a sight
it was, in Court, when they first knew
that I wasn't a Butcher, after all ! I
wasn't produced at the first examina
tion, when there was a remand ; but I
was at the second. And when I stepped
into the box, in full police uniform, and
the whole party saw how they had been
done, actually a groan of horror and
dismay proceeded from 'em in the
dock I

"At the Old Bailey, when their
trials came on, Mr. Clarkson was en
gaged for the defense, and he couldn't
make out how it was, about the Butcher.
He thought, all along, it was a real
Butcher. When the counsel for the
prosecution said, ' I will now call before
you, gentlemen, the Police-officer,'
meaning myself, Mr. Clarkson says,
' Why Police-officer ? Why more Po
lice-officers ? I don't want Police.
We have had a great deal too much of
the Police. I want the Butcher !' How
ever, sir, he had the Butcher and
Police-officer, both in one. Out of
seven prisoners committed for trial, five
were found guilty, and some of 'em were
transported. The respectable firm at
the West End got a term of imprison
ment; and that's the Butcher's Story 1"

The story done, the chuckle-headed
Butcher again resolved himself into the
smooth-faced Detective. But, he was
so extremely tickled by their having
taken him about, when he was that
Dragon in disguise, to show him Lon
don, that he could not help reverting
to that point in his narrative ; and
gently repeating with the Butcher snig
ger, " 'Oh, dear !' I says, 'is that where
they hang the men? Oh, Lor !' 'That,"
says they. 'What a simple cove he

THE DETECTIVE POLICE.

It being now late, and the party very
modest in their fear of being too diffuse,
there were some tokens of separation ;
when Serjeant Dornton, the soldierly-
looking man, said, looking round him
with a smile :

"Before we break up, Sir, perhaps
you might have some amusement in
hearing of the Adventures of a Carpet
Bag. They are very short; and, I
think, curious."

We welcomed the Carpet Bag, as
cordially as Mr. Shepherdson welcomed
the false Butcher at the Setting Moon.
Serjeant Dornton proceeded.

" In 1847, 1 was despatched to Chat
ham, in search of one Mesheck, a Jew.
He had been carrying on, pretty heavi
ly, in the bill-stealing way, getting ac
ceptances from young men of good
connections (in the army chiefly), ^qn
pretense of discount, and bolting with
the same.

"Mesheck was off, before I got to
Chatham. All I could learn about him
was, that he had gone, probably to
London, and had with him — a Carpet
Bag.

" I came back to town, by the last
train from Blackwall, and made inqui
ries concerning a Jew passenger with —
a Carpet Bag.

" The office was shut up, it being the
last train. There were only two or three
porters left. Looking after a Jew with
a Carpet Bag, on the Blackwall Rail
way, which was then the high road to
a great Military Depot, was worse than
looking after a needle in a hayrick.
But it happened that one of these por
ters had carried, for a certain Jew, to
a certain public-house, a certain — Car
pet Bag.

"I went to the public-house, but the
Jew had only left his luggage there for
a few hours, and had called for it in a
cab, and taken it away. I put such
questions there, and to the porter, as I
thought prudent, and got at this de
scription of — the Carpet Bag.

" It was a bag which had, on one
Bide of it, worked in worsted, a green
parrot on a stand. A green parrot on
n stand was the means by which to
identify that — Carpet Bag.

" I traced Mesheck, by means of this
green parrot on a stand, to Chelten
ham, to Birmingham, to Liverpool, to

the Atlantic Ocean. At Liverpool he
was too many for me. He had gone to
the United States, and I gave up all
thoughts of Mesheck, and likewise of
his — Carpet Bag.

"Many months afterward — near a
year afterward — there was a bank in
Ireland robbed of seven thousand
pounds, by a person of the name of
Doctor Dundey, who escaped to Amer
ica ; from which country some of the
stolen notes came home. He was sup
posed to have bought a farm in New
Jersey. Under proper management,
that estate could be seized and sold, for
the benefit of the parties he had de
frauded. I was sent off to America for
this purpose.

" I landed at Boston. I went on to
New York. I found that he had lately
changed New York paper-money for
New Jersey paper-money, and had
banked cash in New Brunswick. To
take this Doctor Dundey, it was neces
sary to entrap him into the State of
New York, which required a deal of ar
tifice and trouble. At one time, he
couldn't be drawn into an appointment.
At another time, he appointed to come
to meet me, and a New York officer, on
a pretext I made ; and then his children
had the measles. At last he came, per
steamboat, and I took him, and lodged
him in a New York prison called the
Tombs ; which I dare say you know,
sir ?"

Editorial acknowledgment to that
effect.

" I went to the Tombs, on the morn
ing after his capture, to attend the
examination before the magistrate. I
was passing through the magistrate's
private room, when, happening to look
round me to take notice of the place, as
we generally have a habit of doing, I
clapped my eyes, in one corner, on a—
Carpet Bag.

" What did I see upon that Carpet
Bag, if you'll believe me, but a green
parrot on a stand, as large as life 1

" ' That Carpet Bag, with the repre
sentation of a green parrot on a stand,'
said I, 'belongs to an English Jew,
named Aa/on Mesheck, and to no other
man, alive or dead !'

"I. give you my -vord the New York
Police-officers were doubled up with
surprise.

THE PAIR OF GLOVES.

" ' How do you ever come to know
that ?' said they.

" ' I think I ought to know that
green parrot by this time,' said I ; 'for
I have had as pretty a dance after that
bird, at home, as ever I had, iu all my
life !' »

"And was it Mesheck's ?" we sub
missively inquired.

" Was it, sir ? Of course it was ! He
was in custody for another offense, in
that very identical Tombs, at that very
identical time. And, more than that !
Some memoranda, relating to the fraud
for which I had vainly endeavored to
take him, were found to be, at that mo
ment, lying in that very same individual
— Carpet Bag.

Such are the curious coincidences
and such is the peculiar ability, always
sharpening and being improved by
practice, and always adapting itself to
every variety of circumstances, and op
posing itself to every new device that
perverted ingenuity can invent, for
which this important social branch of
the public service is remarkable ! For
ever on the watch, with their wits
stretched to the utmost, these officers
have, from day to day and year to year,
to set themselves against every novelty
of trickery and dexterity that the com
bined imaginations of all the lawless
rascals in England can devise, and to
keep pace with every such invention
that comes out. In the Courts of Jus
tice, the materials of thousands of such

stories as we have narrated — often ele
vated into the marvelous and romantic,
by the circumstances of the case — are
dryly compressed into the set phrase,
" in consequence of information I re
ceived, I did so and so." Suspicion
was to be directed, by careful inference
and deduction, upon the right person ;
the right person was to be taken, wher
ever he had gone, or whatever he was
doing to avoid detection : he is taken ;
there he is at the bar ; that is enough.
From information I, the officer, received,
I did it ; and, according fb the custom
in these cases, I say no more.

These games of chess, played with
live pieces, are played before small
audiences, and are chronicled nowhere.
The interest of the game supports the
player. Its results are enough for jus
tice. To compare great things with
small, suppose LEVERBIER or ADAMS
informing the public that from informa
tion he had received he had discovered
a new planet ; or COLUMBUS informing
the public of his- day that from informa
tion he had received he had discovered
a new continent ; so the Detectives in
form it that they have discovered a new
fraud or an old offender, and the pro
cess is unknown.

Thus, at midnight, closed the pro
ceedings of our curious and interesting
party. But one other circumstance
finally wound up the evening, after our
Detective guests had left us. One of
the sharpest among them, and the offi
cer best acquainted with the Swell Mob
had his pocket picked, going home 1

THREE ! DETECTIVE" ANECDOTES.

I.— THE PAIR OF GLOVES.

" IT'S a singler story, Sir," said In
spector Wield, of the Detective Police,
who, in company with Sergeants Dorn-
ton and Mith, paid us another twilight
visit, one July evening ; " and I've been
thinking you might like to know it.

"It's concerning the murder of the
young woman, Eliza Grirnwood, some
years ago, over in the Waterloo Road.
She was commonly called The Countess,

because of her handsome appearance
and her proud way of carrying of her
self; and when I saw the poor Countesg
(I had known her well to speak to),
lying dead, with her throat cut, on the
floor of her bed-room, you'll believe me
that a variety of reflections calculated
to make a man rather low in his spirits,
came into my head.

"That's neither here nor there. I
went 'to the house the morning after the
murder, and examined the body, and

THE PAIR OF GLOVES.

made a general observation of the bed
room where it was. Turning down the
pillow of the bed with my hand, I found,
underneath it, a pair of gloves. A
pair of gentleman's dress gloves, very
dirty ; and inside the lining, the letters
TE, and a cross.

" Well, Sir, I took them gloves away,
and I showed 'em to the magistrate,
over at Union Hall, before whom the
case was. He says ' Wield,' he says,
'there's no doubt this is a discovery
that may lead to something very im
portant ; and what you have got to do,
Wield, is, to find out the owner of these
gloves.'

" I was of the same opinion, of
course, and I went at it immediately. I
looked at the gloves pretty narrowly,
and it was my opinion that they had
been cleaned. There was a smell of
sulphur and rosin about 'em, you know,
which cleaned gloves usually have, more
or less. I took 'em over to a friend of
mine at Kennington, who was in that
line, and I put it to him. 'What do
you say now ? Have these gloves been
cleaned ?' ' These gloves have been
cleaned,' says he. ' Have you any idea
who cleaned them ?' says I. ' Not at
all,' says he ; ' I've a very distinct idea
who didn't clean 'em; and that's myself.
But I'll tell you what, Wield, there ain't
above eight or nine reg'lar glove clean
ers in London,' — there were not, at that
time, it seems — ' and I think I can give
you their addresses, and you may find
out, by that means, who did clean 'em.'
Accordingly, he gav* me the directions,
and I went here, and I went there, and
I looked up this man, and I looked up
that man ; but, though they all agreed
that the gloves had been cleaned, I
couldn't find the man, woman, or child,
that had cleaned that aforesaid pair of
gloves.

" What with this person not being at
Inme, and that person being expected
home in the afternoon, and so forth, the
inquiry took me three days. On the
evening of the third day, coming over
Waterloo Bridge from the Surry side
of the river, quite beat, and very much
rexed and disappointed, I thought I'd
have a shilling's worth of entertainment
at the Lyceum Theatre to freshen my
self up. So I went into the Pit, at
half-price, and I sat myself down next

to a very quiet, modest »ort of a yonng
man. Seeing I was a stranger (which
I thought it just as well to appear to
be) he told me the names of the actors
on the stage, and we got into conversa
tion. When the play was over, we
came out together, and I said, ' We've
been very companionable and agreeable,
and perhaps you wouldn't object to a
drain ?' ' Well, you're very good, says
he; 'I shouldn't object to a drain.'
Accordingly, we went to a public-house,
near the Theatre, sat ourselves down in
a quiet room up stairs on the first floor,
and called for a pint of half-and-half,
apiece, and a pipe.

" Well, Sir, we put our pipes aboard,
and we drank our half-and-half, and sat
a talking, very sociably, when the young
man says, ' You must excuse me stop
ping very long,' he says, ' because I'm
forced to go home in good time. I
must be at work all night.' 'At work
all night ?' says I. ' You ain't a Baker ?'
' No,' he says, laughing, 'I ain't a baker.'
'I thought not,' says. I, 'you haven't
the looks of a baker.' 'No,' says he,
'I'm a glove-cleaner.'

" I never was more astonished in my
life, than when I heard them words
come out of his lips. ' You're a glove-
cleaner, are you ?' says I. ' Yes,' he
says, ' I am.' ' Then, perhaps,' says I,
taking the gloves out of my pocket,
' you can tell me who cleaned this pair
of gloves ? It's a rum story,' I says*
' I was dining over at Lambeth, the
other day, at a free-and-easy — quite
promiscuous — with a public company —
when some gentleman, he left these
gloves behind him 1 Another gentle
man and me, you see, we laid a wager
of a sovereign, that I wouldn't find out
who they belong to. I've spent as
much as seven shillings already, in try
ing to discover ; but, if you could help
me, I'd stand another seven and wel- *
come. You see there's TB and a cross,
inside.' '/see, 'he says. 'Bless you,
/ know these gloves very well ! I've
seen dozens of pairs belonging to the
same party.' 'No?' says I. 'Yes,'
says he. ' Then you know who cleaned
'em ?' says I. ' Rather so,' says he.
'My father cleaned 'em.'

" 'Where does your father live ?' says
I. ' Just round the corner,' says the
young man, ' near Exeter Street, here.

THE PAIR OF GLOVES.

Hell tell you who they belong to, di
rectly.' ' Would you come round with
me now ?' says I. ' Certainly,' says he,
1 but you needn't tell my father that you
found me at the play, you know, be
cause he mightn't like it.' ' All right !'
We went round to the place, and there
we found an old man in a white apron,
with two or three daughters, all rubbing
and cleaning away at lots of gloves, in
a front parlor. ' Oh, Father !' says the
young man, ' here's a person been and
made a bet about the ownership of a
pair of gloves, and I've told him you
can settle it.' ' Good-evening, Sir,'
says I to the old gentleman. ' Here's
the gloves your sou speaks of. Letters
TR, you see, and a cross.' ' Oh yes,' he
says, ' I know these gloves very well ;
I've cleaned dozens of pairs of 'em.
They belong to Mr. Trinkle, the great
upholsterer in Cheapside.' ' Did you
get 'em from Mr. Trinkle, direct,' says
I, ' if you'll excuse my asking the ques
tion ?' ' No,' says he ; ' Mr. Trinkle
always sends 'em to Mr. Phibbs's, the
haberdasher's, opposite his shop, and
the haberdasher sends 'em to me.' ' Per
haps you wouldn't object to a drain?'
says I. ' Not in the least !' says he. So
I took the old gentleman out, and had
a little more talk with him and his son,
over a glass, and we parted excellent
friends.

" This was late on a Saturday night.
First thing on the Monday morning, I
went to the haberdasher's shop, oppo-
site Mr. Trinkle's the great upholster-*
er's in Cheapside. ' Mr. Phibbs in the
way ?' ' My name is Phibbs.' ' Oh ! 1
believe you sent this pair of gloves to
be cleaned ?' ' Yes, I did, for young
Mr. Trinkle over the way. There he is,
in the shop 1' . ' Oh ! that's him in the
shop, is it ? Him in the green coat ?'
'The same individual.' 'Well, Mr.
Phibbs, this is an unpleasant affair ; but
the fact is, I am Inspector Wield of the
Detective Police, and I found these
gloves under the pillow of the young
woman that was murdered the other
day, over in the Waterloo Road !'
'Good Heaven!' says he. 'He's a
most respectable young man, and if
his father was to hear of it, it would be
the ruin of him !' ' I'm very sorry for
it,' says I, ' but I must take him into
custody.' 'Good Heaven!' says Mr.

Phibbs, again ; 'can nothing be done ?*
' Nothing,' says I. ' Will you allow m*
to call him over here,' says he, ' that hia
father may not see itxJone ?' 'I don't
object to that,' says I ; ' but unfortu
nately, Mr. Phibbs, I can't allow of any
communication between you. If any
was attempted, I should have to inter
fere directly. Perhaps you'll beckon
him over here ?' Mr. Phibbs went ty
the door and beckoned, and the young
fellow came across the street directly ;
a sihart, brisk young fellogy.

" ' Good-morning, Sir,' says I.
' Good-morning, Sir,' says he. ' Would
you allow me to inquire, Sir,' says I,
' if you ever had any acquaintance with
a party of the name of Grimwood?'
'Grimwood! Grimwood !' says he,
'No!' 'You know the Waterloo
Road ?' ' Oh ! of course I know the
Waterloo Road !' ' Happen to have
heard of a young woman being mur
dered there ?' ' Yes, I read it in the
paper, and very sorry I was to read it.'
' Here's a pair of gloves belonging to
you, that I found under her pillow the
morning afterward !'

" He was in a dreadful state, Sir ; a
dreadful state ! ' Mr. Wield,' he says, '
' upon my solemn oath I never waa
there. I neve, so much as saw her, to
my knowledge, in my life !' ' I am
very sorry,' says I. 'To tell you the
truth, I don't think you are the mur
derer ; but I must take you to Union,
Hall in a cab. However, I think it's a
case of that sort, that, at present, at
all events, the magistrate will hear it in,
private.'

"A private examination took place,
and then it came out that this young
man was acquainted with a cousin or
the unfortunate Eliza Grimwood, and
that, calling to see this cousin a day or
two before the murder, he left these
gloves upon the table. Who should
come in, shortly afterward, but Eliza
Grimwood ! ' Whose gloves are these ?'
she says, taking 'em up. 'Those are
Mr. Trinkle's gloves,' says her cousin.
'Oh!' says she, 'they are very dirty,
and of no use to him, I am sure. I
shall take 'em away for my girl to clean
the stoves with.' And she put 'em in
her pocket. The girl had used 'em to
clean the stoves, and, I have no doubt,
had left 'em lying on the bed-room

THE ARTFUL TOUCH.

mantle-piece, or on the drawers, or
gemewhere ; and her mistress, looking
round to see that the room was tidy,
had caught 'em tip and put 'em under
the pillow where I found 'em.
"That's the story, Sir.'

II.— THE ARTFUL TOUCH.

"One of the most beautiful things
that ever was done, perhaps," said In
spector Wield, emphasizing the adjec
tive, as preparing us to expect dexterity
or ingenuity rather than strong interest,
" was a move of Sergeant Witchevn's.
It was a lovely idea !

" Witchem and me were down at Ep
som one Derby Day, waiting at the
station for the Swell Mob. As I men
tioned, when we were talking about
these things before, we are ready at the
Station when there's races, or an Agri
cultural Show, or a Chancellor sworn
in for an university, or Jenny Liud, or
anything of that sort ; and as the Swell
Mob come down, we send 'em back
again by the next train. But some of
the Swell Mob, on the occasion of this
Derby that I refer to, so far kiddied us
as to hire a horse and shay ; start away
from London by Whitechapel, and miles
round ; come into Epsom from the op
posite direction ; and go to work, right
and left, on the course, while we were
waiting for 'em at the Rail. That,
however, ain't the point of what I'm
going to tell you.

" While Witchem and me were wait
ing at the station, there comes up one
Mr. Tatt ; a gentleman formerly in the
public line, quite an amateur Detective
in his way, and very much respected.
' Halloa, Charley Wield,' he says. ' What
are you doing here ? On the look out
for some of your old friends ?' ' Yes,
the old move, Mr. Tatt.' ' Come along,'
he says, ' you and Witchem, and have a
glass of sherry.' We can't stir from the
place,' says I, ' till the next train comes
in ; but after that, we will with plea
sure.' Mr. Tatt waits, and the train
comes in, and then Witchem and me go
off with him to the Hotel. Mr. Tatt
he's got up quite regardless of expense,
for the occasion ; and in his shirt-front
there's a beautiful diamond prop, cost
him fifteen or twenty pound — a very

handsome pin indeed. We drink on/
sherry at the bar, and have had our
three or four glasses, when Witchem
cries suddenly, ' Look out Mr. Wield !
stand fast !' and a dash is made into the
place by the swell mob — four of 'em —
that have come down as I tell you, and.
in a moment Mr. Tatt's prop is gone I
Witchern, he cuts 'em off at the d^or, I
lay about me as hard as I can, Mr. Tatt
shows fight like a good 'un, and there
we are, all down together, heads and
heels, knocking about on the floor of the
bar — perhaps you never see such a
scene of confusion ! However, we stick
to our men (Mr. Tatt being as good as
any officer), and we take 'em all, and
carry 'em off to the station. The sta
tion's full of ^people, who have been took
on the course ; and it's a precious piece
of work to get 'em secured. However,
we do it at last, and we search 'em ; but
nothing's found upon 'em, and they're
locked up ; and a pretty state of heat
we are in by that time, I assure you !

" I was very blank over it, myself, to
think that the prop had been passed
away ; and I said to Witchem, when we
had set 'em to rights, and were cooling
ourselves along with Mr. Tatt, ' we don't
take much by this move, anyway, for
nothing's found upon 'em, and it's only
the braggadocia* after all.' ' What do
you mean, Mr. Wield,' says Witchem.
' Here's the diamond pin !' and in the
palm of his hand there it "was, safe and
sound I ' Why, in the name of wonder,'
'says me and Mr. Tatt, in astonishment,
' how did you come by that ?' ' I'll tell
you how I come by it,' says he. ' I saw
which of 'em took it ; and when we
were all down on the floor together,
knocking about, I jnst gave him a little
touch on the back of his hand, as I
knew his pal would ; and he thought it
WAS his pal ; and gave it me 1' It was
beautiful, beau-ti-ful !

" Even that was hardly the best of
the case, for that chap was tried at the
Quarter Sessions at Guilford. You
know what Quarter Sessions are, Sir.
Well, if yon'll believe me, while them
slow justices were looking over the Acts
of Parliament, to see what they could
do to him, I'm blowed if he didn't cut

* Three months' imprisonment as reputed
thieves.

THE SOFA.

out of the dock before their faces 1 He
cut out of the dock, Sir, then and there ;
ewara across a river ; and got up into a
tree to dry himself. In the tree he was
took — an old woman having seen him
dimb up — and Witchem's artful touch
transported him I"

III.— THE SOFA.

"What young men will do, some
times, to ruin themselves and break
their friends' hearts," said Sergeant
Dornton, " it's surprising ! I had a
case at Saint Blank's Hospital which
was of this sort. A bad case, indeed,
with a bad end 1

" The Secretary, and the House-
Surgeon, and the Treasurer, of Saint
Blank's Hospital, came to Scotland
Yard to give information of numerous
robberies having been committed on the
students. The students could leave
nothing in^the pockets of their great
coats, while the great-coats were hang
ing at the hospital, but it was almost
certain to be stolen. Property of vaj*i-
ous descriptions was constantly being
lost ; and the gentlemen were naturally
uneasy about it, and anxious, for the
credit of the institution, that the thief
or thieves should be discovered. The
case was entrusted to me, and I went to
the hospital.

" ' Now, gentlemen,' said I, after we
had talked it over ; ' I understand this
property is usually lost from one room.'

" Yes, they said. It was.

" ' I should wish, if you please,' said
I, 'to see the room.'

" It was a good-sized bare room
downstairs, with a few. tables and forms
in it, and a row of pegs, all round, for
hats and coats.

" ' Next, gentlemen,' said I, ' do you
suspect anybody ?'

" Yes, they said. They did suspect
somebody. They were sorry to say,
they suspected one of the porters.

" ' I should like,' said I, ' to have that
man pointed out to me, and have a little
time to look after him.'

" He was pointed out, and I looked
after him, and then I went back to the
hospital, and said, 'Now, gentlemen,
it's not the porter. He's, unfortunately
for himself, a little too fond of drink,

but he's nothing worse. My suspicion
is, that these robberies are committed
by one of the students ; and if you'll
put me a sofa into that room where the
pegs are — as there's no closet — I think . >«
I shall be able to detect the thief. I
wish the sofa, if you please, to-be cov
ered with chintz, or something of that
sort, so that I may lie on my chest, un
derneath it, without being seen.'

" The sofa was provided, and next
day at eleven o'clock, before any of the
students came, 1 went there, with those
gentlemen, to get underneath it. Ik
turned out to be one of those old-fash
ioned sofas with a great cross-beam at
the bottom, that would have broken my
back in no time if I could ever have got
below it. We had quite a job to break
all this away in time j however, I fell to
work, and they fell to work, and we
brok0 it out, and made a clear place for
me. /' I got under the sofa, lay down on
my, chest, took out my knife, and made
a convenient hole in the chintz to look
through. It was then settled between
me and the gentlemen that when the
students were all up in the wards, one
of the gentlemen should come in, and
hang up a great-coat on one of the
pegs. And that that great-coat should
have, in one of the pockets, a pocket-
book containing marked money.

"After I had been there some time,
the students began to drop into the
room, by ones, and twos, and threes, and
to talk about all sorts of things, little
thinking there was anybody under the
sofa — and then go upstairs. At last
there came in one who remained until
he was alone in the room by himself,
A tallish, good-looking young man of
one or two and twenty, with a light
whisker. He went to a particular hat-
peg, took off a good hat that was hang
ing there, tried it on, hung his own hat
in its place, and hung that hat on an
other peg, nearly opposite to me. I
then felt quite certain that he was the
thief, and would come back by-and-bye.

"When they were all upstairs, the
gentleman came in with the great-coat.
I showed him where to hang it, so that
I might have a good view of it ; and
he went away; and I lay under the
sofa on my 'chest, for a couple of hours
or so, waiting.

" At last, the same young man came

ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD.

down. He walked across the room,
whistling — stopped and listened — took
another walk and whistled — stopped
again, and listened — then began to go
regularly round the pegs, feeling in the
pockets of all the coats. When he came
to THE great-coat, and felt the pocket-
book, he was so eager and so hurried
that he broke the strap in tearing it
open. As he began to put the money
in his pocket, I crawled out from under
the sofa, and his eyes met mine.

" My face, as you may perceive, is
brown now, but it was pale at that
time, my health not being good ; and
Ipoked as long as a horse's. Besides
which, there was a great draught of air
from the door, underneath the sofa, and
I had tied a handkerchief round my
head ; so what I looked like, altogether,
I don't know. He turned blue — liter
ally blue — when he saw me crawling
out, and I couldn't feel surprised at
it.

'"I am an officer of the Detective
Police,' said I, ' and have been lying

here, since you first came in this morn
ing. I regret, for the sake of yourself
and your friends, that you should have
done what you have ; but this case is
complete. You have the pocket-book
in your hand and the money upon you;
and I must take you into custody.

" It was impossible to make out any
case in his behalf, and on his trial he
pleaded guilty. How or when he got
the means I don't know ; but while be
was awaiting his sentence, he poisoned
himself in Newgate.-"

We inquired of this officer, on the
conclusion of the foregoing anecdote,
whether the time appeared long, or
short, when he lay in that constrained
position under the sofa ?

"Why, you see, sir," he replied, "if
he hadn't come in, the first time, and I
had not been quite sure he was the
thief, and would return, the time would
have seemed long. But, as it was, I
being dead-certain of my mfcn, the time
seemed pretty short."

ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD.

How goes the night ? Saint Giles's
clock is striking nine. The weather is
dull and wet, and the long lines of street
lamps are blurred, as if we saw them
through tears. A damp wind blows
and rakes the pieman's fire out, when
he opens the door of his little furnace,
carrying away an eddy of sparks.

Saint Giles's clock strikes nine. We
are punctual. Where is Inspector
Field ? Assistant Commissioner of
Police is already here, enwrapped in
oil-skin cloak, and standing in the sha
dow of Saint Giles's steeple. Detective
Sergeant, weary of speaking French all
day to foreigners unpacking at the
Great Exhibition, is already here.
Where is Inspector Field ?

Inspector Field is, to-night, the guar
dian genius of the British Museum. He
is bringing his shrewd eye to bear on
every corner of its solitary galleries, be
fore he reports "all right." Suspicious
of the Elgin marbles, and not to be done
by cat-faced Egyptian giants with their

hands upon their knees, Inspector Field,
sagacious, vigilant, lamp in hand, throw
ing monstrous shadows on the walls and
ceilings, passes through the spacious
rooms. If a mummy trembled in an
atom of its dusty covering, Inspector
Field would say, " Come out of that,
Tom Green. I know you !" If the
smallest " Gonoph" about town were
crouching at the bottom of a classic
bath, Inspector Field would nose him
with a finer scent than the ogre's, when
adventurous Jack lay trembling in his
kitchen copper. But all is quiet, and
Inspector Field goes warily on, making
little outward show of attending to any
thing in particular, just recognizing the
Ichthyosaurus as a familiar acquaint
ance, and wondering, perhaps, how the
detectives did it in the days before th«
Flood.

Will Inspector Field be long about
this work ? He may be half-an-hour
longer. He sends his compliments by
Police Constable, and proposes that we

ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD.

meet at Saint Giles's Station House,
across the road. Good. It were as
well to stand by the fire, there, as in the
shadow of Saint Giles's steeple.

Any thing doing here to-night ? Not
much. We are very quiet. A lost boy,
extremely calm and small, sitting by the
fire, whom we now confide to a con
stable to take home, for the child says
that if you show him Newgate Street,
he can show you where he lives — a rav
ing drunken woman in the cells, who
has screeched her voice away, and has
hardly power enough left to declare,
even with the passionate help of her
feet and arms, that she is the daughter
of a British officer, and, strike her blind
and dead, but she'll write a letter to the
Queen! but who is soothed with a drink
of water — in another cell, a quiet woman
with a child at her breast, for begging
• — in another, her husband in a smock-
frock, with a basket of watercresses —
in another, a pickpocket — in another, a
meek tremulous old pauper man who
has been out for a holiday " and has
took but a little drop, but it has over
come him arter so many months in the
house 1" — and that's all as yet. P^e-
sently, a sensation at the Station House
door. Mr. Field, gentlemen !

Inspector Field comes in, wiping his
forehead, for he is of a burly figure, and
has come fast from the ores and metals
of the deep mines of the earth, and from
the Parrot Gods of the South Sea
Islands, and from the birds and beetles
of the tropics, and from the Arts of
Greece and Borne, and from the Sculp
tures of Nineveh, and from the traces
of an elder world, when these were not.
Is Rogers ready ? Rogers is ready,
strapped and great-coated, with a flam
ing eye in the middle of his waist, like
a deformed Cyclops. Lead on, Rogers,
to Rats' Castle 1

How many people may there be in
London, who, if we had brought them
deviously and blindfold, to this street,
fifty paces from the Station House, and
within call of Saint Giles's church,
would know it for a not remote part of
the city in which their lives are passed ?
How many, who amidst this compound
of sickening smells, these heaps of filth,
these tumbling houses, with all their
tile contents, animate and inanimate,
glimily overflowing into the black rdad,

would believe that they breathe thfr
air ? How much Red Tape may there
be, that could look round on the face*
which now hem us in — for our appear
ance here has caused a rush from all
points to a common centre — the lower
ing foreheads, the sallow cheeks, the
brutal eyes, the matted hair, the infect
ed, vermin-haunted heaps of rags — and
say " I have thought of this. I have
not dismissed the thing. I have neither
blustered it away, nor frozen it away,
nor tied it up and put it away, nor
smoothly said pooh, pooh ! to it, when
it has been shown to me" ?

This is not what Rogers wants to
know, however. What Rogers wants
to know, is, whether you will clear the
way here, some of you, or whether you
won't ; because if you don't do it right
on end, he'll lock you up ! What 1
You are there, are you, Bob Miles ?
You haven't had enough of it yet,
haven't you ? You want three months
more, do you ? Come away from that
gentleman ! What are you creeping
round there for ?

"What am I a doing, thinn, Mr.
Rogers ?" says Bob Miles, appearing,
villainous, at the end of a lane of light,
make by the lantern.

" I'll let you know pretty quick, if
you don't hook it. WILL you hook
it?"

A sycophantic murmur rises from the
crowd. " Hook it, Bob, when Mr.
Rogers and Mr. Field tells you ! Why
don't you hook it, when you are told
to?"

The most importunate of the voices
strikes familiarly on Mr. Rogers's ear.
He suddenly turns his lantern on the
owner.

"What! You are there, are you,
Mister Click? You hook it too —
come ?"

"What for?" says Mr. Click, dis
comfited.

" You hook it, will you I" says Mr.
Rogers, with stern emphasis.

Both Click and Miles do "hook it,"
without another word, or, in plainer
English, sneak away.

" Close up there, my men !" says In
spector Fields to two constables OB
duty who have followed. "Keep to
gether, gentlemen ; we are going down
here. Heads I"

3N DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD.

Saint Giles's church strikes half-past
ten. We stoop low, and creep down a
precipitous flight of steps into a dark
close cellar. There is a fire. There is
a long deal table. There are benches.
The cellar is full of company, chiefly
very young men in various conditions
of dirt and raggedness. Some are eat
ing supper. There are no girls or
women present. Welcome to Rats'
Castle, gentlemen, and to this company
of noted thieves !

" Well, my lads ! How are you, my
lads ? What have you been doing to
day ? Here's some company come to
see you, my lads ! There's a plate of
beefsteak, Sir, for the supper of a fine
young man ! And there's a mouth for
a steak, Sir ! Why, I should be too
proud of such a mouth as that, if I had
it myself 1 Stand up and show it, Sir !
Take off your cap. There's a fine
young man for a nice little party, Sir !
An't he ?"

Inspector Field is the bustling speak
er. Inspector Field's eye is the roving
eye that searches every corner of the
cellar as he talks. Inspector Field's
hand is the well-known hand that has
collared half the people here, and
motioned tbeir brothers, sisters, fathers,
laothers, male and female friends, in
exorably to New South Wales. Yet
Inspector Field stands in this den, the
Sultan of the place. Every thief here,
cowers before himj like a schoolboy be
fore his schoolmaster. All watch him,
all answer when addressed, all laugh at
his jokes, all seek to propitiate him.
This cellar company alone — to say
nothing of the crowd surrounding the
entrance from the street above, and
making the steps shine with eyes — is
strong enough to murder us all, and
willing enough to do it ; but, let In
spector Field have a mind to pick out
one thief here, and take him; let him
produce that ghostly truncheon from his
pocket, and say, with his business-air,
" My lad I want you !" and all Rats'
Castle shall be stricken with paralysis,
and not a finger move against him, as
he fits the handcuffs on !

Where's the Earl of Warwick?—
Here he is, Mr. Field ! Here's the
Bari of Warwick, Mr. Field !— 0 there
you are, my Lord. Come /or'ard.
Thf re's a chest, Sir, not to have a clean

shirt on. An't it. Take your hat off,
my Lord. Why, I should be ashamed
if I was you — and an Earl, too — to
show myself to a gentleman with my
hat on ! The Earl of Warwick laughs
and uncovers. All the company laugh.
One pickpocket, especially, laughs with
great enthusiasm. O what a jolly game
it is, when Mr. Field comes down — acd
don't want nobody !

So, you are here, too, are you, you
tall, gray, soldierly-looking, grave man,
standing by the fire ? Yes, Sir. Good-
evening Mr. Field ! Let us see. You
lived servant to a nobleman once ?
Yes, Mr. Field. And what is it you
do now ; I forget ? Well, Mr. Field,
I job about as well as I can. I left my
employment on account of delicate
health. The family is still kind to me.
Mr. Wix of Piccadilly is also very kind
to me when I am hard up. Likewise
Mr. Nix of Oxford Street. I get a
trifle from them occasionally, and rub
on as well as I can, Mr. Field. Mr.
Field's eye rolls enjoyingly, for this mar,
is a notorious begging-letter writer.
Good-night, my lads ! Good-night, Mr.
Field, and thank'ee, Sir !

Clear the street here, half a thousand
of you ! Cut it, Mrs. Stalker — none
of that — we don't want you ! Rogers
of the flaming eye, lead on to th«
tramps' lodging-house !

A dream of baleful faces attends to
the door. Now, stand back all of yon 1
In the rear Detective Sergeant plants
himself, composedly whistling, with his
strong right arm across the narrow pas
sage. Mrs. Stalker, I am somethiug'd
that need not be written here, if you
won't get yourself into trouble, in about
half a minute, if I see that face of youra
again !

Saint Giles's church clock, striking
eleven, hums through our hand from the
dilapidated door of a dark outhouse as
we open it, and are stricken back by
the pestilent breath that issues from
within. Rogers to the front with the
light, and let us look!

Ten, twenty, thirty — who can count
them ! Men, women, children, for the
most part naked, heaped upon the floor
like maggots in a cheese I Ho ! ID
that dark corner yonder I Does any
body lie there ? Me Sir, Irish me, a
widdei, with six children. And yon-

ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD.

der ? Me Sir, Irish me, with me wife
and eight poor babes. And to the left
there ? Me Sir, Irish me, along with
two more Irish boys as is me friends.
And tq the right there ? Me Sir and
the Murphy fam'ly, numbering five
blessed souls. And what's this, coiling,
now, about my foot? Another Irish
me, pitifully in want of shaving, whom
I have awakened from sleep — and
across my other foot lies his wife — and
by the shoes of Inspector Field lie their
three eldest — and their three youngest
are at present squeezed between the open
door and the wall. And why is there
no one on that little mat before the sul
len fire ? Because 0 'Donovan, with his
wife and daughter, is not come in from
selling Lucifers ! Nor on the bit of
Backing in the nearest corner? Bad
luck ! Because that Irish family is late
to-night, a-cadging in the streets !

They are all awake now, the children
excepted, and most of them sit up, to
stare. Wheresoever Mr. Rogers turns
the flaming eye, there is a spectral
figure rising, imshrouded, from a grave
of rags. Whc is the landlord here ?
I am, Mr. Field ! sayb a bundle of ribs
and parchment against the wall, scratch
ing itself. Will you spend this money
fairly in the morning, to buy coffee for
'em all ? Xfi2 Sir, I will ! 0 he'll do
it Sir, he'll do it fair. He's honest !
cry the spectres. And with thanks and
Good-Night sinn into their graves
again.

Thus, we make our New Oxford
Streets, and our other new streets, never
heeding, never asking, where the
wretches whom we clear out, crowd.
With such scenes at our doors, with all
the plagues of Egypt tied up with bits
of cobweb in kennels so near our homes,
we timorously make our Nuisance Bills
and Boards of Health, nonentities, and
think to keep away the Wolves of
Crime and Filth, by our electioneering
ducking to little vestrymen and our
gentlemanly handling of Red Tape I

Intelligence of the coffee money has
got abroad. The yard is full, and
Rogers of the flaming eye is be
leaguered with entreaties to show other
Lodging Houses. Mine next ! Mine '
Mine ! Rogers, military, obdurate, stiff-
necked, immovable, replies not, but
leads away ; all falling back before him.

Inspector Field follows. Detectirc Ser
geant, with his barrier of arm across
the little passage, deliberately waits to
close the procession. lie see.1) behind
him, without any effort, and exceeding
ly disturb^ one individual far in the rear
by coolly calling out, " It won't do, Mr.
Michael ! Don't try it !"

After council holdeu in the street, we
enter other lodging-houses, public-
houses, many lairs and holes ; all
noisome and offensive ; none so filthy
and so crowded as where Irish are. In
one, The Ethiopian party are expected
home presently — were in Oxford Street
when last heard of — shall be fetched,
for our delight, within ten minutes.
In another, one of the two or three
Professors who draw Napoleon Buona
parte and a couple of mackerel, on the
pavement, and then let the work of art
out to a speculator, is refreshing after
his labors. In another, the vested in
terest of the profitable nuisance has
been in one family for a hundred years,
and the landlord drives in comfortably
from the country to his snug little stew
in town. In all, Inspector Field is re
ceived with warmth. Coiners and
smashers droop before him ; pickpock
ets defer to him ; the gentle sex (not
very gentle here) smile uf>on him.
Half-drunken hags check themselves in
the midst of pots of beer, or pints of
gin, to drink to Mr. Field, and pressing-
ly to ask the honor of nis finishing the
draught. One beldame in rusty black
has such admiration for him, that she
runs a whole street's length to shake
him by the hand ; tumbling into a heap
of mud by the way, and still pressing
her attentions when her very form has
ceased to be distinguishable through it.
Before the power of the law, the power
of superior sense — for common thierea
are fools beside these men — and the
power of a perfect mastery of their
character, the garrison of Rats' Castle
and the adjacent Fortresses make but a
skulking show indeed when reviewed by
Inspector Field.

Saint Giles's clock says it will be
midnight in half-an-hour, and Inspector
Field says we must hurry to the Old
Mint in the Borough. The cab-driver
is low-spirited, and has a solemn sense
of his responsibility. Now, what's your
fare, my lad? 0 you knew, Inspec-

ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD.

tor Field, what's the good of asking
me!

Say, Parker, strapped and great-
coated, and waiting in dim Borough
doorway by appointment, to replace the
trusty Rogers whom he left deep in
Saint Giles's, are you ready ? Ready,
Inspector Field, and at a motion of my
wrist behold my flaming eye.

This narrow street, Sir, is the chief
part of the Old Mint, full of low lodg
ing-houses, as you see by the transpa
rent canvas-lamps and blinds, announc
ing beds for travelers ! But it is greatly
changed, friend Field, from my former
knowledge of it ; it is infinitely quieter
and more subdued than when I was
here last, some seven years ago ? O
yes ! Inspector Haynes, a first-rate
man, is on this station now and plays
the Devil with them !

Well, my lads ! How are you to
night, my lads ! Playing cards here,
eh ? Who wins ? Why, Mr. Field, I,
the sulky gentleman with the damp, flat
side-curls, rubbing my bleared eye with
the end of my neck-kerchief which is
like a dirty eel-skin, am losing just at
present, but I suppose I must take my
pipe out of my mouth, and be submis
sive to you— I hope I see you well, Mr.
Field ? Aye, all right, my lad. Deputy,
who have you got up-stairs ? Be
pleased to show the rooms !

Why Deputy, Inspector Field can't
say. He only knows that the man who
takes care of the beds and lodgers is
always called so. Steady, O Deputy,
with the flaring candle in the blacking
bottle, for this is a slushy back-yard,
and the wooden staircase outside the
house creaks and has holes in it.

Again, in these confined intolerable
rooms, burrowed out like the holes of
rats or the nests of insect-vermin, but
fuller of intolerable smells, are crowds
of sleepers, each on his foul truckle-bed
coiled up beneath a rug. Halloa here !
Come ! Let us see you 1 Show your
face ! Pilot Parker goes from bed to
bed and turns their slumbering heads
towards us, as a salesman might turn
sheep. Some wake up with an execra
tion and a threat. — What ! who spoke ?
O I If it's the accursed glaring eye
that fixes me, go where I will, I am
helpless. Here ! I sit up to be looked
at Is it me you want ? — Not you, lie

down again ! — and I lie down with a
woeful growl.

Wherever the turning lane of light
becomes stationary for a moment, some
sleeper appears at the end of it, sub
mits himself to be scrutinised, and fades
away into the darkness.

There should be strange dreams here,
Deputy. They sleep sound enough,
says Deputy, taking the candle ont of
the blacking bottle, snuffing it with his
fingers, throwing the snuff into the bot
tle, and corking it up with the candle ;
that's all / know. What is the inscrip
tion, Deputy, on all the discolored
sheets? A' precaution against loss of
linen. Deputy turns down the rug of
an unoccupied bed and discloses it,
STOP THIEF.

To lie at night, wrapped in the legend
of my slinking life ; to take the cry
that pursues me, waking, to 'my breast
in sleep ; to have it staring at me and
clamouring for me, as soon as conscious
ness returns ; to have it for my first
foot on New-Year's day, my Valentine,
my Birthday salute, my Christmas greet
ing, my parting with the old year. STOP
THIEF i

And to know that I must be stopped,
come what will. To know that I am
no match for this individual energy and
keenness, or this organised and steady
system ! Come across the street, here,
and, entering by a little shop, and yard,
examine these intricate passages and
doors, contrived for escape, flapping and
counter-flapping, like the lids of the
conjuror's boxes But what avail they ?
Who gets in by a nod, and shows their
secret workings to us ? Inspector Field.

Don't forget the old Farm House,
Parker ! Parker is not the man to for
get it. We are going there, now. It
is the old Manor-House of these parts,
and stood in the country once. Then,
perhaps, there was something, which was
not the beastly street, to see from the
shattered low fronts of the overhanging
wooden houses we are passing under —
shut up now, pasted over with bills
about the literature and drama of the
Mint, and mouldering away. This long
paved yard was a paddock or a garden
once, or a court in front of the Farm
House. Perchance, with a dovecot in
the centre, and fowls pecking about —
with fair elra trees, then, where discol-

ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD.

ored chimney-stacks and gables are now
— noisy, then, with rooks which have
yielded to a different sort of rookery.
It's likelier than not, Inspector Field
thinks, as we turn into the common
kitchen, which is in the yard, and many
paces from the house.

Well, my lads and lasses, how are
you all ! Where's Blackey, who has
stood near London Bridge these five-
and-twenty years, with a painted skin
to represent disease ? — Here he is, Mr.
Field ! — How are you, Blackey ! — Jolly,
sa ! — Not playing the fiddle to-night,
Blackey ? — Not a night, sa ! — A sharp,
smiling youth, the wit of the kitchen,
interposes. He an't musical to-night,
sir. I've been giving him a moral lec
ture ; I've been a talking to him about
his latter end, you see. A good many
of tlJtfse are my pupils, sir. This here
young man, (smoothing down the hair
of one near him, reading a Sunday pa
per,) is a pupil of mine. I'm a teaching
of him" to read, sir. He's a promising
cove, sir. He's a smith, he is, and gets
his living by the sweat of his brow, sir.
So do I, myself, sir. This young wo
man is my sister, Mr. Field. She's get-
iing on very well, too. I've a deal of
trouble with 'em, sir, but I'm richly re
warded, now I see 'em all doing so well,
and growing up so creditable. That's
a great comfort, that is, an't it, sir ? —
In the midst of the kitchen (the whole
kitchen is in ecstacies with this im
promptu "chaff") sits a young, modest,
gentle-looking creature, with a beauti
ful child in her lap. She seems to be
long to the company, but is so strangely
unlike it. She has such a pretty, quiet
face and voice, and is so proud to hear
the child admired — thinks you w^ould
hardly believe that he is only "nine
months old ! Is she as bad as the rest,
I wonder ? Inspectoral experience does
not engender a belief contrariwise, but
prompts the answer, Not a ha'porth of
difference ! «

There is a piano going in the old
Farm House as we approach. It stops.
Landlady appears. Has no objections,
Mr. Field, to gentlemen being brought,
but wishes it were at earlier hours, the
lodgers complaining of ill-coriwenience.
Inspector Field is polite and soothing
— knows his woman and the sex. Deputy
(a girl in this case) shows the way up a

heavy broad old staircase, kept very
clean, into clean rooms where many
sleepers are, and where painted panels
of an older time look strangely on the
truckle beds. The sight of whitewash
and the smell of soap — two things we
seem by this time to have parted from
in infancy — make the old Farm House
a phenomenon, and connect themselves
with the so curiously misplaced picture
of the pretty mother and child long
after we have left it, — long after we
have left, besides, the neighboring nook
with something of a rustic flavor in it
yet, where once, beneath a low wooden
colonnade still standing as of yore, the
eminent Jack Sheppard condescended
to regale himself, and where, now, two
old bachelor brothers in broad hats
(who are whispered in the Mint to have
made a compact long ago that if either
should ever marry, he must forfeit his
share of the joint property) still keep
a sequestered tavern, and sit o' nights
smoking pipes in the bar, among
ancient bottles and glasses, as our eyes
behold them.

How goes the night now ? Saint
George of Southwark answers with
twelve blows upon its bell. Parker,
good-night, for Williams is already
waiting over in the region of Ratcliffe
Highway, to show the houses where
the sailors dance.

I should like to know where Inspec
tor Field was born. In Ratcliffe High
way, I wquld have answered with con
fidence, but for his being equally at
home wherever we go. He does not
trouble his head as I do, about the
river at night. He does not care for
its creeping, black and silent, on our
right there, rushing through sluice
gates, lapping at piles and posts and
iron rings, hiding strange things in its
mud, running away with suicides and
accidentally drowned bodies faster than
midnight funeral should, and acquiring
such various experience between its
cradle and its grave. It has no mystery
for him. Is there not the Thames
Police !

Accordingly, Williams lead the way.
We are a little late, for some of the
houses are already closing. No matter.
You show us plenty. All the landlords
know Inspector Field. All pass him,
freely and good-humoredly, wheresoever

ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD.

he wants to go. So thoroughly are all
these houses open to him and our local
guide, that, granting that sailors must
be entertained in their own way — as I
suppose they must, and have a right to
be — I hardly know how such places
could be better regulated. Not that I
call the company very select, or the
dancing very graceful — even so grace
ful as that of the German Sugar Bakers,
whose assembly, by the Minories, we
stopped to visit — but there is a watch
ful maintenance of order in every house,
and swift expulsion where need is.
Even in the midst of drunkenness, both
of the lethargic kind and the lively,
there is sharp landlord supervision, and
pockets are in less peril than out of
doors. These houses show, singularly,
how much of the picturesque and ro
mantic there truly is in the sailor, re
quiring to be especially addressed. All
the songs (sung in a hailstorm of half
pence, which are pitched at the singer
without the least tenderness for time or
tune — mostly from great rolls of copper
carried for the purpose — and which he
occasionally dodges like shot as they
fly near his head) are of the sentimental
sea sort. All the rooms are decorated
with nautical subjects. Wrecks, en
gagements, ships on fire, ships passing
lighthouses on iron-bound coasts, ships
Liowing up, ships going down, ships
running ashore, men lying out upon the
main yard in a gale of wind, sailors and
ships in every variety of peril, consti
tute the illustrations of fact. Nothing
can be done in the fanciful way, with
out a thumping boy upon a scaly dol
phin.

How goes the night now ? Past
one. Black and Green are waiting in
Whitechapel to unvail the mysteries of
Wentworth Street. Williams, the best
of friends must part. Adieu I

Are not Black and Greeu ready at
the appointed place ? 0 yes ! They
glide out of shadow as we stop. Im
perturbable Black opens the cab-door ;
Imperturbable Green takes a mental
note of the driver. Both Green and
Black then open, each his flaming eye,
and marshal us the way that we are
going.

The lodging-house we want, is hid
den in a maze of streets and courts. It
is fast shut. We knock at the door,

and stand hushed 1 oking up for a light
at one or other of the begrimed old
lattice windows in its ugly front, when
another constable comes up — supposes
that we want "to see the school."
Detective Sergeant meanwhile has got
over a rail, opened a gate, dropped
down an area, overcome some other
little obstacles, and tapped at a win
dow. Now returns. The landlord will
send a deputy immediately.

Deputy is heard to stumble out of
bed. Deputy lights a candle, draws
back a bolt or two, and appears at the
door. Deputy is a shivering shirt and
trousers by no means clean, a yawning
face, a shock head much confused ex
ternally and internally. We want to
look for some one. You may go up
with the light, and take 'em all, if you
like, says Deputy, resigning it, and sit
ting down upon a bench in the kitchen
with his ten fingers sleepily twisting in
his hair.

Halloa here ! Now then ! Show
yourselves. That'll do. It's not you.
Don't disturb yourself any more ! So
on, through a labyrinth of airless rooms, <
each man responding, like a wild beast,
to the keeper who has tamed him, and
who goes into his cage. What, you
haven't found him, then ? says Deputy,
when we came down. A woman myste
riously sitting up all night in the dark
by the smouldering ashes of the kitchen
fire, says it's only tramps and cadgers
here : it's gonophs over the way. A
man, mysteriously walking about the
kitchen all night in the dark, bids her
hold her tongue. We come out. Deputy
fastens the door and goes to bed again.

Black and Green, you know Bark,
lodging-house keeper and receiver of
stolen goods ? — Oh yes, Inspector Field.
— Go to Bark's next.

Bark sleeps in an inner wooden
hutch, near his street-door. As we
parley on the step with Bark's Deputy,
Bark growls *in his bed. We enter,
and Bark flies out of bed. Bark is a
red villain and a wrathful, with a san
guine throat that looks very much as
if it were expressly made for hanging,
as he stretches it out, in pale defiance,
over the half-door of his hutch. Bark's
parts of speech are of an awful sort —
principally adjectives. I won't, says
Bark, have no adjectiye police and

ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD.

adjective strangers in my adjective pre
mises ! I won't, by adjective and sub
stantive ! Give me my trousers, and
•I'll send the whole adjective police to
adjective and substantive ! Give me,
says Bark, my adjective trousers ! I'll
put %an adjective knife in the whole
bileing of 'em. I'll punch their adjec
tive heads. I'll rip up their adjective
substantives. Give me my adjective
trousers I says Bark, and I'll spile the
bileing of 'em !

Now, Bark, what's the use of this ?
Here's Black and Green, Detective
Sergeant, and Inspector Field. You
know we will come in. — I know you
won't, says Bark. Somebody give me
my adjective trousers ! Bark's trousers
seem difficult to find. He calls for
them, as Hercules might for his club.
Give me my adjective trousers ! says
Bark, and I'll spile the bileing of 'em !

Inspector Field holds that it's all one
whether Bark likes the visit or don't
like it. He, Inspector Field, is an In
spector of the Detective Police, Detec-
tivs Sergeant is Detective Sergeant,
Blftck and Green are constables in uni
form. Don't you be a fool, Bark, or
you know it will be the worse for you.
— I don't care, says Bark. Give me
me my adjective trousers !

At two o'clock in the morning, we
descend into Bark's low kitchen, leaving
Bark to foam at the mouth above, and
Imperturbable, Black and Green to look
at him. Bark's kitchen is crammed full
of thieves, holding a conversazione
there by lamp-light. It is by far the
most dangerous assembly we have yet
Been. Stimulated by the ravings of
Bark, above, their looks are sullen, but
not a man speaks. We ascend again.
Bark has got his trousers, and is in a
state of madness in the passage with
his back against the door that shuts off
the upper staircase. We observe, in
other respects, a ferocious individuality

in Bark. Instead of " STOP THIEF !"
on his linen, he prints " STOLEN FROM
Bark's !"

Now Bark, we are going up stairs I
— No you ain't ! — You refuse admission
to the Police, do you, Bark ? — Yes, I
do I I refuse it to all the adjective police
and to all the adjective substantives.
If the adjective coves in the kitchen
was men, they'd come up now, and do
for you ! Shut me that there door 1
says Bark, and suddenly we are enclosed
in the passage. They'd come up and
do for you I cries Bark, and waits. Not
a sound in the kitchen ! They'd come
up and do for you I cries Bark again,
and waits. Not a sound in the kitchen !
We are shut up, half-a-dozen of us, in
Bark's house in the innermost recesses
of the worst part of London, in the
dead of the night — the house is crammed
with notorious robbers and ruffians —
and not a man stirs. No, Bark. They
know the weight of the law, and they
know Inspector Field and Co. too well.

We leave bully Bark to subside at
leisure out of his passion and his trou
sers, and, I dare say, to be inconveni
ently reminded of this little brash
before long. Black and Green do or
dinary duty here, and look serious.

As to White, who waits on Holborn
Hill to show the courts that are eaten
out of Rotten Gray's Inn Lane, where
other lodging-houses are, and where (in
one blind alley) the Thieves' Kitchen
and Seminary for the teaching of the
art to children, is, the night has so
worn away, being now

almost at odds with morning, which is which,

that they are quiet, and no light shines
through the chinks in the shutters. As
undistinctive Death will come here, one
day, sleep comes now. The wicked
cease from troubling sometimes, even
in this life.

DOWN WITH THE TIDB.

DOWN WITH 'THE TIDE.

A VERT dark night it was, and bitter
; the east wind blowing bleak, and
bringing with it stinging particles from
marsh, anl moor, and fen — from the
Great Desert and Old Egypt, may be.
Some of the component parts of the
sharp-edged vapor that came flying up
the Thames at London might be mum
my-dust, dry atoms from the Temple at
Jerusalem; camels' foot-prints, croco
diles' hatcning-places, loosened grains
of expression from the visages of blunt-
nosed sphynxes, waifs and strays from
caravans of turbaned merchants, vege
tation from jungles, frozen snow from
the Himalayas. 0 ! It was very dark
upon the Thames, and it was bitter bit
ter cold.

"And yet," said the voice within the
great pea-coat at my side, "you'll have
seen a good many rivers too, I dare
say ?"

"Truly," said I, "when I come to
think of it, not a few. From the Niag
ara, downward to the mountain rivers
of Italy, which are like the national
spirit — very tame, or chafing suddenly
and bursting bounds, only to dwindle
away again. The Moselle, and the
Rhine, and the Rhone ; and the Seine,
and the Saone ; and the St. Lawrence,
Mississippi, and Ohio ; and the Tiber,
the Po, and the Arno ; and the "

Peacoat coughing, as if he had had
enough of that, I said no more. I could
have carried j;he catalogue on toateaz-
ing length, though, if I had been in the
cruel mind.

"And after all," said he, "this looks
BO dismal ?"

" So awful," I returned, " at night.
The Seine at Paris is very gloomy too,
at such a time, and is probably the
scene of far more crime and greater
wickedness; but this river looks so
broad , and vast, so murky and silent,
seems such an image of death in the
midst of the great city's life, that "

That Peacoat coughed again. He
could not stand my holding forth.

We were in a four-oared Thames Po
lice Galley, lying on our oars in the
deep shad )w of Southwark Bridge —
under the jorner arch on the Surrey

side — having come down with the tide
from Vauxhall. We were fain to hold
on pretty tight, though close in shore,
for the river was swollen and the tide
running down very strong. We were
watching certain water-rats of human
growth, and lay in the deep shade aa
quiet as mice ; our light hidden and our
scraps of conversation carried on in
whispers. Above us, the massive iron
girders of the arch were faintly visible,
q,nd below us its ponderous shadow
seemed to sink down to the bottom of
the stream.

We had been lying here some half an
hour. With our backs to the wind, it
is true ; but the wind being in a deter
mined temper blew straight through us,
and would not take the trouble to go
round. I would have boarded a fire-
ship to get into action, and mildly sug
gested as much to my friend P*a.

" No doubt," says he as patiently as
possible; "but shore-going tactic*
wouldn't do with us. River thieves caa
always get rid of stolen property in A
moment by dropping it overboard. We
want to take them with the property, so
we lurk about and come out upon 'em
sharp. If they see us or hear us, over
it goes."

Pea's wisdom being indisputable,
there was nothing for it but to sit there
and be blown through, for another half
hour. • The water-rats thinking it wise
to abscond at the end of that time
without commission of felony, we shot
out, disappointed, with the tide.

" Grim they look, don't they ?" said
Pea, seeing me glance over my shoulder
at the lights upon the bridge, and
downward at their long crooked reflec
tions in the river.

" Yery," said I, " and make oue think
with a shudder of Suicides. What a
night for a dreadful leap from that
parapet P

" Aye, but Waterloo's the favorite,
bridge for making holes in the \votcr
from," returned Pea. "By the bye —
avast pulling lads ! — would you like to
speak to Waterloo on the subject ?"

My face confessing a surprised desire
to have some friendly conversation with

DOWN WITH THE TIDE.

Waterloo Bridge, and my friend Pea
being the most obliging of men, we put
about, pulled out of the force of the
stream, and in place of going at great
speed with the tide, began to strive
against it, close in shore again. Every
color but black seemed to have departed
from the world. The air was black, the
water was black, the barges and hulks
were black, the piles were black, the
buildings were black, the shadows were
only a deeper shade of black upon a
black ground. Here and there, a coal
fire in an iron cresset blazed upon a
wharf; but, one knew that it too had
been black a little while ago, and would
be black again soon. Uncomfortable
rushes of water suggestive of gurgling
and drowning, ghostly rattlings of iron
chains, dismal clankings of discordant
engines, formed the music that accom
panied the dip of our oars and their
rattling in the rullocks. Even the
noises had a black sound to me — as the
trumpet sounded red to the blind man.

Our dexterous boat's crew made no
thing of the tide, and pulled us gallant
ly up to Waterloo Bridge. Here Pea
and I disembarked, passed under the
black stone archway, and climbed the
steep stone steps. Within a few feet of
their summit, Pea presented me to
Waterloo (or an eminent toll-taker
representing that structure), muffled up
to the eyes in a thick shawl, and amply
great-coated and fur-capped.

Waterloo received us with cordiality,
and observed of the night that it was-
" a Searcher." He had been originally
called the Strand Bridge, he informed
ua, but had received his present name
at the suggestion of the proprietors,
when Parliament had resolved to vote
three hundred thousand pound for the
erection of a monument in honor of the
victory. Parliament took the hint (said
Waterloo, with the least flavor of mis
anthropy) and saved the money. Of
course the late Duke of Wellington was
the first passenger, and of course he
paid his penny, and of course a noble
lord preserved it evermore. The
treadle and index at the toll-house (a
most ingenious contrivance for render
ing fraud impossible), were invented by
Mr. Lethbridge, then property-man at
Drury Lane Theatre.

Was it suicide wa wanted to know

about ? said Waterloo. Ha ! Well,
he had seen a good deal of that work,
he did assure us. He had prevented,
some. Why, one day a woman, poor-
ish looking, came in between the hatch,
slapped down a penny, and wanted to
go on without the change 1 Waterloo
suspected this, and says to his mate,
"give an eye to the gate," and bolted
after her. She had got to the third
seat between the piers, and was on the
parapet just a going over, when he
caught her and gave her in charge.
At the police office next morning, she
said it was along of trouble and a bad
husband.

"Likely enough," observed Water
loo to Pea and myself, as he adjusted
his chin in his shawl. " There's a deal
of trouble about, you see — and bad
husbands too 1"

Another time, a young woman at
twelve o'clock in the open day, got
through, darted along; and, before
Waterloo could come near her, jumped
upon the parapet, and shot herself over
sideways. Alarm given, watermen put
off, lucky escape. Clothes buoyed her up.

" This is where it is," said Waterloo.
" If people jump off straight forwards
from the middle of the parapet of the
bays of the bridge, they are seldom
killed by drowning, but are smashed,
poor things ; that's what they are ;
they dash themselves upon the buttress
of the bridge. But, you jump off,"
said Waterloo to me, putting his fore
finger in a button hole of my great
coat; "you jump off from the side of
the bay, and you'll tumble, true, into
the stream under the arch. What you
have got to do, is to mind how you
jump in ! There was poor Tom Steele
from Dublin. Didn't dive ! Bless you,
didn't dive at all I Fell down so flat
into the water, that he broke his breast
bone, and lived two days I"

I asked Waterloo if there were a
favorite side of his bridge for this
dreadful purpose ? He reflected, and
thought yes, there was. He should say
the Surrey side.

Three decent looking men went
through one day, soberly and quietly,
and went on abreast for about a dozen
yards : when the middle one, he sung
out, all of a sudden, "Here goes,
Jack 1" and was over in a minute.

DOWN WITH THE TIDE.

Body found? Well. Waterloo didn't
rightly recollect about that. They were
compositors, they were.

He considered it astonishing how
quick people were ! Why, there was a
^rrt) came up one Boxing-night, with a
young woman in it, who looked, accord
ing to Waterloo's opinion of her, a lit
tle the worse for liquor ; very handsome
she was too — very handsome. She
stopped the cab at the gate, and said
she'd pay the cabman then : which she
did, though there was a little hankering
about the fare, because at first she didn't
seem quite to know where she wanted
to be drove to. However she paid the
man, and the toll too, and looking
Waterloo in the face (he thought she
knew him, don't you see !) said, " I'll
finish it somehow !" Well, the cab
went off, leaving Waterloo a little
» doubtful in his mind, and while it was
' going on at full speed the young woman
jumped out, never fell, hardly staggered,
ran along the bridge pavement a little
way, passing several people, and jump
ed over from the second opening. At
the inquest it was giv' in evidence that
she had been quarrelling at the Hero
of Waterloo, and it was brought in
jealousy. (One of the results of Water
loo's experience was, that there was a
deal of jealousy about.)

" Do we ever get madmen ?" said
Waterloo, in answer to an inquiry of
mine. "Well, we do get madmen.
Yes, we have had one or two ; escaped
from 'Sylums, I suppose. One hadn't
a halfpenny ; and because I wouldn't
let him through, he went back a little
way, stooped down, took a run, and
butted at the hatch like a ram. He
smashed his hat rarely, but his head
didn't seem no worse — in my opinion on
account of his being wrong in it afore.
Sometimes people haven't got a half
penny. If they are really tired and
poor we give 'em one and let 'em
through. Other people will leave
things — pocket-handkerchiefs mostly. I
have taken cravats and gloves, pocket-
knives, toothpicks, studs, shirt pins,
rings (generally from young gents,
early in the morning), but handkerchiefs
ia the general thing."

" Regular customers ?" said Water
loo. " Lord, yes ! We have regular
customers. One, such a worn-out used-

up old file as you can scarcely picter,
comes from the Surrey side as regular
as ten o'clock at night comes ; and goes
over, I think, to some flash house on
the Middlesex side. He comes back,
he does, as reg'lar as the clock strikes
three in the morning, and then can
hardly drag one of his old legs after
the other. He always turns down the
water-stairs, comes up again, and then
goes on down the Waterloo Road. He
always does the same thing, and never
varies a minute. Does it every night
— even Sundays."

I asked Waterloo if he had given his
mind to the possibility of this particu
lar customer going down the water-
stairs at three o'clock some morning,
and never coming up again ? He didn't
think that of him, he replied. In fact,
it was Waterloo's opinion, founded on
his observation of that file, that he
know'd a trick worth two of it.

" There's another queer old cus
tomer," said Waterloo, "comes over, a-3
punctual as the almanac, at eleven
o'clock on the sixth of January, at
eleven o'clock on the fifth of April, at
eleven o'clock on the sixth of July, at
eleven o'clock on the tenth of October.
Drives a shaggy, little, rough pony, in
a sort of a rattle-trap arm-chair sort of
a thing. White hair he has, and white
whiskers, and muffles himself up with
all manner of shawls, He comes back
again the same afternoon, and we never
see more of him for three months. He
is a captain in the navy — retired — wery
old — wery odd — and served with Lord
Nelson. He is particular about draw
ing his pension at Somerset House
afore the clock strikes twelve every
quarter. I have heerd say that he
thinks it wouldn't be according to the
Act of Parliament, if he didn't draw it
afore twelve."

Having related these anecdotes in a
natural manner, which was the best
warranty in the world for their genuine
nature, our friend Waterloo was sinking
deep into his shawl again, as having
exhausted his communicative powers
and taken in enough east wind, when
my other friend'JVPea in a moment
brought him to the surface by asking
whether he had not been occasionally
the subject of assault and battery in the
execution of his duty ? Waterloo re-

DOWN WITH THE TIDE.

covering his spirits, instantly dashed
into a new branch of his subject. We
learnt how " both these teeth " — here
he pointed to the places where two
front teeth were not — were knocked out
by an ugly customer who one night
made a dash at him (Waterloo) while
his (the ugly customer's) pal and coad
jutor made a dash at the toll-taking
apron where the money-pockets were ;
how Waterloo, letting the teeth go (to
Blazes, he observed indefinitely) grap
pled with the apron-seizer, permitting
the ugly one to run away ; and how he
saved the bank, and captured his man,
and consigned him to fine and imprison
ment. Also how, on another night, " a
Cove " laid hold of Waterloo, then pre
siding at the horse gate of his bridge,
and threw him unceremoniously over
his knee, having first cut his head open
•with his whip. How Waterloo "got
right," and started after the Cove all
down the Waterloo Road, through
Stamford Street, and round to the foot
of Blackfriars Bridge, where the Cove
"cut into" a public-house. How
Waterloo cut jn too ; but how an aider
and abettor of the Cove's, who hap
pened to be taking a promiscuous drain
at the bar, stopped Waterloo ; and the
Cove cut out again, ran across the road
down Holland Street, and where not,
and into a beer-shop. How Waterloo
breaking away from his detainer was
close upon the Cove's heels, attended
by no end of people who, seeing him
running with the blood streaming down
his face, thought something worse was
" up," and roared Fire ! and Murder !
on the hopeful chance of the matter in
hand being one or both. How the
Cove was ignominiously taken, in a
shed where he had run to hide, and how
at the Police Court "they at first wanted
to make a sessions job of it ; but event
ually Waterloo was allowed to be
"spoke to," and the Cove made it
square with Waterloo by paying his
doctor's bill (W. was laid up for a
week) and giving him "Three, ten."
Likewise we learnt what we had faintly
suspected before, that your sporting
anr.ateur on the Derby day, albeit a
captain, can be — " if he be," as Captain
Bobadil observes, " so generously mind
ed" — any thing but a man of honor
ftiicha gentleman ; not sufficiently grati

fying his nice sense of humor by the
witty scattering* of flour and rotten
eggs on obtuse civilians, but requiring
the further excitement of "bilking the
toll," and " pitching into " Waterloo,
and "cutting him about the head with
his whip ;" finally being, when 'called
upon to answer for the assault, what
Waterloo described as "Minus," or, as
I humbly conceived it, not to be found.
Likewise did Waterloo inform us, in
reply to my inquiries, admiringly and
deferentially preferred through ny
friend Pea, that, the takings at the
Bridge had more than doubled in
amount, since the reduction of the toll
one half. And being asked if the afore
said takings included much bad money,
Waterloo responded, with a look far
deeper than the deepest part of the
river, he should think not ! — and so re
tired into his shawl for the rest of the
night.

Then did Pea and I once more en-
bark in our four-oared galley, and glide
swiftly down the river with the tide.
And while the shrewd East rasped and
notched us, as with jagged razors, did
my friend Pea impart to me confidences
of interest relating to the Thames Po
lice ; we betweenwhiles finding " duty
boats " hanging in dark corners under
banks, like weeds — our own was a " su
pervision boat " — and they, as they re
ported " all right 1" flashing their hid
den light on us, and we flashing ours
on them. These duty boats had one
sitter in each : an Inspector : and were
rowed "Kan-dan," which — for the in
formation of those who never gradua
ted, as I was once proud to do, under a
fireman-waterman and winner of Kean's
Prize Wherry : who, in the course of
his tuition, took hundreds of gallons of
rum and egg (at my expense) at the
various houses of note above and below
bridge ; not by any means because he
liked it, but to cure a weakness in his
liver, for which the faculty had partic
ularly recommended it — may be ex
plained as rowed by three men, two
pulling an oar each, and one a pair of
sculls.

Thus, floating down our black high
way, sullenly frowned upon by the knit
ted brows of Blackfriars, Southwark,
and London, each in his lowering turn,
I was shown by mv friend Pea that

DOWS WITH THE TIDE.

there arc, in the Thames Police Force,
whose district extends from Battersea
to Barking Creek, ninety-eight men,
eight duty boats, and two supervision
boats ; and that these go about so
silently, and lie in wait in such dark
places, and so seem to be nowhere, and
so may be anywhere, that they have
gradually become a police of preven
tion, keeping the river almost clear of
any great crimes, even while the in
creased vigilance on shore has made it
much harder than of yore to live by
"thieving "in the streets. And as to
the various kinds of water thieves, said
my friend Pea, there were the Tier-
rangers, who silently dropped alongside
the tiers of shipping in the Pool, by
night, and who, going to the companion-
head, listened for two snores — snore
number one, the skipper's ; snore num
ber two, the mate's — mates and skip
pers always snoring great guns, and
being dead sure to be hard at it if they
had turned in and were asleep. Hear
ing the double fire, down went the
Rangers into the skippers' cabins ;
groped for the skippers' inexpressibles,
which it was the custom of those gen
tlemen to shake off, watch, money,
traces, boots, and all together, on th«
floor ; and therewith made off as silent
ly as might be. Then there were the
Lumpers, or laborers employed' to un
load vessels. They wore loose canvas
jackets with a broad hem in the bot
tom, turned inside, so as to form a large
circular pocket in which they could con
ceal, like clowns in pantomimes, pack
ages of surprising sizes. A great deal
of property was stolen in this manner
(Pea confided to me) from steamers ;
first, because steamers carry a larger
number of small packages than other
ships ; next, because of the extreme
rapidity with which they are obliged to
be unladen for their return voyages.
The Lumpers dispose of their booty
easily to marine store dealers, and the
only remedy to be suggested is that
marine store shops should be licensed,
and thus brought under the eye of
the police as rigidly as public-houses.
Lumpers also smuggle goods ashore for
the crews of vessels. The smuggling
of tobacco is so considerable, that it is
well worth the while of the sellers of
smuggled tobacco to use hydraulic

presses, to squeeze a sing'e pound into
a package small enough to be contained
in an ordinary pocket. Next, said mj-
friend Pea, there were the Truckers-
less thieves than smugglers, whose busi
ness it was to land more considerable
parcels of goods than the Lumpers
could manage. They sometimes sold
articles of grocery, and so forth, to the
crews, in order to cloak their real call
ing, and get aboard without suspicion.
Many of them had boats of their own,
and made money. Besides these, there
were the Dredgermen, who, under pre
tence of dredging up coals and such
like from the bottom of the river, hung
about barges and other undecked craft,
and when they saw an opportunity,
threw any property they could lay their
hands on overboard : in order slyly to
dredge it up when the vessel was gone.
Sometimes, they dexterously used their
dredges to whip away any thing that
might lie within reach. Some of them
were mighty neat at this, and the
accomplishment was called dry dredg
ing. Then, there was a vast deal of
property, such as copper nails, sheath
ing, hardwood, etc., habitually brought
away by shipwrights and other work
men from their employers' yards, and
disposed of to marine store dealers,
many of whom escaped detection
through hard swearing, and their extra
ordinary artful ways of accounting for
the possession of stolen property.
Likewise, there were special-pleading
practitioners, for whom barges "drifted
away of their own selves " — they having
no hand in it, except first cutting them
loose, and afterward plundering them —
innocents, meaning no harm, who had
the misfortune to observe those found
lings wandering about the Thames.

We were now going in and out, with
little noise and great nicety, among the
tiers of shipping, whose many hulls,
lying close together, rose out of the
water like black streets. Here and
there, a Scotch, an Irish, or a foreign
steamer, getting up her steam as tne
tide made, looked, with her great chim
ney and high sides, like a quiet factory
among the common buildings. Now,
the streets opened into clearer spaces,
now contracted into alleys ; but the
tiers were so like houses, in the dark,
that I could almost have beFeved mj-

A WALK IN A WORKHOUSE.

gftlf in the narrower bye-ways of Venice. '
Every thing was wonderfully still ; for, |
it wanted full three hours of flood, and
nothing seemed awake but a dog here
and there.

So we took nc Tier-rangers captive,
nor any Lumpers, nor Truckers, nor
Dredgermen, nor other evil-disposed
person or persons ; but went ashore at
Wapping, where the old Thames Po
lice office is now a station-house, and
where the old Court, with its cabin
windows looking on the river, is a
quaint charge room : with nothing
worse in it usually than a stuffed cat in
a glass case, and a portrait, pleasant to
behold, of a rare old Thames Police
officer, Mr. Superintendent Evans, now
Bucceeded by his son. We looked over
the charge books, admirably kept, and
found the prevention so good, that
there were not five hundred entries (in
cluding drunken and disorderly) in a

whole year Then, we looked into the
store-room . where there was an oakum
smell, and a nautical seasoning of
dreadnought clothing, rope yarn, boat
hooks, sculls and oars, spare stretchers,
rudders, pistols, cutlasses, and the like.
Then, into the cell, aired high up in the
wooden wall through an opening like a
kitchen plate-rack : wherein there was
a drunken man, not at all warm, and
very wishful to know if it were morning
yet. Then, into a better sort of watch
and ward room, where there was a
squadron of stone bottles drawn up,
ready to be filled with hot water and
applied to any unfortunate creature
who might be brought in apparently
drowned. Finally, we shook hands
with our worthy friend Pea, and ran all
the way to Tower Hill, under strong
Police suspicion occasionally, before we
got warm.

A WALK IN A WORKHOUSE.

ON a certain Sunday. I lormed oiie
of the congregation assembled in the
chapel of a large metropolitan Work
house. With the exception of the
clergyman and clerk, and a very few
officials, there ware none but paupers
present. The children sat in the gal
leries ; the women in the body of the
chapel, and in one of the side aisles ;
the men in the remaining aisle. The
service was decorously performed,
though the sermon might have been
much better adapted to the comprehen
sion and to the circumstances of the
hearers. The usual supplications were
offered, with more than the usual sig-
nificancy in such a place, for the father
less children and widows, for all sick
persons and young children, for all that
were desolate and oppressed, for the
comforting and helping of the weak-
hearted, for the raising-up of them that
had fallen ; for all that were in danger,
necessity, and tribulation. The prayers
of the congregation were desired " for
several persona in the various wards
dangerously ill ;" and others who were

recovering returned their thanks tc
Heaven.

Among this congregation, were some
evil-looking young women, and beetle^
browed young men ; but not many —
perhaps that kind of characters kept
away. Generally, the faces (those of
the children excepted) were depressed
and subdued, and wanted color. Aged
people were there, in every variety.
Mumbling, blear-eyed, spectacled, stu
pid, deaf, lame ; vacantly winking in
the gleams of sun that now and then
crept in through the open doors, from
the paved yard ; shading their listening
ears, or blinking eyes with their with
ered hands; poring over their books,
leering at nothing, going to sleep,
crouching and drooping in corners.
There were weird old women, all skele
ton within, all bonnet and cloak with
out, continually wiping their eyes with
dirty dusters of pocket handkerchiefs ;
and there were ugly old crones, both
male and female, with a ghastly kind of
contentment upon them which was not
at all comforting to see. Upon th«

A WALK IN A WORKHOUSE,

whole, it was the dragon, Pauperism, in
a very weak and impotent condition ;
toothless, fangless, drawing his breath
heavily enough, and hardly worth chain
ing up.

When the service was over, I walked
with the humane and conscientious gen
tleman whose duty.it was to take that
walk, that Sunday morning, through
the little world of poverty enclosed
within the workhouse walls. It was
inhabited by a population of some fif
teen hundred or two thousand paupers,
ranging from the infant newly born or
not yet come into the pauper world, to
the old man dying on his bed.

In a room opening from a squalid
yard, where a number of listless women
were lounging to and fro, trying to get
warm in the ineffectual sunshine of the
tardy May morning — in the "Itch-
Ward," not to compromise the truth —
a woman such as HOGARTH has often
drawn, was hurriedly getting on her
gown before a dusty fire. She was the
nurse, or wardswoman, of that insalu
brious department — herself a pauper —
flabby, raw-boned, untidy — unpromising
and coarse of aspect as need be. But,
on. being spoken to about the patients
whom she had in charge, she turned
round, with her shabby gown half on,
half off, and fell a crying with all her
might. Not for show, not querulously,
not in any mawkish sentiment, but In
the deep grief and affliction of her
heart ; turning away her disheveled
head : sobbing most bitterly, wringing
her hands, and letting fall abundance of
great tears, that choked her utterance.
What was the matter with the nurse of
the itch-ward ? Oh, " the dropped
child " was dead ! Oh, the child that
was found in the street, and she had
brought up ever since, had died an hour
ago, and see where the little creature
lay, beneath this cloth ! The dear, the
pretty dear !

The dropped child seemed too small
and poor a thing for Death to be in
earnest with, but Death had taken it ;
and already its diminutive form was
neatly washed, composed, and stretched
as if in sleep upon a box. , I thought I
heard a voice from Heaven saying, It
shall be well for thee, O nurse of the
itch-ward, when some less gentle pauper
does those o*fices td thy cold form, that

such as the dropped child are the
angels who behold my Father's face !

In another room, were several ugly
old women crouching, witch-like, round
a hearth, and chattering and nodding,
after the manner of the monkies. " All
well here ? And enough to eat ?" A
general chattering and chuckling ; at
last an answer from a volunteer. " Oh
yes gentleman ! Bless you gentleman !
Lord bless the parish of St. So-and-So !
It feed the hungry, Sir, and give drink
to the thusty, and it warm them which
is cold, so it do, and good luck to the
parish of St. So-and-So, and thankee
gentleman !" Elsewhere, a party of
pauper nurses were at dinner. "How
do you get on ?" " Oh, pretty well Sir !
We works hard, and we lives hard — like
the sodgers !"

In another room, a kind of purgatory
or place of transition, six or eight noisy
madwomen were gathered together,
under the superintendence of one sane
attendant. Among them was a girl of
two or three and twenty, very prettily
dressed, of most respectable appearance,
and good manners, who had been
brought in from the house where she
had lived as domestic servant (having,
I suppose, no friends), on account of
being subject to epileptic fits, and re
quiring to be removed under the influ
ence of a very bad one. She was by
no means of the same stuff, or the same
breeding, or the same experience, or in
the same state of mind, as those by
whom she was surrounded ; and she
pathetically complained that the daily
association and the nightly noise made
her worse, and was driving her mad —
which was perfectly evident. The case
was noted for inquiry and redress, but
she said she had already been there for
some weeks.

If this girl had stolen her mistress's
watch, I do hot hesitate to say she
would have been infinitely better off.
We have come to this absurd, this dan
gerous, this monstrous pass, that the
dishonest felon is, in respect of cleanli
ness, order, diet, and accommodation,
better provided for, and taken care of,
than the honest pauper.

And this conveys no special imputa
tion on the workhouse of the parish of
St. So-and-So, where, on the contrary,
!• saw many things to commend. It

A WALK IN A WORKHOUSE.

was very agreeable, recollecting the
most infamous and atrocious enormity
committed at Tooting — an..' enormity
which, a hundred years hence, will still
be vividly remembered in the bye-ways
of English life, and which has done
more to engender a gloomy discontent
and suspicion among many thousands
of the people than all the Chartist
leaders could have done in all their
lives — to find the pauper children in
this workhouse looking robust and well,
and apparently the objects of very great
care. In the Infant School — a large,
light, airy room at the top of the build
ing — the little creatures being at dinner,
and eating their potatoes heartily, were
not cowed by the presence of strange
visitors, but stretched out their small
hands to be shaken, with a very pleas
ant confidence. And it was comforta
ble to see two mangey pauper rocking-
horses rampant in a corner. In the
girls' school, where the dinner was also
in progress, every thing bore a cheerful
and healthy aspect. The meal was
over, in the boys' school, by the time of
oar arrival there, and the room was not
yet quite re-arranged ; but the boys
were roaming unrestrained about a
large and airy yard, as any other school
boys might have done. Some of them
had been drawing large ships upon the
schoolroom wall ; and if they had a
mast with shrouds and stays set up for
practice (as they have in the Middlesex
House of Correction), it would be so
much the better. At present, if a boy
should feel a strong impulse upon him
to learn the art of going aloft, he could
only gratify it, I presume, as the men
and women paupers gratify their aspi
rations after better board and lodging,
by smashing as many workhouse win
dows as possible, and being promoted
to prison.

In one place, the Newgate of the
Workhouse, a company of boys and
youths were locked up in a yard alone ;
their day-room being a kind of kennel
where the casual poor used formerly to
be littered down at night. Divers of
them had been there some long time.
"Are they never going away?" was the
natural inquiry. " Most of them are
crippled, in some form or ether," said
the Wardsman, "and not fit for any
thing." They slunk about, like dispir-

ted wolves or hyenas ; and made a
>ounce at their food when it was served
out, much as those animals do. The
big-headed idiot shuffling his feet along
,he pavement, in the sunlight outside,
was a more agreeable object every way.
Groves of babies in arms.; groves of
mothers and other sick women in bed ;
groves of lunatics ; jungles of men in
he stone-paved down-stairs day-rooms,
waiting for their dinners ; longer and
onger groves of old people, in upstairs
[nfirmary wards, wearing out life, God
mows how — this was the scenery
through which the walk lay, for two
lours. In some of these latter cham-
Ders, there were pictures stuck against
the wall, and a neat display of crockery
and pewter on a kind of sideboard ;
now and then it was a treat to see a
plant or two ; in almost every ward
;here was a cat.

In all of these Long Walks of aged
and infirm, some old people were bed
ridden, and had been for a long time ;
some were sitting on their beds half-
naked ; some dying in their beds ; some
out of bed, and sitting at a table near
the fire. A sullen or lethargic indiffer
ence to what was asked, a blunted sen
sibility to every thing but warmth and
food, a moody absence of complaint as
being of no use, a dogged silence and
resentful desire to be left alone again,
I thought were generally apparent.
On our walking into the midst of one
of these dreary perspectives of old men,
nearly the following little dialogue took
place, the nurse not being immediately
at hand :

" All well here ?"

No answer. An old maji in a Scotch
cap sitting among others on a form at
the table, eating out of a tin porringer,
pushes back his cap a little to look at
us, claps it down on his forehead again
with the palm of his hand, and goes ou
eating.

"All well here ?" (repeated.)

•No answer. Another old man sit
ting on his bed, paralytically peeling
a boiled potato, lifts his head, ^and
stares.

"Enough to eat?"

No answer. Another old man, in
bed, turns himself and coughs.

" How are you to-day ?" To the lart
old man.

A WALK IN A WORKHOUSE.

That old man says nothing ; but an
other old man, a tall old man of very-
good address, speaking with perfect
correctness, comes forward from some
where, and volunteers an answer. The
reply almost always proceeds from a
volunteer, and not from the person
looked at or spoken to,

"We are very old, Sir," in a mild,
distinct voice. "We can't expect to
be well, most of us."

"Are you comfortable?"

"I have no complaint to make, Sir."
With a half shake of his head, a half
shrug of his shoulders, and a kind of
apologetic smile.

"Enough to eat?"

"Why, Sir, I have but a poor appe
tite," with the same air as before; "and
yet I get through my allowance very
easily."

"But," showing a porringer with a
Sunday dinner in it ; " here is a portion
of mutton, and three potatoes. You
can't starve on that ?"

" Oh dear no, Sir," with the same
apologetic air. " Not starve."

"What do you want?"

"We have very little bread, Sir.
It's an exceedingly small quantity of
bread."

The nurse, who is now rubbing her
hands at the questioner's elbow, inter
feres with, "It ain't much raly, Sir.
You see they've only six ounces a day,
and when they've took their breakfast,
there can only be a little left for night,
Sir."

Another old man, hitherto invisible,
rises out of his bed-clothes' as out of a
grave, and looks on.

"You haye tea at night?" The
questioner is still addressing the well-
spoken old man.

" Yes, Sir, we have tea at night."

" And you save what bread you can
from the morning, to eat with it ?"

"Yes, Sir — if we can save any."
"And you want more to eat with
it?"

"Yes, Sir." With a very anxious
face.

The questioner, in the kindness of his
heart, appears a little discomposed, and
changes the subject.

" What has become of the old man
who used to lie in that bed in the cor
ner?"

The nurse don't remember what old
man is referred to. There has been
uch a mlray old men. The well-spoken
old man is doubtful. The spectral old
man who has come to life in bed, says,
' Billy Stevens." Another old man who
tias previously had his head in the fire
place, pipes out,

" Charley Walters."

Something like a feeble interest is
awakened. I suppose Charley Walters
bad conversation in him.

" He's dead," says the piping old
man.

Another old man, with one eye screw
ed up, hastily displaces the piping old
man, and says :

" Yes ! Charley Walters died in that
bed, and — and — "

" Billy Stevens," persists the spectral'
old man.

" No, no 1 and Johnny Rogers died
in that bed, and — and — they're both on
'em dead — and Sam'l Bowyer;" this
seems very extraordinary to him ; " he
went out I"

With this he subsides, and all the old
men (having had quite enough of it)
subside, and the spectral old man goes
into his grave again, and takes the
shade of Billy Stevens with him.

As we turn to go out at the door,
another previously invisible old man, a
hoarse old man in a flannel gown, is
standing there, as if he had just come
up through the floor.

" I beg your pardon, Sir, could I take
the liberty of saying a word ?"

" Yes ; what is it ?"

" I am greatly better in my health,
Sir ; but what I want, to get me quite
round," with his hand on his throat, "is
a little fresh air, Sir. It has always
done my complaint so much good, Sir.
The regular leave for going out, comes
round so seldom, that if the gentlemen,
next Friday, would give me leave to go
out walking, now and then — for only an
hour or so, Sir ! — "

Who could wonder, looking through
those weary vistas of bed and infirmity,
that it should do him good to meet
with some other* scenes, and assure
himself that there was something else
on earth ? Who could help wondering
why the old men lived on as they did ;
what grasp they had on life ; what
crumbs of interest or occupation they

THE _ONG VOYAGE.

could pick up from its bare board ;
whether Charley Walters had ever de
scribed to them the days when he kept
company with some old pauper woman
in the bud, or Billy Stevens ever told
them of the time when he was a' dweller
in the far-off foreign land called Home !
The morsel of burnt child, lying in
another room, so patiently, in bed,
wrapped in lint, and looking steadfastly
at us with its bright quiet eyes when
we spoke to him kindly, looked as if the
knowledge of these things, and of all
the tender things there are to think
about, might have been in his mind —
as if he thought, with us, that there
was a fellow-feeling in the pauper nur
ses which appeared to make them more

kind to their chaiges than the raet

of common nurses in the hospital as

if he mused upon the Future of some
older children lying around him in the
same place, and thought it best, per
haps, all things considered, that he
should die — as if he knew, without fear,
of those many coffins, made and un
made, piled up in the store below — and
of his unknown friend, "the dropped
child," calm upon the box-lid covered
with a cloth. But there was something
wistful and appealing, too, in his tiny
face, as if, in the midst of all the hard
necessities and incongruities he pon
dered on, he pleaded, in behalf of the
helpless and the aged poor, for a little
more liberty — and a little more bread

THE LONG VOYAGE,

WHEN the wind is blowing and the
sleet or rain is driving against the dark
windows, I love to sit by the fire, think
ing of what I have read in books oF
voyage and travel. Such books have
had a strong fascination for my mind
from my earliest childhood ; and I won
der it should have come to pass that I
never have been round the world, never
have been shipwrecked, ice-environed,
tomahawked, or eaten.

Sitting on my ruddy hearth in the
twilight of New Year's Eve, I find inci
dents of travel rise around me from all
the latitudes and longitudes of the globe.
They observe no order or sequence, but
appear and vanish as they will — " come
like shadows, so depart." Columbus,
alone upon the sea with his disaffected
crew, looks over the waste of waters
from his high station on the poop of his
ship, and sees the first uncertain glim
mer of the light, "rising and falling with
the waves, like a torch in the bark of
some fisherman " which is the shining
star of a new world. Bruce is caged
in Abyssinia, surrounded by the gory
horrors which shall often startle him out
of his sleep at home when years have
passed away. Franklin, come to the
end of his unhappy overland journey —
would that it had been his last ! — lies
perishing of hunger with his brave com

panions : each emaciated figure stretched
upon its miserable bed without the power
to rise : all dividing their weary days
between their prayers, their remem
brances of the dear ones at home, and
conversation on the pleasures of eating ;
the last-named topic being ever present
to them, likewise, in their night dreams.
All the African travellers, way-worn,
solitary and sad, submit themselves
again to drunken, murderous, man-sell
ing despots, of the lowest order of
humanity; and Mungo Park, fainting
under a tree and succored by a woman,
gratefully remembers how his Good Sa
maritan has always come to him in wo
man's shape, the wide world over.

A shadow on the wall in which my
mind's eye can discern some traces of a
rocky sea-coast, recals to me a fearful
story of travel derived from that unpro
mising narrator of such stories, a, parlia
mentary blue-book. A convict is its
chief figure, and this man escapes with
other prisoners from a penal settlement.
It is an island, and they seize a boat,
and get to the main land. Their way
is by a rugged r.nd precipitous sea-shore,
and they have no earthly hope of ulti
mate escape, for the party of soldiers
despatched by an- easier course to cut
them off, must inevitably arrive at their
distant bourne long before them, aod

THE LONG VOYAGE.

retake them rf ty any hazard they sur
vive the horrors of the way. Famine,
as they all must have foreseen, besets
them early in their course. Some of the
party die and are eaten ; some are mur
dered by the rest and eaten. This one
awful creature eats his fill, and sustains
his strength, and lives on to be recap
tured and taken back. The nnrelate-
able experiences through which he has
passed have been so tremendous, that he
is not hanged as he might be, but goes
back to his old chained gang-work. A
little time, and he tempts one other
prisoner away, seizes *another boat, and
flies once more — necessarily in the old
hopeless direction, for he can take no
other. He is soon cut off, and met by
the pursuing party, face to face, upon
the beach. He is alone. In his former
journey he acquired an inappeasable
relish for his dreadful food. He urged
the new man away, expressly to kill him
and eat him. In the pockets on one
side of his coarse convict-dress, are por
tions of the man's body, on which he is
regaling; in the pockets on the other
side is an untouched store of salted
park (stolen before he left the island)
for which be has no appetite. He is
taken back, and he is hanged. But I
•hall never see that sea-beach on the
wall or in the fire, without him, solitary
monster, eating as he prowls along,
while the sea rages and rises at him.

Captain Bligh (a worse man to be
entrusted with arbitrary power there
could scarcely be) is handed over the
side of the Bounty, and turned adrift on
the wide ocean in an open boat, by or
der of Fletcher Christian, one of his
officers, at this very minute. Another
flash of my fire, and " Thursday October
Christian," five-and-twenty years of age,
eon of the dead and gone Fletcher by a
savage mother, leaps aboard His Ma
jesty's ship Briton, hove to off Pitcairn's
Island ; says his simple grace before
eating, in good English ; and knows
that a pretty little animal on board is
called a dog, because in his childhood
he had heard of such strange creatures
from his father and the other mutineers,
grown gray under the shade of the
Bread-fruit trees, speaking of their lost
country far away.

See the Halsewell East Indiaman,
outward bound, driving madly on a

January night towards the rocks near
Seacombe, on the island of Purbeck !
The captain's two dear daughters are
aboard, and five other ladies. The ship
has been driving many hours, has seven
feet water in her hold, and her mainmast
has been cut away. The description
of her loss, familiar to me from my early
boyhood, seems to be rea<* aloud as she
rushes to her destiny.

" About two in the morning of Fri
day the sixth of January, the ship still
driving, and approaching very fast to
the shore, Mr. Henry Meriton, the
second mate, went again into the cuddy,
where the captain then was. Another
conversation takingplace, Captain Pierce
expressed extreme anxiety for the pre
servation of his beloved daughters, and
earnestly asked the officer if he could v
devise any method of saving them. On
his answering with great concern, that
he feared it would be impossible, but
that their only chance would be to wait
for morning, the captain lifted 'up his
hands in silent and distressful ejacu
lation.

" At this dreadful moment the ship
struck, with such violence as to dash
the heads of those standing in the cuddy
against the deck above them, and the
shock was accompanied by a shriek of
horror that burst at one instant frcm
every quarter of the ship.

"Many of the seamen, who had been
remarkably inattentive and remiss in their
duty during great part of the storm, now
poured upon deck, where no exertions
of the officers could keep them, while
their assistance might have been useful.
They had actually skulked in their ham
mocks, leaving the working of the »
pumps and other necessary labors to
the officers of the ship, and the soldiers,
who had made uncommon exertions.
Roused by a sense of their danger, the
same seamen, at this moment, in frantic
exclamations, demanded of heaven and
their fellow-sufferers that succor which
their own efforts, timely made, might
possibly have procured.

" The ship continued to beat on the
rocks ; and soon bilging, fell with her
broadside towards the shore. When
she struck, a number of the men climbed
up the ensign-staff, under an apprehen*
sion of her immediately going to pieces.

THE LONG VOYAGE.

" Mr. Meriton, at this crisis, offered
to these unhappy beings the best advice
which could be given ; he recommended
that all should come to the side of the
ship lying lowest on the rocks, and
singly to take the opportunities which
might then offer, of escaping to the
shore.

" Having thus provided, to the utmost
of his power, for the safety of his de
sponding crew, he returned to the round
house, where, by this time, all the pas
sengers, and most of the officers had
assembled. The latter were employed
in offering consolation to the unfortu
nate ladies ;* and, with unparalleled
magnanimity, suffering their compassion
for the fair and amiable companions of
their misfortunes to prevail over the
gense of their own danger.

"In this charitable work of comfort,
Mr. Meriton now joined, by assurances
of his opinion, that the ship would hold
together till the morning, when all
would be safe. Captain Pierce, observ
ing one of the young gentleman loud in
his exclamation? o* terror, and fre
quently cry tiiat the ship was parting,
cheerfully bid him be quiet, remarking
that though the ship should go to
pieces, he would not, but would be safe
enough.

"It is difficult to convey a correct
idea of the scene of this deplorable ca
tastrophe, without describing the place
where it happened. The Halsewell
struck on the rocks at a part of the
shore where the cliff is of vast height,
and rises almost perpendicular from its
base. But at this particular spot, the
foot of the cliff is excavated into a
cavern of ten or twelve yards in depth,
and of breadth equal to the length of a
large ship. The sides of the cavern are
BO nearly upright, as to be of extremely
difficult access ; and the bottom is
strewed with sharp and uneven rocks,
which seem, by some convulsion of the
earth, to have been detached from its
roof.

" The ship lay with her broadside
opposite to the mouth of this cavern,
with her whole length stretched almost
from side to side of it. But when she
struck, it was too dark for the unfortu
nate persons on board to discover the
real magnitude- of their danger, and the
extreme horror of such a situation.

" In addition to the compan » already
in the roundhouse, they had admitted
three black women and two soldiers'
wives ; who, with the husband of one
of them, had been allowed to come in,
though the seamen, who had tumultu-
ously demanded entrance to get the
lights, had been opposed and kept out
by Mr. Rogers and Mr. Brimer, the
third and fifth mates. The numbers
there were, therefore, now increased to
near fifty. Captain Pierce sat on a
chair, a cot, or some other moveable,
with a daughter on each side, whom he
alternately pressed to his affectionate
breast. The rest of the melancholy as
sembly were seated on the deck, which
was strewed with musical instruments,
and the wreck of furniture and other
articles.

" Here also Mr. Meriton, after having
cut several wax-candles in pieces, and
stuck them up in various parts of the
roundhouse, and lighted up all the glass
lanthorns he could find, took his seat,
intending to wait the approach of dawn ;
and then assist the partners of his dan
gers to escape. But, observing that the
poor ladies appeared parched and ex
hausted, he brought a basket of oranges
and prevailed on some of them to re
fresh themselves by sucking a little of
the juice. At this time they were all
tolerably composed, except Miss Man-
sel, who was in hysteric fits on the floor
of the deck of the roundhouse.

" But on Mr. Meriton's return to the
company, he perceived a considerable
alteration in the appearance of the
ship ; the sides were visibly giving way ;
the deck seemed to be lifting, and he
discovered -other strong indications that
she could not hold much longer to
gether. On this account, he attempted
to go forward to look out, but immedi
ately saw that the ship had separated
in the middle, and that the forepart
having changed its position, lay rather
further out toward the sea. In such an
emergency, when the next moment
might plunge him into eternity, he de
termined to seize the present opportu
nity, and follow the example of the
crew and the soldiers, who were now
quitting the ship in numbers, and
making their way to the shore, though
quite ignorant of its nature and descrip
tion.

THE LONG VOYAGE.

" Among other expedients, the en
sign-staff had been unshipped, and at
tempted to be laid between the ship's
side and some of the rocks, but without
success, for it snapped asunder before it
reached them. However, by the light
of a lanthorn, which a seaman handed
through the sky-light of the round
house to the deck, Mr. Meriton dis
covered a spar which appeared to be
laid from the ship's side to the rocks,
and on this spar he resolved to attempt
his escape.

"Accordingly, lying down upon it,
he thrust himself for\^ird ; however, he
soon found that it had no communica
tion with the rock ; he reached the end
of it and then slipped off, receiving a
very violent bruise in his fall, and be
fore he could recover his legs, he was
washed off by the surge. He now sup
ported himself by swimming, until a re
turning wave dashed him against the
back part of the cavern. Here he laid
hold of a small projection in the rock,
but was so much benumbed that he was
on the point of quitting it, when a sea
man, who had already gained a footing,
extended his hand, and assisted him
until he could secure himself a little on
the rock ; from which he clambered on
a shelf still higher, and out of the reach
of the surf.

" Mr. Rogers,* the third mate, re
mained with the captain and the unfor
tunate ladies and their companions
nearly twenty minutes after Mr. Meri
ton had quitted the ship. Soon after
the latter left the roundhouse, the cap
tain asked what was become of him, to
which Mr. Rogers replied, that he was
gone on deck to see what could be
done. After this, a heavy sea breaking
over the ship, the ladies exclaimed, ' Oh
poor Meriton ! he is drowned ! had he
stayed with us he would have been
safe !' and they all, particularly Miss
Mary Pierce, expressed great concern
at the apprehension of his loss.

" The sea was now breaking in at the
fore-part of the ship and reached as far
as the mainmast. Captain Pierce gave
Mr. Rogers a nod, and they took a
lamp and went together into the stern-
gallery, where, after viewing the rocks
for some time, Captain Pierce asked
Mr. Rogers if he thought there was
any possibil'ty of saving the girls ; to

which he replied, he feared there was
none ; for they could only discover the
black face of the perpendicular rock,
and not the cavern which afforded
shelter to those who escaped. They
then returned to the roundhouse, where
Mr. Rogers hung up the lamp, and
Captain Pierce sat down between his
two daughters.

" The sea continuing to break in very
fast, Mr. Macmanus, a midshipman, and
Mr. Schutz, a passenger, asked Mr.
Rogers what they could do to escape.
' Follow me,' he replied, and they all
went into the stern-gallery, and from
thence to the upper-quarter-gallery on
the poop. While there, a very heavy
sea fell on board, and the roundhouse
gave way ; Mr. Rogers heard the la
dies shriek at intervals, as if the water
reached them ; the noise of the sea at
other times drowning their voices.

" Mr. Brirner had followed him to the
poop, where they remained together
about five minutes, when on the break
ing of this heavy sea, they jointly seized
a hen-coop. The same wave which
proved fatal to sgme of those below,
carried him and his companion to the
rock, on which they were violently
dashed and miserably bruised.

" Here on the rock were twenty-seven
men ; but it now being low water, and
as they were convinced that on the
flowing of the tide all must be washed
off, many attempted to get to the back
or the sides of the cavern, beyond the
reach of the returning sea. Scarcely
more than six, besides Mr. Rogers and
Mr. Brimer, succeeded.

" Mr. Rogers, on gaining this station,
was so nearly exhausted, that had his
exertions been protracted only a few
minutes longer, he must have sunk un
der them. He was now prevented from
joining Mr. Meriton, by at least twenty
men between them, none of whom could
move, without the imminent peril of his
life.

" They found that a very considera
ble number of the crew, seamen, and
soldiers, and some petty officers, were
in the same situation as themselves,
though many who had reached the
rocks below, perished in attempting to
ascend. They could yet discern some
part of the ship, and in their dreary
station solaced themselves with th«

THE LONG VOYAGE.

hopes of its remaining entire nntil day
break ; for, in the midst of their own
distress, the sufferings of the females on
board affected them with the most
poignant anguish ; and every sea that
broke inspired them with terror for
their safety.

" But, alas, their apprehensions were
too soon realized 1 Within a very few
minutes of the time that Mr. Rogers
gained the rock, an universal shriek,
which long vibrated in their ears, in
which the voice of female distress was
lamentably distinguished, announced the
dreadful catastrophe. .In a few mo
ments all was hushed, except the roar
ing of the winds and the dashing of the
waves ; the wreck was buried in the
deep, and not an atom of it was ever
afterward seen."

The most beautiful and affecting inci
dent I know, associated with a ship
wreck, succeeds this dismal story for a
winter night. The Grosvenor, East In-
diaman homeward bound, goes ashore
on the coast of Caffraria. It is resolved
that the officers, passengers, and crew,
in number one hundred and thirty-five
Bouls, shall endeavor to penetrate on
foot, across trackless deserts, infested
by wild beasts and cruel savages, to the
Dutch settlements at the Cape of Good
Hope. With this forlorn object before
them, they finally separate into two
parties — never more to meet on earth.

There is a solitary child among the
passengers — a little boy of seven years
old who has no relation there ; and
when the first party is moving away he
cries after some member of it who has
been kind to him. The crying of a
child might be supposed to be a little
thing to men in such great extremity ;
but it touches them, and he is immedi
ately taken into that detachment.

From which time forth, this child is
sublimely made a sacred charge. He is
pushed, on a little raft, across broad
rivers, by the swimming sailors ; they
carry him by turns through the deep
sand and long grass (he patiently walk
ing at all other times) ; they share with
him such putrid fish as they find to eat ;
they lie down and wait for him when
the rough carpenter, who becomes his
especial friend, l<igs behind. Beset by
lioas and tigers, by savages by thirst,

:>y hunger, by death in a crowd of
ghastly shapes, they never — 0 Father
of all mankind, thy name be blessed for
it ! — forget this child. The captain
tops exhausted, and his faithful cox
swain goes back and is seen to sit down
by his side, and neither of the two shall

any more beheld until the great last
day ; but, as the rest go on for their
lives, they take the child with them.
The carpenter dies of poisonous ber
ries eaten in starvation ; 'and the stew
ard, succeeding to the command of the
party, succeeds to the sacred guardian
ship of the child.

God knows all he does for the poor
baby ; how he cheerfully carries him in
his arms when he himself is weak and
ill ; how he feeds him when he himself
is griped with want ; how he folds his
ragged jacket round him, lays his little
worn face with a woman's tenderness
upon his sunburnt breast, soothes him
in his sufferings, sings to him as he
limps along, unmindful of his own
parched and bleeding feet. Divided for
a few days from the rest, they dig a
grave in the sand and bury their good
friend the cooper — these two com
panions alone in the wilderness — and
then the time comes when they both are
ill and beg their wretched partners in
despair, reduced and few in number
now, to wait by them one day. They
wait by them one day, they wait by
them two days. On the morning of the
third, they move very softly about, in
making their preparations for the re
sumption of their journey; for, the
child is sleeping by the fire, and it is
agreed with one consent that he shall
not be disturbed . until the last moment.
The moment comes, the fire is dying —
and the child is dead.

His faithful friend, the steward, lin
gers but a little while behind him. His
grief is great, he staggers on for a few
days, lies down in the desert, and dies.
But he shall be re-united in his immor
tal spirit — who can doubt it ! — with the
child, where he and the poor carpenter
shall be raised up with the words, " In
asmuch as^ye have done it unto th
least of these, ye have done it unto
Me."

As I recall the dispersal and disap
pearance of nearly all the participators
in this once famous shipwreck (a mere

THE BEGGING LETTER WRITER.

handful being recovered at last), and
the legends that were long afterward
revived from time to time among the
English officers at the Cape, of a white
woman with an infant, said to have been
seen weeping outside a savage hut far
in the interior, who was whisperingly
associated with the remembrance of the
missing ladies saved from the wrecked
vessel, and who was often sought but
never found, thoughts of another kind
of travel come into my mind.

Thoughts of a voyager unexpectedly
summoned from home, who traveled a
vast distance, and could never return.
Thoughts of this unhappy wayfarer in
the depths of his sorrow, in the bitter
ness of his anguish, in the helplessness
of his self-reproach, in the desperation
of his desire to set right what he had
~~left wrong, and do what he had left un
done.

For, there . were many many things
he had neglected. Little matters while
he was at home and surrounded by
them, but things of mighty moment
when he was at an immeasurable dis
tance. There were many many bless
ings that he had inadequately felt, there
were many trivial injuries that he had

not forgiven, there was love that he hal
but poorly returned, there was friend
ship that he had too lightly prized ;
there were a million kind words that he
might have spoken, a million kind
looks that he might have given, un
countable slight, easy deeds, in which
he might have been most truly great
and good. O for a day (he would ex
claim), /or but one day to make
imends ! But the sun never shone
upon that happy day, and out of his
remote captivity he never came.

Why does this traveler's fate obscure,
on New Year's Eve, the other histories
of travelers with which my mind was
filled but now, and cast a solemn
shadow over me ! Must I one day
make his journey ? Even so. Who
shall say, that I may not then be tor.
tured by such late regrets : that I may
not then look from my exile on my
empty place and undone work ? I
stand upon a sea shore, where the
waves are years. They break and fall,
and I may little heed them : but, with
every wave the sea is rising, and I know
that it will float me on this traveler's
voyage at last.

THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER.

THE amount of money he annually
diverts from wholesome and useful pur
poses in the United Kingdom, would
be a set-off against the Window Tax.
He is one of the most shameless frauds
arid impositions of this time. In his
idleness, his mendacity, and the im
measurable harm he does to the deserv
ing, — dirtying the stream of true be
nevolence, and muddling the brains
of foolish justices, with inability to dis
tinguish between the base coin of dis
tress, and the true currency we have
always among us, — he is more worthy
of Norfolk Island than three-fourths of
the worst characters who are sent
there. Under any rational system, he
would have been sent there long ago.

I, the writer of this paper, have been,
for some time, a chosen receiver of Beg
ging Letters. For fourteen years, my

house has been made a regular Receiv
ing House for such communications as
any one of the great branch Post-Offices
is for general correspondence. I ought
to know something of the Begging-
Letter Writer. He has besieged my
.door, at all hours of the day and night ;
he has fought my servant ; he has lain
in ambush for me, going out and com
ing in ; he has followed me out of town
into the country ; he has appeared at
provincial hotels, where I have been
staying for only a few hours ; he has
written to me from immense distances,
when I have been out of England. He
has fallen sick ; he has died, and been
buried ; he has come to life again, and
again departed from this transitory
scene ; he has been his own son, his
own mother, his own baby, his idiot
"brother, his uncle, his aunt, his aged

THE BEGGING- LETTER WRITER.

grandfather. He has wanted a great
coat, to go to India in ; a pound to set
him up in life for ever ; a pair of boots,
to take him to the coast of China ; a
hat, to get him into a permanent situa
tion under Government. -He has fre
quently been exactly seven-and-sixpence
short of independence. He has had
such openings at Liverpool — posts of
great trust and confidence in merchants'
houses, which nothing but seven-and-
sixpence was wanting to him to secure
— that I wonder he is not Mayor of
that flourishing town at the present
moment.

The natural phenomena of which he
has been the victim, are of a most
astounding nature. He has had two
children, who have never grown up ;
who have never had any thing to cover
them at night ; who have been continu
ally driving him mad. by asking in vain
for food ; who have never come out of
fevers and measles (which, I suppose,
has accounted for his fuming his letters
with tobacco smoke, as a disinfectant) ;
who have never -changed in the least
degree, through fourteen long revolving
years. As to his wife, what that suffer
ing woman has undergone, nobody
knows. She has always been in an
interesting situation through the same
long period, and has never been con
fined yet. His devotion to her has
been unceasing. He has never cared
for himself; he could have perished — he
would rather, in short — but was it not
his Christian duty as a man, a husband,
and a father, to write begging letters
when he looked at her? (He has
usually remarked that he would call in
the evening for an answer to this ques
tion.)

He has been the sport of the strangest
misfortunes. What his brother has
done to him would have broken any
body else's heart. His brother went
into business with him, and ran away
with the money ; his brother got him
to be security for an immense sum, and
left him to pay it ; his brother would
have given him employment to the tune
of hundreds a-year, if he would have
consented to write letters on a Sunday ;
his brother enunciated principles incom
patible with his religious views, and he
could not (in consequence) permit his
brother to provide for him. His land-
•5

lord has never shown a spark of human
feeling. When he put in that execu
tion I don't know, but he has never
taken it out. The broker's man haa
grown grey in possession. They will
have to bury him some day.

He has been attached to every con
ceivable pursuit. He has been in the
army, in the navy, in the church, in the
law ; connected with the press, the fine
arts, public institutions, every descrip
tion and grade of business. He has
been brought up as a gentleman : he
has been at every college in Oxford and
Cambridge ; he can quote Latin in his
letters (but generally mis-spells some
minor English word) ; he can tell you
what Shakespeare says about begging,
better than you know it. It is to be
observed, that in the midst of his afflic
tions he always reads the newspapers ;
and rounds off his appeals with some
allusion, that may be supposed to be in
my way, to the popular subject of the
hour.

His life presents a series of inconsist
encies. Sometimes he has never writ
ten such a letter before. He blushes
with shame. That is the first time;
that shall be the last. Don't answer it,
and let it be understood that, then, he
will kill himself quietly. Sometimea
(and more frequently) he has written a
few such letters. Then he encloses the
answers, with an intimation that they
are of inestimable value to him, and a
request that they may be carefully re
turned. He is fond of enclosing some
thing — verses, letters, pawnbrokers' du
plicates, any thing to necessitate an
answer. He is very severe upon 'the
pampered minion of fortune,' who re
fused him the half-sovereign referred to
in the enclosure number two — but he
knows me better.

He writes in a variety of styles ; some
times in low spirits ; sometimes quite
jocosely. When he is in low spirits*
he writes down-hill, and repeats words
— these little indications being expres
sive of the perturbation of his mind.
When he is more vivacious, he is frank
with me ; he is quite the agreeable
rattle. I know what human nature
is(_who better? Well I He had a
little money once, and he ran through

it as many men have done before him.

He finds his old friends turn away from

THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER.

him now — many men have done that
before him, too 1 Shall he tell me why
he writes to me ? Because he has no
kind of claim upon me. He puts it on
that ground, plainly ; and begs to ask
for the loan (as I know human nature)
of two sovereigns, to be repaid next
Tuesday six weeks, before twelve at
noon.

Sometimes, when he is sure that I
have found him out, and that there is
no chance of money, he writes to inform
me that I have got rid of him at last.
He has enlisted into the Company's
service, and is off directly — but he
wants a cheese. He is informed by the
sergeant that it is essential to his pros
pects in the regiment that he should
take out a single, Gloucester cheese,
weighing from twerVe to fifteen pounds.
Eight or nine shillings would buy it.
He does not ask for money, after what
has passed ; but if he calls at nine to
morrow morning, may he hope to find
a cheese ? And is there any thing he
can do to show his gratitude in Ben
gal ?

Once, he wrote me rather a special
letter proposing relief in kind. He had
•got into a little trouble by leaving par
cels of mud done up in brown paper, at
people's houses, on pretence of being a
Railway-Porter, in which character he
received carriage money. This sportive
fancy he expiated in the House of Cor
rection. Not long after his release,
and on a Sunday morning, he called
with a letter (having first dusted him
self all over), in which he gave me to
understand that, being resolved to earn
an honest livelihood, he had been trav
eling about the country with a cart of
crockery. That he had been doing
pretty well, until the day before, when
his horse had dropped down dead near
Chatham, in Kent. That this had re
duced him to the unpleasant necessity
of getting into the shafts himself, and
drawing the cart of crockery to Lon
don — a somewhat exhausting pull of
thirty miles. That he did not venture
to ask again for money ; but that if I
would have the goodness to leave him
out a donkey, he would call for the ani
mal before breakfast 1

At another time, my friend (I am de
scribing actual experiences) introduced
himself as a litenry gentleman in the

.ast extremity of distress. He had had
a play accepted at a certain Theatre—
which was really open ; its representa
tion was delayed by the indisposition
of a leading actor — who was really ill ; '
and he and his were in a state of abso
lute starvation. If he made his neces
sities known to the Manager of the
Theatre, he put it to me to say what
kind of ^ treatment he might expect?
Well ! we got over that difficulty to our
mutual satisfaction. A little while after
wards he was in some other strait — I
think Mrs. Southcote, his wife, was in
extremity — and we adjusted that point
too. A little while afterwards, he had
taken a new house, and was going head
long to ruin for want of a water-butt.
I had my misgivings about the water-
butt, and did not reply to that epistle.
But, a little while afterwards, I had
reason to feel penitent for my neglect.
He wrote me a few broken-hearted
lines, informing me that the dear part-
near of his sorrows died in his arms last
night at nine o'clock !

1 dispatched a trusty messenger to com
fort the bereaved mourner aud his 'poor
children ; but the messenger went so
soon, that the play was not ready to be
played out ; my friend was not at home,
and his wife was in a most delightful
state of health. He was taken up by
the Mendicity Society (informally it
afterwards appeared), and I presented
myself at a London Police-office with
my testimony against him. The Magis
trate was wonderfully struck by his edu
cational acquirements, deeply impressed
by the excellence of his letters, exceed
ingly sorry to see a man of his attain
ments there, complimented him highly
on his powers of composition, and waa
quite charmed to have the agreeable
duty of discharging him. A collection
was made for the ' poor fellow,' as he
was called in the reports, and I left the
court with a comfortable sense of being
universally regarded as a sort of mon
ster. Next day, comes to me a friend
of mine, the governor of a large prison,
' Why did you ever go to the Police-
Office against that man,' says he, 'with
out coming to me first ? I know all
about him and his frauds. He lodged
in the house of one of my warders, at
the very time when he first wrote to
you; and then he was eating spring-

THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER.

lamb at eigliteen-pence a pound, and
early asparagus at I don't know how
much a bundle !' On that very same
day, and" in that very same hour, my
injured gentleman wrote a solemn ad
dress to me, demanding to know what
compensation I proposed to make him
for his having passed the night in a
'loathsome dungeon.' And next morn
ing, an Irish gentleman, a member
of the same fraternity, who Bad read
the case, and was very well persuaded
I should be chary of going to that
Police-Office again, positively refused
to leave my door for less than a sov
ereign, and, resolved to besiege me into
compliance, literally ' sat down' before
it for ten mortal hours. The garrison
being well provisioned, I remained with
in the walls ; and he raised the siege at
midnight, with a prodigious alarum on
the bell.

The Begging-Letter Writer often
has an extensive circle of acquaintance.
Whole 'pages of the Court Guide are
ready to be references for him. Noble
men and gentlemen write to say there
never was such a man for probity and
virtue. They have known him, time
out of mind, and there is nothing they
wouldn't do for him. Somehow, they
don't give him that one pound ten he
stands in need of; but perhaps it is not
enough — they want to do more, and his
mpdesty will not allow it. It is to be
remarked of his trade that it is a very
fascinating one. He never leaves it ;
and those who are near to him become
smitten with a love of it, too, and
sooner or later set up for themselves.
He employs a messenger — man, woman,
or child. That messenger is certain
ultimately to become an independent
Begging-Letter Writer. His sons and
daughters succeed to his calling, and
write begging-letters when he is no
more. He throws off the infection of
begging-letter writing, like the conta
gion of disease. What Sydney Smith
so happily called " the dangerous luxury
of dishonesty," is more tempting, and
more catching, it would seem, in this
instance than in any other.

He always belongs to a Correspond
ing-Society of Begging-Letter Writers.
Any one who will, may ascertain this
fact. Give money to-day, in recogni
tion of a begging-letter, — no matter

how unlike a common begging-letter,—
and for the next fortnight you will have
a rush of such communications. Stea
dily refuse to give ; and the begging-
letters become Angels' visits, until the
Society is from some cause or other iu
a dull way of business, and may as well
try you as anybody else. It is of little
use inquiring into the Begging-Letter
Writer's circumstances. He may be
sometimes accidentally found out, as in
the case already mentioned (though
that was not the first inquiry made) ;
but apparent misery is always a part of
his trade, and real misery very often is,
in the intervals of spring-lamb and early
asparagus. It is naturally an incident
of his dissipated and dishonest life.

That the calling is a successful one,
a-nd that large sums of money are gained
by it, must be evident to anybody who
reads the Police Reports of such cases.
But prosecutions are of rare occurrence,
relatively to the extent to which the
trade is carried on. The cause of this,
is to be found (as no one knows better
than the Begging-Letter Writer, for it
is a part of his speculation) in the aver
sion people feel to exhibit themselves as
having been imposed upon, or as having
weakly gratified their consciences with a
lazy, flimsy substitute for the noblest of
all virtues. There is a man at large, at
the moment when this paper is prepar
ing for the press (on the 29th of April,
1850), and never once taken up yet,
who, within these twelvemonths, has
been probably the most audacious and
the most successful swindler that even
this trade has ever known. There has
been something singularly base in this
fellow's proceedings : it has been his
business to write to all sorts and condi
tions of people, in the names of persons
of high reputation and unblemished
honor, professing to be in distress —
the general admiration and respect for
whom, has ensured a ready and gener
ous reply.

Now, in the hope that the results of
the real experience of a real person may
do something more to induce reflection
on this subject than any abstract trea
tise — and with a personal knowledge
of the extent to which the Begging-
Letter Trade has been carried on for
some time, and has been for some
time, also, constantly increasing — the

THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER.

writer of this paper entreats the atten
tion of his readers to a few concluding
words. His experience is a type of the
experience of many ; some on a smaller ;
some on an infinitely larger scale. All
may judge of the soundness or unsound-
nftss of his conclusions from it.

Long doubtful of the efficacy of such
assistance in any case whatever, and
able to recall but one, within his whole
individual knowledge, in which he had
the least after-reason to suppose that
any good was done by it, he was led,
last autumn, into some serious consider
ations. The begging-letters flying about
by every post, made it perfectly mani
fest, that a set of lazy vagabonds were
interposed between the general desire
to do something to relieve the sickness
and misery under which the poor were
Buffering, and the suffering poor them
selves. That many who sought to do
some little to repair the social wrongs,
inflicted in the way of preventible sick
ness and death upon the poor, were
strengthening those wrongs, however
innocently, by wasting money on pesti
lent knaves cumbering society. That
imagination, — soberly following one of
these knaves into his life of punishment
in jail, and comparing it with the life
of one of these poor in a cholera-stricken
alley, or one of the children of one of
these poor, soothed in its dying hour by
the late lamented Mr. Drouet, — contem
plated a grim farce, impossible to be
presented very much longer before God
or man. That the crowning miracle of
all the miracles summed up in the New
Testament, after the miracle of the blind
seeing, and the lame walking, and the
restoration of the dead to life, was the
miracle that the poor had the Gospel
preached to them. That while the poor
were unnaturally and unnecessarily cut
off by the thousand, in the prematurity

of their age, or in he rottenness of thtir
youth — for of flc Ver or blossom such
youth has none — the Gospel- was NOT
preached to them, saving in hollow and
unmeaning voices. That of all wrongs,
this was the first mighty wrong the Pes
tilence warned us to set right. - And
that no Post-Office Order to any amount,
given to a Begging-Letter Writer for
the quieting of an uneasy breast, would
be presentable on the Last Great Day
as any thing towards it.

The poor never write these loiters.
Nothing could be more unlike their
habits. The writers are public robbers ;
and we who support them are parties to
their depredations. They trade upon
every circumstance within their know
ledge that affects us, public or private,
joyful or sorrowful ; they pervert the
lessons of our lives ; they change what
ought to be our strength and virtue into
weakness, and encouragement of .vice.
There is a plain remedy, and it is in our
own hands. We must -resolve, at any
sacrifice of feeling, to be deaf to such
appeals, and crush the trade.

There are degrees in murder. Life
must be held sacred among us in more
ways than one — sacred, not merely from
the murderous weapon, or the subtle
poison, or the cruel blow, but sacred
from preveutible diseases, distortions,
and pains. That is the first great end
we have .to set against this miserable
imposition. Physical life respected,
moral life comes next. What will not
content a Begging-Letter Writer for a
week, would educate a score of children
for a year. Let us give all we can ; let
us give more than ever. Let us do all
we can ; let us do more than ever. But
let us give, and do, with a high pur
pose ; not to endow the scum of the
earth, to its own greater corruption,
with the ?ffals of our duty.

A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR.

THERE was once a child, and he
strolled about a good deal, and thought
of a number of things. He had a sister,
who was a "-hild too, and his constant
companion. These two used to wonder
all day long. They wondered at the
beauty of the flowers; they wondered at
the height and blueness of the sky;
they wondered at the depth of the bright
water ; they wondered at the goodness
and the power of GOD who made the
lovely world.

They used to say- to one another,
sometimes, Supposing all the children
upon earth were to die, would the
flowers, and the water, and the sky, be
sorry ? They believed they would be
sorry. For, said they, the buds are the
children of the flowers, and the little
playful streams that gambol down the
hill-sides are the children of the water ;
and the smallest bright specks playing
at hide and seek in the sky all night,
must surely be the children of the stars ;
and they would all be grieved to see
their playmates, the children of men, no
more.

There was one clear shining star that
used to come out in the sky before the
rest, near the church spire, above the
graves. It was larger and more beau
tiful, they thought, than all the others,
and every night they watched .for it,
standing hand in hand at a window.
Whoever saw it first, cried out, " I see
the star 1" And often they cried* out
both together, knowing so well when it
would rise, and where. So they grew
to be such friends with it, that, before
lying down in their beds, they always
looked out once again, to bid it good
night ; and when they were turning
round to sleep, they used to say, " God
Jjless the star !"

But while she was still very young, oh
very very young, the sister drooped, and
came to be so weak that she could no
longer stand in the window at night;
and then the child looked sadly out by
tiimself, and when he saw the star,
turned round and said to the patient
pale face on the bed, " I see the star!"
aad then a smile would come upon the

face, and a little weak voice used to say,
" God bless my brother and the star !"
And so the time came all too soon !
when the child looked out alone, and
when there was no face on the bed ; and
when there was a little grave among the
graves, not there before ; and when the
star made long rays down towards him,
as he saw it through his tears.

Now, these rays were so bright, and
they seemed to make such a shining
way from earth to Heaven, that when
the child went to his solitary bed, he
dreamed about the star; and dreamed
that, lying where he was, he saw a train
of people taken up that sparkling road
by angels. • And the star, opening,
showed him a great world of light, where
many more such angels waited to receive
them.

All these angels, who were waiting,'
turned their beaming eyes upon the
people who were carried up into the
star ; and some came out from the long
rows in which they stood, and fell upon
the people's necks, and kissed them ten
derly, and went away with them dowu.
avenues of light, and were so happy in
their company, that lying in his bed he
wept for joy.

But, there were many angels who did
not go with them, and among them one
he knew. The patient face that once
had lain upon the bed was glorified and
radiant, but his heart found out his sis
ter among all the host.

His sister's angel lingered near the
entrance of the star, and said to the
leader among those who had brought
the people thither :

"Is my brother come ?"
And he said "No."
She was turning hopefully away, when
the child stretched out his arms, and
cried " O, sister, I am here I Take
me !" and then she turned her beaming
eyes upon him, and it was night; and
the star was shining into the room,
making long rays down towards him as
lie saw it through his tears.

From that hour forth, the child looked
out upon the star as on the home he
was to go to, when his time should

OUR

vVATEfiiNG-JrJLiOB.

oorae ; a.nd he thought tliat lie did not
belong to the earth alone, but to the
star, too, because of his sister's angel
gone before.

There was a baby born to be a broth
er to the child; and while he was so
little that he never yet had spoken word,
he stretched his tiny form out on his
bed, and died.

Again the child dreamed of the
opened star, and of the company of an
gels, and the train of people, and the
rows of angels with their beaming eyes
all turned upon those people's faces.

Said his sister's angel to the leader:

" is my brother come ?"

-And he said "Not that one, but an-
othtr."

As the child beheld his brother's an
gel in her arms, he cried, " 0, sister, I
am here ! Take me 1" And she turned
and smiled upon him, and the star was
shining.

He grew to be a young man, and was
busy at his books when an old servant
came to him and said :

" Thy mother is no more. I bring
her blessing on her darling son."

Again at night he saw the star, and
all that former company. Said his sis
ter's angel to the leader :

"Is my brother come ?"

And he said, "Thy mother I"

A mighty cry of joy went forth through
all the star, because the mother was re
united to her two children. And he
stretched out his arms and cried, "0,
mother, sister, and brother, I am here ]/

Take me!" And they answered him
"Not yet," and the star was shinhg.

He grew to be a man, \Uiose hair
was turning grey, and he was sitting in
his chair by the fireside, heavy with grief,
and with his face bedewed with tears,
when the star opened once again.

Said his sister's angel to the leader,
"Is my brother come ?"

And he said, "Nay, but his maiden
daughter."

And the man who had been the child
saw his -daughter, newly lost to him, a
celestial creature among those thr^ee,
and he said, " My daughter's head is on
my sister's bosom, and her arm is round
my mother's neck, and at her feet there
is the baby of old time, and I can bear
the parting from her, GOD be praised !"

And the star was shining.

Thus the child came to be an old
man, and his once smooth face was
wrinkled, and his steps were slow and
feeble, and his back was bent. And
one night as he lay upon his bed, his
children standing round, he cried, as he
had cried so long ago :

"I see the star !"

They whispered one another, " He is
dying."

And he said " I am. My age is fall
ing from me like a garment, and I move
towards the/ star as a child. And 0,
my Father, now I thank thee that it haa
so often opened, to receive those dear
ones who await me !"

And the star was shining ; and it
shines upon his grave.

OUB ENGLISH WATERING-PLACE,

IN the Autumn-time of the year,
when the great metropolis is so much
hotter, so much noisier, so much more
dusty or so much more water-carted, so
much more crowded, so much more dis
turbing and distracting in all respects,
than it usually is, a quiet sea-beach be
comes indeed a blessed spot. Half
awake and half asleep, this idle morn
ing in our sunny window on the edge
of a chalk cliff in the old-fashioned
watering-place to which we are a faith

ful resorter, we feel a lazy inclination to
sketch its picture.

The place seems to respond. Sky,
sea, beach, and village, lie as still be
fore us as if they were sitting for the
picture. It is dead low-water. A.
ripple plays among the ripening corn
upon the cliff, as if it were faintly try
ing from recollection to imitate the ser
and the world of butterflies hovering
over the crop of radish-seed are as rest
less in their little was the gulls arc

OUR ENGLISH WATERING-PLACE.

in their larger manner when the wind
blows. But the ocean lies winking in
the sunlight like a drowsy lion — its
glassy waters scarcely curve upon the
shore — the fishing-boats in the tiny har
bor are all stranded in the mud — our
two colliers (our watering-place has a
maritime trade employing that amount
of shipping) have not an inch of water
within a quarter of a mile of them, and
turn, exhausted, on their sides, like
faint fish of an antediluvian species.
Rusty cables and chains, ropes and
rings, undermost parts of posts and
piles and confused timber-defences
against the waves, lie strewn about, in
a brown litter of tangled sea-weed and
fallen cliff which looks as if a family
of giants had been making tea here for
ages, and had observed an untidy cus
tom of throwing their tea-leaves on the
shore.

In truth our watering-place itself has
been left somewhat high and dry by the
tide of years. Concerned as we are for
its honor, we must reluctantly admit
that the time when this pretty little
semi-circular sweep of houses tapering
off at the end of the wooden pier into
a point in the sea, was a gay place, and
when the lighthouse overlooking it
shone at daybreak on company dispers
ing from public balls, is but dimly tra
ditional now. There is a bleak cham
ber in our watering-place which is yet
called the Assembly " Rooms," and un
derstood to be available on hire for balls
or concerts ; and, some few seasons
since, an ancient little gentleman came
down and stayed at the hotel, who said
he had danced there, in bygone ages,
with the Honorable Miss Peepy, well
known to have been the Beauty of her
day and the cruel occasion of innumera
ble duels. But he was so old and
shriveled, and so very rheumatic in the
legs, that it demanded more imagina
tion than our watering-place can usually
muster, to believe him ; therefore, ex
cept the Master of the " Rooms " (who
to this hour wears knee-breeches, and
who confirmed the statement with tears
in his eyes), nobody did believe in the
little lame old gentleman, or even in
the Honorable Miss Peepy, long de
ceased.

As to subscription balls in the Assem
bly Rooms of our watering-place now

red-hot cannon balls are less improba
ble. Sometimes, a misguided wanderer
of a Ventriloquist, or an Infant Phe*
uomenon, or a Juggler, or somebody
with an Orrery that is several stars be
hind the time, takes the place for a
night, and issues bills with the name of
his last town lined out, and the name
of ours ignominiously written in, but
you may be sure this never happens
twice to the same unfortunate person.
On such occasions the discolored old
Billiard Table that is seldom played at,
(unless the ghost of the Honorable
Miss Peepy plays at pool with other
ghosts) is pushed into a corner, and
benches are solemnly constituted into
front seats, back seats, and reserved
seats — which are much the same after
you have paid — and a few dull candles
are lighted — wind permitting — and the
performer and the scanty audience play
out a short match which shall make the
other most low-spirited — which is usu
ally a drawn game. After that, the
performer instantly departs /rith male
dictory expressions, and is never heard
of more.

But the most wonderful feature of our
Assembly Rooms, is, that an annual
sale of " Fancy and other China," is
announced here with mysterious con
stancy and perseverance. Where the
china comes from, where it goes to, why
it is annually put up to auction when
nobody ever thinks of bidding for it,
how it comes to pass that it is always
the same china, whether it would not
have been cheaper, with the sea at
hand, to have thrown it away, say in
eighteen hundred and thirty, are stand
ing enigmas. Every year the bills come
out, every year the Master of the
Rooms gets into a little pulpit on a,
table, and offers it for sale, every year
nobody buys it, every year it is pit
away somewhere until next year when
it appears again as if the whole^ thing
were a new idea. We have a faint re
membrance of an unearthly collection
of clocks, purporting to be the work of
Parisian and Genevese artists — chiefly
bilious-faced clocks, supported on sickly
white crutches, with their pendulums
dangling like lame legs— to which a
similar course of events occurred for /,-
several years, until they seemed to lapse
away, of mere imbecility.

OUR ENGLISH WATERING-PLACE.

Attached to our Assembly Room? i&
* library. There is a wheel of fortune
in it, but it is rosty and dusty, and
never turns. A large tioil, with move-
able eyes, was put up io be raffled for,
by rive-and-twenty members at two
shillings, seven yearo* ago this autumn,
and the list is not full yet. We are
rather sanguine, now, that the raffle will
come off next year. We think so, be
cause we only want nine members, and
should only want eight, but for number
two having grown up since her name
was entered, and withdrawn it when she
was married. Down the street, there is
a toy-ship of considerable burden in
the same condition. Two of the boys
who were entered for that raffle have
gone to India in real ships, since ; and
one was shot, and died m'the arms of
his sister's lover, by whom he sent his
last'words home.

This is the library for the Minerva
Press. If you want that kind of read
ing, come to our watering-place., The
leaves of the romances, reduced to a
condition very like curl-paper, are thick
ly studded with notes in pencil : some
times complimentary, sometimes jocose.
Some of these commentators, like com
mentators in a more extensive way,
quarrel with one another. One young
gentleman who sarcastically writes
" 0 ! ! ! " after every sentimental pas
sage, is pursued through his literary
career by another, who writes " Insult
ing Beast !" Miss Julia Mills has read
the whole collection of these books.
She has left marginal notes on the
pages, as " Is not this truly touching \
J. M." " How thrilling ! J. M." "En
tranced here by the Magician's potent
spell. J. M." She has also italicised
her favorite traits in the description of
the 'hero, as "his hair, which was dark
and wavy, clustered in rich profusion
around a marble brow, whose lofty
paleness bespoke the intellect within."
It reminds her of another hero. She
adds, " How like B. L. ! Can this be
more coincidence t J. M."

You would hardly guess which is the
main street of our watering-place, but
you may know it by its being always
stopped up with donkey-chaises. When
ever you come here, and see harnessed
donkeys eating clover out of barrows
* drawn completely across a narrow thor- 1

oughfare, you may be quite sure you are
in our High Street. Our Police you
may know by his uniform, likewise by
his never on any account interfering
with anybody — especially the tramps
and vagabonds. In our fancy shops
we have a capital collection of damaged
goods, among which the flies of count
less summers "have been roaming."
We are great in obsolete seals, and in
faded pin-cushions, and in rickety camp-
stools, and in exploded cutlery, ancf in
miniature vessels, and in stunted little
telescopes, and in objects made of shells
that pretend not to be shells. Diminu
tive spades, barrows, and baskets, are
our principal articles of commerce ; but
even they don't look quite new some
how. They always seem to have been
offered and refused somewhere else, be
fore they came down to our watering-
place.

Yet, it must not be supposed that
our watering-place is an empty-place,
deserted by all visitors except a few
staunch persons of approved fidelity.
On the contrary, the chances are that *
if you came down here in August or
September, you wouldn't find a house
to lay your head in. As to finding
either house or lodging of which ypu
could reduce the terms, you could
scarcely engage in a more hopeless pur
suit. For all this, you are to observe
that every season is the worst season
ever known, and that the householding
population of our watering-place are
ruined regularly every autumn. They
are like the farmers, in regard that it is
surprising how much ruin they will bear.
We have an excellent hotel — capital
baths, warm, cold, and shower — first-
rate bathing-machines — and as good
butchers, bakers, and grocers, as heart
could desire. They all do business, it
is to be presumed, from motives of
philanthropy — but it is quite certain
that they are all being ruined. Their
interest in strangers, and their polite
ness under ruin, bespeak their amiable
nature. You would say so, if yon only
saw the baker helping a new-comer to
find suitable apartments.
' So far from being at a discount as to
company, we are in fact what would be
popularly called rather a nobby place.
Some tip-top " Nobbs" come down occa
sionally — even Dukes and Duchesses.

OUR ENGLISH WATERING-PLACE.

We have known such carriages to blaze
among the donkey-chaises, as made be
holders wink. Attendant on these
equipages corae resplendent creatures
in plush and powder, who are sure to
be stricken disgusted with the indifferent
accommodation of our watering-place,
and who, of an evening (particularly
when it rains), may be seen very much
out of drawing, in rooms far too small
for their fine figures, looking discontent
edly out of little back windows into
bye-streets. The lords and ladies get
on well enough and quite good-humor-
edly : but if you want to see the gor
geous phenomena who wait upon them,
at a perfect non-plus, you should come
and look at the resplendent creatures
with little back parlors for servants'
halls, and turn-up bedsteads to sleep in,
at our watering-place. You have no
idea how they take it to heart.

We have a pier — a queer old wooden
pier, fortunately without the slightest
pretensions to architecture, and very
picturesque in consequence. Boats are
hauled up upon it, ropes are coiled all
over it ; lobster-pots, nets, masts, oars,
spars, sails, ballast, and rickety capstans,
make a perfect labyrinth of it. For
ever hovering about this pier, with their
hands in their pockets, or leaning over
the rough bulwark it opposes to the
§ea, gazing through telescopes which
they carry about in the same profound
receptacles, are the Boatmen of our
watering-place. Looking at them, you
would say that surely these must be the
laziest boatmen in the world. They
lounge about, in obstinate and inflexible
pantaloons that are apparently made of
wood, the whole season through. Whe
ther talking together about the shipping
in the Channel, or gruffly unbending
over mugs of beer at the public-house,
you would consider them the slowest of
men. The chances are a thousand to
one that you might stay here for ten
seasons, and never see a boatman in a
hurry. A certain expression about his
loose hands, when they are not in his
pockets, as if he were carrying a con
siderable lump of iron in each, without
any inconvenience, suggests strength,
but he never seems to use it. He has
the appearance of perpetually strolling —
running is t6o inappropriate a word to
be thought of— -to seed. The only sub

ject on which he aeems to feel any ap
proach to enthusiasm, is pitch. He
pitches everything he can lay hold of, —
the pier, the palings, his boat, his
house, — when there is nothing else left
he turns to and even pitches his hat,
or his rough-weather clothing. Do not
judge him by deceitful appearances.
These are among the bravest and most
skilful mariners that exist. Let a gale
arise and swell into a storm, let a sea
run that might appal the stoutest heart
that ever beat, let the Light-boat on
these dangerous sands throw up a rocket
in the night, or let them hear through
the angry roar the signal-guns of a ship
in distress, and these men spring up into
activity so dauntless, so valiant, and
heroic, that the world cannot surpass it.
Cavillers may object that they chiefly
live upon the salvage of valuable car
goes. So they do, and God knows it is
no great living, that they get out of the
deadly risks they run. But put that
hope of gain aside. Let the^e rough
fellows be asked, in any storm, who
volunteers for the life-boat to save some
perishing souls, as poor and empty-
handed as themselves, whose Jives the
perfection of human reason does not
rate at the value of a farthing each ; and
that boat will be manned, as surely and
as cheerfully, as if a thousand pounds
were told down on the weather-beaten
pier. For this, and for the recollection
of their comrades whom we have known,
whom the raging sea has engulfed before
their children's eyes in such brave
efforts, whom the secret sand has buried,
we hold the boatmen of our watering-
place in our love and honor, and are
tender of the fame they well deserve.

So many children are brought down
to our watering-place that, when they
are not out of doors, as they usually are
in fine weather, it is wonderful where
they are put : the whole village seeming
much too small to hold them under
cover. In the afternoons, you see no
end of salt and sandy little boots drying
on upper window-sills. At bathing-
time in the morning, the little bay re
echoes with every shrill variety of shriek
and splash — after which, if the weather
be at all fresh, the sands teem with small
blue mottled legs. The sands are the
children's great resort. They cluster
there, like ants j se busy burying their

OUR ENGLISH WATERING-PLACE

particular friends, and making castles
with infinite labor which the next tide
overthrows, that it is curious to consider
how their play, to the music of the sea,
foreshadows the realities of their after
lives.

It is curious, too, to observe a natural
ease of approach that there seems to be
between the children and the boatmen.
They mutually make acquaintance, and
take individual likings, without any
help. You will come upon one of those
slow heavy fellows sitting down patiently
mending a little ship for a mite of a boy,
whom he could crush to death by throw
ing his lightest pair of trousers on him.
You will be sensible of the oddest con
trast between the smooth little creature,
and the . rough man who seems to be
carved out of hard-grained wood — be
tween the delicate hand expectantly
held out, and the immense thumb and
finger that can hardly feel the rigging
of thread they mend — between the small
voice and the gruff growl — and yet there
is a natural propriety in the companion
ship : always to be noted in confidence
between a child and a person who has
any merit of reality and genuineness :
which is admirably pleasant.

We have a preventive station at our
watering-place, and much the same thing
may be observed — in a lesser degree,
because of their official character — of the
coast blockade ; a steady, trusty, well-
eonditioned, well-conducted set of men,
with no misgiving about looking you
full in the face, and with a quiet tho
rough-going way of passing along to
their duty at night, carrying huge sou-
wester clothing in reserve, that is fraught
with all good prepossession. They are
handy fellows — neat about their houses
— industrious at gardening — would get
on with their wives, one thinks, in a
desert island — and people it, too, soon.

As to the naval officer of the station,
with his hearty fresh face, and his blue
eye that has pierced all kinds of weather,
it warms our hearts when he comes into
church on a Sunday, with that bright
mixture of blue coat, buff waistcoat,
black neck-kerchief, and gold epaulette,
that is associated in the minds of all
Englishmen with brave, unpretending,
cordial, national service. We like to
look at him in his Sunday state ; and
if we were First Lord (really possessing

the indispensable qualification for the
office of knowing nothing whatever
about the sea), we would give him a ship
to-morrow.

We have a church, by the bye, of
course — a hideous temple of flint, like a
great petrified haystack. Our chief
clerical dignitary, who, to his honor, has
done much for education both in time
and money, and has established excel
lent schools, is a sound, shrewd, healthy
gentleman, who has got into little occa
sional difficulties with the neighboring
farmers, but has had a pestilent trick ot
being right. Under a new regulation,
he has yielded the church of our water
ing-place to another clergyman. TJpop
the whole we get on in church well.
We are a little bilious sometimes, about
these days of fraternisation, and about
nations arriving at a new and more un
prejudiced knowledge of each other
(which our Christianity don't quite ap
prove), but it soon goes off, and then
we get on very well.

There are two dissenting chapels, be
sides, in our small watering-place ; be
ing in about the proportion of a hundred
and twenty guns to a yacht. But the
dissension that has torn us lately hag
not been a religious one. It has arisen
on the novel question of Gas. Our
watering-place has been convulsed by
the agitation, Gas or No Gas. It was
never reasoned why No Gas, but there
was a great No Gas party. Broadsides
were printed and stuck about — a start
ling circumstance in our watering-place.
The No Gas party rested content with
chalking " No Gas !" and " Down with
Gas!" and other such angry war-whoops,
on the few back gates and scraps of wall
which the limits of our watering-place
afford ; but the Gas party printed and
posted bills, wherein they took the high
ground of proclaiming against the No
Gas party that it was said, Let there be
light and there was light ; and that not
to have light (that is gas light) in our
watering-place, was to contravene the
great decree. Whether by these thun
derbolts or not, the No Gas party were
defeated ; and in this present season we
have had our handful of shops illumi
nated for the first time. Such of the
No Gas party, however, as have got
shops, remain in opposition and burn
tallow — exhibiting in their windows the

OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE.

very picture of the sulkiness that pun
ishes itself, and a new illustration of the
old adage about cutting off your nose
to be revenged on your face, in cutting
off their gas to be revenged on their
business.

Other population than we have indi
cated, our watering-place has none.
There are a few old used-up boatmen
who creep about in the sunlight with
the help of sticks, and there is a poor
imbecile shoemaker who wanders his
lonely life away among the rocks, as if
he were looking for his reason — which
he will never find. Sojourners in neigh
boring watering-places come occasion
ally in flys to stare at us, and drive
away again as if they thought us very
dull; Italian boys come, Punch comes,
the Fantoccini come, the Tumblers come,
the Ethiopians come ; Glee-singers
come at night, and hum and vibrate
(not always melodiously) under our
windows. But they all go soon, and
leave us to ourselves again. We once
had a travelling Circus and Wombwell's
Menagerie at the same time. They both
know better than ever to try it again ;
and the Menagerie had nearly razed us
from the face of the earth in getting the
elephant away — his caravan was so

large, and the watering-place so small.
We have a fine sea, wholesome for all
people ; profitable for the body, profit
able for the mind. The poet's words
are sometimes on its awful lips :

And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill ;

But 0 for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still !

Break, break, break, 9

At the foot of thy crags, 0 sea !

But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

Yet it is not always so, for the speech
of the sea is various, and wants not
abundant resource of cheerfulness, hope,
and lusty encouragement. And since I
have been idling at the window here,
the tide has risen. The boats are danc
ing on the bubbling water ; the colliers
are afloat again ; the white-bordered
waves rush in ; the children

Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him
When he comes back ;

the radiant sails are gliding past tht
shore, and shining on the far horizon ;
all the sea is sparkling, heaving, swell
ing up with life and beauty, this bright
morning.

OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE.

HAVINO earned, by many years of
fidelity, the right to be sometimes in
constant to our English watering-place,
we have dallied for two or three seasons
with a French watering-place : once
solely known to us as a town with a
very long street, beginning with an
abattoir and ending with a steamboat,
which it seemed our fate to behold only
at daybreak on winter mornings, when
(in the days before continental rail
roads), just sufficiently awake to know
that MTC were most uncomfortably asleep,
it was our destiny always to clatter
through it, in the coupe" of the diligence
from Paris, with a sea of mud behind
us, and a sea of tumbling waves before.
In relation to which latter monster, our
mind's fcye now recalls a worthy French
man in a seal-skin cap with a braided

hood over it, once our travelling com
panion in the coupe aforesaid, who
waking up with a pale and crumpled
visage, and looking ruefully out at the
grim row of breakers enjoying them
selves fanatically on an instrument of
torture called " the Bar," inquired of us
whether we were ever sick at sea ? Both
to prepare his mind for the abject crea
ture we were presently to become, and
also to afford him consolation, we re
plied, " Sir, your servant is always sick
when it is possible to be so." He re
turned, altogether uncheered by the
bright example, "Ah, Heaven, but I
am always sick, even when it is impossi
ble to be so."

The means of communication between
the French capital and our French wa
tering-place are wholly changed since

OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE.

those days; but he Channel remains
unbridged as yet, and the old flounder
ing and knocking about go on there.
It must be confessed that saving in rea
sonable (and therefore rare) sea-weather,
the act of arriving at our French water
ing-place from England is difficult to be
achieved with dignity. Several little
circumstances combine to render the
visitor an object of humiliation. In the
first place, the steamer no sooner touches
the port, than all the passengers fall
into captivity : being boarded by an
overpowering force of Custom-house
officers, and marched into a gloomy
dungeon. In the second place, the road
to this dungeon is fenced off with ropes
breast-high, and outside those ropes all
the English in the place who have lately
been sea-sick and are now well, assemble
in their best clothes to enjoy the de
gradation of their dilapidated fellow-
creatures. " Oh, my gracious ! how ill
this one has been !" " Here's a damp
one coming next*!" "Here's a pale
one 1" Oh ! Ain't he green in the face,
this next one ?" Even we ourself (not
deficient in natural dignity) have a
lively remembrance of staggering up
this detested lane one September day in
a gale of wind, when we were received
like an irresistible comic actor, with a
burst of laughter and applause, occa
sioned by the extreme imbecility of our
legs.

We were coming to the third place.
In the third place, the captives being
shut up in the gloomy dungeon, are
strained, two or three at a time, into an
inner cell, to be; examined as to pass
ports ; and across the doorway of com
munication, stands a military creature
making a bar of his arm. Two ideas
are generally present to the British
mind during these ceremonies ; first,
that it is necessary to make for the cell
with violent struggles, as if it were a
life-boat and the dungeon a ship going
down ; secondly, that the military crea
ture's arm is a national affront, which
the government at home ought instantly
to "take up." The British mind and
body becoming heated by these fanta
sies, delirious answers are made to in
quiries, and extravagant actions per
formed. Thus, Johnson persists in giv
ing Johnson as his baptismal name, and
substituting for his ancestral designa

tion the national " Dam !" Neither can
ae by any means be brought to recog
nise the distinction between a port
manteau-key and a passport, but will
6bstinately persevere in tendering che
one when asked for the other. This
brings him to the fourth place, in a state
of mere idiocy ; and when he is, in the
fourth place, cast out at a little door
into a howling wilderness of touters, he
becomes a lunatic with wild eyes and
floating hair until rescued and soothed
If friendless and unrescued, he is gen
erally put into a railway omnibus and
taken to Paris.

But, our French watering-place, when
it is once got into, is a very enjoyable
place. It has a varied and beautiful
country around it, and many character
istic and agreeable things within it.
To be sure, it might have fewer bad
smells and less decaying refuse, and it
might be better drained, and much
cleaner in many parts, and therefore in
finitely more healthy. Still, it is a
bright, airy, pleasant, cheerful town ;
and if you were to walk down either of
its three well -paved main streets, to
wards five o'clock in the afternoon,
when delicate odors of cookery fill the
air, and the hotel windows (it is full of
hotels) give glimpses of long tables set
out for dinner, and made to look sumptu
ous by the aid of napkins folded fan-
wise, you would rightly judge it to be
an uncommonly good town to eat and
drink in.

We have an old walled town, rich in
cool public wells of water, on the top
of a hill within and above the present
business-town ; and if it were some hun
dreds of miles further from England, in
stead of being, on a clear day, within
sight of the grass growing in the crevi
ces of the chalk-cliffs of Dover, yoc
would long ago have been bored to
death about that town. It is more, pic
turesque and quaint than half the inno
cent places which tourists, following
their leader like sheep, have made im
postors of. To say nothing of its
houses with grave courtyards, its queer
by-corners, and its many-windowed
streets, white and quiet in the sunlight,
there is an ancient belfry in it that
would have been in all the Annuals and
Albums, going and gone, these hundred
years, if it had but been more expensive

OUR FRENCH WATERING PLACE.

to get at. Happily it has escaped so
well, being only in our French watering-
place, that you may like it of your own
accord in a natural manner, without be
ing required to go into convulsions
about it. We regard it as one of the
later blessings of our life, that BILKINS,
the only authority on Taste, never took
any notice that we can find out, of our
French watering-place. Bilkins never
wrote about it, never pointed out any
thing to be seen in it, never measured
anything in it, always left it alone. For
which relief, Heaven bless the town and
the memory of the immortal Bilkins
likewise.

There is a charming walk, arched and
shaded by trees, on the old walls that
form the four sides of this High Town,
whence you get glimpses of the streets
below, and changing views of the other
town and of the river, and of the hills
and of the sea. It is made more agree
able and peculiar by some of the solemn
houses that are rooted in the deep
streets below, burstii* into fresher ex
istence a-top, and Riving doors and
windows, and even gardens, on these
ramparts. A child going in at the
courtyard gate of one of those houses,
climbing up the many stairs, and coming
out at the fourth-fioor window, might
conceive himself another Jack alighting
on enchanted ground from another bean
stalk. It is a place wonderfully popu
lous in children ; English children, with
governesses reading novels*as they walk
down the shady lanes of trees, or nurse
maids interchanging gossip on the seats ;
French children with their smiling bonne
in snow-white caps, and themselves — if
little boys — in straw head-gear like bee
hives, work-baskets and church hassocks.
Three years ago, there were three weazen
old men, one bearing a frayed red rib
bon in his threadbare button-hole, al
ways to be found walking together
among these children, before dinner
time. If they walked for an appetite
they doubtless lived en pension — were
contracted for — otherwise their poverty
would have made it a rash action. They
were stooping, blear-eyed, dull old men
slip-shod and shabby, in long-skirtec
short-waisted coats and meagre trousers
and yet with a ghost of gentility hover
ing in their company. They spoke lit
tie to each other, and looked as if they

night have been politically discontented
f they had had vitality enough. Once,
we overheard red-ribbon feebly com-
}lain to the other two that somebody,
or something, was "a Robber;" uud
then they all three set their mouths so
that they would have ground their teeth
f they had had any. The ensuing win
ter gathered red-ribbon unto the great
ompany of faded ribbons, and next
year the remaining two -were there —
etting themselves entangled with hoops
and dolls — familiar mysteries to the chil
dren — probably in the eyes of most of
them, harmless creatures who had never
been like children, and whom children
could never be like. Another winter
carne, and another old man went, and
so, this present year, the last of the tri
umvirate left off walking — it was no
good, now— and sat by himself on a lit
tle solitary bench, with the hoops and
dolls as lively as ever all about him.

In the Place d'Armes of this town, a
little decayed market is held, which
seems to slip through the old gateway,
like water, and go rippling down the
hill, to mingle with the murmuring mar
ket in the lower town, and get lost in
its movement and bustle. It is very
agreeable on an idle summer morning
to pursue this market-stream from the
hill-top. It begins dozingly and dully,
with a few sacks of corn ; starts into a
surprising collection of boots and shoes ;
goes brawling down the hill in a diver
sified channel of old cordage, old iron,
old crockery, old clothes, civil and mili
tary, old rags, new cotton goods, flaming
prints of saints, little looking-glasses,
and incalculable lengths of tape1 ; dives
into a backway, keeping out of sight for
a little while^ as streams will, or only
sparkling for a moment in the shape of
a market drinking-shop ; and suddenly
reappears behind the great -church,
shooting itself into a bright confusion
of white-capped women and blue-bloused
men, poultry, vegetables, fruits, flowers,
pots, pans, praying-chairs, soldiers,
country butter, umbrellas and other
sun-shades, girl-porters waiting to be
hired with baskets at their backs, and
one weazen little old man in a cocked
hat, wearing a cuirass of drinking-
glasses, and carrying on his shoulder a
crimson temple fluttering with flags, like
a glorified pavior's rammer without the

OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE.

handle, who lings a little bell in all
parts of the scone, and cries his cooling
drink Hola, Hola, Ho-o-o ! in a shrill
cracked voice that somehow makes
itself heard, above all the chaffering and
vending hum. Early in the afternoon,
the whole course of the stream is dry.
The praying-chairs are put back in the
church, the umbrellas are folded up, the
unsold goods are carried away, the stalls
and stands -disappear, the square is
swept, the hackney coaches lounge there
to be hired, and on all the country roads
(if you walk about as much as we do),
you will see the peasant women, always
neatly and comfortably dressed, riding
home, with the pleasantest saddle-fur
niture of clean milk-pails, bright butter-
kegs, and the like, on the jolliest little
donkeys in the world.

We have another market in our
French watering-place — that is to say,
a few wooden hutches in the open street,
down by the Port — devoted to fish.
Our fishing-boats are famous every
where; and our fishing people, though
they love lively colors and taste is neu
tral (see Bilkins), are among the most
picturesque people we ever encountered.
They have not only a Quarter of their
own in the town itself, but they occupy
whole villages of th^eir own on the
neighboring cliffs. Their churches and
chapels are their own ; they consort
with one another, they intermarry among
themselves, their customs are their own,
and their costume is their own and
never changes. As soon as one of their
boys can walk, he is provided with a
long bright red nightcap ; and one of
their men would as soon think of going
afloat without his head, as without that
indispensable appendage to it. Then,
they wear the noblest boots, with the
h-ugest tops — flapping and bulging over
anyhow ; above which, they encase
themselves in such wonderful overalls
and petticoat trousers, made to all ap
pearance of tarry old sails, so addition
ally stiffened with pitch and salt, that
the wearers have a walk of their own,
and go straddling and swinging about,
among the boats and barrels and nets
and rigging, a sight to see. Then,
their younger women, by dint of going
down to the sea barefoot, to fling their
baskets into the boats as they come in
with the tide, and bespeak the first

fruits of the haul with propitiatory pro
mises to love and marry that dear fisher
man who shall fill that basket like an
Angel, have the finest legs ever carved
by Nature in the brightest mahogany,
and they walk like Juno. Their eyes,
too, are so lustrous that their long gold
ear-rings turn dull beside those brilliant
neighbors ; and wfcen they are dressed,
what with these beauties, and their fine
fresh faces, and their many petticoats-
striped petticoats, red petticoats, blue
petticoats, always clean and smart,
and never too long — and their home
made stockings, mulberry-colored, blue,
brown, purple, lilac — which the older
women, taking care of the Dutch-look
ing children, sit in all sorts of places
knitting, knitting, knitting, from morn
ing to night — and what with their little
saucy bright blue jackets, knitted, too,
and fitting close to their handsome
figures ; and what with the natural
grace with which they wear the com
monest cap, or fold the commonest
handkerchief round their luxuriant hair
— we say, in a word and out of breath,
that taking all these premises into our
consideration, it has never been a matter
of the least surprise to us that we have
never once met, in the cornfields, on
the dusty roads, by the breezy windmills,
on the plots of short sweet grass over
hanging the sea — anywhere — a young
fisherman and fisherwoman of our
French watering-place together, but the
arm of that fisherman has invariably
been, as a matter of course and without
any absurd attempt to disguise so plain
a necessity, round the neck or waist of
thatf fisherwoman. And we have had
no doubt whatever, standing looking at
their up-hill streets, house rising above
house, and terrace above terrace, and
bright garments here and there lying
sunning on rough stone parapets, that
the pleasant mist on all such objects,
caused by their being seen through the
brown nets hung across on poles to dry,
is, in the eyes of every true young fisher
man, a mist of love and beauty, setting
off the goddess of his heart.

Moreover it is to be observed that
these are an industrious people, and a
domestic people, and an- honest people.
And though we are aware that at the
bidding of Bilkins it is our duty to fall
down and worship the Neapolitans, we

OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE.

make bold very much to prefer the fish
ing people of our French watering-
place — especially since our last visit to
Naples within these twelvemonths, when
we found only four conditions of men
remaining in the whole city : to wit,
lazzaroni, priests, spies, and soldiers,
and all of them beggars ; the paternal
government having banished all its sub
jects except the rascals.

But we can never henceforth separate
our French watering-place from our own
landlord of t\vo summers, M. Loyal De-
vasseup, citizen and town-councillor.
Permit us to have the pleasure of pre
senting M. Loyal Devasseur.

His own family name is simply Loyal ;
but, as he is married, and as in that
part of France a husband always adds
to his own name the family name of his
wife, he writes himself Loyal Devasseur.
He owns a compact little estate of some
twenty or thirty acres on a lofty hill
side, and on it he has built two country
houses which he lets furnished. They
are by many degrees the best houses
that are so let near our French water
ing-place; we have had the honor of
living in both, and can testify. The
entrance-hall of the first we inhabited,
was ornamented with a plan of the
estate, representing it as about twice
the size of Ireland ; insomuch that when
we were yet new to the Property (M.
Loyal always speaks of it as " la pro-
prtete") we went three miles straight on
end, in search of the bridge of Auster-
litz — which we afterwards found to be
immediately outside the window. The
Chateau of the Old Guard, in another
part of the grounds, and, according to
the plan, about two leagues from the
little dining-room, we sought for in vain
for a week, until, happening one even
ing to sit upon a bench in the forest
(forest in the plan), a few yards from
the house-door, we observed at our feet
in the ignominious circumstances of be
ing upside down and greenly rotten, the
Old Guard himself : that is to say, the
painted effigy of a member of that dis
tinguished corps, seven feet high, anc
in the act of carrying arms, who hac
had the misfortune to be blown down
in the previous winter. It will be per
ceived that M. Loyal is a staunch ad
mirer of the great Napoleon. He is an
old soldier himself — captain of the Na

tional Guard, with a handsome gold
vase on his chimney-piece, presented to
him by his company — and his respect
for the memory of the illustrious general
is enthusiastic. Medallions of him, por
traits of him, busts of him, pictures of
him, are thickly sprinkled all over the
property. During the first month of
our occupation, it was our affliction to
be constantly knocking down Napoleon :
if we touched a shelf in a dark corner,
he toppled over with a crash ; and every
door we opened shook him to the soul.
Y"et M. Loyal is not a man of mere
castles in the air, or, as he would say,
n Spain. He has a specially practical,
:ontriving, clever, skilful eye and hand.
tlis houses are delightful. He unites
French elegance and English comfort,
n a happy manner quite his own. He
las an extraordinary genius for making
tasteful little bed-rooms in angles of
lis roofs, which an Englishman would
:is soon think of turning to any account
as he would think of cultivating the
Desert. We have ourselves reposed
ieliciously in an elegant chamber of M.
Loyal's construction, with our head as
nearly in the kitchen chimney-pot as we
an conceive it likely for the head of
any gentleman, not by profession a
Sweep, to be. And, into whatsoever
trange nook M. Loyal's genius pene
trates, it., in that nook, infallibly con
structs a cupboard and a row of pegs.
In either of our houses, we could have
put away the knapsacks and hung up
the hats of the whole regiment of
Guides.

Aforetime, M. Loyal was a trades
man in the town. You can transact
business with no present tradesman in
the town, and give your card "chez M.
Loyal," but a brighter face shines upon
you directly. We doubt if there is,
ever was, or ever will- be, a man so uni
versally pleasant in the minds of people
as M. Loyal is in the minds of the citi
zens of our French watering-place.
They rub their hands and laugh when
they speak of him. Ah, but he is such
a good child, such a brave boy, such a
generous spirit, that Moosieur Loyal !
It is the honest truth. M. Loyal's na
ture is the nature of a gentleman, lie
cultivates his ground with his o\\u
hands (assisted by one little laborer,
who falls into a fit novr and then) ; and

OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE.

he digs and delves from morn to eve in
prodigious perspirations — " works al
ways," as he says — but, cover him \with
dust, mud, weeds, water, any stains you
will, you never can cover the gentleman
in M. Loyal. A portly, upright, broad-
shouldered, brown-faced man, whose
soldierly bearing gives him the appear
ance of being taller than he is, look
into the bright eye of M. Loyal, stand
ing before you in his working blouse
and cap, not particularly well shaved,
and, it may be, very earthy, and you
shall discern in M. Loyal a gentleman
whose true politeness is in grain, and
confirmation of whose word by his bond
you would blush to think of. Not with
out reason is M. Loyal when he tells
that story, in his own vivacious way, of
his traveling to Fulham, near London,
to buy all these hundreds and hundreds
of trees you now see upon the Proper
ty, then a bare, bleak hill ; and of his
sojourning in Fulham three months ;
and of his jovial evenings with the
market-gardeners ; and of the crown
ing banquet before his departure, when
the market-gardeners rose as one man,
clinked their glasses all together (as
the custom at Fulham is), and cried
" Yive Loyal !"

M. Loyal has an agreeable wife, but
no family; and he loves to drill the
children of his tenants, or run races
with them, or do any thing with them,
or for them, that is good-natured. He
is of a highly convivial temperament,
and his hospitality is unbounded. Bil
let a soldier on him, and he is delight
ed. Five-and-thirty soldiers had M.
Loyal billeted on him this present
summer, and they all got fat and red-
faced in two days. It became a legend
among the troops that whosoever got
billeted on M. Loyal rolled in clover ;
and so it fell out that the fortunate man
who drew the billet " M. Loyal Devas-
seur" always leaped into the air,
though in heavy marching order. M.
Loyal cannot bear to admit any thing
that might seem by any implication 'to
disparage the military profession. We
hinted to him once, that we were con
scious of a remote doubt arising in our
mind, whether a sou a day for pocket-
money, tobacco, stockings, drink, wash
ing, and social pleasures in general, left
ft very large margin for a soldier's

enjoyment. Pardon ! said Monsieur
Loyal, rather wine-ing. IT, was not a
fortune, but — a la bonne heure — it \A'as
better than it used to be! What, we
asked him on another occasion, were all
those neighboring peasants, each living
with his family in one room, and each
having a soldier (perhaps two) billeted
on him every other night, required to
provide for those soldiers ? " Faith !*
said M. Loyal, reluctantly ; " a bed,
monsieur, and fire to cook with, and a
candle. And they share their supper
with those soldiers. It is not possible
that they could eat alone." "And
what allowance do they get for this ?"
said we. Monsieur Loyal drew himself
up taller, took a step back, laid his hand
upon his breast, and said, with majesty,
as speaking for himself and all France,
" Monsieur, it is a contribution to the
State !"

It is never going to rain, according
to M. Loyal. When it is impossible to
deny that it is now raining in torrents,
he says it will be fine — charming, mag
nificent — to-morrow. It is never hot
on the Property, he contends. Like
wise it is never cold. The flowers, he
says, come out, delighting to grow
there ; it is like Paradise this morning ;
it is like the Garden of Eden. He is a
little fanciful in his language : smilingly
observing of Madame Loyal, when she
is absent at vespers, that she is " gone
to her salvation " — allee a son salut.
He has a great enjoyment of tobacco,
but nothing would induce him to con
tinue smoking face to face with a lady.
His short black pipe immediately goes
into his breast pocket, scorches his
blouse, and nearly sets him on fire. In
the Town Council and on occasions of
ceremony, he appears in a full suit of
black, with a waistcoat of magnificent
breadth across the chest, and a shirt-
collar of fabulous proportions. Good
M. LoyaU Under blouse or waistcoat,
he carries one of the gentlest hearts
that beat in a nation teeming with gen
tle people. He has had losses, and has
been at his best under them. Not only
the loss of his way by night in the Ful
ham times — when a bad subject of an
Englishman, under pretence of seeing
him home, took him into all the night
public-houses, drank "arfanarfin ev
ery one at his expense, and finally tied.

tfKENCU WATERINQ-PLAJE.

leaving Lira shipwrecked at Cleefeeway,
which we apprehend to be Ratcliffe
Highway — but heavier losses than that.
Long ago, a family of children and a
mother were left in one of his houses,
without money, a whole year. M.
Loyal — -any thing but as rich as we wish
he had been — had not the heart to say
"you must go ;" so they stayed on and
stayed on, and paying-tenants who
would have come in couldn't come in,
and at last they managed to get helped
home across the water, and M. Loyal
kissed the whole group, and said
"Adieu, my poor infants I" and sat
down in their deserted salon and smoked
his pipe of peace. "The rent, M.
Loyal?" "Eh! well! The rent !" M.
Loyal shakes his head. " Le bon Dieu,"
says M. Loyal presently, "will recom
pense me," and he laughs and smokes
his pipe of peace. May he smoke it on
the Property, and not be recompensed,
these fifty years 1

There are public amusements in our
French watering-place, or it would not
b« French. They are very popular,
and very cheap. The sea-bathing —
which may rank as the most favored
daylight entertainment, inasmuch as the
French visitors bathe all day long, and
seldom appear to think of remaining
less than an hour at a time in the water
— ip astoundingly cheap. Omnibuses
convey you, if you please, from a con
venient part of the town to the beach
and back again ; you have a clean and
comfortable bathing-machine, dress, lin
en, and all appliances ; and the charge
for the whole is half-a-franc, or five-
pence. On the pier, there is usually a
guitar, which seems presumptuously
enough to set its tinkling against the
deep hoarseness of the sea, and there is
always some boy or woman who sings,
without any voice, little songs without
any tune : the strain we have most fre
quently heard being an appeal to " the
sportsman " not to bag that choicest of
game, the swallow. For bathing pur
poses, we have also a subscription es
tablishment with an esplanade, where
people lounge about with telescopes,
and seem to get a good deal of weari
ness for their money ; and we have also
an association of individual machifte-
proprietors combined against this for-
midcble rival. M. Feroce, our own

particular friend in the bathing line, is
one of these. How he ever came by
his name, we cannot imagine. He is as
gentle and polite a man as M. Loyal
Devasseiir himself; immensely stout
withal, and of a beaming aspect. M.
Fe'roce has saved so many people from
drowning, and has been decorated with
so many medals in consequence, that
his stoutness seems a special dispensa
tion of Providence to enable him to
wear them ; if his girth were the girth
of an ordinary man, he could never
hang them on, all at once. It is only
on very great occasions that M. Feroce
displays his shining honors. At other
times they lie by, with rolls of manu
script testifying to the causes of their
presentation, in a huge glass case in the
red-sofa'd salon of his private residence
on the beach, where M. Feroce also
keeps his family pictures, his portraits
of himself as he appears both in bath
ing life and in private life, his little
boats that rook by clockwork, and his
other ornamental possessions.

Then, we have a comraodiotis and gay.
Theatre — or had, for it is burne'd down
now — where the opera was always pre
ceded by a vaudeville, in which (ag
usual) everybody, down to the little old
man with the large hat and the little
cane and tassel, who always played either
my Uncle or my Papa, suddenly broke
out of the dialogue into the mildest vo
cal snatches, to the great perplexity of
unaccustomed strangers from Great Brit
ain, who never could make out when
they were singing and when they were
talking — and indeed it was pretty much
the same. But, the caterers in the way
of entertainment to whom we are most
beholden, are the Society of Welldoing,
who are active all the summer, and give
the proceeds of their good works to the
poor. Some of the most agreeable fetes
they contrive, are announced as " Dedi
cated to the children;" and the taste
with which they turn a small public en
closure into an elegant garden beauti
fully illuminated ; and the thorough
going hea/tiness and energy with which
they personally direct the childish plea
sures; are supremely delightful. For
fivepence a head, we have on these
occasions donkey races with English
"Jokeis," and other rustic sports; lot
teries for toys ; roundabouts, daucing

OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE.

on the grass to the music of an admira
ble band, fire-balloons, and fireworks.
Further, almost every week all through
the summer — never mind, now, on what
day of the week — there is a fete»in some
adjoining village (called in that part of
the country a Ducasse), where the peo
ple — really the people — dance on the
green turf in the open air, round a lit
tle orchestra, that seems itself to dance,
•there is such an airy motion of flags and
streamers all about it. And we do not
suppose that between the Torrid Zone
and the North Pole there are to be found
male dancers with such astonishingly
loose legs, furnished with so many joints
in wrong places, utterly unknown to
Professor Owen, as th^se who here dis
port themselves. Sometimes, the fete
appertains to a particular trade ; you
will see among the cheerful young wo
men at the joint Ducasse of the milli
ners and tailors, a wholesome knowledge
of the art of making common and cheap
things uncommon and pretty, by good
sense and good taste, that is a practical
lesson to any rank of society in a whole
island we could mention. The oddest
feature of these agreeable scenes is the
everlasting Roundabout (we preserve an
English word wherever we can, as we
are writing in the English language), on
the wooden horses of which machine
grown-up people of all ages are wound
round and round with the utmost solem
nity, while the proprietor's wife grinds
an organ, capable of only one tune, in
the centre.

As to the boarding-houses of our
French watering-place, they are Legion,
and would require a distinct treatise. It
is not without a sentiment of national
pride that we believe them to .contain
more bores from the shores of Albion
than all the clubs in London. As you
walk timidly in their neighborhood, the
rery neckcloths and hats of your elderly
compatriots cry to you from the stones
of the streets, "We are bores — avoid
D8 1" We have never overheard at street
corners suuh lunatic scraps of political

and social discussion as amongst these
dear countrymen of ours. They believe
everything that is impossible and no
thing that is true. They carry rumors,
and ask questions, and make corrections
and improvements on one another, stag
gering to the human intellect. And
they are for ever rushing into the En
glish library, propounding such incom
prehensible paradoxes to the fair mis
tress of that establishment, that we beg
to recommend her to her Majesty's gra
cious consideration as a fit object for a
pension.

The English form a considerable part
of the population of our French water
ing-place, and are deservedly addressed
and respected in many ways. Some of
the surface-addresses to them are odd
enough, as when a laundress puts a pla
card outside her house announcing her
possession of that curious British in
strument, a " Mingle ;" *or when a tav
ern-keeper provides accommodation for
the celebrated English game of " Xok-
emdon." But, to us, it is not the least
pleasant feature of our French watering-
place that a long and constant fusion
of the two great nations there, has
taught £ach to like the other, and to
learn from the other, and to rise superior
to the absurd prejudices that have lin
gered among the weak and ignorant in
both countries equally.

Drumming and trumpeting of course
go on for ever in our French watering-
place. Flag-flying is at a premium, too ;
but, we cheerfully avow that we con
sider a flag a very pretty object, and
that we take such outward signs of in
nocent liveliness to our heart of hearts.
The people, in the town and in the
country, are a busy people who work
hard ; they are sober, temperate, good-
humored, light-hearted, and generally
remarkable for their engaging manners.
Few just men, not immoderately bilious,
could see them in their recreations with
out very much respecting the character
that is so easily, so harmlessly, and so
simply, pleased

BILL-STICKING.

IP I hat. an enemy whom I hated —
which Heaven forbid! — and if I knew
of something that sat heavy on hi
conscience, I think I would introduce
that someting into a Posting-Bill, anc
place a large impression in the hands of
au active sticker. I can scarcely imag
ine a more terrible revenge. I shoulc
haunt him, by this means, night anc
day. I do not mean to say that I woulc
publish his secret, in red letters two
feet high, for all the town to read: ]
would darkly refer to it. Ii should be
between him and me, and the Posting-
Bill. Say, for example, that, at a cer
tain period of his life, my enemy had
surreptitiously possessed himself of a
key. I would then embark my capital
in the "lock business, and conduct that
business on the advertising principle.
In all my placards and advertisements,
I would throw up the line SECRET KEYS.
Thus, if my enemy passed an uninhabpt-
ed house, he would see his conscience
glaring down on him from the parapets,
and peeping up at him from the cellars.
If he took a dead wall in his walk, it
would be alive with reproaches. If he
sought refuge in an omnibus, the panels
thereof would become Belshazzar's pal
ace to him. If he took boat, in a wild
endeavor to escape, he would see the
fatal words lurking under the arches of
the bridges over the Thames. If he
walked the streets with downcast eyes,
he would recoil from the very stones
of the pavement, made eloquent by
lampblack lithograph. If he drove or
rode, his way would be blocked up, by
enormous vans, each proclaiming the
same words over and over again from
its whole extent of surface. Until,
having gradually grown thinner and
paler, and having at last totally rejected
food, he would miserably perish, and I
should be revenged. This conclusion I
should, no doubt, celebrate by laughing
a hoarse laugh in three syllables, and
folding my arms tight upon my chest
agreeably to most of the examples of
glutted animosity that I have had an
opportunity of observing in connexion
with the Drama — which, by the bye, as
involving a good deal of noise, appears

to me to be occasionally cotfoanded
with the Drummer.

The foregoing reflections presented
themselves to my mind, the other day,
as I contemplated (being newly come
to London from the East Riding of
Yorkshire, on a house-hunting expedi
tion for next May), an old warehouse
which rotting paste and rotting paper
had brought down to the condition of
an old cheese. It would have been im
possible to say, on the most conscien
tious survey, how much of its front was
brick and mortar, and how much decay
ing and decayed 'plaster. It was so
thickly encrusted with fragments of bills,
that no ship's keel after a long voyage
could be half so foul. All traces of the
broken windows were billed out, the
doors were billed across, the water
spout was billed over. The building
was shored up to prevent its tumbling
into the street; and the very beams
erected against it, were less wood than
paste and paper, they had been so con-
tinually posted and reposted. The for
lorn dregs of old posters so encumbered
this wreck, that there was no hold for
new posters, and the stickers had aban
doned the place in despair, except one
enterprising man who had hoisted the
last masquerade to a clear spot near the
level of the stack of chimneys where it
waved and drooped like a shattered
flag. Below the rusty cellar-grating,
crumpled remnants of old bills torn
down, rotted away in wasting heaps of
'alien leaves. Here and there, some of
the thick rind of the house had peeled
off in strips, and fluttered heavily down,
ittering the street ; bnt still, below
these rents and gashes, layers of decom-
)osiug posters showed themselves, as if
hey were interminable. I thought the
3uilding could never even be pulled
down, but in one adhesive heap of rot
tenness and poster. As to getting in —
'. don't believe that if the Sleeping
Jeauty and her Court had been so billed
up, the young Prince could have done it.
Knowing all the posters that were yet
egible, intimately, and pondering on
heir ubiquitous nature, I was led into
he reflections with which I began this

BILL-STACKINa.

paper, by considering what an awful
thing it would lae, 6ver to have wronged
— say M. JULLIEN for example — and to
have his avenging name in character
of fire incessantly before my eyes. Or
to have injured MADAME TUSSAUD, and
undergo a similar retribution. Has any
man a self-reproachful thought associ
ated with pills, or ointment ? What an
avenging spirit to that man is PRO
FESSOR HOLLOW AY! Have I sinned
in oil ? CABBTJRN pursues me. Have
I a dark remembrance associated with
any gentlemanly garments, bespoke or
ready made ? MOSES and SON are on
my track. Did I ever aim a blow at a
defenceless fellow-creature's head ? That
head eternally being measured for a
wig, or that worse head which was bald
before it used the balsam, and hirsute
afterwards — enforcing the benevolent
moral, " Better to be bald as a Dutch
cheese than come to this," undoes me.
Have I no sore places in my mind which
MECHI touches — which NICOLL probes
— which no registered article whatever
lacerates ? Does no discordant 'note
within me thrill responsive to mysterious
watchwords, as "Revalenta Arabica,"
or "Number One St. Paul's Church
yard ?" Then may I enjoy life, and be
happy.

Lifting up my eyes, as I was musing
to this effect, I beheld advancing to
wards me (I was then on Cornhill near
to the Royal Exchange) a solemn pro
cession of three advertising vans, of first-
class dimensions, each drawn by a very
little horse. As the calvacade ap
proached, I was at a loss j;o reconcile
the careless deportment of the drivers
of these vehicles with the terrific an
nouncements they conducted through
the city, which being a summary of the
contents of a Sunday newspaper, were
of the most thrilling kind. Robbery,
fire, murder, and the ruin of the united
kingdom — each discharged in a line by.it-
self, like a separate broadside of red-hot
shot — were among the least of the warn
ings addressed to an unthinking people.
Yet, the Ministers of Fate who drove
the awful cars, leaned forward with their
arms upon their knees in a state of ex
treme lassitude, for want of any subject
of interest. The first man, whose hair
I might naturally have expected to see
standing on end, scratched his head — '

one of the smoothest I evey beheld

with profound indifference. The second
whistled. The third yawned.

Pausing to dwell upon this apathy, it
appeared to me, as the fatal cars came
by me, that I descried in the second car,
through the portal in which the chari
oteer was seated, a figure stretched upon
the floor. At the same time I thought
I smelt tobacco. The latter impression
passed quickly from me ; the former re
mained. Curious to know whether this
prostrate figure was the one' impressible
man of the whole capital who had been
stricken insensible by the terrors re
vealed to him, and whose form had been
placed in the car by the charioteer from
motives of humanity, I followed the
procession. It turned into Leadenhall-
market, and halted at a public-house.
Each driver dismounted. I then dis
tinctly heard, proceeding from the se
cond car, where I had dimly seen the
prostrate form, the words :

"And a pipe 1"

The driver entering the public-house
with his fellows, apparently for pur-
poses of refreshment, I could not refrain
from mounting on the shaft of the second
vehicle, and looking in at the portal, I
then beheld, reclining on his back upo.o
the floor, on a kind of mattress or divan,
a little man in a shooting-coat. The
exclamation "Dear ine !" which irre
sistibly escaped my lips, caused him to
sit upright, and survey me. I found
him to be a good-looking little man of
about fifty, with a shining face, a tight
head, a bright eye, a moist vr ink, a quick
speech, and a ready air. He had some
thing of a sporting way with him.

He looked at me, and I looked at
him, until the driver displaced me by
banding in a pint of beer, a pipe,- and
what I understand is called a " screw"
of tobacco — an object which has the
appearance of a curl-paper taken off the
bar-maid's head, with the curl in it.

" I beg your pardon," said I, when
the removed person of the driver again,
admitted of my presenting my face at
the portal. "But — excuse my curi
osity, which I inherit from my mother —
do you live here ?"

" That's good, too I" returned the
little man, composedly laying aside a
pipe he had smoked out, and filling th«
pipe just brought to him.

BILL- STICKING.

' Oh, you don't live here then ?"
eai.d I.

He shook his head, as he calmly
lighted his pipe by means of a German
tinder-box, and replied, "This is my
carriage. When things are flat, I take
a ride sometimes, and enjoy myself. I
am the inventor of these wans."

His pipe was now alight. He drank
his beer all at once, and he smoked and
he smiled at me.

" It was a great idea !" said I.

" Not so bad," returned the little man,
with the modesty of merit.

" Might I be permitted to inscribe
your name upon the tablets of my
memory ?" I asked.

" There's not much odds in the name,"
returned the little man, "no name par
ticular — I am the King of the Bill-
Stickers."

" Good gracious!" said I.

The monarch informed me with a
smile, that he had never been crowned
or installed with any public ceremonies,
but that he was peaceably acknowledged
as King of the Bill- Stickers in right of
being the oldest and most respected
member of " the old school of bill-stick
ing." He likewise gave me to under
stand that there was a Lord Mayor of
the Bill-Stickers, whose genyis was
chiefly exercised within the limits of the
city. He made some allusion, also, to
an inferior potentate, called "Turkey-
legs ;" but I did not understand that
this gentleman was invested with much
power. I rather inferred that he de
rived his title from some peculiarity of
gait, and that it was of an honorary
character.

" My father," pursued the King of
the Bill- Stickers, "was Engineer, Beadle,
and Bill-Sticker to the parish of St.
Andrews, Holborn, in the year one
thousand seven hundred and eighty.
My father stuck bills at the time of the
riots of London."

"You must be acquainted with the
whole subject of bill-sticking, from that
time to the present ?" said I.

"Pretty well so," was the answer.

"Excuse me," said I; "but I am a

sort of collector "

x"Not Income-tax?'' cried his Ma
jesty, hastily removing his pipe from,his
lips.

"No, no," said I

" Water-rate ?" said his Majesty.

"No, no," I returned.

" Gas ? Assessed ? Sewers ?" said
his Majesty.

"You misunderstand me," I replied,
sbothingly. " Not that sort of collector
at all : a collector of facts."

"Oh! if it's only facts," cried the
King of the Bill-Stickers, recovering
his good-humor, and banishing the great
mistrust that had suddenly fallen upon
him, " come in and welcome ! If it had
Ween income, or winders, I think I should
have pitched you out of the wan, upon
my soul !"

Readily complying with the invita
tion, I squeezed myself in at the small
aperture. His Majesty, graciously hand
ing me a little three-legged stool, on
which I took my seat iu a corner, in
quired if I smoked.

" I do ; — that is, I can," I answered.

" Pipe and a screw 1" said His
Majesty to the attendant charioteer.
"Do you prefer a dry smoke, or d^o you
moisten it ?"

As unmitigated tobacco produces
most disturbing effects upon my system
(indeed, if I had perfect moral courage,
I doubt if I should smoke at all, under
any circumstances), I advocated mois
ture, and begged the Sovereign of the
Bill-Stickers to name his usual liquor,
and to concede to me the privilege of
paying for it. After some delicate re
luctance on his part, we were provided,
through the instrumentality of the at
tendant charioteer, with a can of cold
rum-and-water, flavored with sugar and
lemon. We were also furnished with a
tumbler, and I was provided with a
pipe. His Majesty, then, observing
that we might combine business with
conversation, gave the word far the car
to proceed ; and, to my great delight,
we jogged away at a foot pace.

I say to my great delight, because
am very fond of novelty, and it was
new sensation to be jolting through the
tumult of the city iu that secluded
Temple, partly open to the sky, sur
rounded by the roar without, and seeing
nothing but the clouds. Occasionally,
blows from whips fell heavily on the
Temple's walls, when by stopping up
the road longer than usual, we irritated
carters and coachmen to madness ; but,
they fell harmless upon us within and

BILL -STICKING.

disturbed not the serenity of our peace
ful retreat. As I looked upward, I felt,
I should imagine, like the Astronomer
Royal. I was enchanted by the con
trast between the freezing nature of our
external mission on the blood of the
populace, and the perfect composure
reigning within those sacred precincts :
where His Majesty, reclining easily on
' his left arm, smoked his pipe and drank
his rum-and-water from his own side of
the .tumbler, which stood impartially
between us. As I looked down from
the clouds and caught his royal eye, he
understood my reflections. " I have an
idea," he observed, with an upward
glance, " of training scarlet runners
across in the season, — making a arbor
of it, — and sometimes taking tea in the
same, according to the song."

I nodded approval.

" And here you repose and think ?"
said I.

"And think," said he, "of posters
— walls — and hoardings."

We were both silent, contemplating
the ^astness of the subject. I remem
bered a surprising fancy of dear THOMAS
HOOD'S, and wondered whether this
monarch ever sighed to repair to the
great wall of China, and stick bills all
over it.

"And so," said he, rousing himself,
" it s facts as you collect ?"

" Facts," said I.

" The facts of bill-sticking," pursued
His Majesty, in a benignant manner,
" as known to myself, air as following.
When my father was Engineer, Beadle,
and Bill-Sticker to the parish of St.
Andrew's, Holborn, he employed women
to post bills for him. He employed
women to post bills at the time of the
riots of London. He died at the age
of seventy-five year, and was buried by
the murdered Eliza Grimwood, over in
the Waterloo-road."

As this was somewhat in the nature
of a royal speech, I listened with defer
ence and silently. His Majesty, taking
a scroll from his pocket, proceeded,
with great distinctness, to pour out the
following flood of information : —

"'The bills being at that period
mostly^ proclamations and declarations,
and which were only a demy size, the
manner of posting the bills (as they did
not use brushes) was by means of a

piece of wood which they caLed a
'dabber.' Thus things continued till
such time as the State Lottery was
passed, and then the printers began to
print larger bills, and men were em^
ployed instead of women, as the State
Lottery Commissioners then began to
send men all over BUgland to post bills,
and would keep them out for six or
eight months at a time, and they were
called by the London bill-stickers
' trampers,' their wages at the time
being ten shillings per day, besides
expenses. They used sometimes to be
stationed in large towns for five or
six months together, distributing the
schemes to all the houses in the town.
And then there were more caricature
wood-block engravings for posting-bills
than there are at the present time, the
principal printers, at that time, of post
ing-bills, being Messrs. Evans and
Huffy, of Budge-row ; Thoroughgood
and Whiting, of the present day ; and
Messrs. Gye and Balne, Gracechurch
Street, City. The largest bills printed
at that period were a two-sheet double
crown ; and when they commenced
printing four-sheet bills, two bill-stickers
would work together. They had no
settled wages per week, but had a fixed
price for their work, and the London
bill-stickers, during a lottery week,
have been known to earn, each, eight or
nine pounds per week, till the day of
drawing ; likewise the men who carried
boards in the street used to have one
pound per week, and the bill-stickers at
that time would not allow any one to
wilfully cover or destroy their bills, as
they had a society amongst themselves,
and very frequently dined together at
some public-house where they used to
go of an evening to have their work
delivered out untoe 'em.'"

All this His Majesty delivered in a
gallant manner ; posting it, as it were,
before me, in a great proclamation. I
took advantage of the pause he now
made, to inquire what a "two-sheet
double crown" might express ?

" A two-sheet double crown," replied
the King, " is a bill thirty-nine inches
wide by thirty inches high. "

•"Is it possib%," said I, my mind
reverting to the gigantic admonitions
we were then displaying to the multi
tude — which were as infants to some of

BILL-STICKING.

the posting-bills on the rotten old ware
house — " that some few years ago the
largest bill was no larger than that ? "

"The fact," returned the King, "is
undoubtedly so." Here he instantly
rushed again into the scroll.

"'Since the abolishing of the State
Lottery all that .good feeling has
gone, and nothing but jealousy exists,
through the rivalry of each other.
Several bill-sticking companies have
started, but have failed. The first
party that started a company was
twelve year ago ; but what was left of
the old school and their dependants
joined together and opposed them.
And for some time we were quiet again,
till a printer of Hatton Garden formed
a company by hiring the sides of the
houses ; but- he was not supported by
the public, and he left his wooden
frames fixed up for rent. The last com
pany that started, took advantage of
the New Police Act, and hired of
Messrs. G-risell and Peto the hoarding
of Trafalgar Square, and established a
bill-sticking office in Cursitor-street,
Chancery-lane, and engaged some of
the new bill-stickers to do their work,
and for a time got the half of all our
work, and with such spirit did they
carry on their opposition towards us,
that they used to give us in charge
before the magistrate, and get us fined ;
but they found it so expensive, that
they could not keep it up, for they were
always employing a lot of ruffians from
the Seven Dials to come and fight us ;
and on one occasion the old bill-stickers
went to Trafalgar Square to attempt
to post bills, when they were given in
custody by the watchman in their em
ploy, and fined at Queen Square five
pounds, as they would not allow any of
us to speak in the office ; but when
they were gone, we had an interview
with the magistrate, who mitigated the
finf) to fifteen shillings. During the
time the men were waiting for the fine,
this company started off to a public-
house that we were in the habit of
using, and waited for us coming back,
where a fighting scene took place that
beggars description. Shortly after this,
the principal one day came and shook
hands with us, and ackn'owledged that
he had broken up the company, and
that he himself had lost five hundred

pound in trying to ovei throw us. We
then took possession of the hoarding
in Trafalgar Square ; but Messrs.
Grisell and Peto would not allow us to
post our bills on the said hoarding
without paying them — and from first to
ast we paid upwards of two hundred
pounds for that hoarding, and likewise
;he hoarding of the Reform Club-house,
Pall Mall."'

His Majesty, being now completely
out of breath, laid down his scroll
(which he appeared to have finished),
puffed at his pipe, and took some rum-
and-water. I embraced the opportu
nity of asking how many divisions the
art and mystery of bill-sticking com
prised ? He replied, three — auction-
sers' bill-sticking, theatrical bill-stick
ing, general bill-sticking.

" The auctioneers' porters," said the
King, " who do their bill-sticking, are
mostly respectable and intelligent, and
generally well paid for their work,
whether in town or country. The
price paid by the principal auctioneers
for country work is nine shillings per
day; that is, ^seven shillings for day's
work, one shilling for lodging, and one
for paste. Town work is five shillings
a day, including paste."

"Town wprk must be rather hot-
work," said I, "if there be many of
those fighting scenes that beggar de
scription, among the bill-stickers ? "

" Well," replied the King, " I an't a
stranger, I assure you, to black eyes ;
a bill-sticker ought to know how to
handle his fists a bit. As to that row
I have mentioned, that grew out of
competition, conducted in an uncom
promising spirit. Besides a man in a
horse-and-shay continually following us
about, the company had a watchman
on duty, night and day, to prevent us
sticking bills upon the hoarding in
Trafalgar Square. We went there,
early one morning, to stick bills and to
black-wash their bills, if we were inter
fered with. We were interfered with,
and I gave the word for laying on the
wash. It was laid on — pretty brisk—
and we were all taken to Queen Square ;
but they couldn't fine me. I knew
that,"— with a bright- smile— " I'd
only given directions — I was only the
General."

Charmed with this monarch's affa-

BILL -STICKING.

bility, I inquired if he had ever hired a
hoarding himself.

"Hired a large one," he replied, "op
posite the Lyceum Theatre, when the
buildings was there. Paid thirty pound
for it ; let out places on it, and called
it ' The External Paper-Hanging Sta
tion.' But it didn't answer. Ah !" said
His Majesty thoughtfully, as he filled
the glass, "Bill-stickers have a deal to
contend with. The bill-sticking clause
was got into the Police Act by a mem
ber of parliament that employed me at
his election. The clause is pretty stiff
respecting where the bills go ; but fie
didn't mind where his bills went. It
was all right enough, so long as they
was his bills !"

Fearful that I observed a shadow of
misanthropy on the King's cheerful face,
I asked whose ingenious invention that
was, which I greatly admired, of stick
ing bills under the arches of the bridges.

"Mine!" said his Majesty, "I was
the first that ever stuck a bill under a
bridge ! Imitators soon rose up, of
course. — When don't they ? But they
stuck 'em at low-water, and the tide
came and swept the bills clean away.
I knew that!" The King laughed.

" What may be the name of that in-
Btrument, like an immense fishing-rod,"
I inquired, " with which bills are posted
on high places ?"

" The joints," returned His Majesty.
" Now, we use the joints where formerly
we used ladders — as they do still in
country places. Once, when Madame"
(Yestris, understood) "was playing in
Liverpool, another bill-sticker and me
were at it together on the wall outside
the Clarence Dock — me with the joints
— him on the ladder. Lord ! I had
my bill up, right over his head, yards
above him, ladder and all, while he was
crawling to his work. The people going
in and out of the docks^ stood and
laughed ! — It's about thirty years since
the joints come in."

" Are there any bill-stickers who can't
read ?" I took the liberty of inquiring.

" Some," said the King. " But they
know which is the right side up'ards of
their work. They keep it as it's given out
to 'em. I have seen a bill or so stuck
wrong side up'ards. But it's very rare."

Our discourse sustain?d some inter-
rupticn at this point, bjf the procession

of cars occasioning a stoppage of about
three quarters of a mile in length, as
nearly as I could judge. His Majesty,
however, entreating me not to be dis
composed by the contingent uproar,
smoked with great placidity, and sur
veyed the firmament.

When we were again in motion, I
begged to be informed what was the
largest poster His Majesty had ev*»*
seen. The King replied, " A thirty-six
sheet poster." I gathered, also, that
there were about a hundred and fifty
bill-stickers in London, and that His
Majesty considered an average hand
equal to the posting of one hundred
bills (single sheets) in a day. The King
was of opinion, that, although posters
had much increased in size, they had
not increased in number ; as the abolition
of the State Lotteries had occasioned a
great falling off, especially in the country
Over and above which change — I be
thought myself that the custom of ad
vertising in newspapers had greatly in
creased. The completion of many London
improvments, as Trafalgar-square (I par
ticularly observed the singularity of His
Majesty's calling* that an improvement);
the Royal Exchange, &c., had of late
years reduced the number of advantage
ous posting-places. Bill-stickers at pre
sent "rather confine themselves to dis
tricts, than to particular descriptions of
work. One man would strike over
Whitechapel, another would take round
Houndsditch, Shoreditch, and the City
road ; one (the King said) would stick
to the Surrey side ; another would make
a beat of the West-end.

His Majesty remarked, with some ap
proach to severity, on the neglect of
delicacy and taste, gradually introduced
into the trade by the new school : a
profligate and inferior race of impos
tors who took jobs at almost any price,
to the detriment of the old school, and
the confusion of their own misguided
employers. He considered that the
trade was overdone with competition,
and observed, speaking of his subjects,
" There are too many of 'era." He be
lieved, still, that things were a little
better than they had been ; adducing as a
proof, the fact that particular posting
places were now reserved, by common con
sent, for particular posters ; those places,
however, must be regularly occupied bj

"BIRTHS. MRS. JIEEK, OF A SON."

those posters, or, they lapsed and fell
into other hands. It was of no use giv
ing a man a Drury Lane bill this week
and not next. "Where was it to go ?
He was of opinion that going to the ex
pense of putting up your own board on
which your sticker could display your
own bills, was the only complete way of
posting yourself at the present time;
but, even to effect this, on payment of a
shilling a week to the keepers of steam
boat piers and other such places, you
must be able, besides, to give' orders for
theatres and public exhibitions, or you
would be sure to be cut out by somebody.
His Majesty regarded the passion for
orders, as one of the most inappeasable
appetites of human nature. If there
were a building, or if there were repairs
going on anywhere, you could generally
stand someting and make it right with
the foreman of the works ; but, orders
would be expected from you, and the
man who could give the most orders
was the* man who would come off best.
There was this other objectionable point,
in orders, that workmen sold them for
drink, and often sold them to persons
who were likewise troubled with the
weakness of thirst : which led (His Ma
jesty said) to the presentation of your
orders at Theatre doors, by individuals
who were " too shakery " to derive in
tellectual profit from the entertainment,
and who brought a scandal on you.
Finally, His Majesty said that you could
hardly put too little iaf a poster ; what
you wanted, was, two or three good
catch-lines for the eye to rest on — then,
leave it alone — and there you were 1

These are the minutes of my conver
sation with His Majesty, as I noted

them down shortly afterwards. I am
not aware that I have been betrayed
into any alteration or suppression. The
manner of the King was frank in the
extreme ; and he seemed to me to avoid,
at once, that slight tendency to repeti
tion which may have been observed in
the conversation of His Majesty King
George the Third, and that slight under
current of egotism which the curious
observer may perhaps detect in the con
versation of Napoleon Bonaparte.

I must do the King the justice to say
that it was I, and not he, who closed
the dialogue. At this juncture, I be
came the subject of a remarkable optical
delusion ; the legs of my stool appeared
to me to double up ; the car to spin
round and round with great violence ;
and a mist to arise between myself and
His Majesty. In addition to these sensa
tions, I felt extremely unwell. I refer
these unpleasant effects, either to the
paste with which the posters were affix
ed to the van : which may have contain-
some small portion of arsenic ; or, to
the printer's ink, which may have con
tained some equally deleterious ingre
dient. Of this I cannot be «ure. I am
only sure that I was not affected, either
by the smoke, or the rum-and-water. I
was assisted out of the vehicle, in a
state of mind which I have only experi
enced in two other places — I allude to
the Pier at Dover, and to the corres
ponding portion of the town of Calais
— and sat upon a door-step until I re
covered. The procession had then dis
appeared. I have since looked anx
iously for the King in several other cars,
but I have not yet had the happiness of
seeing His Majesty.

BIRTHS* MRS. MEEK, OF A SON.

MY name is Meek. I am, in fact,
Mr. Meek.- That son is mine and Mrs.
Meek's. When I saw the announce
ment in the Times, I dropped the paper.
I had put it in, myself, and paid for it,
but it looked so noWe that it overpow
ered me.

As soon as I could compose my feel
ings, I took tl e paper up to M"s. Meek's

bedside. " Maria Jane," said I, (I al
lude to Mrs. Meek), you are now a pub
lic character." We read the review of
our child, several times, with feelings
of the strongest emotion; and I sent
the boy who cleans the boots and shoes,
to the office for fifteen copies. No re
duction was made on taking that quan
tity.

"BIRTHS. MRS. MEEK, OF A SOX.1

It is scarcely necessary for me to say,
that our child had been expected. In
fact, it had been expected, with compa
rative confidence, for some months.
Mrs. Meek's mother, who resides with
ns — of the name of Bigby — had made
every preparation for its admission to
our circle.

I hope and believe I am a quiet man.
I will go farther. I know I am a quiet
man. My constitution is tremulous, my
voice was never loud, and, in point of
stature, I have been from infancy, small.
I have the greatest respect for Maria
Jane's Mama. She is a most remark
able woman. I honor Maria Jane's
Mama. In my opinion she would storm
a town, single-handed, with a hearth-
broom, and carry it. I have never
known her to yield any point whatever,
to mortal man. She is calculated to
terrify the stoutest heart.

Still — but I will not anticipate.

The first intimation I had, of any
preparations being in progress, on the
part of Maria Jane's Mama, was one
afternoon, several months ago. I came
borne earlier than usual from the office,
*ni, proceeding into the dining-room,
found an obstruction behind the door,
which prevented it from opening freely,
It was an obstruction of a soft nature.
On looking in, I found it to be a fe
male.

The female in question stood in the
corner behind the door, consuming
Sherry Wine. From the nutty smell
of that beverage pervading the apart
ment, I have no doubt she was consum
ing a second glassful. She wore a black
bonnet of large dimensions, and was co
pious in figure. The expression of her
countenance was severe and discontent
ed. The words to which she gave ut
terance on seeing me, were these, " Oh,
git along with you, Sir, if you please ;
me and Mrs. Bigby don't want no male
parties here !"

That female was Mrs. Prodgit.

I immediately withdrew, of course. I
was rather hurt, but I made no remark.
Whether it was that I showed a lowness
of spirits after dinner, in consequence
of feeling that I seemed to intrude, I
cannot say. But, Maria Jane's Mama
«aid to me on her retiring for the night :
in a low distinct voice, and with a look
of reproach that completely subdued

me: "George Meek. Mrs. Prodgit it
your wife's nurse !"

I bear no ill-will towards Mrs. Prod-
git. Is it likely that I, writing this
with tears in my eyes, should be capable
of deliberate animosity towards a fe
male, so essential to the welfare of Ma
ria Jane ? I am willing to admit that
Pate may have been to blame, and not
Mrs. Prodgit ; but, it is undeniably true,
that the latter female brought desola
tion and devastation into my lowly
dwelling.

We were happy after her first ap
pearance : we were sometimes exceed
ingly so. But, whenever the parlor
door was opened, and "Mrs. Prodgit !"
announced (and she was very often an
nounced), misery ensued. I could not
bear Mrs. Prodgit's look. I felt that I
was far from wanted, and had no busi
ness to exist in Mrs. Prodgit's presence.
Between Maria Jane's Mama, and Mrs,
Prodgit, there was a dreadful, secret,
understanding — a dark mystery and
conspiracy, pointing me out as a being
to be shunned. I appeared to have
done something that was evil. When
ever Mrs. Prodgit called, after dinne^
I retired to my dressing-room — where
the temperature is very low, indeed, in
the wintry time of the year — and sat
looking at my frosty breath as it rose
before me, and at my rack of boots :
a serviceable article of furniture, but
never, in my opinion, an exhilarating
object. The length of the councils that
were held with Mrs. Prodgit, under
these circumstances, I will not attempt
to describe. I will merely remark, that
Mrs. Prodgit always consumed Sherry
Wine while the deliberations were in
progress ; that they always ended in
Maria Jane's being in wretched spirits
on the sofa ; and that Maria Jane's
Mama always received me, when I was
recalled, with a look of desolate triumph
that too plainly said, " Now, George
Meek ! You see my child, Maria Jane,
a ruin, and I hope you are satisfied !"

I pass, generally, over the period that
intervened between the day when Mrs.
Prodgit entered her protest against
male parties, and the ever-memorable
midnight when I brought her to my un
obtrusive home in a cab, with an ex
tremely large box on the roof, and a
bundle, a bandbox and ft basket, be-

"BIRTHS. MRS. MEEK, OF A SON.''

tween the driver's legs. I have no ob
jection to Mrs. Prodgit (aided and
abetted by Mrs. Bigby, who I never
can forget is the parent of Maria Jane)
taking entire possession of my unassum
ing establishment. In the recesses of
my own breast, the thought may linger
that a man in possession cannot be so
dreadful as a woman, and that woman
Mrs. Prodgit ; but, I ought to bear a
good deal, and I hope I can, and do.
Huffing and snubbing, prey upon my
feelings ; but, I can bear them without
complaint. They may tell in the long
run ; I may be hustled about, from post
to pillar, beyond my strength ; never
theless, I wish to avoid giving rise to
words in the family.

The voice of Nature, however, cries
aloud in behalf of Augustus George,
my infant son. It is for him that I
wish to utter a few plaintive household
words. I am not at all angry ; I am
mild — but miserable.

I wish to know why, when my child,
Augustus George, was expected in our
circle, a provision of pins was made, as
if the little stranger were a criminal who
was to be put to the torture immediately
on his arrival, instead of a holy babe ? I
wish to know why haste was made to stick
those pins all over his innocent form, in
every direction ? I wish to be informed
why light and air are excluded from
Augustus George, like poisons ? Why,
I ask, is my unoffending infant so hedged
into a basket-bedstead, with dimity and
calico, with miniature sheets and blank
ets, that I can only hear him snuffle
(and no wonder !) deep down under the
pink hood of a little bathing-machine,
and can never peruse even so much of
his lineaments as his nose.

Was I expected to be the father of a
French Roll, that the brushes of All
Nations were laid in, to rasp Augustus
George ? Am I to be told that his sen
sitive skin was ever intended by Nature
to have rashes brought out upon it, by
the premature and incessant use of those
formidable instruments ?

Is my son a Nutmeg, that he is to be
grated on the stiff edges of sharp frills ?
Am I the parent of a Muslin boy, that
his yielding surface is to b* crimped
and small-plaited ? Or is my child com
posed of Paper or of Linen, that im
pressions of the finer getting-up art,

practised by the laundress, arc to b«
printed off, all ov«r his soft arms and
legs, as I constantly observe them ? The
starch enters his soul ; who can wonder
that he cries ?

Was Augustus George intended to
have limbs, or to be born a Torso ? I
presume that limbs were the intention,
as they are the usual practice. Then,
why are my poor child's limbs fettered
and tied up ? Am I to be told that
there is any analogy between Au
gustus George Meek and Jack Shep-
pard ?

Analyse Castor Oil at any Institution
of Chemistry that may be agreed upon,
and inform me what resemblance, in
taste, it bears to that natural provision
which it is at once the pride and duty
of Maria Jane, to administer to Au
gustus George I Y^t, I charge Mrs.
Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs.
Bigby) with systematically forcing Cas-
or Oil on my innocent son, fronTthe first
hour of his birth. When that medicine,
in its efficient action, causes internal
disturbance to Augustus George, I
charge Mrs. Prodgit (aided and abetted
by Mrs. Bigby) with insanely and in
consistently administering opium to al
lay the storm she has raised ! What is
the meaning of this ?

If the days of Egyptian Mummies
are past, how dare Mrs. Prodgit ro-
quire, for the use of my son, an amount
of flannel and linen that would carpet
my humble roof? Do I wonder that
she requires it ? No ! This morning,
within an hour, I beheld this agonising
sight. I beheld my son — Augustus
George — in Mrs. Prodgit's hands, and
on Mrs. Prodgit's knee, being dressed.
He was at the moment, comparatively
speaking, in a state of nature ; having
nothing on, but an extremely short
skirt, remarkably disproportionate to
the length of his usual outer garments.
Trailing from Mrs. Prodgit's lap, on
the floor, was a long narrow roller or
bandage — I should say of several yards
in extent. In this, I SAW Mrs. Prodgit
tightly roll the body of my unoffending
infant, turning him over and over, now
presenting his unconscious face up
wards, now the back of his bald head,
until the unnatural feat was accom
plished, and the bandage secured by a
pin, which I have every reason to bt-

100

LY;;\'U AWAKE.

lieve entered the body of my only child.
Iii this tourniquet, he passes the present
phase of his existence. Can I know it,
and smile !

I fear I have been betrayed into
expressing myself warmly, but I feel
deeply. Not for myself; for Augustus
George. I dare not interfere. Will
any one ? Will any publication ? Any
doctor ? Any parent ? Any body ?
I do not complain • that Mrs. Prodgit
(aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby) en
tirely alienates Maria Jane's affections
from me, and interposes an impassable
barrier between us. I do not complain
of being made of no account. I do not
want to be of any account. But Au
gustus George is a production of Na
ture (I cannot think otherwise), and
I claim that he should be treated
with some remote reference to Nature.

In my opinion, Mrs. Prodgit is, from
first to last, a convention and a super
stition. Are all the faculty afraid of
Mrs. Prodgit ? If not, why don't they
take her in hand and improve her ?

P.S. Maria Jane's Mama boasts of
her own knowledge of the subject, and
says she brought up seven children be
sides Maria Jane. But how do 1 know
that she might not have brought them
up much better ? Maria Jane herself
is far from strong, and is subject to
headaches, and nervous indigestion. Be
sides which, I learn from the statistical
tables that one child in five dies within
the first year of its life ; and one child
in three, within the fifth. That don't
look as if we 'could never improve in
these particulars, I think !

P. P.S. Augustus George is in con
vulsions.

LYING AWAKE.

" MY uncle lay with his eyes half
closed, and his nightcap drawn almost
down to his nose. His fancy was al
ready wandering, and began to mingle
up the present scene with the crater of
Vesuvius, the French Opera, the Coli
seum at Rome, Dolly's Chop-house in
London, and all the farrago of noted
places with which the brain of a trav
eller is crammed ; in a word, he was
just falling asleep."

Thus, that delightful writer, WASH
INGTON IRVING, in his Tales of a Trav
eller. But, it happened to me the other
night to be lying : not with my eyes
half closed, but with my eyes wide open ;
not with my nightcap drawn almost
down to my nose, for on sanitary prin
ciples I never wear a nightcap : but
with my hair pitchforked and touzled
all over the pillow ; not just falling
asleep by any means, but glaringly, per
sistently, and obstinately, broad awake.
Perhaps, with no scientific intention or
invention, I was illustrating the theory
of the Duality of the Brain ; perhaps
one part of my brain, being wakeful,
sat up to watch the other part which
was sleepy. Be that as it may, some
thing in n.e was as desirous to go to

sleep as it possibly could be, but some
thing else in me would not go to sleep,
and was as obstinate as George the
Third.

Thinking of George the Third — for I
devote this paper to my train of thoughts
as I lay awake : most people lying
awake sometimes, and having some in
terest in the subject — put me in mind of
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, and so Benjamin
Franklin's paper on the art of procur
ing pleasant dreams, which would seem
necessarily to include the art of going
to sleep, came into my head. Now, as
I often used to read that paper when I
was a very small boy, and as I recollect
everything I read then, as perfectly as I
forget everything I read now, I quoted
" Get out of bed, beat up and turn
your pillow, shake the bed-clothes well
with at least twenty shakes, then throw
the bed open and leave it to cool ; in
the meanwhile, continuing undrest, walk
about your chamber. When you begin
to feel the cold air unpleasant, then re
turn to your bed, and you will soon fall
asleep, aift your sleep will be sweet and
pleasant." Not a bit of it ! I per
formed the whole ceremony, and if it
! were possible for me to be more saucer-

LYING AWAKE.

101

eyed than I .was .^fore, that was the
only result that came of it.

Except Niagara. The two quota
tions from Washington Irving and Ben
jamin Franklin may have put it in my
ht'.ul by an American association of
ideas ; but there I was, and the Horse
shoe Fall was thundering and tumbling
in my eyes and ears, and the very rain
bows that I left upon the spray when I
really did last look upon it, were beauti
ful to see. The night-light being quite
as plain, however, and sleep seeming to
be many thousand miles further off than
Niagara, I made up my mind to think
a little about Sleep ; which I no sooner
did than I whirled off in spite of my
self to Drury Lane Theatre, and there
I saw a great actor and dear friend of
mine (whom I had been thinking of in
the day) playing Macbeth, and heard
him apostrophising " the death of each
day's life," as I have heard him many a
time, in the days that are gone.

But, Sleep. I will think about Sleep.
I am determined to think (this is the
way I went on) about Sleep. I must
hold the word Sleep, tight and fast, or
I shall be off at a tangent in half a
second. I feel myself unaccountably
straying, already, into Clare Market.
Sleep. It would be curious, as illustrat
ing the equality of sleep, to inquire
how many of its phenomena are com
mon to all classes, to all degrees of
wealth and poverty, to every grade of
educatien and ignorance. Here, for
example, is her Majesty Queen Victoria
in her palace, this present blessed night,
and here is Winking Charley, a sturdy
vagrant, in one of her Majesty's jails.
Her Majesty has fallen, many thousands
of times, from that same Tower, which
JT claim a right to tumble off now and
then. So has Winking Charley. Her
Majesty in her sleep has opened or pro
rogued Parliament, or has held a Draw
ing Room, attired in some very scanty
dress, the deficiencies and improprieties
of which have caused her great un
easiness. I, in my degree, have suffered
unspeakable agitation of mind from tak
ing the chair at a public dinner at the
London Tavern in my night-clothes,
which not all the courtesy of my kind
friend and host MR. BATHE could per
suade me were quite adapted to the
occasion. Winking Charley has been

repeatedly tried in a worse oonditi on.
Her Majesty is no stranger to a vault
or firmament, of a sort of floorcloth,
with an indistinct pattern distantly re-
sembliftg eyes, which occasionally ob
trudes itself on her repose. Neither
am I. Neither is Winking Charley.
It is quite common to all three of us
to skim along with airy strides a little
above the ground ; also to hold, with
the deepest interest, dialogues with
various people, all represented by our
selves ; and to be at our wit's end to
know what they are going to tell us ;
and to be indescribably astonished by
the secrets they disclose. It is probable
that we have all three committed mur
ders aid hidden bodies. It is pretty
certain that we / have all desperately
wanted to cry out, and have had no
voice ; that we have all gone to the
play anji not been able to get in ; that
we have all dreamed much more of our

youth than of our later lives ; that

I have lost it ! The thread's broken.

And up I go. I, lying here with the
night-light before me, up I go, for no
reason on earth that I can find out, and
drawn by no links that are visible to
me, up the Great Saint Bernard 1 I
have lived in Switzerland, and rambled
among the mountains ; but why I should
go there now, and why up the Great
Saint Bernard in preference to any
other mountain, I have no idea. As I
lie here broad awake, and with every
sense so sharpened that I can distinctly
hear distant noises inaudible to me at
another time, I make that journey, as I
really did, on the same summer day,
with the same happy party — ah ! two
since dead, I grieve to think — and there
is the same track, with the same black
wooden arms to point the way, and
there are the same storm-refuges here
and there ; and there is the same snow-
falling at the top, and there are the
same frosty mists, and there is the same
intensly cold convent with its menag
erie smell, and the same breed of doga
fast dying out, and the same breed of
jolly young monks whom I mourn to
know as humbugs, and the same con
vent parlor with its piano and the sit
ting round the fire, and the same sup
per, and the same lone night in a cell,
and the same bright fre.-h morning
when going out into the highly rarilied

102

LYING AWAKE.

air was like a plunge into an icy bath.
Now, see here what comes along ; and
why does this thing stalk into my mind
on the top of a Swiss mountain ?

It is a figure that I once sftw, just
after dark, chalked upon a door 'in a
little back lane near a country church —
my first church. How young a child I
may have been at the time I don't
know, but it horrified me so intensely —
in connexion with the churchyard, I
suppose, for it smokes a pipe, and has
a big hat with each of its ears sticking
out in a horizontal line under the brim,
and is not in itself more oppressive than
a mouth from ear to ear, a pair of
goggle eyes, and hands like two bunches
of carrots, five in each, can make it —
that it is still vaguely alarming to me
to recall (as I have oftei* done before,
lying awake) the running home, the
looking behind, the horror, of its follow
ing me ; though whether disconnected
from the door, or door and all, I can't
say, and perhaps never could. It lays
a disagreeable train. I must resolve to
think of something on the voluntary
principle.

The balloon ascents of this last sea
son. They will do to think about,
while I lie awake, as well as anything
else. I must hold them tight though,
for I feel them sliding away, and in
their stead are the Mannings, husband
and wife, hanging on the top of Horse-
monger Lane Jail. In connexion with
which dismal spectacle, I recall this
curious fantasy of the mind. That,
having beheld that execution, and
having left those two forms dangling
on the top of the entrance gateway —
the man's, a limp, loose suit of clothes
as if the man had gone out of them ;
the woman's, a fine shape, so elabo
rately corseted and artfully dressed,
that it was quite unchanged in its trim
appearance as it slowly swung from side
to side — I never could, by my utmost
efforts, for some weeks, present the
outside of that prison to myself (which
the terrible impression I had received
continually obliged me to do) without
presenting it with the two figures still
hanging in the morning air. Until,
strolling past the gloomy place one
night, when the street was deserted and
quiet, and actually seeing that the

bodies were not there, my fancy waa
persuaded, as it were, to take them
down and bury them within the pre
cincts of the jail, where they have lain
ever since.

The balloon ascents of last season.
Let me reckon them up. There were
the horse, the bull, the parachute, and
tire tumbler hanging on — chiefly by his
toes, I believe — below the car. Yery
wrong, indeed, and decidedly to be
stopped. But, in connexion with these
and similar dangerous exhibitions, it
strikes me that that portion of the
public whom they entertain, is unjustly
reproached. Their pleasure is in the
difficulty overcome. They are a public
of great faith, and are quite confident
that the gentleman will not fall off the
horse, or the lady off the bull or out
of the parachute, and that the tumbler
has a firm hold with his toes. They do
not go to see the adventurer van
quished, but triumphant. There is no
parallel in public combats between men
and beasts, because nobody can answer
for the particular, beast — unless it were
always the same beast, in which case it
would be a mere stage-show, which the
same public would go in the same stat«
of mind to see, entirely believing in
the brute being beforehand safely sub
dued by the man. That they are not
accustomed to calculate hazards and
dangers with any nicety, we may know
from their rash exposure of themselves
in overcrowded steamboats, and unsafe
conveyances and places of all kinds.
And I cannot help thinking that instead
of railing, and attributing savage
motives to a people naturally well dis
posed and humane, it is better to teach
them, and lead them argumentatively
and reasonably — for they are very rea
sonable, if you will discuss a matter with
them — to more considerate and wise
conclusion.

This is a disagreeable intrusion !
Here is a man with his throat cut,
clashing towards me as I lie awake ! A
recollection of an old story of a kins
man of mine, who, going home one
foggy winter night to Hampstead, when
London was much smaller and the road
lonesome, suddenly encountered such a
figure rushing past him, and presently
two keepers from a madhouse in pur-

LYING AWAKE.

103

enit. A very unpleasant creature
indeed, to come into my mind unbidden,
as I lie awake.

— The balloon ascents of last season.
I must return to the balloons. Why
did the bleeding man start out of them ?
Never mind ; if I inquire, he will be
back again. The balloons. This par
ticular public have inherently a gre;'t
pleasure in the contemplation of physi
cal difficulties overcome ; mainly, as. I
take it, because the lives of a large
majority of them are exceedingly mo
notonous and real, and further, are a
struggle against continual difficulties,
and further still, because anything in
the form of accidental injury, or any
kind of illness or disability, is so very
serious in their own sphere. I will
explain this seeming paradox of mine.
Take the case of a Christmas Panto
mime. Surely nobody supposes that
the young mother in the pit who falls
into fits of laughter when the baby is
boiled or sat upon, would be at all
diverted by such an occurrence off the
stage. Nor is the decent workman in
the gallery, who is transported beyond
the ignorant present by the delight with
which he sees a stout gentleman pushed
out of a two pair of stairs window, to
be slandered by the suspicion that he
would be in the least entertained by
such a spectacle in any street in London,
Paris, or New York. It always appears
to me that the secret of this enjoyment
lies in the temporary superiority to the
common hazards and mischances of life ;
in seeing casualties, attended when they
really occur with bodily and mental
suffering, tears, and poverty, happen
through a very rough sort of poetry
without the least harm being done to
any one — fhe pretence of distress in a
pantomime being so broadly humorous
as to be no pretence at all. Much as
in the comic fiction I can understand
the mother with a very vulnerable baby
at home, greatly relishing the invulner
able baby on the stage, so in the Cre-
morne reality I can understand the
mason who is always liable to fall off a
scaffold in his working jacket and to be
carried to the hospital, having an infi
nite admiration of the radiant personage
in spangles who goes into the clouds
upon a b ill, or upside down, and who,
he takes it for granted — not reflecting

upon the thing — has, by uncommon
skill and dexterity, conquered such mis
chances as those to which he and his
acquaintance are continually exposed.

I wish the Morgue in Paris would not
come here as I lie awake, with its
ghastly beds, and the swollen saturated
clothes hanging up, and the water
dripping, dripping all day long, upon
that ether swollen saturated something
in the corner, like a heap of crushed
over-ripe figs that I have seen in Italy !
And this detestable Morgue comes back
again at the head of a procession of
forgotten ghost stories. This will never
do. I. must think of something else as
I lie awake ; or, like that sagacious
animal in the United States who recog
nised the colonel who was such a dead
shot, I am a gone 'Coon. What shall
I think of ? The late brutal assaults.
Very good subject. The late brutal
assaults.

(Though whether, supposing I
should see, here before me as I lie
awake, the awful phantom described in
one of those ghost stories, who "with a
head-dress of shroud, was always seen
looking in through a certain glass door
at a certain dead hour — whether, in
such a case it would be the least conso
lation to me to know on philosophical
grounds that it was merely my imagi
nation, is a question I can't help asking
myself by the way.)

The late brutal assaults. I strongly
question the expediency of advocating
the revival of whipping for those crimes.
It is a natural and generous, impulse to
be indignant at the perpetration of in
conceivable brutality, but I doubt the
whipping panacea gravely. Not in the
least regard or pity for the criminal,
whom I hold in far lower estimation
than a mad wolf, but in consideration
for the general tone and feeling, which
is very much improved since the whip
ping times. It is bad for a people to
be familiarised with such punishments.
When the whip went out of Bridewell,
and ceased to be flourished at the cart's
tail and at the whipping-post, it began
to fade out of madhouses, and work
houses, and schools, and families, and
to give place to a better system every
where, than cruel driving. It would be
hasty, because a few brutes may be in
adequately punished, to revive, in any

104

THE POOR RELATION'S STORY.

aspect, what, in so many aspects, society
is hardly yet happily rid of. The whip
is a very contagious kind of thing, and
difficult to confine within one set of
bounds. Utterly abolish punishment
by fine — a barbarous device, quite as
much out of date as wager by battle,
but particularly connected in the vulgar
mind with this class of offence — at least
quadruple the term of imprisonment for
aggravated assaults — and above all let
us, in such cases, have no Pet Prisoning,
vain-glorifying, strong soup, and roasted
meats, but hard work, and one unchang
ing and uncompromising dietary of
bread and water, well or ill ; and we
shall do much better than by going i

down into the dark to grope for the
whip among the rusty fragment* of the
rack, and the branding iron, and the
chains and gibbet from the public roads,
and the weights that pressed men to
death in the cells of Newgate.

I had proceeded thus far, when I
found I had been lying awake so long
that the very dead began to wake too,
and to crowd into my thoughts most
sorrowfully. Therefore, I resolved to
lie awake no more, but to get up and
go out for a night walk — which resolu
tion was an acceptable relief to me. as
I dare say it may prove now to a great
many more.

THE POOR RELATION'S STORY.

HE was very reluctant to take pre
cedence of so many respected mem
bers of the family, by beginning the
round of stories they were to relate
as they sat in a goodly circle by -the
Christmas fire ; and he modestly sug
gested that it would be more cor
rect if "John our esteemed host"
(whose health he begged to drink)
would have the kindness to begin.
For as to himself, he said, he was so
little used to lead the way that really

But as they all cried out here,

that he must begin, and agreed with
one voice that he might, could, would,
and should begin, he left off rubbing
his hands, and took his legs out from
under his arm-chair, and did begin.

I have no doubt (said the poor rela
tion) that I shall surprise the assembled
members of our family, and particularly
John our esteemed host to whom we
are so much indebted for the great hos
pitality with which he has this day en
tertained us, by the confession I am go
ing to make. But, if you do me the
honor to be surprised at anything that
falls from a person so unimportant in the
family as I am, I can only say that I shall
be scrupulously accurate in all I relate.

I am not what I am supposed to be.
I am quite another thing. Perhaps
before I go further, I had better glance
at what I am supposed to be.

It is supposed, unless I mistake — the
assembled members of our family will
Correct me if I do, which is very likely
(here the poor relation looked mildly
about him for contradiction) ; that I
am nobody's enemy but my own. That
I never met with any particular suc
cess in anything. That I failed in busi
ness because I was unbusiness-like and
credulous — in not being prepared for
the interested designs of my partner.
That I failed in love, because I was
ridiculously trustful — in thinking it im
possible that Christiana could deceive
me. That I failed in my expectations
from my uncle Chill, on account of not
being as sharp as he could have wished
in worldly matters. That, through life,
I have been rather put upon and disap
pointed, in a general way. That I am
at present a bachelor of between fifty-
nine and sixty years of age, living on
a limited income in the form of a quar
terly allowance, to which I see that
John ou»- esteemed host wishes me to
make no further allusion.

The supposition as to my present pur
suits and habits is to the following effect.

I live in a lodging in the Clapham
Road — a very clean back room, in a very
respectable house — where I am expect
ed not to be at home in the day-time,
unless poorly ; and which I usually
leave in the morning at nine o'clock, 011

THE POOR RELATION'S STORY.

105

pretence of going to business. I take
my breakfast — my roll and butter, and
my half- pint of coffee— at the old es
tablished coffee-shop near Westminster
Bridge ; and then I go into the City—
J don't know why — >and sit in Garra-
way's Coffee House, and on 'Change,
and walk about, and look into a few
offices and counting-houses where some
of my relations or acquaintance are so
good as to tolerate me, and where I
stand by the fire if the weather happens
to be cold. I get through the day in
this way until five o'clock, and then I
dine : at a cost, on the average, of one
and threepence. Having still a little
money to spend on my evening's enter
tainment, I look into the old-established
eoffee-shop as I go home, and take my
eup of tea, and perhaps my bit of toast.
So, as the large hand of the clock
makes its way round to the morning
hour again, I make my way round to the
Clapham Road again, and go to bed
when I get to my lodging — fire being
expensive, and being objected to by the
family on account of its giving trouble
wid making a dirt.

Sometimes, one of my relations or
acquaintances is so obliging as to ask
me to dinner. Those are holiday occa
sions, and then I generally walk in the
Park. I am a solitary man, and seldom
walk with anybody. Not that I am
avoided because I am shabby ; for I am
not at all shabby, having always a very
good suit of black on (or rather Oxford
mixture, which has the appearance of
black and wears much better) ; but I
have got into a habit of speaking low,
and being rather silent, and my spirits
are not high, and I am sensible that I
arm not an attractive companion.

The only exception to this general
rule is the child of my first cousin, Lit
tle Frank. I have a particular affection
for that child, and he takes very kindly
to me. He is a diffident boy by nature ;
and in a crowd he is soon run over, as I
may say, and forgotten. He and I,
however, get on exceedingly well. I
have a fancy that the poor child will in
time succeed to my peculiar position in
the family. We talk but little ; still,
we understand each other. We walk
about, hand in hand; and without much
speaking he knows what I mean, and I
kuo\v what he means. When he was
7

very little indeed, I used to take him
to the windows of the toy-shops, and
show him the toys inside. It is sur
prising how soon he found out that I
would have made him a great many
presents if I had been in circumstances
to do it.

Little Frank and I go and look at
the outside of the Monument — he is
very fond of the Monument — and at
the Bridges, and at all the sights thafe
are free. On two of my birthdays, we
have dined on a-la-mode beef, and gone
at half-price to the play, and been
deeply interested. I was once walking
with him in Lombard Street, whfch we
often visit on account of my having,
mentioned to him that there are great
riches there — he is very fond of Lom
bard Street — when a gentleman said to
me as he passed by, "Sir, your little
son has dropped his glove." I assure
you, if you will excuse my remarking
on so trivial a circumstance, this acci
dental mention of the child as mine,
quite touched my heart and brought
the foolish tears into my eyes.

When little Frank is sent to school
in the country, I shall be very much at
a loss what to do with myself, but I
have the intention of walking down
there once a month and seeing him on
a half holiday. I am told he will then
be at play upon the Heath ; and if my
visits should be objected to, as unset
tling the child, I can see him from a
distance without his seeing me, and
walk back -again. His mother comes
of a highly genteel family, and rather
disapproves, I am aware, of our being
too much together. V-I know that I am
not calculated to improve his retiring
disposition ; but I think he would inisa
me beyond the feeling of the moment,
if we were wholly separated.

When I die in the Clapham Road, I
shall not leave ranch more in this world
than I shall take out of it ; but, I hap
pen to have a miniature of a bright-
faced boy, with a curling head, and an
open shirt-frill waving down his bosom
(my mother had it taken for me, but I
can't believe that it was ever like),
which will be worth nothing to sell,
and which I shall beg may bo given to
Frank. I have written my dear boy a
little letter with it, in which I have tolj
him that J felt very sorry to pail i'ruiu

106

THE POOR RELATION'S STORY.

him, thongh bound to confess that I
knew no reason why I should remain
here. I have given him some short
advice, the best in my power, to take
warning of the consequences of being
nobody's enemy but his own ; and I
have endeavored to comfort him for
what I fear he will consider a bereave
ment, by pointing out to him, that I
was only a superfluous something to
every one but him ; and that having by
some means failed to find a place in this
great assembly, I am better out of it.

Such (said the poor relation, clearing
his throat and beginning to speak a lit
tle louder) is the general impression
about me. Now, it is a remarkable
circumstance, which forms the aim and
purpose of my story, that this is all
wrong. This is not my life, and these
are not my habits. I do not even live
in the Clapham Road. Comparatively
speaking, I am very seldom there. I
reside, mostly, in a — I am almost
ashamed to say the word, it sounds so
full of pretension — in a Castle. . I do
not mean that it is an old baronial
habitation, but still it is a building al
ways known to every one by the name
of a Castle In it, I preserve the par
ticulars of my history ; they run thus:

It was when I first took John Spatter
(who had been my clerk) into' partner
ship, and when I was still a young man
of not more than five-and-twenty, re
siding in the house of my uncle Chill from
whom I had considerable expectations,
that I ventured to propose to Christiana.
I had loved Christiana a long time. She
was very beautiful, and very winning in
all respects. I rather mistrusted her
widowed and mercenary mother, who I
feared was of a plotting turn of mind ;
but, I thought as well of her as I could,
for Christiana's sake. I never had loved
any one but Christiana, and she had
been all tte world, and 0 far more than
all the world, to me, from our childhood !

Christiana accepted me with her
mother's consent, and I was rendered
very happy indeed. My life at my Un
cle Chill's was of a spare dull kind, and
my garret chamber was as dull, and
bare, and cold, as an upper prison room
in some stern northern fortress. But,
having Christiana's love, I wanted no
thing upon earth. I would not have
changed my lot with .any human being.

Avarice was, unhappily, my Uncle
Chill's master-vice. Though he was
rich, he pinched, and scraped, and
clutched, and lived miserably. .As
Christiana had no fortune, I was for
some time a little fearful of confessing
our engagement to him ; but, at length
I wrote him a letter, saying how it all
truly was. I put it into his hand one
night, on going to bed.

As I came down stairs next morning,
shivering in the cold December air;
colder in my uncle's unwarmed house
than in the street, where the winter sun
did sometimes shine, and which was at
all events enlivened by cheerful faces
and voices passing along ; I carried a
heavy heart towards the long, low
breakfast-room in which my uncle sat.
It was a large room with a small fire,
and there was a great bay window in
it which the rain had marked in the
night as if with the tears of houseless
people. It stared, upon a raw yard
with a cracked stone 'pavement, and
some rusted iron railings half uprooted,
whence an ugly out-building that had
once been a dissecting-room (in the
time of the great surgeon who had
mortgaged the house to my uncle),
stared at it.

We rose so early always, that at that
time of the year we breakfasted by cau
dle-light. When I went into the room,
my uncle was so contracted by the cold,
and so huddled together in his chair
behind the one dim candle, that I did
not see him until I was close to the
table.

As I held out my hand to him, he
caught up his stick (being infirm, he
always walked about the house with a.
stick), and made a blow at me, and said,
" You fool I"

"Uncle," I returned, "I didn't ex
pect you to be so angry as this." M ..r
had I expected it, though he was a
hard and angry old man.

"You didn't expect 1 " said he;
" when did you ever expect ? When
did you ever calculate, or look forward,
you contemptible dog ?"

" These are hard words, uncle 1"

" Hard words ? Feathers, to pelt
such an idiot as you with," said he.
"Here ! Betsy Snap ! Look at him !"

Betsy Snap was a withered, hard-
favored, yellow old woman — our only

THE POOR RKLATIOX'b STORY.

107

domestic — always employed, at this
time of the morning, in rubbing my
uncle's legs. As my uncle adjured her
to look at me, he put his lean grip on
the crown of her head, she kneeling
beside him, and turned her face towards
me. An involuntary thought connect
ing them both with the Dissecting
Room, as it must often have been in
the surgeon's time, passed across my
mind in the midst of my anxiety.

" Look at the snivelling milksop !"
said my uncle. " Look at the baby !
This is the gentleman who, people say,
is nobody's enemy but his own. This
is the gentleman who can't say No.
This is the gentleman who was making
such large profits in his business that he
must needs take a partner, t'other day.
This is the gentleman who is going to
marry a wife without a penny, and who
falls into the hands of Jezebels who are
speculating on my death !"

I knew, now, how great my uncle's
rage was ; for nothing short of his
being almost beside himself would have
induced him to utter that concluding
word, which he held in such repugnance
that it was never spoken or hinted at
before him on any account.

" On my death," he repeated, as if
he were defying me by defying his own
abhorrence of the word. " On, my
death — death — Death ! But I '11 spoil
the speculation. Eat your last under
this roof, you feeble wretch, and may it
choke you !"

You may suppose that I had not
much appetite for the breakfast to
which I was bidden in these terms ; but,
I took my accustomed seat. I saw that
I was repudiated henceforth by my
uncle ; still I could bear that very well,
possessing Christiana's heart.

He emptied his basin of bread and
milk as usual, only that he took it on
his knees with his chair turned away
from the table where I sat. When he
had done, he carefully snuffed out the
candle ; and the cold, slate-colored,
miserable day looked in upon us.

" Now, Mr. Michael," said he, " be
fore we part, I should like to have a
word with these ladies in your pres
ence."

"As you will, sir," I returned ; "but
you deceive yourself, and wrong us,
cruelly, if you suppose that there is

any feeling at stake ir this contract but
pure, disinterested, faithful love."

To this, he only replied, " You lie 1"
and not one other word.

Ws went, through half-thawed snow
and half-frozen rain, to the house where
Christiana and her mother lived. My
uncle knew them very well. They were
sitting at their breakfast, and were sur
prised to see us at that hour.

" Your servant, ma'am," said my
untie to the mother. " You divine the
purpose of my visit, I dare say, ma'am.
I understand there is a world of pure,
disinterested, faithful love cooped up
here. I am happy to bring it all it
wants, to make it complete. I brin£
you your son-in-law, ma'am — and yor.;
your husband, miss. The gentleman is
a perfect stranger to me, but I wish
him joy of his wise bargain."

He snarled at me as he went out, and
I never saw him again.

It is altogether a mistake (continued
the poor relation) to suppose that my
dear Christiana, over-persuaded and in
fluenced by her mother, married a rich
man, the dirt from whose carriage
wheels is often, in these changed times,
thrown upon me as she rides by. No,
no. She married me.

The way we came to be married
rather sooner thau we intended, was
this. I took a frugal lodging and was
saving and planning for her sake, when,
one day, she spoke to me with great
earnestness, and said :

" My dear Michael, I have given you
my heart. I have said that I loved
you, and I have pledged myself to be
your wife. I am as much yours through
all changes of good and evil as if we
had been married on the day when such
words passed between us. I know you
well, and know that if we should be
separated and our union broken off,
your whole life would be shadowed, and
all that might, even now, be stronger
in your character for the conflict with
the world would then be weakened to
the shadow of what it is ! "

" God help me, Christiana !" said I.
" You speak the truth."

" Michael !" said she, putting her
hand in mine, in all maidenly devotion,
" let us keep apart no longer. It is but
for me to say that I can live contented

108

THE POOR RELATION'S STORY.

upon such mjans as you have, and I
well know ycu are happy, I say so
from my heart. Strive no more alone ;
let us strive together. My dear Mi
chael, it is not right that I should keep
secret from you what you do not sus
pect, but what distresses my whole life.
My mother : without considering that
what you have lost, you have lost for
me, and on the assurance of my faith :
sets her heart on riches, and urges
another suit upon me, to my misery.. I
cannot bear this, for to bear it is to be
untrue to you. I would rather share
your struggles than look on. I want
no better home than you can give me.
I know that you will aspire and labor
with a higher courage if 1 am wholly
yours, and let it be so when you will !"
I was blest indeed, that day, and a
new world opened to me. We were
married in a very little while, and I took
my wife to our happy home. That was
the beginning of the residence I have
spoken of; the Castle we have ever
6ir.ce inhabited together dates from
that time. All our children have been
born in it. Our first child — now mar
ried — was a little girl, whom we called
Christiana. Her son is so like Little
Frank, that I hardly know which is
which.

The current impression as to my
partner's dealings with me is also quite
erroneous. He did not begin to treat
me coldly, as a poor simpleton, when
my uncle and I so fatally quarrelled ;
nor 'did he afterwards gradually possess
himself of our business and edge me
out. On the contrary, he behaved to
me with the utmost good faith and
honor.

Matters between us, took this turn :
— On the day of my separation from
my uncle, and even before the arrival at
our counting-house of my trunks (which
he sent after me, not carriage paid), I
went down to our room of business, on
our little wharf, overlooking the river ;
and there I told John Spatter what had
happened. John did not say, in reply,
that rich old relatives were palpable
facts, and that love and sentiment were
moonshine and fiction. He addressed
me thus :

"Michael," said John. "We were
at school together, and I generally had

the knack of getting c ft better than you,
and making a higher reputation."

" You had, John," I returned.

" Although," said John, " I borrowed
your books and loat them ; borrowed
your pocket-money, and never repaid
it ; got you to buy my damaged knires
at a higher price than I had given for
them new : and to own to the windows
that I had broken."

" All not worth mentioning, John
Spatter," said I, " but certainly true."

" When you were first established in
this infant business, which promises to
thrive so well," pursued John, " I came
to you, in my search for almost any
employment, and you made me your
clerk."

"Still not worth mentioning, my dear
John Spatter," said I; "still, equally
true."

"And finding th^t I had a good head
for business, and that I was really use
ful to the business, you did not like to
retain me in that capacity, and thought
it an act of justice soon to make me
your partner."

" Still less worth mentioning than
any of those other little circumstances
you have recalled, John Spattqr," said
I ; " for I was, and am, sensible of your
merits and my deficiencies."

" Now, my good friend," said John,
drawing my arm through his, as he had
had a habit of doing, at school ; while
two vessels outside the windows of our
counting-house — which were shaped like
the stern windows of a ship — went
lightly down the river with the tide, as
John and I might then be sailing away
in company, and in trust and confidence,
on our voyage of life ; " let there, under
these friendly circumstances, be a right
understanding between us. You are
too easy, Michael. You are nobody's
enemy but your own. If I were to
give you that damaging character among
our connexion, with a shrug, and a
shake of the head, and a sigh ; and if I
were further to abuse the trust you
place in me "

" But you never will abuse it at all,
John," I observed.

" Never !" said he, " but I am putting
a case — I say, and if I were further to
abuse that trust by keeping this piece
of our common affairs in the dark, and
this other piece in the light, and again

THE POOR RELATION'S STORY.

109

this otner pie^e in the twilight, and so
on, I should strengthen my strength,
and weaken your weakness, day by day,
until at last I found myself on the high
road to fortune, and you left behind on
some bare common, a hopeless number
of miles out of the way."

" Exactly so," said I.

"To prevent this, Michael," said
John Spatter, " or the remotest chance
of this, there must be perfect openness
between us. Nothing must be concealed,
and we must have but one interest."

" My dear John Spatter," I assured
him, " that is precisely what I mean."

"And when you are too easy," pur
sued John, his face glowing with friend
ship, "you must allow me to prevent
that imperfection in your nature from
being taken advantage of, by any one ;
you must not expect me to humor
it "

" My -dear John Spatter," I interrupt
ed, " I don't expect you to humor it.
I want to correct it."

" And I, too !" said John.

" Exactly so !" cried I. " We both
have the same end in view ; and honor
ably seeking it, and fully trusting one
another, and having but one interest,
ours will be a prosperous and happy
partnership."

" I am sure of it I" returned John
Spatter. And we shook hands most
affectionately.

I took John home to my Castle, and
we had a very happy day. Our part
nership throve well. My friend and
partner supplied what I wanted, as • I
had foreseen that he would ; and by im
proving both the business and myself,
amply acknowledged any little rise in
life to which I had helped him.

I am not (said the poor relation,
looking at the fire as he slowly rubbed
his hands), very rich, for I never cared
to be that ; but I have enough, and am
above all moderate wants and anxieties.
My Castle is not a splendid place, but it
ia very comfortable, and it has a warm
and cheerful air, and is quite a picture
of Home.

Our eldest girl, who is very like her
mother, married John Spatter's eldest
son. Our two families are closely uni
ted in other ties of attachment. It is
very pleasant of an evening, when we
are all assembled together — which fre
quently happens — and when John and
I talk over old times, and the one in
terest there has always been between
us.

I really do not know, in my Castle,
what loneliness is. Some of our chil
dren or grandchildren are always about
it, and the young voices of my descend
ants are delightful — 0, how delightful !
— to me to hear. My dearest and most
devoted wife, ever faithful, ever loving,
ever helpful and sustaining and consol
ing, is the priceless blessing of my house ;
from whom all its other blessings spring.
We are rather a musical family, and
when Christiana sees me, at any time, H
little weary or depressed, she steals to
the piano and sings a gentle air she
used to sing when we were first betroth
ed. So weak a man am I, that I can
not bear to hear it from any other
source. They played it once, at the
Theatre, when I was there with Little
Frank ; and the child said wondering,
" Cousin Michael, whose hot tears are
these that have fallen on my hand 1"

Such is my Castle, and such are the
real particulars of my life therein pre
served. I often take Little Frank home
there. He is very welcome to my grand
children, and they play together. At
this time of the year — Christmas and
New Year time — I am seldom out of
my Castle. For, the associations of the
season seem to hold me there, and the
precepts of the season seem to teach*
me that it is well to be there.

" And the Castle is " observed a

grave, kind voice among the company.

"Yes. My Castle," said the poor
relation, shaking his head as he still
looked at the fire, " is in the Air. John
our esteemed host suggests its situation
accurately. My Castle is in the Air !
I have done. Will you be so good a*
to pass the story."

110

THE CHILD'S STORY.

ONCE upon a ;ime, a good many
years ago, there was a traveller, and
he set out upon a journey. It was a
magic journey, and was to seem very
long when he began it, and very short
when he got half way through.

He travelled along a rather dark
path for some little time, without meet
ing anything, until at last he came to a
beautiful child. So he said to the child
" What do you do here ?" And the
child said, *' I am always at play.
Come and play with me !''

So, he played with that child, the
whole day long, and they were very
merry. The sky was so blue, the sun
was so bright, the water was so spark
ling, the leaves were so green, the flow
ers were so lovely, and they heard such
singing-birds and -saw so many butter
flies, that everything was beautiful. This
was in fine weather. When it rained,
they loved to watch the falling drops,
and to smell the fresh scents. When it
blew, it was delightful to listen to the
wind, and fancy what it said, as it came
rushing from its home — where was that,
they wondered ! — whistling and howl
ing, driving the clouds before it, bend
ing the trees, rumbling in the chim
neys, shaking the house, and making
the sea roar in fury. But, when it
snowed, that was best of all ; for, they
liked nothing so well as to look up at
the white flakes falling fast and thick,
like down from the breasts of millions
of white birds ; and to see how smooth
and deep the drtft was ; and to listen to
the hush upon the paths and roads.

They had plenty of the finest toys in
the world, and the most astonishing
pictn re-books : all about scimitars and
slippers and turbans, and dwarfs and
giants and genii and fairies, and blue-
beards and bean-stalks and riches and
caverns and forests and Valentines and
Orsons : and all new and all true.

But, one day, of a sudden, the travel
ler lost the child. He called to him
over and over again, but got no answer.
So, he went upon his road, and went
on for a little while without meeting
anything, until at last he came to a
handsome boy. So, he said to the boy,

" What do you do here ? ' And the
boy said, " I am always learning.
Come and learn with me."

So he learned with that boy about
Jupiter and Juno, and the Greeks and
the Romans, and I don't know what,
and learned more than I could tell — or
he either, for he soon forgot a great
deal of it. But, they were not always
learning; they had the _ merriest gamea
that ever were played. They rowed
upon the river in summer, and skated
on the ice in winter ; they were active
afoot, and active on horseback ; at
cricket, and all games at ball ; at pris
oners' base, hare and hounds, follow my
leader, and more sports than I can think
of; nobody could beat them. They
had holidays too, and Twelfth cakes,
and parties where they danced till mid
night, and real Theatres where they saw
palaces of real gold and silver rise out
of the real earth, and saw all the won
ders of the world at once. As to
friends, they had such dear friends and
so many of them, that I want the time
to reckon them up. They were all
young, like the handsome boy, and were
never to be strange to one another all
their lives through.

Still, one day, in the midst of all these
pleasures, the traveller lost the boy as
he had lost the child, and, after calling
to him in vain, went on upon his journey.
So he went on for a little while without
seeing anything, until at last he came to
a young man. So, he said to the
young man, " What do you do here ?"
And the young man said, " I am always
in love. Come and love with me."

So, he went away with that young
man, and presently they came to one of
the prettiest girls that ever was seen —
just like Fanny in the corner there —
and she had eyes like Fanny, and hair
like Fanny, and dimples like Fanny's,
and she laughed and colored just as
Fanny does while I am talking about
her. So, the young man fell in love
directly — just as Somebody I won't
mention, the first time he came here,
did with Fanny. Well ! He was
teazed sometimes — just as Somebody
used to be by Fanny ; and they quar-

THE CHILD'S STORY

111

relied sometimes — -just as Somebody and '
Fanny used to quarrel ; and they made
it up, and sat in the dark, and wrote
letters every day, and never were happy
asunder, and were always looking out
for one another and pretending not to,
and were engaged at Christmas time,
and sat close to one another by the fire,
and were going to be married very soon —
all exactly like Somebody I won't men
tion, and Fanny 1

But, the traveller lost them one day,
as he had lost the rest of his friends,
and, after calling to ^bhem to come back,
which they never did, went on upon his
journey. So, he went on for a little
while without seeing anything, until at
last he came to a middle-aged gentle
man. So, he said to the gentleman,
" What are you doing here ?" And his
answer was, " I am always busy. Come
and be busy with me !"

So, he began to be very busy with
that gentleman, and they went on
through the wood together. The
whole journey was through a wood,
only it had been open and green at first,
like a wood in spring ; and now began
to be thick and dark, like a wood in
Summer ; some of the little trees that
had come out earliest, were even turning
brown. The gentleman was not alone,
but had a lady of about the same age
with him, who was his Wife ; and they
had children, who were with them loo.
So, they all went on together 'through
the wood, cutting down the trees, and
making a path through the branches
aud the fallen leaves, and carrying bur
dens, and working hard.

Sometimes, they came to a long green
avenue that opened into deeper woods.
Then they would hear a very little dis
tant voice crying, "Father, father, I
am another child 1 Stop for me I"
And presently they would see a very
little figure, growing larger as it came
along, running to join them. When it
came up, they all crowded round it, and
kissed and welcomed it ; and then they
all went on together.

Sometimes, they came to several ave
nues at once, and then they all stood
still, and one of the children said,
" Father,1 1 am going to sea," and an
other said, "Father, I am going to
India," and another, "Father, I am
going to seek my fortune where I can,"

and another, " Father. I am gorng to
Heaven !" So, with many tears at
parting, they went, solitary, down those
avenues, each child upon its way ; and
the child who Went to Heaven, rose
into the golden air and vanished.

Whenever these partings happened,
the traveller looked at the gentleman,
and saw him glance up at the sky above
the trees, where the day was beginning
to decline, and the sunset to come on.
He saw, too, that his hair was turning
grey. But, they never could rest long,
for they had their journey to perform,
and it was necessary for them to be
always busy.

At last, there had been so many part
ings that there were no children left,
and only the traveller, the gentleman,
and the lady, went upon their way in
company. And now the wood was yel
low ; and now brown ; and the leaves,
even of the forest trees, began to fall.

So, they came to an avenue that was
darker than the rest, and were pressing
forward on their journey without look
ing down it, when the lady stepped.

" My husband/' said the lady, " I
am called."

They listened, and they heard a voice,
a long way down the avenue, say,
" Mother, mother 1"

It was the voice of the first child \fho
had said, " I am going to Heaven 1"
and the father said, "I pray not yet.
Sunset is very near. I pray not yet 1"

But, the voice cried "Mother, mo
ther !" without minding him, though
his hair was now quite white, and tears-
were on his face.

Then, the mother, who was already
drawn into the shade of the dark avenue
and moving away with her arms still
round his neck, kissed him, and said
" My dearest, I am summoned, and I
go !" And she was gone. And the
traveller and he were left alone to
gether.

And they went on and on together,
until they came to very near the end of
the wood : so near, that they could see
the sunset shining red before them
through the trees.

Yet, once more, while he broke his
way among the branches, the traveller
lost his friend. He called and called,
but there was no reply, and when he
passed out of the wood, and saw the

112

THE GHOST OF ART.

peaceful sun going down upon a wide
purple prospect, he came to an old man
sitting on a fallen tree. So, he said to
the old man, " What do you do here ?"
And the old man said, with a calm
smile, "I am always remembering.
Come and remember with me !"

So the traveller sat down by the side
ef that old man, face to face with the
eerene sunset ; and all his friends came
goftly back and stood around him.

The beautiful child, the handsome "boy,
the young man In love, the father,
mother, and children : every one of
them was there, and he had lost nothing.
So, he loved them all, and was kind
and forbearing with them all, and was
always pleased to watch them all, and
they all honored and loved him. And
I think the traveller must be yourself,
dear Grandfather, because this is what
you do to us, and what we do to you.

THE GHOST OF ART.

I AM a bachelor, residing in rather a
dreary set of chambers in the Temple.
They are situated in a square court of
high houses, which would be a complete
well, but for the want of water and the
absence of a bucket. I live at the top
of the house, among the tiles and spar
rows. Like the little man in the
nursery-story, I live by myself, and all
the bread and cheese I get — which is
not much — I put upon a shelf. I need
scarcely add, perhaps, that I am in love,
and that the father of my charming
Julia objects to our union.

I mention these little particulars as I
might deliver a letter of introduction.
The reader is now acquainted with me,
and perhaps will condescend to listen
to my narrative.

I am naturally of a dreamy turn of
mind ; and my abundant leisure — for I
am called to the bar — coupled with
much lonely listening to the twittering
of sparrows, and the pattering of rain,
has encouraged that disposition. In
my "top set," I hear the wind howl, on
a winter night, when the man on the
ground floor believes it is perfectly still
weather. The dim lamps with which
our Honorable Society (supposed to be
as yet unconscious of the new discovery
called Gas) make the horrors of the
staircase visible, deepen the gloom which
generally settles on my soul when I go
home at night.

I am in the Law, but not of it. I
can't exactly make out what it means.
I sit in Westminster Hall sometimes
(in character) from ten to four; and
when I gc out 'of the Court, I don't

know whether I am standing on my wig
or my boots.

It appears to me (I mention this in
confidence) as if there were too much
talk and too much law — as if some
grains of truth were started overboard
into a tempestuous sea'of chaff.

All this may make me mystical. Still,
I am confident that what I am going
to describe myself as having seen and
heard, I actually did see and hear.

It is necessary that I should observe
that I have a great delight in pictures.
I am no painter myself, but I have
studied pictures and written about them.
I have seen all the most famous pictures
in the world ; my education and read
ing have been sufficiently general to
possess me beforehand with a know
ledge of most of the subjects to which
a Painter is likely to have recourse ;
and, although I might be in some doubt
as to the rightful fashion of the scab
bard of King Lear's sword, for instance,
I think I should know King Lear toler
ably well, if I happeneoT to meet with
him.

I go to all the Modern Exhibitions
every season, and of course I revere
the Royal Academy. I stand by its
forty Academical articles almost as firm
ly as I stand by the thirty-nine Articles
of the Church of England. I am con
vinced that in neither case could there
be, by any rightful possibility, one arti
cle more or less.

It is now exactly three years — three
years ago, this very month — since I
went from Westminster to the Temple,
one Thursday afternoon, in a cheap

THE GKC6T OF ART.

113

etcara-boat. The sky was black, when
1 imprudently walked on board. >It
began to thunder and lighten immedi
ately afterwards, and the rain poured
down in torrents. The deck seeming
to smoke with the wet, I went below ;
but so many passengers were there,
smoking too, that I came up again, and
buttoning up my pea-coat, and standing
in the shadow of the paddle-box, stood
as upright as I could and made the
best of it.

It was at this moment that I first be
held the terrible Being, who is the sub
ject of my present recollections.

Standing against the funnel, appar
ently with the intention of drying
himself by the heat as fast as he got
wet, was a shabby man in threadbare
black, and with his hands in his pockets,
who fascinated me from the memorable
instant when I caught his eye.

Where had I caught that eye before ?
Who was he ? Why did I connect him,
all at once, with the Vicar of Wake-
field, Alfred the Great, Gil Bias, Charles
the Second, Joseph and his Brethren,
the Fairy Queen, Tom Jones, the Deca
meron of Boccaccio, Tarn O'Shanter,
the Marriage of the Doge of Venice
with the Adriatic, and the Great Plague
of London ? Why, when he bent one
leg, and placed one hand upon the back
of the seat near him, did my mind associ
ate him wildly with the words, " Num
ber one hundred and forty-two, Por
trait of a gentleman ?" Could it be
that I was going mad ?

I looked at him again, and now I
could have taken my affidavit that he
belonged to the Vicar of Wakefield's
family. Whether he was the Vicar, or
Moses, or Mr. Burchill, or the Squire,
or a conglomeration of all four, I knew
not ; but I was impelled to seize him
by the throat, and charge him with be
ing, in some fell way, connected with
the Primrose blood. He looked up at
the rain, and then — oh Heaven ! — he
became Saint John. He folded his
arms, resigning himself to the weather,
and I was frantically inclined to address
him as the Spectator, and firmly de
mand to know what he had done with
Sir Roger de Coverley.

The frightful suspicion that I was be
coming deranged, returned upon me
with radoubled force. Meantime, this

awful stranger, inexplicably linked to
my distress, stood drying himself at the
funnel; and ever, as the steam rose
from his clothes, diffusing a mist around
him, I saw through the ghostly medium
all the people I have mentioned, and a
score more, sacred and profane.

I am conscious of a dreadful inclina
tion that stole upon me, as it thundered
and lightened, to grapple with this
man, or demon, and plunge him over
the side. But, I constrained myself —
I know not how — to speak to him, and
in a pause of the storm, I crossed the
deck, and said :

" What are yon ?"

He replied, hoarsely, "A Model."

" A what ?" said I.

" A Model," he replied. " I sets to
the profession for a .bob a-hour." (All
through this narrative I give his own
words, which are indelibly imprinted on
my memory.)

The relief which this disclosure gave
me, the exquisite delight of the restora
tion of my confidence in my own sanity,
I cannot describe. I should have fallen
on his neck, but for the consciousness
of being observed by the man at the
wheel.

" You then/' said I, shaking him so
warmly by the hand, that I wrung the
rain out of bis coat-cuff, " are the gen
tleman whern I have so frequently con
templated, in connection with a high-
backed chair with a red cushion, and a
table with twisted legs."

"I am that Model," he rejoined
moodily, " and I wish I was anything
else."

" Say not so," I returned. " I have
seen you in the society of many beauti
ful young women ;" as in truth I had,
and always (I now remember) in the
act of making the most of his legs.

" No doubt," said he. " And you've
seen me along with warses of flowers,
and any number of table-knives, and an
tique cabinets, and warious gammon."

"Sir?" said I.

" And warious gammon," he repeat
ed, in a louder voice. "You might
have seen me in armor, too, if you
had looked sharp. Blessed if I ha'n't
stood in half the suits of armor as
ever came out of Pratt's shop : and
sat for weeks together, a eating no
thing out of half the gold and silver

THE GHOST OF ART.

dishes as has ever been lent for the pur
pose out of Storrses, and Mortimerses,
or Garrardses, and Davenportseseses."

Excited, as it appeared, by a sense
of injury, I thought he never would
have found an end for the last word.
But, at length it rolled sullenly away
with the thunder.

"Pardon me," said I, "you are a
well-favored, well-made man, and yet —
forgive me — I find, on examining my
mind, that I associate you with — that
my recollection indistinctly makes you,
in short — excuse me — a kind of powerful
monster."

" It would be a wonder if it didn't,"
he said. "Do you know what my
points are ?"

" No," said I.

"My throat and my legs," said he.
"When I don't set for a head, I mostly
sets for a throat and a pair of legs.
Now, granted .you was a painter, and
was to work at my throat for a week
together, I suppose you'd see a lot of
lumps and bumps there; that would
never be there at all, if you looked at
me, complete, instead of only my throat.
Wouldn't you ?"

" Probably," said I, surveying him.

" Why, it stands to reason," said the
Model. "Work another week at my
legs, and it'll be the same thing. You'll
make 'em out as knotty and as knobby,
at last, as if they was the trunks of two
old trees. Then, take and stick my
legs and throat on to another man's
body, and you'll make a reg'lar monster.
And that's the way the public gets
their reg'lar monsters, every first Mon
day in May, when the Royal Academy
Exhibition opens."

".You are a critic," said I, with an
air of deference.

" I'm in an uncommon ill humor, if
that's it," rejoined the Model, with
great indignation. " As if it warn't
bad enough for a bob-a-hour, for a man
to be mixing himself up with that there
jolly old furniter that one 'ud think tht
public know'd the very nails in by this
time — or to be putting on greasy old ats
and cloaks, and playing tambourines in
the Bay o' Naples, with Wesuvius a
amokin' according to pattern in the
background, and the wines a bearing
wonderful in the middle distance — or to
be unpolitely kicking up his legs among

a lot o' gals, with no reason whatever
in his mind, but to show 'em — as if this
warn't bad enough, I'm to go and be
thrown out of employment too 1"

" Surely no 1" said I.

" Surely yes," said the indignant
Model. " BUT I 'LL GROW ONE."

The gloomy and threatening manner
in which he muttered the last words,
can never be effaced from my remem
brance. My blood ran cold.

I asked of myself, what was it that
this desperate Being was resolved to
grow ? My breast made no response*

I ventured to implore him to explain
his meaning. With a scornful laugh,
he njtered this dark prophecy :

"I'LL GROW ONE. AND, MARK MY
WORDS, IT SHALL HAUNT YOU I"

We parted in the storm, after I had
forced half-a-crown on his acceptance,
with a trembling hand. I conclude
that something supernatural happened
to the steam-boat, as it bore his reek
ing figure down the river ; but it never
got into the papers.'

Two years elapsed, during which I
followed my profession without any vi
cissitudes ; never holding so much as a
motion, of course. At the expiration
of that period, 1 found myself making
my way home to the Temple, one night,
in precisely such another storm of thun
der and lightning as that by which I
had been overtaken on board the steam
boat — except that this storm, bursting
over the town at midnight, was ren
dered much more awful by the darkness
and the hour.

As I turned into my court, I really
thought a thunderbolt would fall, and
plough the pavement up. Every brick
and stone in the place seemed to have
an echo of its own for the thunder.
The water-spouts were overcharged,
and the rain came tearing down from
the kouse-tops as if they had been
mountain-tops.

Mrs. Parkins, my laundress — wife of
Parkins the porter, then newly dead of
a dropsy — had particular instructions
to place a bedroom candle and a match
under the staircase lamp on my landing,
in order that I might light my candle
there, whenever I came home. Mrs,
Parkins invariably disregarding all in
structions, they were never there. Thus
it happened that on this occasion I

THE GHOST OF ART.

115

groped my way into my sitting-room to
find the candle, and came out to light
it.

What were my emotions-when, under
neath the staircase lamp, shining with
wet as if he had never been dry since
our last meeting, stood the mysterious
Being whom I had encountered on the
steam-boat in a thunder-storm, two
years before ! His prediction rushed
upon my mind, and I turned faint.

" I said I'd do it," he observed, in a
hollow voice, "and I have done it.
May I come in ?"

" Misguided creature, what have you
done ?" I returned.

" I'll let you know," was his reply,
"* if you'll let me in."

Could it be murder that he had done ?
And had he been so successful that he
wanted to do it again, at my expense ?

I hesitated.

" May I come in ?" said he.

I inclined my head, with as much
presence of mind as I could command,
and he followed me into my chambers.
There, I saw that the lower part of his
face was tied up, in what is commonly
called a Belcher handkerchief. He
slowly removed this bandage, and ex
posed to view a long dark beard, curl
ing over his upper lip, twisting about
the corners of his mouth, and hanging
down upon his breast.

"What is this!" I exclaimed invol
untarily, "and what have you be
come ?"

" I am the Ghost of Art !" said he.

The effect of these words, slowly
uttered in the thunderstorm at mid
night, was appalling in the last degree.
More dead than alive, I surveyed him
in silence.

" The German taste came up," saic
he, " and threw me out of bread,
am ready for the taste now."

He made his beard a little jaggec
with his, hands, folded his arms, and
said,

" Severity 1"

I shuddered. It was so severe.
He made his beard flowing on hi
breast, and, leaning both hands on the

itaff of a carpet-broom which Mrs.
'arkins had left among my books, said :

"Benevolence."

I stood transfixed. The change of
entiment was entirely in the beard
The man might have left his face alone,
?r had no face. The beard did every-
hing.

He lay down, on his back, on ray
able, and with that action of his head
hrew up his beard at the chin.

" That's death !" said he.

He got off my table and, looking np
at the ceiling, cocked his beard a little
awry ; at the same time making it stick
out before him.

" Adoration, or a vow of vengeance,"
ic observed.

He turned his profile to me, making
lis upper lip very bulgy with the upper
part of his beard.

" Romantic character," said he.

He looked sideways out of his beard,
as if it were an ivy-bush. " Jealousy,"
said he. He gave it an ingenious twist
in the air, and informed me that he was
carousing. Be made it shaggy with
bis fingers — and it was Despair ; lank

and it was Avarice ; tossed it all

kinds of ways — and it was Rage. The
beard did everything.

" I am the Ghost of Art," said he.
" Two bob a-day now, and more when
it's longer! Hair's the true expres
sion. There is no other. I SAID I'D

GROW IT, AND I'VE GROWN IT, AND IT

SHALL HAUNT YOU !"

He may have tumbled down stairs in
the dark, but he never walked down or
ran down. I looked over the banisters,
and I was alone with the thunder.

Need I add more of my terrific fate ?
It HAS haunted me ever since. It glares
upon me from the walls of the Royal
Academy, (except when MACLISE sub
dues it to his genius), it fills my soul
with terror at the British Institution, it-
lures young artists on to their destruction.
Go where I will, the Ghoat of Art,
eternally working the passions in hair,
and expressing everything by beard,
pursues me. The prediction is accom
plished,' and the victim has no rest.

116

OUT OF TOWN.

SITTING, on a bright September morn
ing, among my books and papers at my
open window on the cliff overhanging
the sea-beach, I have the sky and ocean
framed before me like a beautiful pic
ture. A beautiful picture, but with
such movement in it, such changes of
light upon the sails of ships and wake
of steamboats, such dazzling gleams of
silver far out at sea, such fresh touches
on the crisp wave-tops as they break
and roll towards me — a picture with
guch music in the billowy rush upon the
shingle, the .blowing of the morning
wind through the corn-sheaves where
the farmers' wagons are busy, the sing
ing of the larks, and the distant voices
of children at play — such charms of
sight and sound as all the Galleries on
earth can but poorly suggest.

So dreamy is the murmur of the sea
below my window, that I may have been
here, for anything I know, one hundred
years. Not that I have grown old,
for, daily on the neighboring downs
and grassy hill-sides, I find that I can
still in reason walk any distance. Hmp
over anything, and climb up anywhere ;
but, that the sound of the ocean seems
to have become so customary to my
musings, and other realities seem so to
have gone a-board ship and floated
away over the horizon, that, for aught
I will undertake to the contrary, I am
the enchanted son of the King my
father, shut up in a tower on the sea
shore, for protection against an old she-
goblin who insisted on being my god
mother, and who foresaw at the font —
wonderful creature ! — that I should get
into a scrape before I was twenty-one.
I remember to have been in a City (my
Royal parent's dominions, I suppose)
«tnd apparently not long ago either,
that was in the dreariest condition.
The principal inhabitants had all been
changed into old newspapers, and in
that form were preserving their window-
blinds from dust, and wrapping all their
smaller household gods in curl-papers.
I walked through gloomy streets where
every house was shut up and newspa-
pered, and where my solitary footsteps
echoed on the deserted pavements. In

the public rides there were r. o carriages,
no horses, no animated existence, but a
few sleepy policemen, and a few adven
turous boys taking advantage of the
devastation to swarm up the lamp
posts. In the Westward streets there
was no traffic ; in the Westward shops,
no business. The water-patterns which
the 'Prentices had trickled out on the
pavements early in the morning, re
mained uneffaced by human feet. At
the corners of mews, Cochin-China
fowls stalked gaunt and savage ; nobody
being left in the deserted city (as it ap
peared to me), to feed them. Public
Houses, where splendid footmen swing
ing their legs over gorgeous hammer-
cloths beside wigged coachmen were
wont to regale, were silent, and the
unused pewter pots shone, too bright
for business, on the shelves. I beheld
a Punch's Show leaning against a wall
near Park Lane, as if it had fainted.
It was deserted, and ther,e were none
to heed its desolation. In Belgrave
Square I met the last man — an ostler —
sitting on a post in a ragged red waist
coat, eating straw, and mildewing
away.

If I recollect the name of the little
town, on whose shore this sea is mur
muring — but I am not just now, as I
have premised, to be relied upon for
anything — it is Pavilionstone. Within
a quarter of a century, it was a little
fishing town, and they do say, that the
time was, when it was a little smug
gling town. I have heard that it was
rather famous in the hollandsf and
brandy way, and that coevally with that
reputation the lamplighter's was con
sidered a bad life at the Assurance
offices. It was observed that if he were
not particular about lighting up, he
lived in peace ; but, that if he made the
best of the oil-lamps in the steep and
narrow streets, he usually fell over the
cliff at an early age. Now, gas and
electricity run to the very water's edge,
and the South Eastern Railway Com
pany screech at us in the dead of
! night.

But, the old little fishing and smug-
I glicg town remains, and is so tempting

OUT OF TOWN.

117

ft place for the latter purpose, that I
think of going out some night next
week, in a fur cap and a pair of petti
coat trousers, and running an empty
tub, as a kind of archaeological pursuit.
Let nobody with corns come to Pa
vilionstone, for there are break-neck
flights of ragged steps, connecting the
principal streets by back-ways, which
will cripple that visitor in half an hour.
These are the ways by which, when I
run that tub, I shall escape. I shall
make a ThermopylaB of the corner of
one of them, defend it with my cutlass
against the coast-guard until my brave
companions have sheered off, then dive
into the darkness, and regain my Susan's
arms. In connection with these break
neck steps I observe some wooden cot
tages, with tumble-down out-houses,
and back-yards three feet square,
adorned with garlands of dried fish, in
which (though the General Board of
Health might object), my Susan dwells.
The South Eastern Company have
brought Pavilionstone into such vogue,
with their tidal trains and splendid
steam-packetg,that a new Pavilionstone
is rising up. I am, myself, of New Pa-<
viv! onstone. We are a little mortary
and limey at present, but we are getting
on capitally. Indeed, we were getting
on so fast, at one time, that we rather
overdid it, and built a street of shops,
the business of which may be expected
to arrive in about ten years. We are
sensibly laid out in general, and with a
little care and pains (by no means want
ing, so far), shall become a very pretty
place. We ought to be, for our situa-
tion is delightful, our air is delicious,
and our breezy hills and downs, car
peted with wild thyme, and decorated
vrith millions of wild flowers, are, on the
faith of a pedestrian, perfect. In New
Pavilionstone we are a little too much
addicted to small windows with more
bricks in them than glass, and we are
not over-fanciful in the way of decora-
tive architecture, and we get unexpected
sea-views through cracks in the street-
doors ; on the whole, however, we are
very snug and comfortable, and well
accommodated. But the Home Secre
tary (if there be such an officer) cannot
too soon shut up the burial-ground of
the old parish church. It is in the
midst of us, and Pavilioustone will get

no good of it, if it be too long left
alone.

The lion of Pavilionstone is its Great
Hotel. A dozen years ago, going
over to Paris by South-Eastern Tidal
Steamer, you used to be dropped upon
the platform of the main line Pavilion-
stone Station (not a junction then), at
eleven o'clock on a dark winter's night,
in a roaring wind ; and in the howling
wilderness outside the station, was a
short omnibus which brought you up
by the forehead the instant you got in
at the door ; and nobody cared about
you, and you were alone in the world.
You bumped over infinite chalk, until
you were turned out at a strange build
ing which had just left off being a barn
without having quite begun to be a
house, where nobody expected your
coming, or knew what to do with you
when you were come, and where you
were usually blown about, until you
happened to be blown against the cold
beef, and finally into bed. At five in
the morning you were blown out of bed,
and after a dreary breakfast, with crum
pled company, in the midst of confusion,
were hustled on board a steamboat and
lay wretched on deck until you saw
France lunging and surging at yoa
with great vehemence over the bow
sprit.

Now, you come down to Pavilion,
stone in a free and easy manner, an
irresponsible agent, made over in trust
to the South-Eastern Company, until
you get out of the railway-carriage at
high-water mark. If you are crossing
by the boat at once, you have nothing
to do but walk on board and be happy
there if you can — I can't. If you are
going to our Great Pavilionstone Hotel,
the sprightliest porters under the sun,
whose cheerful looks are a pleasant
welcome, shoulder your luggage, drive
it off in vans, bowl it away in trucks,
and enjoy themselves in playing ath
letic games with it. If you are for
public life at our great Pavilionstone
Hotel, you walk into that establishment
as if it were your club ; and find ready
for you, your news-room, dining-room,
smoking-room, billiard-room, music-
room, public breakfast, public dinn«r
twice a-day (one plain, one gorgeous),
hot baths and cold baths. If you want
to be bored, there are plenty of borei

118

OUT OF TOWN.

always ready for yon, and from Satur
day to Monday in particular, you can
be bored (if you like it) through and
through. Should you want to be pri
vate at our Great Pavilionstone Hotel,
say but the word, look at the list of
charges, choose your floor, name your
figure — there you are, established in
your castle, by the day, week, month,
or year, innocent of all comers or goers,
unless you have my fancy for walking
early in the morning down the groves
of boots and shoes, which so regularly
flourish at all the chamber-doors before
breakfast, that it seems to me as if
nobody ever got up or took them in.
Are you going across the Alps, and
would you like to air your Italian at
our Great Pavilionstone Hotel ? Talk
to the Manager— -always conversational,
accomplished, and polite. Do you
wsMit to be aided, abetted, comforted,
or advised, at our Great Pavilionstone
Hotel ? Send for the good landlord,
and he is your friend. Should you, or
anyone belonging to you ever be taken
ill at our Great Pavilionstone Hotel
you will not soon forget him or his kind
wife. And when you pay your bill at
our Great Pavilionstone Hotel, you
will not be put out of humor by any
thing you find in it.

A thoroughly good inn, in the days
of coaching and posting, was a noble
place. But, no such inn would have
been equal to the reception of four or
five hundred people, all of them wet
through, and half of them dead sick,
every day in the year. This is where
we shine, in our Pavilionstone Hotel.
Again — who, coming and going, pitch
ing and tossing, boating and training,
hurrying in, and flying out, could ever
have calculated the fees to be paid at
an old-fashioned house ? In our Pa
vilionstone Hotel vocabulary, there is
no such word as fee. Everything is
done for you ; every service is provided
at a fixed and reasonable charge ; all
the prices are hung up in all the rooms ;
and you can make out your own bill
beforehand, as well as the book-keeper.

In the case of your being a pictorial
artist, desirous of studying at small ex
pense the physiognomies and beards o1
different nations, come, on receipt o;
this, to Pavilionstone. You shall find
all the nations of the earth, and all the

styles of shaving and not shaving, hair-
cutting and hair letting alone, for ever
flowing through our hotel. Couriers
you shall see by hundreds ; fat
leathern bags for five-franc pieces,
closing with violent snaps, like dis
charges of fire-arms, by thousands ;
more luggage in a morning than, fifty
years ago, all Europe saw in a week.
Looking at trains, steamboats, sick trav
ellers, and luggage, is our great Pa
vilionstone recreation. We are not
strong in other public amusements.
We have a Literary and Scientific In
stitution, and we have a Working Men's
Institution — may it hold many giftey
holidays in summer fields, with the
kettle boiling, the band of music play
ing, and the people dancing ; and may
I be on the hill-side, looking on with
pleasure at a wholesome sight too rare
in England ! — and we have two or
three churches, and more chapels than
I have yet added up. But public
amusements are scarce with us. If a
poor theatrical manager comes with his
company to give us, in a loft, Mary
Bax, or the Murder on the Sand Hills,
we don't care much for him — starve
him out, in fact. We take more kindly
to wax-work,, especially if it moves ;
in which case it keeps much clearer of
the second commandment than when it
is still. Cooke's Circus (Mr. Cooke is
my friend, and always leaves a good
name behind him), gives us only a night
in passing through. Nor does the
travelling menagerie think us worth a
a longer visit. It gave us a look-in the
other day, bringing with it the residen
tiary van with the stained glass win
dows, which Her Majesty kept ready-
made at Windsor Castle, until she found
a suitable opportunity of submitting it
for the proprietor's acceptance. I
brought away five wonderments from
this exhibition. I have wondered ever
since, Whether the beasts ever do get
used to those small places of confine
ment ; Whether the monkeys have that
very horrible flavor in their free state ;
Whether wild animals have a natural
ear for time and tune, and therefore
every four-footed creature began to
howl in despair when the band began
to play ; What the giraffe does with
his neck when his cart is shut up ; and,
Whether the elephant feels ashamed of

OUT OP TOWN.

119

himself when he is brought out of his
den to stand on his head in the pres
ence of the whole Collection.

We are a tidal harbor at Pavilion-
Btone, as indeed I have implied already
in my mention of tidal trains. At low
water, we are a heap of mud, with an
empty channel in it where a couple of
men in big boots always shovel and
scoop : with what exact object, I am
unable to say. At that time, all the
stranded fishing-boats turn over on their
Bides, as if they were dead marine mon
sters ; the colliers and other shipping
stick disconsolate in the mud ; the steam
ers look as if their white chimneys
would never smoke more, and their red
paddles never turn again ; the green
sea-slime and weed upon the rough
stones at the entrance, seem records of
obsolete high tides never more to flow ;
the flagstaff-haylards droop ; the very
little wooden lighthouse shrinks in the
idle glare of the sun. And here I may
observe of the very little wooden light
house, that when it is lighted at night,
— red and green, — it looks so like a
medical man's, that several distracted
husbands have at various times been
found, on occasions of premature do
mestic anxiety, going round and round
it, trying to find the Nightbell

But, at the moment the tide begins to
make, the Pavilionstone Harbor begins
to revive. It feels the breeze of the
rising water before the water comes,
and begins to flutter and stir. When
the little shallow waves creep in, barely
over-lapping one another, the vanes at
the mastheads wake, and become agi
tated. As the tide rises, the fishing-
boats get into good spirits and dance,
the flagstaff hoists a bright red flag,
the steamboat smokes, cranes creak,
horses and carriages dangle in the air,
stray passengers and luggage appear.
Now, the shipping is afloat, and comes
up buoyantly, to look at the wharf.
Now, the carts that have come down

for coals, load away as hard a;, they
can load. Now, the steamer t.aokea
immensely, and occasionally blows at
the paddle-boxes like a vaporous whale
— greatly disturbing nervous loungers.
Now, both the tide and the breeze have
risen, and you are holding your hat on
(if you want to see how the ladies hold
their hats on, with a stay, passing over
the broad brim and down the nose, come
to Pavilionstone). Now, every thing
in the harbor splashes, dashes, and
bobs. Now, the Down Tidal Train ia
telegraphed, and you know (without
knowing how you know), that two hun
dred and eighty-seven people are com
ing. Now, the fishing-boats that have
been out, sail in at the top of the tide.
Now, the bell goes, and the locomotive
hisses and shrieks, and the train comes
gliding in, and the two hundred and
eighty-seven come scuffling out. Now,
there is not only a tide of water, but a
tide of people, and a tide of luggage —
all tumbling and flowing and bouncing
about together. Now, after infinite
bustle, the steamer steams out, and we
(on the Pier) are all delighted when
she rolls as if she would roll her funnel
out, and all are disappointed when she
don't. Now, the other steamer is com
ing in, and the Custom-House prepares,
and the wharf-laborers assemble, and
the hawsers are 'made ready, and the
Hotel Porters come rattling down with
van and truck, eager to begin more
Olympic games with more luggage. And
this is the way in which we go on, down
at Pavilionstone, every tide. And, if
you want to live a life of luggage, or to
see it lived, or to breathe sweet air
which will send you to sleep at a mo
ment's notice at any period of the day
or night, or to disport yourself upon or
in the sea, or to scamper about Kent,
or to come out of town for the enjoy-
ment of all or any of these pleasures,
come to Pavilioustone.

120

OUT OF THE SEASON.

IT fell to my lot, this last bleak
Spring, to find myself in a watering-
place out of the Season. A vicious
north-east squall blew me into it from
foreign ports, and I tarried in it alone
for three days, resolved to be exceed
ingly busy.

On the first day, I began business by
looking for two hours at the sea, and
gtaring the Foreign Militia out of coun
tenance. Having disposed of these im
portant engagements, I sat down at
one of the two windows of my room,
intent on doing something desperate in
the way of literary composition, and
writing a chapter of unheard-of excel
lence — with which the present essay has
no connexion.

It is a remarkable quality in awatering
place out of the season, that every thing
in it, will and must be looked at. I had
no previous suspicion of this fatal truth ;
but, the moment I sat down to write, I
began to perceive it. I had scarcely
fallen into my most promising attitude,
and dipped my pen in the ink, when I
found the clock upon the pier — a red-
faced clock with a white rim — impor
tuning me in a highly vexatious manner
to consult my watch, and see how I was
off for Greenwich time. Having no in
tention of making a voyage or taking
an observation, I had not the least need
of Greenwich time, and could have put
up with watering-place time as a suf
ficiently accurate article. The pier-
clock, however, persisting, I felt it
necessary to lay down my pen, compare
my watch with him, and fall into a
grave solicitude about half-seconds. I
had taken up my pen again, and was
«»bout to commence that valuable chap
ter, when a Custom-house cutter under
the window requested that I would
hold a naval review of her, immedi
ately.

It was impossible, under the circum
stances, for any mental resolution, mere
ly human, to dismiss the Custom-cutter,
because the shadow of her topmast fell
upon my paper, and the vane played on
the masterly blank chapter. I was
therefore under the necessity of going
to the other window ; sitting astride of

the chair there, like Napoleon bivouacs*
ing in the print; and inspecting the
cutter as she lay, all that day, in the
way of my chapter, 0 ! She was rigged
to carry a quantity of canvas, but her
hull was so very small that four giants
aboard of her (three men and a boy)
who were vigilantly scraping at her, all
together, inspired me with a terror lest
they should scrape her away. A fifth
giant, who appeared to consider him
self " below" — as indeed he was, from
the waist downwards — meditated, in
such close proximity with the little
gusty chimney-pipe, that he seemed to
be smoking it. Several boys looked on
from the wharf, and, when the gigantic
attention appeared to be fully occupied,
one or other of these would furtively
swing himself in mid-air over the Cus
tom-house cutter, by means of a line
pendant from her rigging, like a young
spirit of the storm. Presently a sixth
hand brought down two little water-
casks ; presently afterwards, a truck
came, and delivered a hamper. I was
now under an obligation to consider
that the cutter was going on a cruise,
and to wonder where she was going,
and when she was going, and why she
was going, and at what date she might
be expected back, and who commanded
her ? With these pressing questions I
was fully occupied when the Packet,
making ready to go across, and blow
ing off her spare steam, roared, " Look
at me !"

It became a positive duty to look at
the Packet preparing to go across ;
aboard of which, the people newly come
down by the railroad were hurrying in
a great fluster. The crew had got their
tarry overalls on — and one knew what
that meant — not to mention the white
basins, ranged in neat little piles of a
dozen each, behind the door of the after-
cabin. One lady as I looked, one re
signing and far-seeing woman, took her
basin from the store of crockery, as she
might have taken a refreshment-ticket,
laid herself down on deck with that
utensil at her ear, muffled her feet in
j-one shawl, solemnly covered her coun
tenance after the antique manner with

OUT OF THE SEASON.

121

bnother, and on the completion of these
preparations appeared by the strength
of her volition to become insensible.
The mail-bags (0 that I myself had the
sea-legs of a mail-bag!) were tumbled
aboard ; the Packet left off roaring,
warped out, and made at the white line
upon the bar. One dip, one roll, one
break of the sea over her bows, and
Moore's Almanack or the sage Raphael
could not have told me more of the
state of things aboard, than I knew.

The famous chapter was all but be
gun now, and would have been quite
begun, but for the wind. It was blow
ing stiffly from the east, and it rumbled
in the chimney and shook the house.
That was not much ; but, looking out
into the wind's grey eye for inspiration,
I laid down my pen again to make the
remark to myself, how emphatically
everything by the sea declares that it
has a great concern in the state of the
wind. The trees -blown all one way ;
the defences of the harbor reared high
est and strongest against the raging
point; the shingle flung up on the
beach from the same direction ; the
number of arrows pointed at the com
mon enemy ; the sea tumbling in and
rushing towards them as if it were in
flamed by the sight. This put it in my
head that I really ought to go out and
take a walk in the wind ; so, I gave up
the magnificent chapter for that day,
entirely persuading myself that I was
under a moral obligation to have a
blow.

I had a good ^ one, and that on
the high road — the very high road — on
the top of the cliffs, where I met the
stage-coach with all the outsides hold
ing their hats on and themselves too,
and overtook a flock of sheep with the
wool about their necks blown into such
great ruffs that they looked like fleecy
owls. The wind played upon the light
house as if it were a great whistle, the
epray was driven over the sea in a clone
of haze, the ships rolled and pitchec
heavily, and at intervals long slants anc
flaws of light made mountain-steeps of
communication between the ocean anc
the sky. A walk of ten miles brough
me to a seaside town without a cliff
which, like the town I had come from
was out of the season too. Half of th<
houses were shut up ; half of the other
8

half were to let ; the town might have
done as much business as it was doing
hen, if it had been at the bottom of
he sea. Nobody seemed to flourish
ave the attorney ; his clerk's pen was
£oiug in the bow-window of his wooden
louse ; his brass door-plate alone was
ree from salt, and had been polished
up that morning. On the beach, among
he rough luggers and capstans, groups
of storm-beaten boatmen, like a sort of
marine monsters, watched under the lee
of those objects, or stood leaning for
ward against the wind, -looking out
;hrough battered spy-glasses. The par-
or bell in the Admiral Benbow had
grown so flat with being out of season,
;hat neither could I hear it ring when
[ pulled the handle for lunch, nor could
;he young woman in black stokings and
strong shoes, who acted as waiter out
of the season, until it had been tinkled
yhree times.

Admiral Benbow's cheese was out of
season, but his home-made bread was
good, and his beer was perfect. De
luded by some earlier spring day which
liad been warm and sunny, the Admiral
had cleared the firing out of his parlor
stove, and had put some flower-pots in
— which was amiable and hopeful in the
Admiral, but not judicious : the room
being, at that present visiting, tran-
scendantly cold. I therefore took the
liberty of peeping out across a little
stone passage into the Admiral's kitch
en, and 'seeing a high settle with its
back towards me drawn out in front of
the Admiral's kitchen fire, I strolled in,
bread and cheese in hand, munching and
looking about. One landsman and two
boatmen were seated on the settle,
smoking pipes and drinking beer out of
thick pint crockery mugs — mugs pecu
liar to such places, with parti-colored
rings round them, and ornaments be
tween the rings like frayed-out roots.
The landsman was relating his experi
ence, as yet only three nights' old, of a
fearful running-down case in the Chan
nel, and therein presented to my imagi
nation a sound of music that it will nofc
soon forget.

" At that identical moment of time,"
said he (he was a prosy man by nature,
who rose with his subject), " the night
being light and calm, but with a grey
mist upon the water that didn't seep U>

122

OUT OF THE SEASON.

spread for more than two or three mile,
I was walking up and down the wooden
causeway next the pier, off where it
happened, along with a friend of mine,
which his name Js Mr. Clocker. Mr.
docker is a grocer over yonder." (From
the direction in which he pointed the
bowl of his pipe, I might have judged
Mr. Clocker to be a Merman, establish
ed in the grocery trade, in about five-
and-twenty fathoms of water.) " We
were smoking our pipes, and walking
up and down the causeway, talking
of one thing and talking of another.
We were quite alone there, except that
a few hovellers" (the Kentish name for
'long-shore boatmen like his compan
ions) " were hanging about their lugs,
waiting while the tide made, as hovel
lers will." (One of the two boatmen,
thoughtfully regarding me, shut up one
eye, this I understood to mean : first,
that he took me into the conversation :
secondly, that he confirmed the propo
sition : thirdly, that he announced him
self as a hoveller.) "All of a sudden
Mr. Clocker and me stood rooted to the
spot, by hearing a sound come through
the stillness, right aver the sea, like a
great sorrowful flute or an JEolian
harp. We didn't in the least know
what it was, and judge of our surprise
when we saw the hovellers, to a man,
leap into the boats and tear about to
hoist sail and get off, as if they had
every one of 'em gone, in a moment,
raving mad ! But they knew it was the
cry of distress from the sinking emi
grant ship."

When I got back to my watering-
place out of the season, and had done
my twenty miles in good style, I found
that the celebrated Black Mesmerist in
tended favoring the public that evening
in the Hall of the Muses, which he had
engaged for the purpose. After a
good dinner, seated by the fire in an
easy chair, I began to waver in a de
sign I had formed of waiting on the
Black Mesmerist, and to incline towards
the expediency of remaining where I
was. Indeed a point of gallantry was
involved in my doing so, inasmuch as I
had not left France alone, but had come
from the prisons of Saint Pelagic with
my distinguished and unfortunate friend
Madame Roland (in two volumes which I
bought for two franrs each, at the book

stall in the Place de la Concorde, Pana,
at the corner of the Rue Royale.) Decid
ing to pass the evening tete-a-tete with
Madame Roland, I derived, as I always
do, great pleasure from that spiritual
woman's society, and. the charms of her
brave soul and engaging conversation.
I must confess that if she had only
some more faults, only a few more pas
sionate failings of any kind, I might
love her better ; but I am content to
believe that the deficiency is in me, and
not in her. We spent some sadly in
teresting hours together on this occa
sion, and she told me again of her cruel
discharge from the Abbaye, and of her
being re-arrested before her free feet
had sprung lightly up half-a-dozen steps
of her own staircase, and carried off to
the prison which she only left for the
guillotine.

Madame Roland and I took leave of
one another before midnight, and I went
to bed full of vast intentions for next
day, in connexion with the unparalleled
chapter. To hear the foreign mail-
steamers coming in at dawn of day, and
to know that I was not aboard or
obliged to get up, was very comfortable ;
so, I rose for the chapter in great force.

I had advanced so far as to sit down
at my window again on my second
morning, and to write the first half-line
of the chapter and strike it out, not
liking it, when my conscience reproached
me with not having surveyed the water
ing-place out of the season, after all,
yesterday, but with having goue straight
out of it at the rate of four miles and
a half an hour. Obviously the best
amends that I could make for this re-
rnissness was to go and look at it with
out another moment's delay. So —
altogether as a matter of duty — I gave
up the magnificent chapter for another
day, and sauntered out with my hands
in my pockets.

All the houses and lodgings ever let
to visitors, were to let that morning.
It seemed to have snowed bills with To
Let upon them. This put me upon
thinking what the owners of all those
apartments did out of the season ; how
they employed their time, and occupied
their minds. They. could not be al
ways going to the Methodist chapels, of
which I passed one every other minute.
They must have some other recreation.

OUT OF THE SEASON.

123

Whether they pretended to take one
another's lodgings, and opened one an
other's tea-caddies in fun ? Whether
they cut slices off their own beef and
mutton, and made believe that it be
longed to somebody else ? Whether
they played little dramas of life, as
children do, and said, " I ought to come
and look at your apartments, and you
ought to ask two guineas a-week too
much, and then I ought to say I must
have the rest of the day to think of it*
and then you ought to say that another
lady and gentleman with no children in
family had made an offer very close to
your own terms, and you- had passed
your word to give them a positive an
swer in half-an-hour, and indeed were
just going to take the bill down when
you heard the knock, and then I ought
to take them you know ?" Twenty
such speculations engaged my thoughts.
Then, after passing, still clinging to
the walls, defaced rags of the bills of last
year's Circus, I came to a back field
near a timber-yard where the Circus
itself had been, and where there was
yet a sort of monkish tonsure on the
grass, indicating the spot where the
young lady had gone round upon her
pet steed Firefly in her daring flight.
Turning into the town again, I came
among the shops, and they were em
phatically out of the season. The chemist
had no boxes of ginger-beer powders, no
beautifying sea-side soaps and washes,
no attractive scents ; nothing but his
great goggle-eyed red bottles, looking
as if the winds of winter and the drift
of the salt-sea had inflamed them. The
grocers' hot pickles, Harvey's Sauce,
Doctor Kitchner's Zest, Anchovy Paste,
Dundee Marmalade, and the whole stock
of luxurious helps to appetite, were
hybernating somewhere under-ground.
The china-shop had no trifles from any
where. The Bazaar had given in alto
gether, and presented a notice on the
shutters that this establishment would
re-open at Whitsuntide, and that the
proprietor in the meantime mighj be
heard of at Wild Lodge, East Cliff. At
the Sea-bathing Establishment, a row of
neat little wooden houses seven or eight
feet high I saw the proprietor in bed in
the shower-bath. As to the bathing-
machines, they were (how they got there,
is not for me to say) at the top of a

hill at least a mile and a half off. The
library, which I had never seen other
wise than wide open, was tight shut ; and
two peevish bald old gentlemen seemed
to be hermetically sealed up inside,
eternally reading the paper. That won
derful mystery, the music-shop, carried
it off as usual (except that it had more
cabinet pianos in stock), as if season or
no season were all one to it. It made
the same prodigious display of bright
brazen wind-instruments, horribly twist
ed, worth, as I should conceive, some
thousands of -pounds, and which it is
utterly impossible that anybody in any
season can ever play or want to play.
It had five triangles in the window, six
pairs of castanets, and three harps;
likewise every polka with a colored
frontispiece that ever was published ;
from the original one where a smooth
male and female Pole of high rank are
coming at the observer with their arms
a-kimbo, to the Ratcatcher's Daugh
ter. Astonishing establishment, amazing
enigma ! Three other shops were pretty
much out of the season, what they were
used to be in it. First, the shop where
they sell the sailors' watches, which had
still the old collection of enormous time
keepers, apparently designed to break a
fall from the masthead : with places to
wind them up, like fire-pings. Secondly,
the shop where they sell the sailors' cloth
ing, which displayed the old sou'-westers,
and the old oily suits, and the old pea-
jackets, and the old one sea-chest, with
its handles like a pair of rope earrings.
Thirdly, the unchangeable shop for the
sale of literature that has been left be
hind. Here, Dr. Faustus was still going
down to the very red and yellow perdi
tion, under the superintendence of three
green personages of a scaly humor, with
execrescential serpents growing out of
their blade-bones. Here, the Golden
Dreamer, and the Norwood Fortune
Teller, were still on sale at a sixpence
each, with instructions for making the
dumb cake, and reading destinies in tea
cups, and with a picture of a young
woman with a high waist lying on a
sofa in an attitude so uncomfortable as
almost to account for her dreaming at
one and the same time of a conflagra
tion, a shipwreck, an earthquake, a
skeleton, a church-porch, lightning,
funerals performed, and a young man

124

A POOR 'MAN'S TALE OF A PATENT

in a bright blue coat and canary panta
loons. Here, were Little Warblers and
Fairburn's Comic Songsters. Here, too,
were ballads on the old ballad paper
and in the old confusion of types ; with
an old man in a cocked hat, and an arm
chair, for the illustration to Will Watch
the bold Smuggler ; and the Friar of
Orders Grey, represented by a little
girl in a hoop, with a ship in the dis
tance. All these as of yore, when they
were infinite delights to me ! '

It took me so long fully to relish
these many enjoyments, that I had not
more than an hour before bedtime to
devote to Madame Roland. We got
on admirably together on the subject of
her convent education, and I rose next
morning with the full conviction that
the day for the great chapter was at
last arrived.

It had fallen calm, however, in the
night, and as I sat at breakfast I blushed
to remember that I had not yet been
on the Downs. I a walker, and not
yet on the Downs ! Really on so quiet
and bright a morning this must be set
right. As an essential part of the
Whole Duty of Man, therefore, I left
the chapter to itself — for the present —
and went on the Downs. They were
wonderfully green and beautiful, and
gave me a good deal to do. When I
had done with the free air and the view,
I had to go down into the valley and

look after the hops (which I know noth
ing about), and to be equally solicitous
as to the cherry orchards. Then I took
it on myself to cross-examine a tramp
ing family in black (mother alleged, I
have no doubt by herself in person, to
have died last week), and to accompany
eighteenpence, which produced a great
effect, with moral admonitions which
produced none at all. Finally, it was
late in the afternoon before I got back
to the unprecedented chapter, and then
1 determined that it was out of the sea
son, as the place was, and put it away.
I went at night to the benefit of Mrs.
B. Wedgington at the Theatre, who
had placarded the town with the admo
nition, " DON'T FORGET IT !" I made
the house, according to my calculation,
four and ninepence to begin with, and
it may have warmed up, in the course
of the evening, to half a sovereign.
There was nothing to offend any one,
— the good Mr. Baines of Leeds ex-
cepted. Mrs. B. Wedgington sang to
a grand piano. Mr. B. Wedgington
did the like, and also took off his coat,
tucked up his trousers, and danced in
clogs. Master B. Wedgington, aged
ten months, was nursed by a shivering
young person in the boxes, and the eye
of Mrs. B. Wedgington wandered that
way more than once. Peace be with all
the Wedgingtonsfrom A. to Z. May they
find themselves in the Season somewhere !

A POOR MAFS TALE OF A PATENT.

I AM not used to writing for print.
What working-man that never labors
less (some Mondays, and Christmas
Time and Easter Time excepted) than
twelve or fourteen hour a day, is ? But
I have been asked to put down, plain,
what I have got to say ; and so I take
pen-and-ink, and do it to the best of
my power, hoping defects will find ex
cuse.

I was born, nigh London, but have
worked in a shop at Birmingham (what
you would call Manufactories, we call
Shops), almost ever since I was out of
my time, I served my apprenticeship
»t Deptford, nigh where I was born,

and I am a smith by trade. My name
is John. I have been called " Old
John" ever since I was nineteen year
of age, on account of not having much
hair. I am fifty-six year of age at the
present time, and I don't find myself
with more hair, nor yet with less, to
signify, than at nineteen year of age
aforesaid.

1 have been married five and thirty
year, come next April. I was married
on All Fools' Day. Let them laugh
that win. I won a good wife that day,
and it was as sensible a day to me, aa
ever I had.

We have had a matter of ten children

A POOR MAN'S TALE OF A PATENT.

125

six whereof ar3 living. My eldest son
is engineer in the Italian steam-packet
" Mezzo Giorno, plying between Mar
seilles and Naples, and calling at
Genoa, Leghorn, and Civita Vecchia."
He was a good workman. He invent
ed a many useful little things that
brought him in — nothing. I have two
sons doing well at Sydney, New South
Wales — single, when last heard from.
One of my sons (James) went wild and
for a soldier, where he was shot in India,
living six weeks in hospital with a mus
ket-ball lodged in his shoulder-blade,
which he wrote with his own hand. He
was the best looking. One of my two
daughters (Mary) is comfortable in her
circumstances, but water on the chest.
The other (Charlotte), her husband run
away from her in the basest manner,
and she and her three children live with
us. The youngest, six year old, has a
turn for mechanics.

I am not a Chartist, and I never was.
I don't mean to say but what I see a
good many public points to complain
of, still I don't think that's the way tc
set them right. If I did think so, I
should be a Chartist. But I don't
think so, and I am not a Chartist. I
read the paper, and hear discussion, at
what we call " a parlor" in Birmingham,
and I know many good men and work
men who are Chartists. Note. Not
Physical force.

It won't be took as boastful in me, if
I make the remark (for I can't put down
what I have got to say, without putting
that down before going any further),
that I have always 'been of an ingenious
turn. I once got twenty pound by a
screw, and it's in use now. I have been
twenty year, off and on, completing an
Invention and perfecting it. I per
fected of it, last Christmas Eve at ten
o'clock at night. Me and my wife
stood and let some tears fall over the
Model, when it was done and I brought
her in to take a look at it.

A friend of mine, by the name of
William Butcher, is a Chartist. Mode
rate. He is a good speaker. He is
very animated. I have often heard
him deliver that what is, at every turn
in the way of us working-men, is, that
too many places have been made, in the
course of time, to provide for people
that never ought to have been provided

for; and that we have to o'ftey forms
and to pay fees to support those places
when we shouldn't ought. "True," <le-
ivers William Butcher), "all the public
las to do this, but it falls heaviest on
;he working-man, because he has least
to spare ; and likewise because impedi
ments shouldn't be put in his way, when
tie wants redress of wrong, or further
ance of right." Note. I have wrote
down those words from William Butch
er's own mouth. W. B. delivering them
fresh for the aforesaid purpose.

Now, to my Model again. There it
was, perfected of, on Christmas Eve,
gone nigh a year, at ten o'clock at night
All the money I could spare I had laid
out upon the Model ; and when times
was bad, or my daughter Charlotte's
children sickly, or both, it had stood
still, months at a spell. I had pulled it
to pieces, and made it over again with
improvements, I don't know how often.
There it stood, at last, a perfected Model
as aforesaid.

William Butcher and me had a long
talk, Christmas Day, respecting of the
Model. William is very sensible. But
sometimes cranky. William said, "What
will you do with it, John?" I said,
" Patent it." William said, " How
Patent it, John ?" I said, " By taking
out a Patent." William then delivered
that the law of Patent was a cruel
wrong. William said, " John, if you
make your invention public, before you
get a Patent, anyone may rob you of
the fruits of your hard work. You are
put in a cleft stick, John. Either you
must drive a bargain very much against
yourself, by getting a party to come
forward beforehand with the great ex
penses of the Patent ; or, you must be
put about, from post to pillar, among so
many parties, trying to make a better
bargain for yourself, and showing your
invention, that your invention will be
took from you over your head." I said,
"William Butcher, are you cranky?
You are sometimes cranky." William
said, "No, John, I tell you the truth;"
which he then delivered more at length.
I said to W. B. I would Patent the in
vention myself.

My wife's brother, George Bury of
WestBroomwich (his wife unfortunately
took to drinking, made way with every
thing, and seventeen times committed to

A POOR MAN'S TALE OF A PATENT

Birmingham Jail before happy release
in every point of view), left my wife, his
sister, when he died, a legacy of one
hundred and twenty-eight pound te,n,
Bank of England Stocks. Me and my
wife had never bro,ke into that money
yet. Note.. We might come to be
old, and past our work. We now agreed
to Patent the invention. We said we
would make a hole in it — I mean in the
aforesaid money — and Patent the inven
tion. William Butcher wrote me a
letter to Thomas Joy, in London. T.
J. is a carpenter, six foot four in height,
and plays quoits well. He lives in Chel
sea, London, by the church. I got
leave from the shop, to be took on again
when I come back. I am a good work
man. Not a Teetotaller; but never
drunk. When the Christmas holidays
were over, I went up to London by the
Parliamentary Train, and hired a lodg
ing for a week with Thomas Joy. He
is married. He has one son gone to
sea.

Thomas Joy delivered (from a book
he had) that the first step to be took,
in Patenting the invention, was to pre
pare a petition unto Queen Victoria.
William Butcher had delivered similar,
and drawn it up. Note. William is a
ready writer. A declaration before a
Master in Chancery was to be added to
it. That we likewise drew up. After
a deal of trouble I found out a Master,
in Southampton Buildings, Chancery
Lane', nigh Temple Bar, where I made
the declaration, and paid eighteen pence.
I was told to take the declaration and
petition to the Home Office, in White
hall, where I left it to be signed by the
Home Secretary (after I had found the
office out) and where I paid two pound
two, and sixpence. In six days he
signed it, and I was told to take it to
the Attorney-General's chambers, and
leave it there for a report. I did so,
and paid four pound, four. Note. No-
•bodyall through, over thankful for their
money, but all uncivil.

My lodging at Thomas Joy's was now
hired for another week, whereof five days
were gone. The Attorney-General made
what they called a Report-of-course (my
invention being, as William Butcher hac
delivered before starting, unopposed)
and I was sent back with it to the Home
Office. They made a Copy of it, which

was called a Warrant. For thi? war-
ant, I paid seven pound, thirteen, and
ix. It was sent to the Queen, to sign.
The Queen sent it back, signed. The
Home Secretary signed it again. The
gentleman thro wed it at me when I
called, and said, "Now take it to the
Patent Office in Lincoln's Inn." I was
then in my third week at Thomas Joy's,
"iving very sparing, on account of fees.
[ found myself losing heart.

At the Patent Office in Lincoln's Inn,
they made " a draft of the Queen's bill,"
of my invention, and a " docket of the
Dili." I paid five pound, ten, and six,
for this. They " engrossed two copies
of the bill ; one for the Signet Office,
and one for the Privy-Seal Office." I
paid one pound, seven, and six, for this.
Stamp dnty over and above, three
pound. The Engrossing Clerk of the
same office engrossed the Queen's bill
for signature. I paid him one pound,
one. Stamp-duty, again, one pound,
ten. I was next to take the Queen's
bill to the Attorney-General again, and
get it signed again. I took it, and paid
five pound more. I fetched it away,
and took it to the Home Secretary
again. He sent it to the Queen again.
She signed it again. I paid seven
pound, thirteen, six, and more, for
this. I had been over a month at
Thomas Joy's. I was quite wore out,
patience and pocket.

Thomas Joy delivered all this, as it
went on, to William Butcher. William
Butcher delivered it again to three Bir
mingham Parlors, from which it got to
all the other Parlors, and was took, as
I have been told since, right through
all the shops in the North of England.
Note. William Butcher delivered, at
his Parlor, in a speech, that it was a
Patent way of making Chartists.

But I hadn't nigh done yet. The
Queen's bill was to be took to the Sig
net .Office in Somerset House, Strand —
where the , stamp shop is. The Clerk
of the Signet made " a Signet bill for
the Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal." I
paid him four pound, seven. The Clerk
of the Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal
made " a Privy-Seal bill for the Lord
Chancellor." I paid him, four pound,
two. The Privy-Seal bill was handed
over to the Clerk of the Patents, who
engrossed the aforesaid. I paid him

A POOR MAN'S TALE OF A PATENT.

127

five pound, seventeen, and eight ; at the
same time, I paid Stamp-duty for the
Patent, in one lump, thirty pound. I
next paid for " boxes for the Patent,"
niiie and sixpence. Note. Thomas Joy
would have made the same at a profit
for eighteen-pence. I next paid " fees
to the Deputy, the Lord Chancellor's
Purse- bearer," two pound, two. I next
paid "fees to the Clerk of the Hana
per," seven pound, thirteen. I next
paid " fees to the Deputy Clerk of the
Hanaper," ten shillings. I next paid,
to the Lord Chancellor again, one
pound, eleven, and six. Last of all, I
paid " fees to the Deputy Sealer, and
Deputy Chaff-wax," ten shillings and
sixpence. I had lodged at Thomas
Joy's over six weeks, and the unopposed
Patent for my invention, for England
only, had cost me ninety-six pound,
seven, and eightpence. If I had taken
it out for the United Kingdom, it would
have cost me more than three hundred
pound.

Now, teaching had not come up but
very limited when I was young. So
much the worse for me you'll say. I
say the same. William Butcher is twenty
year younger than me. He knows a
hundred year more. If William Butcher
had wanted to Patent an invention, he
might have been sharper than myself
when hustled backwards and forwards
among all those offices, though I doubt
if so patient. Note. William being
sometimes cranky, and consider porters,
messengers, and clerks !

Thereby I say nothing of my being
tired of my life, while I was Patenting
my invention. But I put this : Is it
reasonable to make a man feel as if, in
inventing an ingenious improvement
meant to do good, he had done some
thing wrong ? How else can a man
feel, when he is met by such difficulties
at every turn ? All inventors taking
out a Patent MUST feel so. And look

at the expense. How hard on me, and
how hard on the country if there's any
merit in me (and my invention is took
up now, I am thankful to say, and doing
well), to put me to all that expense be-
"ore I can move a finger ! Make the
addition yourself, and it'll come to
ninety-six pound, seven, and eight-
pence. No more, and no less.

What can I say against William
Butcher, about places ? Look at the
Home Secretary, the Attorney-General,
the Patent Office, the Engrossing Clerk,
the Lord Chancellor, the Privy Seal,
the Clerk of the Patents, the Lord
Chancellor's Pursebearer, the Clerk of
the Hanaper, the Deputy Clerk of the
Hanaper, the Deputy Sealer, and the
Deputy Chaff-wax. No man in En
gland could get a Patent for an India-
rubber band, or an iron hoop, without
feeing all of them. Some of them,
over and over again. I went through
thirty-five stages. I began with the
Queen upon the Throne. I ended with
the Deputy Chaff-wax. Note. I
should like to see the Deputy Chaff-
wax. Is it a man, or what is it ?

What I had to tell, I have told. I
have wrote it down. I hope it's plain.
Not so much in the handwriting (though
nothing to boast of there), as in the sense
of it I will now conclude with Thomas
Joy. Thomas said to me, when we
parted, " John, if the laws of this coun
try were as honest as they ought to be,
you would have come to London — reg
istered an exact description and draw
ing of your invention — paidhalf-a-crown
or so for doing of it — and therein and
thereby have got your Patent."

My opinion is the same as Thomas
Joy. Further. In William Butcher's
delivering " that the whole gang of
Hanapers and Chaff-waxes must be
done away with, and that England hai
been chaffed and waxed sufficient," I
agree.

128

THE NOBLE SAVAGE.

To come to the point at once, I beg
to say that I have not the least belief in
the Noble Savage. I consider him a
prodigious nuisance, and an enormous
superstition. His calling rum fire
water, and me a pale face, wholly fail to
reconcile me to him. I don't care what
he calls me. I call him a savage, and
I call a savage a something highly de
sirable to be civilised off the face of the
earth. I think a mere gent (which I
take to be the lowest form of civilisation)
better than a howling, whistling, cluck
ing, stamping, jumping, tearing savage.
It is all one to me, whether he sticks a
fish-bone through his visage, or bits of
trees through the lobes of his ears, or
birds' feathers in his head ; Whether he
flattens his hair between two boards, or
spreads his nose over the breadth of his
face, or drags his lower lip down by
great weights, or blackens his teeth, or
knocks them out, or paints one cheek
red and the other blue, or tattoos him
self, or oils himself, or rubs his body
with fat, or crimps it with knives.
Yielding to whichsoever of these agree
able eccentricities, he is a savage —
cruel, false, thievish, murderous ; ad
dicted more or .less to grease, entrails,
and beastly customs ; a wild animal
with the questionable gift of boasting ;
a conceited, tiresome, bloodthirsty, mo
notonous humbug.

Yet it is extraordinary to observe
how some people will talk about him, as
they talk about the good old times ;
how they will regret his disappearance,
in the course of this world's develop
ment, from such and such lands where
his absence is a blessed relief and an in
dispensable preparation for the sowing
of the very first seeds of any influence
that can exalt humanity; how, even
with the evidence of himself before them,
they will either be determined to believe,
or will suffer themselves to be persuaded
into believing, that he is something
which their five senses tell them he is
not.

There was Mr. Catlin, some few
years ago, with his Ojibbeway Indians.
Mr. Catlin was an energetic earnest
man, who had lived among more tribes

of Indians than I need reckon up here,
and who had written a picturesque and
glowing book about them. With his
party of Indians squatting and spitting
on the table before him, or dancing
their miserable jigs after their own
dreary manner, he called, in all good
faith, upon his civilised audience to
take notice of their symmetry and grace,
their perfect limbs, and the exquisite
expression of their pantomime ; and his
civilised audience, in all good faith,
complied and admired. Whereas, as
mere animals, they were wretched crea
tures, very low in the scale and very
poorly formed ; and as men and women
possessing any power of truthful dra
matic expression by means of action,
they were no better than the chorus at
an Italian Opera in England — and
would have been worse if such a thing
were possible.

Mine are no new views of the noble
savage. The greatest writers on natu
ral history found him out long ago.
BUFFON knew what he was, and showed
why he is the sulky tyrant that he is to
his women, and how it happens (Heaven
be praised !) that his race is spare in
numbers. For evidence of the quality
of his moral nature, pass himself for a
moment and refer to his " faithful dog."
Has he ever improved a dog or attach
ed a dog, since his nobility first ran wild
in woods, and was brought down (at a
very long shot) by POPE ? Or does the
animal that is the friend of man, always
degenerate in his low society ?

It is not the miserable nature of the
noble savage that is the new thing ; it
is the whimpering over him with maud
lin admiration, and the affecting to
regret him, and the drawing of any
comparison of advantage between the
blemishes of civilisation and the tenor
of his swinish life. There may have
been a change now and then in those
diseased absurdities, but there is none
in him.

Think of the Bushmen. Think of the
two men and the two women who have
been exhibited about England for some
years. Are the majority of persons —
who remember the horrid little leader

THE NOBLE SAVAGE.

129

of that party in his festering bundle of
hides, with his filth and his antipathy to
water, and his straddled legs, and his
odious eyes shaded by his brutal hand,
and his cry of " Qu-n-u-u-aaa !" (Bos-
jesmau for something desperately insult
ing I have no doubt) — conscious of an
affectionate yearning towards that noble
savage, or is it idiosyncratic in me to
abhor, detest, abominate, and abjure
him ? I have no reserve on this subject,
and will frankly state that, setting aside
that stage of the entertainment when he
counterfeited the death of some creature
he had shot, by laying his head on his
hand and shaking his left leg — at which
time I think it would have been justifi
able homicide to slay him — I have never
Been that group sleeping, smoking, and
expectorating round their brazier, but
I have sincerely desired that something
might happen to the charcoal smolder
ing therein, which would cause the im
mediate suffocation of the whole of the
noble strangers.

There is at present a party of Zulu
Kaffirs exhibiting at the St. George's
Gallery, Hyde Park Corner, London.
These noble savages are represented in
a most agreeable manner ; they are seen
in an elegant theatre, fitted with appro
priate scenery of great beauty, and they
oro described in a very sensible and un
pretending lecture, delivered with a
modesty which is quite a pattern to all
similar exponents. Though extremely
ugly, they are much better shaped than
guch of their predecessors as I have re
ferred to ; and they are rather pictu
resque to the eye, though far from odo
riferous to the nose. What a visitor
left to his own interpretings and imagin
ings might suppose these noblemen to
be about, when they give vent to that
pantomimic expression which is quite
settled to be the natural gift of the
noble savage, I cannot possibly con
ceive ; for it is so much too luminous
for my personal civilisation that it con
veys no idea to my mind beyond a gen
eral stamping, ramping, and raving,
remarkable (as everything in savage life
is) for its dire uniformity. But let us
—with the interpreter's assistance, of
which I for one stand so much in need —
see what the noble savage does in Zulu
Kaffir '.and.

The noble savage sets a king to reign

over him, to whom he submits his life
and limbs without a murmur or question,
and whose whole life is passed chin deep
in a lake of blood ; but who, after kill
ing incessantly, is in his turn killed by
his relations and friends, the moment a
gray hair appears on his head. All the
noble savage's wars with his fellow-sava»
ges (and he takes no pleasure in any
thing else) are wars of extermination —
which is the best thing I know of him,
and the most comfortable to my mind
when I look at him. He has no moral
feelings of any kind, sort, or descrip
tion ; and his " mission" may be summed
up as simply diabolical.

The ceremonies with which he faintly
diversifies his life are, of course, of a
kindred nature. If he wants a wife he
appears before the kennel of the gen
tleman whom he has selected for his
father-in-law, attended by a party of
male friends of a very strong flavor, who
screech and whistle and stamp an offer
of so many cows for the young lady's
hand. The chosen father-in-law — also
supported by a high-flavored party of
male friends — screeches, whistles, and
yells, (being seated on the grouud, he
can't stamp) that there never was such
a daughter in the market as his daugh
ter, and that he must have six more
cows. The son-in-law and his select
circle of backers, screech, whistle, stamp,
and yell in reply, that they will give
three more cows. The father-in-law
(an old deluder, overpaid at the begin
ning) acce'pts four, and rises to bind the
bargain. The whole party, the young
lady included, then falling into epileptic
convulsions, and screeching, whistling,
stamping, and yelling together — and no
body taking any notice of the young
lady (whose charms are not to be thought
of without a shudder)— the noble sav
age is considered married, and his friend*
make demoniacal leaps at him by way of
congratulation.

When the noble savage finds himself
a little unwell, and mentions the circum
stance to his friends, it is immediately
perceived that he is under the influence
of witchcraft. A learned personage,,
called an Imyanger or Witch Doctor, is
immediately sent for to Nooker the Um-
targartie, to smell out the witch. The
male inhabitants of the kraal being
seated on the ground, the learned doc

130

THE NOBLE SAVAGE.

tor, got up like a grizzly bear, appears,
and administers a dance of a most terri
fic nature, during the exhibition of
which remedy he incessantly gnashes
his teeth, and howls : — I am the origi
nal physician to Nooker the Umtargar-
tie. Yow yow yow ! No connexion
with any other establishment. Till till
till I All other TJmtargarties are feign
ed Umtargarties, Boroo Boroo ! but I
perceive here a genuine and real Um-
targartie, Hoosh Hoosh Hoosh ! in
whose blood I, the original Imyanger
and Nookerer, Blizzerum Boo ! will
wash these bear's claws of mine. 0
yow yow yow 1" All this time the
learned physician is looking out among
the attentive faces for some unfortunate
man who owes him a cow, or who has
given him any small offence, or against
whom, without offence, he has conceived
a spite. Him he never fails to Nooker
as the Umtargartie, and he is instantly
killed. In the absence of such an indi
vidual, the usual practice is to Nooker
the quietest and most gentlemanly per
son in company. But the Nookering is
invariably followed on the spot by the
butchering.

Some of the noble Ravages in whom
Mr. Catlin was so strongly interested,
and the diminution of whose numbers,
by rum and small-pox, greatly affected
him, had a custom not unlike this,
though much more appalling and dis
gusting in its odious details.

The women being at work in the
fields, hoeing the Indian corn, and the
noble savage being asleep in the shade,
the chief has sometimes the condescen
sion to come forth, and lighten the labor
by looking at it. On these occasions,
he seats himself in his own savage
chair, and xis attended by his shield-
bearer: who holds over his head a
shield of cowhide — in shape like an im
mense mussel shell — fearfully and won
derfully, after the manner of a theatri
cal supernumerary. But lest the great
man should forget his greatness in the
contemplation of the humble works of
agriculture, there suddenly rushes in a
poet retained for the purpose, called a
Praiser. This literary gentleman wears
a leopard's head over his own, and a
dress of tiger's tails ; he has the ap
pearance of having come express on his
bind legs from the Zoological Gardens ;

and he incontinei tly strikes up £e
chief's praises, plui ging ai>d tearing all
the while. There is a frantic wicked
ness in this brute's manner of worrying
the air, and gnashing out, " O what a
delightful chief he is ! 0 what a deli
cious quantity of blood he sheds 1 O
how majestically he laps it up ! 0 how
charmingly cruel he is ! 0 how he tears
the flesh of his enemies and crunche?
the bones ! O how like the tiger and
the leopard and the wolf and the beat
he is ! O, row row row row, how fond
I am of him !" — which might tempt
the Society of Friends to charge at a
hand-gallop into the Swartz-Kop loca
tion aud exterminate the whole kraal.

When war is afoot among the nobfe
savages — which is always — the chief
holds a council to ascertain whether it
is the opinion of his brothers and friends
in general that the enemy shall be ex
terminated. On this occasion, after the
performance of an Umsebueza, or war
song, — which is exactly like all the other
songs, — the chief makes a speech to his
brothers and friends, arrang%d in single
file. No particular order is observed
during the delivery of this address, but
every gentleman who finds himself ex
cited by the subject, instead of crying
" Hear, hear !" as is the custom with us,
darts from the rank and tramples out
the life, or crushes the skull, or mashes
the face, or scoops out the eyes, or
breaks the limbs, or performs a whirl
wind of atrocities on the body, of an
imaginary enemy. Several gentlemen
becoming thus excited at once, and
pounding away without the least regard
to the orator, that illustrious person is
rather in the position of an orator in an
Irish House of Commons. But, several
of these scenes of savage life bear a
strong generic resemblance to an Irish
election, and I think would be extremely
well received and understood at Cork.

In all these ceremonies the noble sav
age holds forth to the utmost possible
extent about himself; from which (to
turn him to some civilised account) we
may learn, I think, that as egotism is
one of the most offensive and contempti
ble littlenesses a civilised man can ex
hibit, so it is really incompatible with
the interchange of ideas ; inasmuch as
if we all talked about ourselves wa
should soon have DO listeners, and must

A FLIGHT.

131

be all yelling and screeching at once on
our own separate accounts : making
society hideous. It is ray opinion that
if we retained in us anything of the
noble savage, we could not get rid of it
too soon. But the fact is clearly other
wise. Upon the wife and dowry ques
tion, substituting coin for cpws, we have
assuredly nothing of the Zulu Kaffir
left. The endurance of despotism is
one great distinguishing mark of a sav
age always. The improving world has
quite got the better of that too. In
like manner, Paris is a civilised city,
and the Theatre Fran9ais a highly civil
ised theatre ; and we shall never hear,
and never have heard in these later days
(of course) of the Praiser there. No,
ao, civilised poets have better work to
do. As to Nookering Umtargarties,
there are no pretended Umtargarties in

Europe, and no European powers to
Nooker them ; that would be mere spy-
dom, subornation, small malice, super
stition, and false pretence. And as to
private Umtargarties, are we not in the
year eighteen hundred and fifty-three,
with spirits rapping at our doors ?

To conclude as I began. My posi
tion is, that if we have anything to learn
from the Noble Savage, it is what to
avoid. His virtues are a fable ; his hap
piness is a delusion ; his nobility, non
sense. We have no greater justification
for being cruel to the miserable object,
than for being cruel to a WILLIAM
SHAKSPEARE or an ISAAC NEWTON;
but he passes away before an immeasur
ably better and higher power than ever
ran wild in any earthly woods, and the
world will be all the better when his
place knows him no more. '

A FLIGHT.

WHEN Don Diego de — I forget his
name — the inventor of the last new Fly
ing Machines, price so many francs for
ladies, so many more for gentlemen —
when Don Diego, by permission of
Deputy Chaff Wax and his noble band,
shall have taken out a Patent for the
Queen's dominions, and shall have open
ed a commodious Warehouse in an airy
situation ; and when all persons of any
gentility will keep at least a pair of
wiiigs, and be seen skimming about in
every direction; I shall take a flight to
Paris (as I soar round the world) in a
cheap and independent manner. At
present, my reliance is on the South
Eastern Railway Company, in whose
Express Train here I sit, at eight of the
clock on a very hot morning, under the
very hot roof of the Terminus at Lon
don Bridge, in danger of being "forced "
like a cucumber or a melon, or a pine
apple — And talking of pine-apples, I
Buppose there never were so many pine
apples in a Train as there appear to be
in this Train.

Whew ! The hot-house air is faint
with pine-apples. Every French citi
zen or citizeness is carrying pine-apples
home The compact little Enchantress

in the corner of my carriage (French
actress, to whom I yielded up my heart
under the auspices of that brave child,
" MEAT-CHELL," at the St. James's Thea
tre the night before last) has a pine
apple in her lap. Compact Enchant
ress's friend, confidante, mother, mys
tery, Heaven knows what, has two pine
apples in her lap, and a bundle of them
under the seat. Tobacco-smoky French
man in Algerine wrapper, with peaked
hood behind, who might be Abd-el-
Kader dyed rifle-green, and who seems
to be dressed entirely in dirt and braid,
carries pine-apples in a covered basket^
Tall, grave, melancholy Frenchman,
with black Vandyke beard, and hair
close-cropped, with expansive chest to
waistcoat, and compressive waist to
coat : saturnine as to his pantaloons,
calm as to his feminine boots, precious
as to his jewellery, smooth and white as
to his linen: dark-eyed, high-foreheaded,
hawk-nosed — got up, one thinks, like
Lucifer or Mephistopheles, or Zamiel,
transformed into a highly genteel Pa
risian—has the green end of a pine-apple
sticking out of his neat valise.

Whew 1 If I were to be kept here
long, under this forcing-frame, I wonder

132

A FLIGHT.

what would become of me — whether I
should be forced into a giant, or should
sprout or blow into some other phe
nomenon ! Compact Enchantress is
not raffled by the heat — she is always
composed, always compact. 0 look at
her little ribbons, frills, and edges, at
her shawl, at her gloves, at her hair, at
her bracelets, at her bonnet, at every
thing about her! How is it -accom
plished ? What does she do to be so
neat ? How is it that every trifle she
wears belongs to her, and cannot choose
but be a part pf her ? And even Mys
tery, look at her! A model. Mystery
is not young, not pretty, though still of
an average candle-light passability ;
but she does such miracles in her own
behalf, that, one of these days, when she
dies, the^Ill be amazed to find an old
woman in her bed, distantly like her.
She was an actress once, I shouldn't
wonder, and had a Mystery attendant
on herself. Perhaps, Compact En
chantress will live to be a Mystery, and
to wait with a shawl at the side-scenes,
and to sit opposite to Mademoiselle in
railway carriages, and smile and talk
subserviently, as Mystery does now.
That's hard to believe ! ^

Two Englishmen, and now our car
riage is full. First Englishman, in the
monied interest — flushed, highly respect
able — Stock Exchange, perhaps — City,
certainly. Faculties of second English
man entirely absorbed in hurry. Plunges
into the carriage, blind. Calls out of
window concerning his luggage, deaf.
Suffocates himself under pillows of great
coats, for no reason, and in a demented
manner. Will receive no assurance from
any porter whatsoever. Is stout and
hot, and wipes his head, and makes him
self hotter by breathing so hard. Is
totally incredulous respecting assurance
of Collected Guard that "there's no
hurry." No hurry! And a flight to
Paris in eleven hours !

It is all one to me in this drowsy cor
ner, hurry or no hurry. Until Don
Diego shall send home my wings, my
flight is with the South Eastern Com
pany. I can fly with the South Eastern,
more lazily, at all events, than in the
upper air. I have but to sit here think
ing as idly as I please, and be whisked
away. I am not accountable to any
body fo1* the idleness of my thoughts in

such an idle summer flight ; ray flight ia
provided for by the South Eastern and
is no business of mine.

The bell ! With all my heart. It
does not require me to do so much as even
to flap my wings. Something snorts
for me, something shrieks for me, some
thing proclaims to everything else that
it had better keep out of my way, — and
away I go.

Ah ! The fresh air is pleasant after
the forcing-frame, though it does blow
over these interminable streets, and
scatter the smoke of this vast wilderness
of chimneys. Here we are — no, I mean
there we were, for it has darted far into
the rear — in Bermondsey where the
tanners live. Flash ! The distant ship
ping in the Thames is gone. Whirr I
The little streets of new brick and red
tile, with here and there a flagstaff grow
ing like a tall weed out of the scarlet
beans, and, everywhere, plenty of open
sewer and ditch for the promotion of
the public health, have been fired off in
a volley. Whizz ! Dastheaps, market-
gardens, and waste grounds. Rattle !
New Cross Station. Shock ! There
we were at Croydon. Bur-r-r-r ! The
tunnel.

I wonder why it is that when I shut
my eyes in a tunnel I begin to feel as if
I were going at an Express pace the
other way. I am clearly going back to
London now. Compact Enchantress
must have forgotten something, and re
versed the engine. No ! After long
darkness, pa'le fitful streaks of light ap
pear. I am still flying on for Folke
stone. The streaks grow stronger — be
come continuous — become the ghost of
day — become the living day — became I
mean — the tunnel is miles and miles
away, and here I fly through sunlight,
all among the harvest and the Kentish
hops.

There is a dreamy pleasure in this
flying. I wonder where it was, and
when it was, that we exploded, blew into
space somehow, a Parliamentary Train,
with a crowd of heads and faces looking
at us out of cages, and some hats waving.
Monied Interest says it was at Reigate
Station. Expounds to Mystery how
Reigate Station is so many miles from
London, which Mystery again develops
to Compact Enchantress. There might
be neither a Reigate nor a London for

A FLIGHT.

me, as I fly away among the Kentish
hops and harvest. What do / care 1

Bang 1 We have let another Station
off, and fly away regardless. Every
thing is flying. The hop-gardens turn
gracefully towards me, presenting regu
lar avenues of hops in rapid flight, then
whirl away. So do the pools and
rushes, haystacks, sheep, clover in full
blooin delicious to the sight and smell,
corn -sheaves, cherry-orchards; apple-
orchards, reapers, gleaners, hedges,
gates, fields that taper off into little an
gular corners, cottages, gardens, now
and then a church. Bang, bang ! A
double-barrelled Station ! Now a wood,
now a bridge, now landscape, now a
cutting, now a — Bang I a single-bar
relled Station — there was a cricket
match somewhere with two white tents,
and then four flying cows, then turnips
—now the wires of the electric tele
graph are all alive and spin, and blurr
their edges, and go up and down, and
make the intervals between each other
most irregular : contracting and ex
panding in the strangest manner. Now
we slacken. With a screwing, and a
grinding, and a smell of water thrown
on ashes, now we stop 1

Demented Traveller, who has been
for two or three minutes watchful,
clutches his great coats, plunges at the
door, rattles it, cries " Hi !" eager to
embark on board of impossible packets,
far inland. Collected Guard appears.
" Are you for Tunbridge, sir ?" "Tun-
bridge ? No. Paris." "Plenty of
time, sir. No hurry Five minutes
here, sir, for refreshment." I arn so
blest (anticipating Zamiel, by half a
second) as to procure a glass of water
for Compact Enchantress.

Who would suppose we had been
flying at such a rate, and shall take
wing again directly ? Refreshment-
room full, platform full, porter with
watering-pot deliberately cooling a hot
wheel, another porter with equal delib
eration helping the rest of the wheels
bountifully to ice cream. Honied In
terest and I re-entering the carriage
first, and being there alone, he intimates
to me that the French are "no go"
ag a Nation. I ask why ? He says,
that Reign of Terror of theirs was quite
•enough. I ventured to inquire whether
he remembers anythjng that preceded

133

said Reign _f Terror? Tie says not
particularly. "Because," I remark,
"the harvest that is reaped, has some
times been sown." Monied Interest re
peats, as quite enough for him, that the
French are revolutionary, " — and al
ways at it."

Bell. Compact Enchantress, helped
in by Zamiel, (whom the stars confound !)
gives us her charming little side-box
look, and smites me to the core. Mys
tery eating sponge-cake. Pine-apple
atmosphere faintly tinged with suspi
cions of sherry. Demented Traveller
flits past the carriage, looking for it. Is
blind with agitation, and can't see it
Seems singled out by Destiny to be the
only unhappy creature in the flight, who
has any cause to hurry himself. Is
nearly left behind. Is seized by Col
lected Guard after the Train is in mo
tion, and bundled in. Still, has linger
ing suspicions that there must be a boat
in the neighborhood, &ndwill look wild
ly out of window for it.

Flight resumed. Corn-sheaves, hop
gardens, reapers, gleaners, apple-or
chards, cherry-orchards, Stations single
and double-barrelled, Ashford. Compact
Enchantress (constantly talking to Mys
tery, in an exquisite manner) gives a
little scream ; a sound that seems to come
from high up in her precious little head;
from behind her bright little eyebrows.
;< Great Heaven, my pine-apple 1 Mj
Angel I It is lost 1" Mystery is deso-
ated. A search made. It is not lost.
Zamiel finds it. I curse him (flying) in
the Persian manner. May hi* face be
turned upside down, and jackasses sit
upon his uncle's gravel

Now fresher air, now glimpses of un
enclosed Down-land with flapping crows
flying over it whom we soon outfly, now
the Sea, now Folkestone at a quarter
after ten. " Tickets ready, gentlemen I"
Demented dashes at the door. " For
Paris, Sir? No hurry."

Not the least. We are dropped slowly
down to the Port, and sidle to and fro
(the whole Train) before the insensible
Royal George Hotel, for some ten min
utes. The Royal George takes no more
heed of us than its namesake under
water at Spithead, or under earth at
Windsor, does. The Royal George's
dog lies winking and blinking at us,
without taking the trouble to si', up ; atiii

134

A FLIGHT.

the Royal George's "wedding party" at
the open window (who seem, I must say,
rather tired of bliss) don't bestow a sol
itary glance -ipon us, flying thus to Paris
in eleven hours. The first gentleman in
Folkestone is evidently used up, on this
subject.

Meanwhile, Demented chafes. Con
ceives that every man's hand is against
him, and exerting itself to prevent his
getting to Paris. Refuses consolation.
Rattles door. Sees smoke on the hori
zon, and "knows" it's the boat gone
without him. Monied Interest resent
fully explains that he is going to Paris
too. Demented signifies that if Monied
Interest chooses to be left behind, he
don't.

" Refreshments in the Waiting-Room,
ladies and gentlemen. No hurry, ladies
and gentlemen, for Paris. No hurry
whatever 1"

Twenty minutes' pause, by Folkestone
clock, for looking at Enchantress while
she eats a sandwich, and at Mystery
while she eats of everything there that
is eatable, from pork-pie, sausage, jam,
and gooseberries, to lumps of sugar. All
this time, there is a very waterfall of
luggage, with a spray of dust, tumbling
slantwise from the pier into the steam
boat. All this time, Demented (who
has no business with it) watches it with
starting eyes, fiercely requiring to be
shown his luggage When it at last
concludes the cataract, he rushes hotly
to refresh — is shouted after, pursued,
jostled, brought back, pitched into the
departing steamer upside down, and
caught by mariners disgracefully.

A lovely harvest day, a cloudless sky,
a tranquil sea. The piston-rods of the
engines so regularly coming up from
below, to look (as well they may) at the
bright weather, and so regularly almost
knocking their iron heads against the
cross beam of the skylight, and never
doing it! Another Parisian actress is
on board, attended by another Mystery.
Compact Enchantress greets her sister
artist — Oh, the Compact One's pretty
teeth ! — and Mystery greets Mystery.
My Mystery soon ceases to be conversa
tional — is taken poorly, in a word, hav
ing lunched too miscellaneously — and
goes below. The remaining Mystery
then smiles upon the sister artists (who,
I am afraid, wouldn't groatly mind stab

bing each other), and is upon the whole
ravished.

And now I find that all the French
people on board begin to grow, and
all the English people to shrink. The
French are nearing home, and shaking
off a disadvantage, whereas we are shak
ing it on. Zamiel is the same man, and
Abd-el-Kaderis the same man, but each
seems to come into possession of an in
describable confidence that departs from
us — from Monied Interest, for instance,
and from me. Just what they gain, we
lose. Certain British " Gents" about
the steersman, intellectually nurtured at
home on parody of everything and truth
of nothing, become subdued, and in a
manner forlorn ; and when the steers
man tells them (not unexultingly) how
he has "been upon this station now
eight year, and never see the old town
of Bullum yet," one of them, with an
imbecile reliance on a reed, asks him
what he considers to be the best hotel
in Paris ?

Now, I tread upon French ground,
and am greeted by the three charming
words, Liberty, Equality, Fraternity,
painted up (in letters a little too thin
for their height) on the Custom-House
wall — also by the sight of large cocked
hats, without which demonstrative head
gear nothing of a public nature can be
done upon this soil. All the rapid
Hotel population of Boulogne howl and
shriek outside a distant barrier, frantic
to get at us. Demented, by some un
lucky means peculiar to himself, is de
livered over to their fury, and is pre
sently seen struggling in a whirlpool of
Touters — is somehow understood to be
going to Paris — is, with infinite noise,
rescued by two cocked hats, and brought
into Custom-House bondage with the
rest of us.

Here, I resign the active duties of life
to an eager being, of preternatural
sharpness, wi,th a §helving forehead and
a shabby snuff-colored coat, who (from
the wharf) brought me down with his
eye before the boat came into port. He
darts upon rny luggage, on the floor
where all the luggage is strewn like a
wreck at the bottom of the great deep ;
gets it proclaimed and weighed as the
property of " Monsieur a traveller un
known ;'•' pays certain francs for it, to a
certain functionary behind a Pigeon

A FLIGHT.

135

Hole, like a pay-box at a Theatre (the
arrangements in general are on a whole
sale scale, half military and half theatri
cal) ; and I suppose I shall find it when
I come to Paris — he says I shall. I
knew nothing about it, except that I
pay him his small fee, and pocket the
ticket he gives me, and sit upon a counter,
involved in the general distraction.

Railway station. "Lunch or dinner,
ladies and gentlemen. Plenty of time
for Paris. Plenty of time I" Large
hall, long counter, long strips of dining-
table, bottles of wine, plates of meat,
roast chickens, little loaves of bread,
basins of soup, little caraffes of brandy,
cakes, and fruit. Comfortably restored
from these resources, I begin to fly again.

I saw Zamiel (before I took wing)
presented to Compact Enchantress and
Sister Artist, by an officer in uniform,
with a waist like a wasp's, and panta
loons like two balloons. They all got
into the next carriage together, accom
panied by the two Mysteries. They
laughed. I am alone in the carriage
(for I don't consider Demented any
body) and alone in the world.

Fields, windmills, low grounds, pol
lard-trees, windmills, fields, fortifica
tions, Abbeville, soldiering and drum
ming. I wonder where England is, and
when I was there last — about two years
ago, I should say. Flying in and out
among\ these trenches and batteries,
skimming the clattering drawbridges,
looking down into the stagnant ditches,
I become a prisoner of state, escaping.
I am confined with a comradt in a fort
ress. Our room is in an upper story.
We have tried to get up the chimney,
but there's an iron grating across it, im
bedded in the masonry. After months
of labor, we have worked the grating
loose with the poker, and can lift it up.
We have also made a hook, and twisted
our rugs and blankets into ropes. Our
plan is, to go up the chimney, hook our
ropes to the top, descend hand over hand
upon the roof of the guard-house far
below, shake the hook loose, watch the
opportunity of the sentinel's pacing
away, hook again, drop into the ditch,
ewim across it, creep into the shelter
of the wood. The time is come — a wild
and stormy night. We are up the chim
ney, we are on the guard-house roof, we
are swimming in the murky ditch, when

lo ! " Qai v'la ?-' a bugle, the alarm, a
crash ! What is it ? Death ? No,
Amiens.

More fortifications, more soldiering
and drumming, more basins of soup,
more little loaves of bread, more bottles
of wine, more caraifes of brandy, more
time for refreshment. Everything good,
and everything ready. Bright, unsub
stantial-looking, scenic sort of station.
People waiting. Houses, uniforms,
beards, moustaches, some sabots, plenty
of neat women, and a few old-visaged
children. Unless it be a delusion born
of my giddy flight, the grown-up peo
ple and the children seem to change
places in France. In general, the boys
and girls are little old men and women,
and the men and women lively boys and
girls.

Bugle, shriek, flight resumed. Monied
Interest has come into my carriage.
Says the manrier of refreshing is " not
bad, "but considers it French. Admits
great dexterity and politeness in the
attendants. Thinks a decimal currency
may have something to do with their
despatch in settling accounts, and don't
know but what it's sensible and conve
nient. Adds, however, as a general
protest, that they're a revolutionary peo«
pie — and always at it.

Ramparts, canal, cathedral, river, sol
diering and dramming, open country,
river, earthenware manufactures, Creil.
Again ten minutes. Not even Dement
ed in a hurry. Station, a drawing room
with a verandah : like a planter's house.
Monied Interest considers it a band
box, and not made to last. Little round
tables in it, at one of which the Sister
Artists and attendant Mysteries are es
tablished with Wasp and Zamiel, as if
they were going to stay a week.

Anon, with no more trouble than be
fore, I am flying again, and lazily won
dering as I fly. What has the South
Eastern done with all the horrible little
villages we used to pass through, in the
Diligence ? What have they done with
all the summer dust, with all the winter
mud, with all the dreary avenues of lit
tle trees, with all the ramshackle post-
yards, with all the beggars (who used to
turn out at night with bits of lighted
candle, to look in at the coach win
dows), with all the long-tailed horses
who were always biting one another,

136

A FLIGHT.

with all the big postilions in jack-boots
— with all the mouldy cafes that we used
to stop at, where a long mildewed table
cloth, set forth with jovial bottles of
vinegar and oil, and with a Siamese
arrangement of pepper and salt, was
never wanting ? Where are the grass-
grown little towns, the wonderful lit
tle market-places all unconscious of
markets, the shops that nobody kept,
the streets that nobody trod, the
churches that nobody went to, the bells
that nobody rang, the tumble-down old
buildings plastered with many-colored
bills that nobody read ? Where are
the two-and-twenty weary hours of long
long day and night journey, sure to be
either insupportably hot or insupport-
ably cold ? Where are the pains in my
bones, where are the fidgets in my legs,
where is the Frenchman with the night
cap who never would have the little
coupe-window down, and who always
fell upon me when he went to sleep, and
always slept all night snoring onions ?

A voice breaks in with " Paris 1
Here we are !"

I have overflown myself, perhaps, but
I can't believe it. I feel as if I were
enchanted or bewitched. It is barely
eight o'clock yet — it is nothing like half-
past — when I have had my luggage ex
amined at that briskest, of Custom-
Houses attached to the station, and am
rattling over the pavement in a Hack
ney cabriolet.

Surely, not the pavement of Paris ?
Yes, I think it is, too. I don't know
any other place where there are all
these high houses, all these haggard-
looking wine shops, all these billiard
tables, all these stocking-makers with
flat red or yellow legs of wood for sign
board, all these fuel shops with stacks
of billets painted outside, and real bil
lets sawing in the gutter, all these dirty
corners of streets, all these cabinet pic
tures over dark doorways representing
discreet matrons nursing babies. And
yet this morning — I'll think of it in a
warm bath.

Very like a small room that I remem
ber in the Chinese Baths upon the Boule
vard, certainly ; and though I see it
through the steam, I think that I might
swear to that peculiar hot-linen basket,
like a large wicker hour-glass. When
can it have been that I left home ?

When was it that I paid " through to
Paris" at London Bridge, and discharg
ed myself of all responsibility, except
the preservation of a voucher ruled into
three divisions, of which the first was
snipped off at Folkstone, the second
aboard the boat, and the third taken at
my journey's end ? It seems to have
been ages ago. Calculation is useless.
I will go out for a walk.

The crowds in the streets, the lights
in the shops and balconies, the elegance,
variety and beauty of their decorations,
the number of the theatres, the brilliant
cafes with their windows thrown up
high and their vivacious groups at little
tables on the pavement, the light and
glitter of the houses turned as it were
inside out, soon convince me that it is
no dream ; that I am in Paris, howso
ever I got here. I stroll down to the
sparkling Palais Royal, up the Rue de
Rivoli, to the Place Vendome. As I
glance into a print-shop window, Monied
Interest, my late travelling companion,
comes upon me, laughing with the high
est relish of disdain. " Here's a peo
ple !" he says, pointing to Napoleon in
window and Napoleon on the column.
" Only one idea all over Paris ! A
monomania !" Humph ! I THINK 1
have seen Napoleon's match ? There
WAS a statue, when I came away, at
Hyde Park Corner, and another in the
City, and a print or two in the shops.

I walk up to the Barriere de 1'Etoile,
sufficiently dazed by my flight to have
a pleasant doubt of the reality of every
thing about me ; of the lively crowd,
the overhanging trees, the performing
dogs, the hobby-horses, the beautiful
perspectives of shining lamps : the
hundred and one inclosures, where the
singing is, in gleaming orchestras of
azure and gold, and where a star-eyed
Houri comes round with a box for vol
untary offerings. So, I pass to my hotel,
enchanted ; sup, ^nchanti)d ; go to bed,
enchanted ; pushing back this morning
(if it really were this morning) into the
remoteness of time, blessing the South
Eastern Company for realising the Ara
bian Nights in these prose days, mur
muring, as I wing my idle flight into
the land of dreams, "No hurry, ladies
and gentlemen, going to Paris in eleven
hours. It is so well done, that there
really is no hurry 1"

PRINCE BoLL. A FAIRY TALE.

137

PRINCE BULL. A FAIRY TALE.

ONCE upon a time, and of course it
was in the Golden Age, and I hope you
may know when that was, for I am sure
I don't, though I have tried hard to
find out, there lived in a rich and fertile
country, a powerful Prince whose name
was BULL. He had gone through a
great deal of fighting in his time, about
all sorts of things, including nothing ;
but, had gradually settled down to be a
steady, peaceable, good-natured, corpu
lent, rather sleepy Prince.

This Puissant Prince was married to
a lovely Princess whose name was Fair
Freedom. She had brought him a large
fortune, and had borne him an immense
number of children, and had set them to
spinning, rfhd farming, and engineering,
and soldiering, and sailoring, and doctor
ing, and lawyering, and preaching, and
all kinds of trades. The coffers of
Prince Bull were full of treasure, his
cellars were crammed with delicious
wines from all parts of the world, the
richest gold and silver plate that ever
was seen adorned his side-boards, his
sons were strong, his daughters were
handsome, and in short you might have
supposed that if there ever lived upon
earth a fortunate and happy Prince,
the name of that Prince, take him for
all in all, was assuredly Prince Bull.

But, appearances, as we all know, are
not always to be trusted — far from it ;
and if they had led you to this conclusion
respecting Prince Bull, they would have
led you wrong as they often have led me.

For, this good Prince had two sharp
thorns in his pillow, two hard knobs in
his crown, two heavy loads on his mind,
two unbridled nightmares in his sleep,
two rocks ahead in his course. He
could not by any meana get servants to
suit him, and he had^a tyrannical old
godmother whose name was Tape.

She was a Fairy, this Tape, and was
a bright red all over. She was disgust
ingly prim and formal, and could never
bend herself a hair's breadth this way
or that way, out of her naturally crook
ed shape. But, she was very potent in
her wicked art. She could stop the
fastest tiling in the world, change
the strongest thing into the weakest,
9

and the most useful into the most use
less. To do this she had only to put
her cold hand upon it, and repeat her
own name, Tape. Then it withered
away.

At the Court of Prince Bull — at least
I don't mean literally at his court, be
cause he was a very genteel Prince, and
readily yielded to his godmother when
she always reserved that for his heredi
tary Lords and Ladies — in the domin
ions of Prince Bull, among the great
mass of the community who were called
in the language of that polite country
the Mobs and the Snobs, were a num
ber of very ingenious men, who were
always busy with some invention or
other, for promoting the -prosperity of
the Prince's subjects, and augmenting
the Prince's power. But, whenever they
submitted their models for the Prince's
approval, his godmother stepped for
ward, laid her hand upon them, and
said " Tape." Hence it came to pass,
that when any particularly good dis
covery was made, the discoverer usually
carried it off to some other Prince, ia
foreign parts, who had no old godmother
who said Tape. This was not on the
whole an advantageous state of things
for Prince Bull, to the best of my under
standing.

The worst of it, was, that Prince Bull
had iu course of ye.ars lapsed into such
a state of subjection to this unlucky
godmother, that he never made any
serious effort to rid himself of her
tyranny. I have said this was the worst
of it, but there I was wrong, because
there is a worse consequence still, be
hind. The Prince's numerous family
became so downright sick and tired of
Tape, that when they should have helped
the Prince out of the difficulties into
which that evil creature led him, they fell
into a dangerous habit of moodily keep
ing away from him in an impassive and in
different manner, as though they had
quite forgotten that no harm could
happen to the Prince their father, with
out its inevitably affecting themselves.

Such was the aspect of affairs at the
court of Prince Bull, when this great
Priuce found it necessary to go to wai

128

PRINCE BULL. A FAIRY TALE.

with Prince Bear. He had been for
some time very doubtful of his servants,
who, besides being indolent and addicted
to enriching their families at his ex
pense, domineered over him dreadfully :
threatening to discharge themselves if
they were found the least fault with,
pretending that they had done a won
derful amount of work when they had
done nothing, making the most unmean
ing speeches that ever were heard in the
Prince's name, and uniformly showing
themselves to be very inefficient indeed,
though that some of them had excellent
characters from previous situations is
not to be denied. Well ; Prince
Bull called his servants together, and
said to them one and all, " Send out
ray army against Prince Bear. Clothe
it, arm it, feed it, provide it with all
necessaries and contingencies, and I will
pay the piper ! Do your duty by my
brave troops," said the Prince, " and do
it well, and I will pour my treasure out
like water, to defray the cost. Who
ever heavd ME complain of money well '
laid out !" Which indeed he had rea-
Bon for saying, inasmuch as he was well
known to be a truly generous aiiJ mu
nificent Prince.

When the servants heard those words,
they sent out the army against Prince
Bear, anc thej se* the army tailors to
work, and the army provision merchants,
and the makers of guns both great and
email, and the gunpowder makers, and
the makers of ball, shell, and shot ; and
they bought up all manner of stores and
ships, without troubling their heads
about the price, and appeared to be so
busy that the good Prince rubbed his
hands, and (using a favorite expression
of his), said, " Ifs all right 1" But,
while they were thus employed, the
Prince's godmother, who was a great
favorite with those servants, looked in
upon them continually all day long, and
whenever she popped in her head at the
door, said, " How do you do, my
children ? What are yon doing
here ?" " Official business, godmother."
" Oho !" says this wicked Fairy. " —
Tape!" And then the business all
went wrong, whatever it was, and the
servants' heads became so addled and
muddled that they thought they were
dcing wonders.

Now, this was very bad conduct on

the part of the vicious old nuisance, and
she ought to have been strangled, even
if she had stopped here ; but, she didn't
stop here, as you shall learn. For, a
number of the Prince's subjects, being
very fond of the Prince's army, who were
the bravest of men, assembled together
and provided all manner of eatables and
drinkables, and books to read, and
clothes to wear, and tobacco to smoke,
and candles to burn, and nailed them up
in great packing-cases, and put them
aboard a great many ships, to be carried
oat to that brave army in the cold and
inclement country where they were fight
ing Prince Bear. Then, up comes this
wicked Fairy as the ships were weigh
ing anchor, and says, " How do you do,
my children ? What are you doing
here ?" — " We are going with all these
comforts to the arrny, godmother." —
" Oho !" says she. "A pleasSnt voyage,
my darlings. — Tape !" And from that
time forth, those enchanted ships went
sailing, against wind and tide and rhyme
and reason, round and round the world,
and whenever they touched at any port
were ordered off immediately, and could
never deliver their cargoes anywhere.

This, again, was very bad conduct on
the part of the vicious old nuisance, and
she ought to have been strangled for it
if she had done nothing worse ; but, she
did something worse still, as you shall
learn. For, she got astride of an offi
cial broomstick, and muttered as a -spell
these two sentences " On Her Majesty's
service," and "I have the honor to be,
sir, your most obedient servant," and
presently alighted in the cold and in
clement country where the army of
Prince Bull were encamped to fight the
army of Prince Bear. On the seashore
of that country she found, piled together,
a number of houses for the army to live
in, and a quantity of provisions for the
army to live upon, and a quantity of
clothes for the army to wear : while,
sitting in the mud gazing at them, were
a group of officers as red to look at as
the wicked old woman herself. So, she
said to one of them,'" Who are you, my
darling, and how do you do ?" — "I am
the Quarter- master General's Depart
ment, godmother, and I am pretty
well." Then she said to another, "Who
are you, my darling, and how do you
do?" — "I am the Commissariat De-

PRINCE BULL. A FAIRY TALE.

139

partment, godmother, and I am pretty
well." Then she said to another,
" Who are you, ray darling, and how
do you do ?" — " I am the Head of the
Medical Department, godmother, and I
am pretty well." Then, she said to some
gentlemen scented with lavender, who
kept themselves at a great distance from
the rest, " And who are you, my pretty
pets, and how do you do ?" And they
answered, " We-aw-are-the-aw-Staff-aw-
Department, godmother, and we are
yery well indeed.,". — " I am delighted to
see you all, my beauties," says this wick
ed old Fairy, " — Tape 1" Upon that,
the houses, clothes, and provisions, all
mouldered away ; and the soldiers who
were sound, fell sick ; and the soldiers
who were sick, died miserably ; and the
noble army of Prince Bull perished.

When the dismal news of his great
loss was carried to the Prince, he sus
pected his godmother very much indeed ;
but, he knew that his servants must
have kept company with the malicious
beldame, and must have given way to
her, and therefore he resolved to turn
those servants out of their places. So,
he called to him a Roebuck who had the
gift of speech, and he said, " Good Roe
buck, tell them they must go." So, the
good Roebuck delivered his message, so
like a man that you might have sup
posed him to be nothing but a man, and
they were turned out — but, not without
warning, for that they had had a long
time.

And now comes the most extraordi
nary part of the history of this Prince.
When he had turned out those servants,
of course he wanted others. What was
his astonishment to find that in all his
dominions, which contained no less than
twenty-seven millions of people, there
were not above five-and -twenty servants
altogether I They were so lofty about
it, too, that instead of discussing
whether they should hire themselves as
servants to Prince Bull, they turned
things topsy-turvy, and considered
whether as a favor they should hire
Prince Bull to be their master ! While
they were arguing this point among
themselves quit) at their leisure, the

wicked old red Fairy ^as incessantly
going up and down, knocking at the
doors of twelve of the oldest of the five-
and-twenty, who were the oldest inhabit
ants in all that country, and whose
united ages amounted to one thousand,
saying, "Will you hire Prince Bull for
your master ? — Will you hire Prince
Bull for your master ?" To which one
answered, * I will if next door will ;"
and another, "I won't if over the way
does ;" and another, " I can't if he, she,
or they, might, could, would, or should."
And all this time Prince Bull's affairs
were going to rack and ruin.

At last, Prince Bull in the height of
his perplexity assumed a thoughtful face,
as if he were struck by an entirely new
idea. The wicked old Fairy, seeing
this, was at his elbow directly, and said,
" How do you do, my Prince, and what
are you thinking off?" — "I am think
ing, godmother," says he, " that among
all the seven-and-twenty millions of my
subjects who have never been in service,
there are men of intellect and business
who have made me very famous both
among my friends and enemies." —
" Aye, truly ?" says the Fairy. — " Aye,
truly," says the Prince. — " And what
then ?» says the Fairy.—" Why, then,"
says he, " since the regular old class of
servants do so ill, are so hard to get,
and carry it with so high a hand, per
haps I might try to make good servants
of some of these." The words had no
sooner passed his lips than she returned,
chuckling, " You think so, do you ?
Indeed, iny Prince ?— Tape 1" There
upon h<5 directly forgot what he was
thinking! of, and cried out lamentably to
the old servants, " 0, do come and hire
your poor old master ! Pray do ! Ou
any terms !"

And this, for the present, finishes the
story of Prince Bull. I wish I could
wind it up by saying that he lived happy
ever afterwards, but I cannot in my
conscience do so ; for, with Tape at his
elbow, and his estranged children fatally
repelled by her from coming near him, I
do not, to tell you the plain truth, be
lieve in the possibility of such an end
to it.

140

A PLATED ARTIC. E.

A PLATED ARTICLE.

.PUTTING up for the night in one of
the chiefest towns of Staffordshire, I
find it to be by no means a lively town.
In fact it is as dull and dead a town as
any one could desire not to see. It
seems as if its whole population might
be imprisoned in its Railway Station.
The Refreshment-Room at that Station
is a vortex of dissipation compared with
the extinct town-inn, the Dodo, in the
dull High Street.

Why High Street ? Why not rather
Low Street, Flat Street, Low-Spirited
Street, Used-up Street ? Where are
the people who belong to the High
Street ? Can they all be dispersed over
the face of the country, seeking the un
fortunate Strolling Manager who de
camped from the mouldy little Theatre
last week, in the beginning of his season
(as his play-bills testify), repentantly re
solved to bring him back, and feed him,
and be entertained ? Or, can they all
be gathered to their fathers in the two
old churchyards near to the High Street
—retirement into which churchyards ap
pears to be a mere ceremony, there is so
very little life outside their confines, and
such small discernible difference be
tween being buried alive in the town,
and buried dead in the town tombs ?
Over the way, opposite to the staring
blank bow windows o£ the Dodo, are a
little ironmonger's shop, a little tailor's
shop (with a picture of the Fashions in
the small window and a bandy-legged
baby on the pavement staring at it) — a
watchmaker's shop, where all the clocks
and watches must be stopped, I am sure,
for they could never have the courage
to go, with the town in general, and the
Dodo in particular, looking at them.
Shade of Miss Linwood, erst of Leices
ter Square, London, thou art welcome
here, and thy retreat is fitly chosen ! I
myself was one of the last visitors to
that awful storehouse of -thy life's work,
where an anchorite old man and woman
took my shilling with a solemn wonder,
and conducting me to a gloomy sepul
chre of needlework dropping to pieces
with dust and age and shrouded in twi
light at high noon, left me there, chilled,
frightened, and alone. And now, in

ghostly letters on all the dead walis of
this dead town, I read thy honored
name, and find that thy Last Supper,
worked in Berlin Wool, invites inspec
tion as a powerful excitement !

Where are the people who are bidden
with so much cry to this feast of little
wool? Where are they? Who are
they ? They are not the bandy-legged
baby studying the fashions in the tailor's
window. They are not the two earthy
ploughmen lounging outside the sad-
dlev's shop, in the stiff square where the
Town Hall stands, like a brick and
mortar private on parade. They are
not the landlady of the Dodo in the
empty bar, whose eye had tronble in it
and no welcome, when I asked for din
ner. They are not the turnkeys of the
Town Jail, looking out of the gateway
in their uniforms, as if they had locked
up all the balance (as my American
friends would say) of the inhabitants,
and could now rest a little. They are
not the two dusty millers in the white
mill down by the river, where the great
water-wheel goes heavily round and
round, like the monotonous days and
nights in this forgotten place. Then
who are they, for there is no one else ?
No ; this deponent maketh oath and
saith that there is no one else, save and
except the waiter at the Dodo, now lay
ing the cloth. I have paced the streets,
and stared at the houses, and am come
back to the blank bow window of the
Dodo ; and the town clocks strike seven,
and the reluctant echoes seem to cry,
" Don't wake us !" and the bandy-legged
baby has gone home to bed.

If the Dodo were only a gregarious
bird — if it had only some confused idea
of making a comfortable nest — I could
hope to get through the hours between
this and bed-time, and without being
cousumed by devouring melancholy.
But, the Dodo's habits are all wrong.
It provides me with a trackless desert
of sitting-room, with a chair for every
day in the year, .a table for every month,
and a waste of sideboard where a lonely
China vase pines in a corner for its mate
long departed, and will never make a
match with the candlestick in the oppo-

A PLATED ARTICLE.

141

Bite corner if it live till Doomsday. The
Dodo has nothing in the larder. Even
now, I behold the Boots returning with
my sole in a piece of paper ; and with
that portion of ray dinner, the Boots,
perceiving me at the blank bow window,
slaps his leg as he comes across the
road, pretending it is something else.
The Dodo excludes the outer air. When
I mount up to my bed-room, a smell of
closeness and flue gefs lazily up my
nose like sleepy snuff. The loose little
bits of carpet writhe inder my tread,
and take wormy shapes. I don't know
the ridiculous man in the looking-glass,
beyond having met him once or twice in
a dish-cover — and I can never shave
him to-ra rrow morning ! The Dodo is
narrow-minded as to towels ; expects
me to wash on a freemason's apron
without the trimming : when I ask for
soap, gives me a stony-hearted some
thing white, with no more lather in it
than the Elgin marbles. The Dodo has
seen better days, and possesses intermin
able stables at the back — silent, grass-
grown, broken-windowed, horseless.

This mournful bird can fry a sole,
however, which is much. Can cook a
steak, too, which is more. I wonder
where it gets its Sherry ! If I were to
send my pint of wine to some famous
chemist to be analysed, what would it
turn out to be made of? It tastes of
pepper, sugar, bitter almonds, vinegar,
warm knives, any flat drink, and a little
brandy. Would it unman a Spanish
exile by reminding him of his native
land at all ? I think not. If there
really be any townspeople out of the
churchyards, and if a caravan of them
ever do dine, with a bottle of wine per
man, in this desert of the Dodo, it must
make good for the doctor next day !

Where was the waiter born ? How
did he come here ? Has he any hope
of getting away from here ? Does he
ever receive a letter, or take a ride upon
the railway, or see anything but Dodo ?
Perhaps he has seen the Berlin Wool.
He appears to have a silent sorrow on
him, and it may be that. He clears the
table ; draws the dingy curtains of the
great bow window, which so uuwillingly
consent to meet, that ther must be
pinned together; leaves me t-v the fire
with my pict decanter, and a i»Ule thin
funnel-shaped wine-glass, and a plate

of pale biscuits — in themselves engen
dering desperation.

No book, no newspaper ! I left the
Arabian Nights in the railway carriage,
and have nothing to read but Bradshaw,
and " that way madness lies." Remem
bering what prisoners and shipwrecked
mariners have done to exercise their
minds in solitude, I repeat the multipli
cation table, the pence table, and the
shilling table : which are all the tablea
I happen to know. What if I write
something ? The Dodo keeps no pens
but steel pens; and those I always
stick through the paper, and can turn to
no other account.

What am I to do ? Even if I could
have the bandy-legged baby knocked up
and brought here, I could offer him
nothing but sherry, and that would be
the death of him. He would never hold
up his head again if he touched it. I
can't go to bed, because I have con«
ceived a mortal hatred for my bed-room ;
and I can't go away, because there is no
train for my place of destination until
morning. To burn the biscuits will be
but a fleeting joy ; still it is a temporary
relief, and here they go on the fire 1
Shall I break the plate ? First let me
look at the back, and see who made it.
COPELAND.

Copelaud ! l3top a moment. Wai
it yesterday I visited Copeland's works,
and saw them making plates ? In the
confusion of travelling about, it might
be yesterday or it might be yesterday
mouth ; but I think it was yesterday. I
appeal to the plate. The plate says,
decidedly, yesterday. I find the plate,
as I look at it, growing into a com
panion.

Don't you remember (says the plate)
how you steamed away, yesterday morn
ing, in the bright sun and the east wind,
along the valley of the sparkling Trent ?
Don't you recolle.ct how many kilns you
flew past, looking like the bowls of gi
gantic tobacco pipes, cut short off from
the stem and turned upside down ? And
the fires — and the smoke— and the roads
made with bits of crockery, as if all the
plates and dishes in the civilised world
had been Macadamised, expressly for
th6 laming of all the horses ? Of course
Idol

And don't yon remember (says the
plate) I :w you alighted at Stoke — a pic-

142

A PLATED ARTICLE.

turesqne heap of houses, kilns, smoke,
wharfs, canals, and river, lying (as was
most appropriate) in a basin — and how,
after climbing up the sides of the basin
to look at the prospect, you trundled
down again at a walking-match pace,
and straight proceeded to my father's,
Copeland's, where the whole of rny
family, high and low, rich and poor,
are turned out upon the world from our
nursery and seminary, covering some
fourteen acres of ground ? And don't
you remember what we spring from : —
heaps of lumps of clay, partially pre
pared and cleaned in Devonshire and
Dorsetshire, whence said clay princi
pally comes — and hills of flint, without
which we should want our ringing sound,
and should never be musical ? And as
to the flint, don't you recollect that it
is first burnt in kilns, and is then laid
under the four iron feet of a demon
slave, subject to violent stamping fits,
who, when they come on, stamps away
insanely with his four iron legs, and
would crush all the flint in the Isle of
Thanet to powder, vvithout leaving off?
And as to the clay, don't you recollect
bow it is put into mills or teazers, and
is sliced, and dug, and cut at, by endless
knives, clogged and sticky, but persist-
tjnt — and is pressed out of that machine
through a square trough, whose form it
takes — and is cut off in square lumps
and thrown into a v/it, and there mixed
with water, and beaten to a pulp by
paddle-wheels — and is then run into a
rough house, all rugged beams and lad
ders splashed with white, — superintend
ed by Grindoff the Miller in his working,
clothes, all splashed with white, — where
it passes through no end of machinery-
moved sieves all splashed with white,
arranged in an ascending scale of fine
ness (some so fine, that three hundred
silk threads cross each other in a single
square inch of their surface), and all in
a violent state of ague with their teeth
.for ever chattering, and their bodies for
ever shivering ? And as to the flint
again, isn't it mashed and mollified and
troubled and soothed, exactly as rags
are in a paper-mill, until it is reduced
to a pap so fine that it contains no atom
of "grit" perceptible to the nicest taste ?
And as to the flint and the clay together,
are they not, after all this, mixed in the
proportion of five of clay to one of flint,

and isn't the compound-— known at
" slip" — run into oblong trougos, where
its superfluous moisture may evaporate ;
and finally, isn't it slapped and banged
and beaten and patted and kneaded
and wedged and knocked about like
butter, until it becomes a beautiful grey
dough, ready for the potter's use ?

In regard of the potter, popularly so
called (says the plate), you don't mean
to say you have forgotten that a work
man called a Thrower is the man under
whose hand this grey dough takes the
shapes of the simpler household vessels
as quickly as the eye can follow ? You
don't mean to say you ca'inot call him
up before you, sitting, with his attendant
woman, at his potter's wheel — a disc
about the size of a dinner plate, revolv
ing on two drums slowly or quickly as
he wills — who made you a complete
breakfast set for a bachelor, as a good-
humored little off-hand joke ? You re
member how betook up as much dough
as he wanted, and, throwing it on his
wheel, in a moment fashioned it into »
teacup — caught up more clay and made
a saucer — a larger dab and whirled it
into a teapot — winked at a smaller dab
and converted it into the lid of the tea
pot, accurately fitting, by the measure*
ment of his eye alone — coaxed a middle*
sized dab for two seconds, broke it, turned
it over at the rim, and made a milkpot — >
laughed, and turned out a slop-basin —
coughed, and provided for the sugar ?
Neither, I think, are you oblivious of
the newer mode of making various arti
cles, but especially basins, according to
which improvement a mould revolves
instead of a disc ? For you must re
member (says the plate) how you saw
the mould of a little basin spinning
round and round, and how the workman
smoothed and pressed a handful of dough
upon it, and how with an instrument
called a profile (a piece of wood, repre
senting the profile of a basin's foot) he
cleverly scraped and carved the ring
which makes the base of any such basin,
and then took the basin off the lathe
like a doughey skull-cap to be dried,
and afterwards (in what is called a green,
state) to be put into a second lathe,
there to be finished and burnished with
a steel burnisher ? And as to moulding
in general (says the plate), it can't be
necessary for me to remind you that all

A. PLATED IRTICLB.

ornamental articles, and indeed all arti
cles not quite circular, are made in
moulds. For you must remember how
you saw the vegetable dishes, for exam
ple, being made in moulds; and how the
handles of teacups, and the spouts of
teapots, and the feet/of tureens, and so
forth, are all made in little separate
^moulds, and are each stuck on to the
body corporate, of which it is destined
to form a part, with a stuff called " slag,"
as quickly as you can recollect it. Fur
ther, you learnt — you know you did —
in the same visit, how the beautiful
sculptures in the delicate new material
called Parian, are all constructed in
moulds ; how, into that material, animal
bones are ground up, because the phos
phate of lime contained in bones makes
it translucent ; how everything is mould
ed, before going into the fire, one-fourth
larger than it is intended to come out
of the fire, because it shrinks in that
proportion in the intense heat ; how,
when a figure shrinks unequally, it is
spoiled — emerging from the furnace a
mis-shapen birth ; a big head and a lit
tle body, or a little head and a big body,
or a Quasimodo with long arms and
short legs, or a Miss Biffin with neither
legs nor arms worth mentioning.

And as to the Kilns, in which the
firing takes place, and in which some
of the more precious articles are burnt
repeatedly, in various stages of their
process towards completion, — as to the
Kilns (says the plate, warming with the
recollection), if you don't remember
THEM with .a horrible interest, what did
you ever go to Copeland's for ? When
you stood inside of one of those inverted
bowls of a Pre-Adamite tobacco-pipe,
looking up at the blue sky through the
open top far off, as you might have
looked up from a well, sunk under the
centre of the pavement of the Pantheon
at Rome, had you the least idea where
you were? And when you found your
self surrounded, in that dome-shaped
cavern, by innumerable columns of an
unearthly order of architecture, sup
porting nothing, and squeezed close to
gether as if a Pre-Adamite Samson had
taken a vast Hall in his arms and crushed
it into the smallest possible space, had
you the least idea what they were ? No
(says the plate), of course not 1 And
when you found that each of those pil

lars was a pile of ingeniously mad« ves
sels of coarse clay — called Saggers —
looking, when separate, like raised-pies
for the table of the mighty Giant Blun-
derbore, and now all full of various ar
ticles of pottery ranged in them in
baking order, the bottom of each vessel
serving for the cover of the one below,
and the whole Kiln rapidly filling with
these, tier upon tier, until the last work
man should have barely room to crawl
out, before the closing of the jagged
aperture in the wall and the kindling of
the gradual fire ; did you not stand
amazed to think that all the year round
these dread chambers are heating, white
hot — and cooling — and filling — and
emptying — and being bricked up — and
broken open — humanly speaking, for
ever and ever ? To be sure you did 1
And standing in one of those Kilns
nearly full, and seeing a free crow shoot
across the aperture a-top, and learning
how the fire would wax hotter and hot
ter by slow degrees, and would cool
similarly through a space of from forty
to sixty hours, did no remembrance of
the days when human clay was burnt
oppress you ? Yes, I think so ! I sus
pect that some fancy of a fiery haze and
e shortening breath, and a glowing heat,
and a gasping prayer ; and a figure in
black interposing between you and the
sky (as figures in black are very apt to.
do), and lookingdown, before it grew too
hot to look and live, upon the Heretie
in his edifying agony — I say I suspect
(says the plate) that some such fancy
was pretty strong upon you when you
went out into the air, and blessed, God
for the bright spring day and the de
generate times 1

After that, I needn't remind you what
a relief it was to see the simplest pro
cess of ornameting this "biscuit" (as
it is called when baked) with brown
circles and blue trees — converting it
into the common crockery-ware that is
exported to Africa, and used in cottages
at home. For (says the plate) I am
well persuaded that you bear in mind
how those particular juga and mugs
were once more set upou a lathe and
put in motion ; and how a man blew
the brown color (having a strong na
tural affinity with the material in that
condition) on them from a blow-pipe aa
they twirled ; and how his daughter, with

144

A PLATED ARTICLE.

acoramon brush, dropped blotches of bine
upon them in the right places ; and how,
tilting the blotches upside down, she
made'them run into rude images of trees,
and there an end.

And didn't you see (says the plate)
planted upon my own brother that as
tounding blue willow, with knobbed
and gnarled trunk, and foliage of blue
ostrich feathers, which gives our family
the title of "willow pattern?" And
didn't you observe, transferred upon
him at the same time, that blue bridge
which spans nothing, growing out from
the roots of the willow ; and the three
blue Chinese going over it into a blue
temple, which has a fine crop of blue
Dushes sprouting out of the roof; and
a blue boat sailing above them, the mast
of which is burglariously sticking itself
into the foundations of a blue villa,
suspended sky-high, surmounted by a
lump of blue rock, sky-higher, and a
couple of billing blue birds, sky-highest
—together with the rest of that amusing
Uue landscape, which has, in deference
to our revered ancestors of the Cerulean
Empire, and in defiance of every known
law of perspective, adorned millions of
our family ever since the days of plat
ters ? Didn't you inspect the copper
plate on which my pattern was deeply
engraved ? Didn't you perceive an im
pression of it taken in cobalt color at a
cylindrical press, upon a leaf of thin
paper, streaming from a plunge-bath of
soap and water ? Wasn't the paper im
pression daintily spread by a light-fin
gered damsel (you know you admired
her !) over the surface of the plate, and
the back of the paper rubbed prodigi
ously hard — with a long tight roll of
flannel, tied up like a round of hung
beef — without so much as ruffling the
paper, wet as it was ? Then (says the
plate), was not the -paper washed away
with a sponge, and didn't there appear,
Bet off upon the plate, this identical
piece of Pre-Raphaelite blue distemper
which you now behold ? Not to be de
nied 1 I had seen all this — and more.
I had been shown, at Copeland's, pat
terns of beautiful design, in faultless
perspective, which are causing the ugly
old willow to wither out of public favor ;
and which, being quite as cheap, insinu
ate gooi wholesome natural art into
Vhe humblest hoseholds. When Mr.

and Mrs. Sprat have satisfied their ma
terial tastes by that equal division of fat
and lean which has made their menage
immortal ; and have, after the elegant
tradition, "licked the platter clean,"
they can — thanks to modern artists in
clay — feast their intellectual tastes upon
excellent delineations of natural objects.

This reflection prompts me to trans
fer my attention from the blue plate to
the forlorn but cheerfully painted vaso
on the sideboard. And surely (says the
plate) you have not forgotten how the
outlines of such groups of flowers as
you see there, are printed, just as I
was printed, and are afterwards shaded
and filled in with metallic colors by
women and girls? As to the .aristoc
racy of our order, made of the finer
clay — porcelain peers and peeresses ;
— the slabs, and panels, and table tops,
and tazz.e ; the endless nobility and
gentry of desert, breakfast, and tea ser
vices ; the gemmed perfume bottles,
and scarlet and gold salvers ; you saw
that they were painted by artists, with
metallic colors laid on with camel-hair
pencils, and afterwards burnt in.

And talking of burning in (says tbe
plate), didn't you find that every sub
ject, from the willow-pattern to th«
landscape after Turner — having been
framed upon clay or porcelain biscuit —
has to be glazed ? Of course, you saw
the glaze — composed of various vitre
ous materials — laid over every article ;
and of course you witnessed the close
imprisonment of each piece in sag
gers upon the separate system, rigidly
enforced by means of fine-pointed earth
enware stilts placed between the articles
to prevent the slightest communication
or contract. We bad in my time — and
I suppose it is the same now — fourteen
hours firing to fix the glaze and to make
it "run" all over us equally, so as to
put a good shiny and unscratchable sur
face upon us. Doubtless, you observed
that one sort of glaze — called printing-
body — is burnt into the better sort of
ware before it is printed. Upon this you
saw some of the finest steel engravings
transferred, to be fixed by an after glazing
— didn't you ? Why, of course you did 1

Of course I did. I had seen and en
joyed everything that the plate recalled
to me, and had beheld with admiration
I how the rotatory motion which keeps

OUR HONORABLE FRIEND.

145

tbis ball of oars in its place in the great
scheme, with all its busy mites upon it,
was necessary throughout the process,
and could only .be dispensed with in the
fire. So, listening to the plate's re
minders, and musing upon them, I got
through the evening after all, and went

to bed. I made but one sleep of it —
for which I have no doubt I am also in
debted to the plate — and left the lonely

Dodo in the morning, quite at peace
with it, before the bandy-legged baby
was up.

OUR HONORABLE FRIEND.

WE are delighted to find that he has
got in ! Our honorable friend is tri
umphantly returned to serve in the next
Parliament. He is the honorable mem
ber for Verbosity — the best represented
place in England.

Our honorable friend has issued an
address of congratulation to the Elec
tors, which is worthy of that noble con
stituency, and is a very pretty piece of
composition. In electing him, he says,
they have covered themselves with glory,
and England has been true to herself.
(In his preliminary address he had re
marked, in a poetical quotation of great
rarity, that nought could make us rue,
if England to herself did prove but
true.)

Our honorable friend delivers a pre
diction, in the same document, that the
feeble minions of a faction will never
hold up their heads any more ; and that
the finger of scorn will point at them in
their dejected state, through countless
ages of time. Further that the hireling
tools that would destroy the sacred bul
warks of our nationality are unworthy
of the name of Englishmen ; and that
so long as the sea "Shall roll around our
ocean-girded isle, so long his motto
shall be, No Surrender. Certain dogged
persons of low principles and no intel
lect, have disputed whether any body
knows who the minions are, or what the
faction is, or which are the hireling tools
and which the sacred bulwarks, or what
it is that is. never to be surrendered, and
if not, why not? But, our honorable
friend the member for Verbosity knows
all about it.

Our honorable friend has sat in sev
eral parliaments, and given bushels of
rotes. He is a man of that profundity
Ui the matte" of vote-giving, that you

never know what he means. When he
seems- to be voting pure white, he may
be in reality voting jet black. When
he says Yes, it is just as likely as not —
or rather more so — that he means No.
This is the statesmanship of our honor
able friend. It is in this, that he differs
from mere unparliamentary men. You
may not know what he meant thgn, or
what he means now ; but our honorable
friend knows, and did from the first
know, both what he meant then, and
what he means now ; and when he said
he didn't mean it then, be did in fast
say, that he means it now. And if you
mean to say that you did not then, and
do not now, know what he did mean
then, or does mean now, our honorable
friend will be glad to receive an explicit
declaration from you whether you are
prepared to destroy the sacred bulwarks
of our nationality.

Our honorable friend, the member for
Verbosity, has this great attribute, that
he always means something, and always
means the same thing. When he came
down to that House and mournfully
boasted in his place, as an individual
member of the assembled Commons of
this great and happy country, that he
could lay his hand upon his heart, and
solemnly declare that no consideration
on earth should induce him, at any time
or under any circumstances, to go as
far north as Berwick-upon-Tweed ; and
when be nevertheless, next year, did go
to Berwick-upoii-Tweed, and even be
yond it, to Edinburgh ; he had one sin
gle meaning, one and indivisible. And
God forbid (our honorable friend says)
that he should waste another argument
upon the man who professes that he
cannot understand it! "I do NOT, gen
tlemen," said our honorable friend, witb

146

OUR HONORABLE FRIEND.

indignant emphasis and amid great
cheering, on one such public occasion.
" I do NOT, gentlemen, I am free to con
fess, envy the feelings of that man whose
mind is so constituted as that he can
hold such language to me, and yet lay
his head upon his pillow, claiming to be
a native of that, laud,

Whose inarch is o'er the mountain-wave,
Whose home is on the deep !

(Vehement cheering, and man expelled. )
When our honorable friend issued
his preliminary address to the con
stituent body of Verbosity on the oc
casion of one particular glorious tri
umph, it was supposed by some of his
enemies, that even he would be placed
in a situation of difficulty by the follow
ing comparatively trifling conjunction
of circumstances. The dozen noblemen
and gentlemen wlhom our honorable
friend supported, had "come in," ex
pressly to do a certain thing. Now,
four of the dozen said, at a certain
place, that they didn't mean tc do that
thing, and had never meant to do it ;
another four of the dozen said, at
another certain place, that they did
mean to do that thing, and had always
meant to do it ; two of the remaining
four said, at two other certain places,
that they meant to do half of that thing
(bat differed about which half), and to
do a variety of nameless wonders instead
of the other half; and one of the re
maining two declared that the thing
itself was dead and buried, while the
other as strenuously protested that it
was alive and kicking. It was admitted
that the parliamentary genius of our
honorable friend would be quite able to
reconcile such small discrepancies as
these ; but, there remained the addi
tional difficulty that each of the twelve
made entirely different statements at
different places, and that all the twelve
called everything risible and invisible,
sacred and profane, to witness, that they
were a perfectly impregnable phalanx
of unanimity. This, it was apprehend
ed, would be a stumbling-block to our
honorable friend.

The difficulty came before our honor
able friend, in this way. He went down
to Verbosity to meet bis free and. inde
pendent constituents, and to render an
account fas he informed them in the

local papers) of t. e trust they had ion-
fided to his hands — that trust which it
was one of the proudest privileges of
an Englishman to possess — that trust
which it wag the proudest privilege of
an Englishman to hold. It may be
mentioned as a proof of the great
general interest attaching to the contest,
that a Lunatic whom nobody employed
or knew, went down to Verbosity with
several thousand pounds in gold, deter
mined to give the whole away — which
he actually did ; and that all the publi
cans opened their houses for nothing.
Likewise, several fighting men, and a
patriotic group of burglars sportively
armed with life-preservers, proceeded
(in barouches and very drunk) to the
scene of action at their own expense ;
these children of nature having con
ceived a warm attachment to our honor
able friend, and intending, in their art
less manner, to testify it by knocking
the voters in the opposite interest on
the head.

Our honorable friend being come into
the presence of his constituents, and
having professed with great suavity that
he was delighted to see his good friend
Tipkisson there, in his working dress —
his good friend Tipkisson being an in
veterate saddler, who always opposes
him, and for whom he has a mortal
hatred — made them a brisk, ginger-
beery sort of speech, in which he showed
them how the dozen noblemen and gen
tlemen had (in exactly ten days from
their coming in) exercised a surprisingly
beneficial effect on the whole financial
condition of Europe, had altered the
state of the exports and imports for the
current half-year, had prevented the
drain of gold, had made all that matter
right about the glut of the raw mate
rial, and had restored all sorts of bal
ances with which the superseded noble
men and gentlemen had played the
deuce — and all this with wheat at so
much a quarter, gold at so much an
ounce, and the Bank of England dis
counting good bills at so much per cent !
He might be as.ked, he observed in a
peroration of great power, what were his
principles? His principles were what
they always had been. His principles
were written in the countenances of the
lion and unicorn ; were stamped indeli
bly ppon the royal shield which those

OUR HONORABLE FRIEND.

147

grand animals supported, and upon the
free words of fire which that shield bore.
His principles were, Britannia and her
sea-king trident ! His principles, were,
commercial prosperity co-existently with
perfect and profound agricultural con
tentment ; but short of this he would
never stop. His principles were, these,
— with the addition of his colors nailed
to the mast, every man's heart in the
right place, every man's eye open, every
man's hand ready, every man's mind on
the alert. His principles were these,
concurrently with a general revision of
something — speaking generally — and a
possible re-adjustment of something else,
not to be mentioned more particularly.
His principles, to sum up all in a word,
were, Hearths and Altars, Labor and
Capital, Crown and Sceptre, Elephant
and Castle. And now, if his good
Tipkisson required any further
explanation from him, he (our honorable
friend) was there, willing and ready to
give it.

Tipkisson, who all this time had stood
conspicuous in the crowd, with his arms
folded and his eyes intently fastened on
our honorable friend : Tipkisson, who
throughout our honorable friend's ad
dress had not relaxed a muscle of his
visage, but had stood there, wholly un
affected by the torrent of eloquence : an
object of contempt and scorn to man
kind (by which we mean, of course, to
the supporters of our honorable friend) ;
Tipkisson now said that he was a plain
man (Cries of " You are indeed !"), and
that what he wanted to know was, what
our honorable friend and the dozen
noblemen and gentlemen were driving
at?

Our honorable friend immediately re
plied, " At the illimitable perspective."

It was considered by the whole assem
bly that this happy statement of our
honorable friend's political views ought,
immediately, to have settled Tipkisson's
business and covered him with confu
sion ; but, that implacable person,
regardless of the execrations that were
heaped upon him from all sides (by
which we mean, of course, from our
honorable friend's side), persisted in re
taining an unmoved countenance, and
obstinately retorted that if our honor
able friend meant that, he wished 'to
know what that meant ?

It was in repelling this most objec
tionable and indecent opposition, that
our honorable friend displayed his high
est qualifications for the representation
of Verbosity. His warmest supporters
present, and those who were best ac
quainted with his generalship, supposed
that the moment was come when he
would fall back upon the sacred bul
warks of our nationality. No such
thing. He replied thus : " My good
friend Tipkisson, gentlemen, wishes to
know what I mean when he asks we
what we are driving at, and when I
candidly tell him, at the illimitable per
spective. He wishes (if I understand
him) to know what I mean ?" " I
do 1" says Tipkisson, amid cries of
" Shame" and " Down with him."
" Gentlemen," says our honorable friend,
" I will indulge my good friend Tipkis
son, by telling him, both what I mean
and what I don't mean. (Cheers and
cries of " Give it him I") Be it known
to him then, and to all whom it may
concern, that I do mean altars, hearths,
and homes, and that I don't mean
mosques and Mohammedanism 1" The
effect of this home-thrust was terrific.
Tipkisson (who is a Baptist) was hooted
down and hustled out, and has ever
since been regarded as a Turkish Rene
gade who contemplates an early pil
grimage to Mecca. Nor was he the
only discomfited man. The charge,
while it stuck to him, was magically
transferred to our honorable friend's
opponent, who was represented in an
immense variety of placards as a firm
believer in Matomet; and the men of
Verbosity were asked to choose between
our honorable friend and the Bible, and
our honorable friend's opponent and the
Koran. They decided for our honor
able friend, and rallied round the illimit
able perspective.

It has been claimed for our honorable
friend, with much appearance of reason,
that he was the first to bend sacred
matters to electioneering tactics. How
ever this may be, the fine precedent was
undoubtedly set in a Verbosity election :
and it is certain that our honorable
friend (who was a disciple of Brahma
in his youth, and was a Buddhist when
he had the honor of travelling with him
a few years ago,) always professes in
public more anxiety than the whole

148

OUR SCHOOL.

Bench of Bishops, regarding tfie theolog
ical and doxological opinions :>f every
man, woman, and child, in the United
Kingdom.

As we began by saying that our hon
orable friend has got in again at this
last election, and that we are delighted
to find that he has got in, so we will
conclude. Our honorable friend cannot
come in for Yerbosity too often. It is
a gocd sign ; it is a great example. It
is to men like our honorable friend, and
to contests like those from which he
comes triumphant, that we are mainly
indebted for that ready interest in poli
tics, that fresh enthusiasm in the dis
charge of the duties of citizenship, that
ardent desire to rush to the poll, at pre-
Mnt so manifest throughout England.

: When the contest lies (as it sometimes
does) between two such men as our
honorable friend, it stimulates the finest
emotions of our nature, and awakens
the highest admiration of which our
heads and hearts are capable.

It is not too much to predict that our
honorable friend will be always at his
post in the ensuing session. Whatever
the question be, or whatever the form
of its discussion ; address to the crown,
election-petition, expenditure of the
public money, extension of the public
suffrage, education, crime ; in the whole
house, in committee of the whole house,
in select committee ; in every parliament
ary discussion of every subject, every
where : the Honorable Member for Ver
bosity will most certainly be found.

OUR SCHOOL.

WE went to look at it, only this last
Midsummer, and found that the Rail
way had cut it up root and branch. A
great trunk-line had swallowed the play
ground, sliced away the schoolroom, and
pared off the corner of the house ; which,
thus curtailed of its proportions, pre
sented itself, in a green stage of stucco,
profilewise towards the road, like a for
lorn flat-iron without a handle, standing
on end.

It seems as if our schools were doomed
to be the sport of change. We have
faint recollections of a Preparatory Day-
School, which we have sought in vain,
and which must have been pulled down
to make a new street, ages ago. We
have dim impressions, scarcely amount
ing to a belief, that it was over a dyer's
shop. We know that you went up steps
to it ; that you frequently grazed your
knees in doing so ; that you generally
got your leg over the scraper, in trying
to scrape the mud off a very unsteady
little shoe. The mistress of the Estab
lishment holds no place in our memory ;
but, rampant on one eternal door-mat,
in an eternal entry long and narrow, is
a puffy pug-dog, with a personal ani
mosity towards us, who* triumphs over
Time. The bark of that Saleful Pug, a
certain radiating way he had of snap

ping at our undefended legs, the ghastly
grinning of his moist black muzzle and
white teeth, and the insolence of his
crisp tail curled like a pastoral crook,
all live and flourish. From an other
wise unaccountable association of him
with a fiddle, we conclude that he was
of French extraction, and his name
Fidele. He belonged to some female,
chiefly inhabiting a back-parlor, whose
life appears to us to have been consumed
in sniffing, and in wearing a brown beaver
bonnet. For her, he would sit up and
balance cake upon his nose, and not eat
it until twenty had been counted. To
the best of our belief we were once called
in to witness this performance ; when,
unable, even in his milder moments, to
endure our presence, he instantly made
at us, cake and all.

Why a something in mourning, called
"Miss Frost," should still connect it
self with our preparatory school, we are
unable to say. We retain no impres
sion of the beauty of Miss Frost — if she
were beautiful ; or of the mental fasci
nations of Miss Frost — if she were ac
complished ; yet her name and her black
dress hold an enduring place in our
remembrance. An equally impersonal
boy, whose name has long since shaped
itself unalterably into " Master Mawls,"

SCHOOL.

149

ig not to be dislodged from our brain.
Retaining no vindictive feeling towards
Mawls — no feeling whatever, indeed —
we infer that neither he nor we can have
loved Miss Frost. Our first impression
of Death and Burial is associated with
this formless pair. We all three nestled
awfully in a corner one wintry day, when
the wind was blowing shrill, with Miss
Frost's pinafore over our heads ; and
Miss Frost told us in a whisper about
somebody being " screwed down." It
is the only distinct recollection we pre
serve of these impalpable*ereatures, ex
cept a suspicion that the manners of
Master Mawls were susceptible of much
improvement. Generally speaking, we
may observe that whenever we see a
child intently occupied with its nose, to
the exclusion of all other subjects of
interest, our mind reverts, in a flash, to
Master Mawls.

But, the School that was Our School
before the Railroad came and overthrew
it, was quite another sort of place. We
were old enough to be put into Virgil
when we went there, and to get Prizes
for a variety of polishing on which the
rust has long accumulated. It was a
School of some celebrity in its neighbor
hood — nobody could have said why —
and we had the honor to attain and
hold the eminent position of first boy.
The master was supposed among us to
know nothing, and one of the ushers
was supposed to know everything. We
are still inclined to think the first-named
supposition perfectly correct.

We have a general idea that its sub
ject had been in the leather trade, and
had bought us — meaning Our School —
of another proprietor, who was im
mensely learned. Whether this belief
had any real foundation, we are not
likely ever to know now. The only
branches of education with which he
showed the least acquaintance, were,
ruling and corporally punishing. He
was always ruling ciphering-books with
a bloated mahogany ruler, or smiting
the palms of offenders with the same
diabolical instrument, or viciously draw
ing a pair of pantaloons tight with one
of his large hands, and caning the
wearer with the other. We have no
doubt whatever that this occupation
was the principal solace of his exist
ence.

A profound respect for money per
vaded Our Sclu ol, which was, of course,
derived from its Chief. We remember
an idiotic goggled-eyed boy, with a big
head and half-crowns without end, who
suddenly appeared as a parlor-boarder,
and was rumored to have come by sea
from some mysterious part of the earth
where his parent* rolled in gold. He
was usually called "Mr." by the Chief,
and was said to feed in the parlor on
steaks and gravy ; likewise to drink
currant wine. And he openly stated
that if rolls and coffee were ever denied
him at breakfast, he would write home
to that unknown part of the globe from
which he had come, and cause himself
to be recalled to the regions of gold.
He was put into no form or class, but
learnt alone, as little as he liked — and
he liked very little — and there was a
belief among us that this was because
he was too wealthy to be " taken down."
His special treatment, and our vague
association of him with the sea, and
with storms, and sharks, and Coral
Reefs occasioned the wildest legends to
be circulated as his history. A tragedy
in blank verse was written on the sub
ject — if our memory does not deceive
us, by the hand that now chronicle*
these recollections — in which his father
figured as a Pirate, and was shot for a
voluminous catalogue of atrocities : first
imparting to his wife the secret of the
cave in which his wealth was stored,
and from which his only son's half-
crowns now issued. Duinbledon (the
boy's name) was represented as "yet
unborn" when his brave father met his
fate ; and the despair and grief of Mrs.
Durnbledon at that calamity was mov
ingly shadowed forth as having weak
ened the parlor-boarder's mind This
production was received with great
favor, and was twice performed with
closed doors in the dining-room. But,
it got wind, and was seized as libellous,
and brought the unlucky poet into
severe affliction. Some two years af
terwards, all of a sudden one day, Dum-
bledon vanished. It was whispered that
the Chief himself had taken him down
to the Docks, and re-shipped him for
the Spanish Main ; but nothing certain
was ever known about hi« disappear
ance. At this hour, we cannot tho
roughly disconnect him from California,

150

OUR SCHOOL.

Onr School was rather famous for
mysterious pupils. There was another
—a heavy young man, with a large
double-cased silver watch, and a fat
knife, the handle of which was a perfect
tool-box — who unaccountably appeared
one day at a special desk of his own,
erected close to that of the Chief, with
whom he held ramiliar converse. He
lived in the parlor, and went out for
walks, and never took the least notice
of us — even of us, the first boy — unless
to give us a depreciatory-4nck, or grimly
to take our hat off and throw it away,
when he encountered us out of doors,
which unpleasant ceremony he always
performed as he passed — not even con
descending to stop for the purpose.
Some of us believed that the classical
attainments of this phenomenon were
terrific, but that his penmanship and
arithmetic were defective, and he had
come there to mend them ; others, that
he was going to set up a school, and
had paid the Chief " twenty-five pounds
down," for leave to see Our School at
work. The gloomier spirits even said
that he was going to buy us ; against
which contingency, conspiracies were set
on foot for a general defection and run
ning away. However, he never did
that. After staying for a quarter, dur
ing which period, though closely ob
served, he was never seen to do anything
but make pens out of quills, write small-
hand in a secret portfolio, and punch
the point of the sharpest blade of his
knife into his desk and all over, it, he
too disappeared, and his place knew
him no more.

There was another boy, a fair, meek
boy, with a delicate complexion and
rich curling hair, who, we found out, or
thought we found out (we have no idea
now, and probably had none then, on
what grounds, but it was confidentially
revealed from mouth to mouth), was the
son of a Viscount who had deserted his
lovely mother. It was understood
that if he had his rights, he would be
worth twenty thousand a year. And
that if his mother ever met his father,
she would shoot him with a silver pistol,
which she carried, always loaded to the
muzzlp, for that purpose. He was a
very suggestive topic. So w-as a
young Mulatto, who was always be
lieved (though very amiable) to have a

dagger about him somewhere. Bo , we
think they were both outshone, upon
the whole, by another boy who claimed
to have been born on the twenty-ninth
of February, and to have only one
birthday in five years. We suspect
this to have been a fiction — but he
lived upon it all the time he was at Our
School.

The principal currency of Our School
was slate-pencil. It had some inexplic
able value, that was never ascertained,
never reduced to a standard. To have
a great hoard of it, was somehow to be
rich. We used to bestow it in charity,
and confer it as a precious boon upon
our chosen friends. When the holidays
were coming, contributions were solicit
ed for certain boys whose relatives^ were
in India, and who were appealed for
under the generic name of " Holiday-
stoppers," — appropriate marks of re
membrance that should enliven and
cheer them in their homeless state.
Personally, we always contributed these
tokens of sympathy in the form of slate-
pencil, and always felt that it would be
a comfort and a treasure to them.

Our School was remarkable for white
mice. Red-polls, linnets, and even
canaries, were kept in desks, drawers,
hatboxes, and other strange refuges for
birds; but white mice were the favorite
stock. The bays trained the mice, much
better than the masters trained the boys.
We recall one white mouse, who lived
in the cover of a Latin dictionary; who
ran up ladders, drew Roman chariots,
shouldered muskets, turned wheels, and
even made a very creditable appearance
on the stage as the Dog of Montargis.
He might have achieved greater things,
but for having the misfortune to mistake
his way in a triumphal procession to the
Capitol, he fell into a deep inkstand,
and was dyed black and drowned. The
mice were the occasion of some most in
genious engineering, in the construction
of their houses and instruments of per
formance. Tht famous one belonged
to a Company of proprietors, some of
whom have since made Railroads, En
gines, and Telegraphs ; the chairman
has erected mills and bridges in New
Zealand.

The usher at Our School, who was
considered to know everything as op
posed to the Chief, who was considered

OUR SCHOOL.

151

to know nothing, was a bony, gentle-
faced, clerical-looking young man in
rusty black. It was whispered that he
was sweet upon one of Maxby's sisters
(Maxby lived close by, and was a day
pupil), and further that he " favored
Maxby." As we remember, he taught
Italian to Maxby's sisters on half-holi
days. He once went to the play with
them, and wore a white waistcoat arid a
rose : which was considered among us
equivalent to a declaration. We were
of opinion on that occasion, that to
the last moment he expected Maxby's
father to ask him to dinner at five
o'clock, and therefore neglected his own
dinner at half-past one, and finally got
none. We exaggerated in our imagina
tions the extent to which he punished
Maxby's father's cold meat at supper ;
and we agreed to believe that he was
elevated with wine and water when he
came home. But we all liked him ; for
he had a good knowledge of boys, and
would have made it a much better
school if he had had more power. He
was writing-master, mathematical mas
ter, English master, made out the bills,
mended the pens, and did all sorts of
things. He divided the little boys with
the Latin master (who were smuggled
through their rudimentary books, at odd
times when there was nothing else to
do), and he always called at parents'
houses to inquire after sick boys, be
cause he had gentlemanly manners. He
was rather musical, and on some remote
quarter-day had bought an old trom
bone ; but a bit of it was lost, and it
made the most extraordinary sounds
when be sometimes tried to play it of an
evening. His holidays never began (on
account of the bills) until long after
ours; but, in the summer vacations he
used to take pedestrian excursions with
Q knapsack ; and at Christmas-time, he
went to see his father at Chipping Nor-
ion, who, we all said (on no authority)
was a dairy-fed-pork-butcher. Poor
fellow ! He was very low all day on
Maxby's sister's wedding-clay, and after
wards was thought to favor Maxby more
than ever, though he had been expected
to spite him. He has been dead these
twenty years. Poor fellow !

Our remembrance of Our School, pre
sents the Latin master as a colorless,
doub-ed-'^p, near-sighted man with a

crntch, who was always cold, and always
putting onions into his ears for deafness,
and always disclosing ends of flannel
under all his garments, and almost al
ways applying a ball of pocket-hand
kerchief to some part of his face with a
screwing action round and round. He
was a very good scholar, and took great
pains where he saw intelligence and a
desire to learn : otherwise, perhaps not.
Our memory presents him (unless teased
into a passion) with as little energy as
color — as having been worried and tor
mented into monotonous feebleness — as
having had the best part of his life
ground out of him in a Mill of boys.
We remember with terror how he fell
asleep one sultry afternoon with a little
smuggled class before him, and awoke
not when the footstep of the Chief fell
heavy on the floor; how the Chief aroused
him, in the midst of a dread silence, and
said, " Mr. Blinking, are you ill, sir ?"
how he blushingly replied, "Sir, rather
so ;" how the Chief retorted with sever
ity, " Mr. Blinkins, this is no place to
be ill in " (which was very, very true),
and walked back, solemn as the ghost
in Hamlet, until, catching a wandering
eye, he caned that boy for inattention,
and happily expressed his feelings to
wards the Latin master through the
medium of a substitute.

There was a fat little dancing-master
who used to come in a gig, and taught
the more advanced among ns hornpipes
(as an accomplishment in great social
demand in after-life); and there was a
brisk little French master who used to
come in the sunniest weather, with a
handleless umbrella, and to whom tho
Chief was always polite, because (as we
believed), if the Chief offended him, he
would instantly address the Chief in
French, and forever confound him before
the boys with his inability to understand
or reply.

There was besides, a serving man,
whose name was Phil. Our retrospec
tive glance presents Phil as a ship
wrecked carpenter, cast away upon the
desert island of a school, and carrying
into practice an ingenious inkling of
many trades. He mended whatever was
broken, and made whatever was wanted.
He was general glazier, among other
things, and mended all the broken win
dows — at the prime cost (as was darkly

152

OUR VESTRY.

rumored among us) of nincpence, for
every square charged three-and-six to
parents. We had a high opinion of his
mechanical genius, and generally held
that the Chief "knew something bad of
him," and on pain of divulgence en
forced Phil to be his bondsman. We
particularly remember that Phil had a
sotereign contempt for learning : which
engendered in us a respect for his saga
city, as it implies his accurate observa
tion of the relative positions of the
Chief and the ushers. He was an im
penetrable man, who waited at table
between whiles, and throughout "the
half" kept the boxes in severe custody.
He was* morose, even to the Chief, and
never smiled, except at breaking-up,
when, in aknowledgement of the toast,
" Success to Phil 1 Hooray 1" he would
slowly carve a grin out of his wooden

face, where it would remain until TV*
were all gone. Nevertheless, one time
when we had the scarlet fever in the
school, Phil nursed all the sick boys of
his own accord, and was like a mother
to them.

There was another school not far off,
and of course our school could have
nothing to say to that school. It is
mostly the way with schools, whether
of boys or men. Well 1 the railway
has swallowed up ours, and the locomo
tives now run smoothly over its ashes.

So fades and languishes', grows dim and dies,
All that this world is proud of,

— and is not proud cf too. It had
little reason to be proud of Ovr School,
and has done much better sin^o in that
way, and will do far better yet.

OUR VESTRY.

WE have the glorious privilege of be
ing always in hot water if we like. We
are a shareholder in a Great Parochial
British Joint Stock Bank of Balder
dash. We have a Vestry in our bor
ough, and can vote for a vestryman —
might even be a vestryman, mayhap, if
we were inspired by a lofty and noble
ambition Which we are not.

Our Vestry is a deliberative assembly
of the utmost dignity and importance.
Like the Senate of ancient Rome, its
awful dignity overpowers (or ought to
overpower) barbarian visitors. It sits in
the Capitol (we mean in the capital
building erected for it), chiefly on Sat
urdays, and shakes the earth to its
centre with the echoes of its thundering
eloquence, in a Sunday paper.

To get into this Vestry in the eminent
capacity of Vestryman, 'gigantic efforts
are made, and Herculean exertions are
used. It is made manifest to the dullest
capacity at every election, that if we
reject Snozzle we are done for, and that
if we fail to bring in Blunderbooze at
the top of the pole,, we are unworthy of
the dearest rights of Britons. Flaming
placards are rife on all the dead walls
iu the borough, public-houses hang out

banners, hackney-cabs burst into full-
grown flowers of type, and everybody
is, or should be, in a paroxysm of anx
iety.

At these momentous crises of the na
tional fate, we are much assisted in our
deliberations by two eminent volunteers,
one of whom subscribes himself A Fel
low Parishioner, the other A Rate-
Payer. Who they are, or what they
are, or where they are, nobody knows ;
but, whatever one asserts, the other con
tradicts. They are both voluminous
writers, inditing more epistles than Lord
Chesterfield in a single week ; and the
greater part of their feelings are too big
for utterance in anything less than capi
tal letters. They require the additional
aid of whole rows of notes of admira
tion, like balloons, to point their gener
ous indignation ; and they sometimes
communicate a crushing severity to stars.
As thus :

MEN OF MONEYMOUNT.

Is it, or is it not, a * * * to saddle
the parish with a debt of £2,745 6s. 9rf.,
yet claim to be a KIGID ECONOMIST ?

Is it, or is it not, a * * * to state as

OUR VESTRY.

a fact what is proved to be both a moral
and a PHYSICAL IMPOSSIBILITY ?

Is it, or is it not, a * * * to call
£2,745 6s. 3d. nothing; and nothing,
something ?

Do you, or do you not want a * * * *

TO REPRESENT YOU IN THE VESTRY ?

Your consideration of these questions
ia recommended to you by

A FELLOW PARISHIONER.

It was to this important public docu
ment that one of our first orators, Mr.
MAGG (of Little Winkling Street), ad-
. verted, when he opened the great debate
of the fourteenth of November by say
ing, " Sir, I hold in my hand an anony
mous slander" — and when the interrup
tion, with which he was at that point
assailed by the opposite faction, gave
rise to that memorable discussion on a
point of order which will ever be re
membered with interest by constitutional
assemblies. In the animated debate
to which we refer, no fewer than thirty-
seven gentlemen, many of them of great
eminence, including Mr. WIGSBY
Chumbledon Square), were seen upon
their legs at one time ; and it was on
the same great occasion that DOGGIN-
SON — regarded in our Vestry as " a
regular John Bull :" we believe, in con
sequence of his having always made up
his mind on every subject without know
ing anything about it — informed an
other gentleman of similar principle
on the opposite side, that if he " cheek'c
him," he would resort to the extreme
measure of knocking his blessed heac
off.

This was a great occasion. But, our
Vestry shines habitually. In asserting
its own pre-eminence, for instance, it is
very strong. On the least provocation
ox on none, it will be clamorous to
know whether it is to be "dictated to,'
or "trampled on," or "ridden over
rough-shod." Its great watchword i
Self-government. That is to say, sup
posing our Vestry to favor any little
harmless disorder like Typhus Fever
and supposing the Government of the
country to be, by any accident, in sue!
ridiculous hands, as that any of its
authorities should consider it a duty to
object to Typhus Fever — obviously at
unconstitutional objection — then, our
10

Vestry cuts in with a te*rible manifesto
about Self-government, and claims ita
ndependent right to have as much Ty
phus Fever as pleases itself. Some ab-
urd and dangerous persons have repre
sented, on the other hand, that though
our Vestry may be able to "beat the
rounds" of its own parish, it may not
be able to beat the bounds of its own
diseases ; which (say they) spread over
the whole land, in an ever-expanding
ircle of waste, and misery, and death,
and widowhood, and orphanage, and
desolation. But, our Vestry makes short
work of any such fellows as these.

It was our Vestry — pink of Vestries
as it is — that in support of its favorite
principle took the celebrated ground of
denying the existence of the last pesti
lence that raged in England, when the
pestilence was raging at the Vestry
doors. Dogginson said it was plums ;
Mr. Wigsby (of Chumbledon Square)
said it was oysters; Mr. Magg (of Little
Winkling Street) said, amid great cheer
ing, it was the newspapers. The noble
indignation of our Vestry with that un-
English institution the Board of Health,
under those circumstances, yields one of
the finest passages in its history. It
wouldn't hear of rescue. Like Mr.
Joseph Miller's Frenchman, it would
be drowned and nobody should save it.
Transported beyond grammar by ita
kindled ire, it spoke in unknown tongues,
and vented unintelligible bellowings,
"more like an ancient oracle than the
modern oracle it is admitted on all
hands to be. Rare exigences produce
rare things ; and even our Vestry, new
hatched to the woful time, came forth a
greater goose than ever.

But this, again, was a special occa
sion. Our Vestry, at more ordinary
periods, demands its meed of praise.

Our Vestry is eminently parliament
ary. Playing at Parliament is its favor
ite game. It is even regarded by some
of its members as a chapel of ease to
the House of Commons : a Little Go to
be passed first. It has its strangers'
gallery, and its reported debates (see
the Sunday paper before mentioned),
and our Vestrymen are in and out of
order, and on and off their legs, and
above all are transcendantly quarrel
some, after the pattern of the real orig
iual.

154

OUR VESTRY.

Onr Vestry being assembled, Mr.
Magg never begs to trouble Mr. Wigsby
with a simple inquiry. He knows better
than that. Seeing the honorable gen
tleman, associated in their minds with
Chumbledon Square, in his place, he
wishes to ask that honorable gentleman
what the intentions of himself, and those
with whom he acts, may be, on the sub
ject of the paving of the district known
as Piggleum Buildings ? Mr. Wigsby
replies (with his eye on next Sunday's
paper), that in reference to the question
which has been put to him by the honor
able gentleman opposite, he must take
leave to say, that if that honorable gen
tleman had had the courtesy to give
him notice of that question, he (Mr.
Wigsby) would have consulted with his
colleagues in reference to the advisa
bility, in the present state of the discus
sions on the new paving-rate, of answer
ing that question. But, as the honor
able gentleman has NOT had the courtesy
to give him notice of that question
(great cheering from the Wigsby inter
est), he must decline to give the honor
able gentleman the satisfaction he re
quires. Mr. Magg, instantly rising to
retort, is received with loud cries of
" Spoke 1" from the Wigsby interest,
and with cheers from the Magg side of
the house. Moreover, five gentlemen
rise to order, and one of them, in re
venge for being taken no notice of,
petrifies the assembly by moving that
this Vestry do now adjourn ; but, is
persuaded to withdraw that awful pro
posal, in consideration of its tremendous
consequences if persevered in. Mr.
Magg, for the purpose of being heard,
then begs to move, that you, Sir, do
now pass to the order of the day ; and
takes that opportunity of saying, that if
an honorable gentleman whom he has
in his eye, and will not demean himself
by more particularly naming (oh, oh,
and cheers), supposes that he is to be
put down by clamor, that honorable
gentleman — however supported he may
be, through thick and thin, by a Fellow
Parishioner, with whom he is well ac
quainted (cheers and counter-cheers,
Mr. Magg being invariably backed by
t.ie Rate-Payer)— will find himself mis
taken. Upon this, twenty members 'of
our Vestry speak in succession concern
ing what the two g-eat men have meant,

until it appears, after an hour and
twenty minutes, that neither of them
meant anything. Then our Vestry be
gins business.

We have said that, after the pattern
of the real original, our Vestry in play
ing at Parliament is transcendantly
quarrelsome. It enjoys a personal al
tercation above all things. Perhaps the
most redoubtable case of this kind we
have ever had — though we have had so
many that it is difficult to decide — was
that on which the last extreme solemni
ties passed between Mr. Tiddypot (of
Gumtion House), and Captain Banger
(of Wilderness Walk).

In an adjourned debate on the ques
tion whether water could be regarded
in the light of a necessary of life ; re
specting which there were great differ
ences of opinion, and many shades of
sentiment ; Mr. Tiddypot, in a power
ful burst of eloquence against that
hypothesis, frequently made use of the
expression that such and such a ninor
had " reached his ears." Captain
Banger followed him, and holding that,
for purposes of ablution and refresh
ment, a pint of water per diem was
necessary for every adult of the lower
classes, and half a pint for every child,
cast ridicule upon his address in a
sparkling speech, and concluded by say
ing that instead of those rumors having
reached the ears of the honorable gen
tleman, he rather thought the honorable
gentleman's ears must have reached the
rumors, in consequence of their well-
known length. Mr. Tiddypot immedi
ately rose, looked the honorable and
gallant gentleman full in the face, and
left the Vestry.

The excitement, at this moment pain
fully intense, was heightened to an acute
degree when Captain Banger rose, and
also left the Vestry. After a few
moments of profound silence — one of
those breathless pauses never to be for
gotten — Mr. Chib (of Tucket's Terrace,
and the father of the Vestry) rose. H«
said that words and looks had passed in
that assembly, replete with consequences
which every feeling mind must deplore.
Time pressed. The sword was drawn,
and while he spoke the scabbard might
be thrown away. He moved that those
honorable gentlemen who had left the
Vestry be recalled, and required to

OUR VESTRY.

155

pledge themselves upon their honor that
this affair should go no farther. The
motion being by a general union of
parties unanimously agreed to (for every
body wanted to have the belligerents
there, instead of out of sight : which
was no fun at all), Mr. Magg wavS de
puted to recover Captain Banger, and
Mr. Chib himself to go in search of Mr.
Tiddypot. The Captain was found in
a conspicuous position, surveying the
passing omnibuses from the top step of
the front-door immediately adjoining
the beadle's box ; Mr. Tiddypot made
a desperate attempt at resistance, but
was overpowered by Mr. Chib (a re
markably hale old gentleman of eighty-
two), and brought back in safety.

Mr. Tiddypot and the Captain being
restored to their places, and glaring on
each other, were called upon by the
chair to abandon all homicidal inten
tions, and give the Vestry an assurance
that they did so. Mr. Tiddypot re
mained profoundly silent. The Captain
likewise remained profoundly silent,
saving that he was observed by those
around him to fold his arms like Napo
leon Buonaparte, and to snort in his
breathing — actions but too expressive
of gunpowder.

The most intense emotion now pre
vailed. Several members clustered in
remonstrance round the Captain, and
several round Mr. Tiddypot ; but, both
were obdurate. Mr. Chib then pre
sented himself amid tremendous cheer
ing, and said, that not to shrink from
the discharge of his painful duty, he
must now move that both honorable
gentlemen be taken into custody by the
beadle, and conveyed to the nearest
police-office, there to be held to bail.
The union of parties still continuing,
the motion was seconded by Mr. Wigs-
by — on all usual occasions Mr. Chib's
opponent — and rapturously carried with
only one dissentient voice. This was Dog-
ginson's, who said from his place " Let
'em fight it out with fistes ;" but whose
coarse remark was received as it merited.
The beadle uow advanced along the
floor of the Vestry, and beckoned with
his cocked hat to both-members. Every
breath was suspended. To aay that a
pin might have been heard to fall,
would be feebly to express the all-ab
sorbing interest and sileuce. Suddenly,

enthusiastic cheering broke out from
every side of the Vestry. Captain
Banger had risen — being, in fact, pulled
up by a friend on either side, and poked
up by a friend behind.

The Captain said, in a deep deter
mined voice, that he had every respect
for that vestry, and every respect for
that chair ; that he also respected
the honorable gentleman of Gumtion
House ; but, that he respected his honor
more. Hereupon the Captain sat down,
leaving the whole Vestry much affected.
Mr. Tiddypot instantly rose, and was
received with the same encouragement.
He likewise said — and the exquisite art
of this orator communicated to the ob
servation an air of freshness and novelty
— that he too had every respect for that
Vestry ; that he too had every respect
for that chair. That he too respected
the honorable and gallant gentleman of
Wilderness Walk ; but, that he too re
spected his honor more. "Hows'ever,"
added the distinguished Vestryman, " if
the honorable or gallant gentleman's
honor is never more doubted and dam
aged than it is by me, he's all right."
Captain Banger immediately started up
again, and said that after those obser
vations, involving as they did ample
concession to his honor without compro
mising the honor of the honorable gen
tleman, he would be wanting in honor
as well as in generosity, if he did not
at once repudiate all intention of wound
ing the honor of the honorable gentle
man, or saying anything dishonorable
to his honorable feelings. These obser
vations were repeatedly interrupted by
bursts of cheers. Mr. Tiddypot retort
ed that he well knew the spirit of honor
by which the honorable and gallant gen
tleman was so honorably animated, and
that he accepted an honorable explana
tion, offered in a way that did him
honor ; but, he trusted that the Vestry
would consider that his (Mr. Tiddy-
pot's) honor had imperatively demand
ed of him that painful course which he
had felt it due to his honor to adopt.
The Captain and Mr. Tiddypot then
touched their hats to one another across
the Vestry, a great many times, and it
is thought that these proceedings (re
ported to the extent of several columns
in next Sunday's paper) will bring them
in as churchwardens next year.

156

OUR BORE.

All this was strictly after the pattern
of the real original, and so are the whole
of our Vestry's proceedings. In all
their debates, they are laudably imita
tive of the windy and wordy slang of
the real original, and of nothing that is
better in it. They have headstrong
party animosities, without any reference
to the merits of questions ; they tack a
surprising amount of debate to a very

little business ; they set more store by
forms than they do by substances : — all
very like the real original ! It has been
doubted in our borough, whether our
Vestry is of any 'itility ; but our own
conclusion is, that it is of the use to the
Borough that a diminishing mirror is to
a Painter, as enabling it to perceive in
a small focus of absurdity all the sur
face defects of the real original.

OUR BORE.

IT is unnecessary to say that we keep
a bore. Everybody does. But, the bore
whom we have the pleasure and honor
of enumerating among our particular
friends, is such a generic bore, and has
so many traits (as it appears to us) in
common with the great bore family, that
we are tempted to make him the subject
of the present notes. May he be gener
ally accepted 1

One bore is admitted on all hands to
be a good-hearted man. He may put
fifty people out of temper, but he keeps
his own. He preserves a sickly solid
smile upon his face, when other faces
are ruffled by the perfection he has at
tained in his art, and has an equable
voice which never travels out of one key
or rises above one pitch. His manner
is a manner of tranquil interest. None
of his opinions are startling. Among
his deepest-rooted convictions, it may
be mentioned that he considers the air
of England damp, and holds that our
lively neighbors — he always calls the
French our lively neighbors — have the
advantage of us in that particular.
Nevertheless, he is unable to forget
that John Bull is John Bull all the
world over, and that England with all
her faults is England still.

Our bore has travelled. He could
not possibly be a complete bore without
having travelled. He rarely speaks of
his travels without introducing, some
times on his own plan of construction,
morsels of the language of the country :
' — which he always translates. You
cannot name to him any little remote
town in France, Italy, Germany, or
Switzerland, but he knows it well;

stayed there a fortnight under peculiar
circumstances. And talking of that
little place, perhaps you know a statue
over an old fountain, up a little court,
which is the second — no, the third —
stay — yes, the third turning on the
right, after you come out of the Past
house, going up the hill towards the
market ? You don't know that statue ?
Nor that fountain ? You surprise him !
They are not usually seen by travellers
(most extraordinary, he has never yet
met with a single traveller who knew
them, except one German/the most in
telligent man he ever met in his life !)
but he thought that YOU would have
been the man to find them out. And
then he describes them, in a circum
stantial lecture half an hour long, gener
ally delivered behind a door which is
constantly being opened from the other
side : and implores you, if you ever re
visit that place, now do go and look at
that statue and fountain !

Our bore, in a similar manner, being
in Italy, made a discovery of a dreadful
picture, which has been the terror of a
large portion of the civilized world ever
since. We have seen the liveliest men
paralysed by it, across a broad dining-
table. He was lounging among the
mountains, sir, basking in the mellow
influences of the climate, when he came
to una piccola chiesa — a little church
— or perhaps it would be more correct
to say una piccolissima cappella — the
smallest chapel you can possibly imagine
— and walked in. There was nobody
inside but a cieco — a blind man— say
ing his prayers, and a vecchio padre —
old friar — rattling a money box. But,

OUR BORE.

157

above the head of \ hat friar, and imme
diately to the right of the altar as you
enter — to the right of the altar ? No.
To the left of the altar as you enter —
or say near the centre — there hung a
painting (subject, Virgin and Child) so
divine in its expression, so pure and yet
so warm and rich in its tone, so fresh
in its touch, at once so glowing in its
color and so statuesque in its repose,
that our bore cried out in an ecstacy,
" That's the finest picture in Italy 1"
And so it is, sir. There is no doubt of
it. It is astonishing that that picture
is so little known. Even the painter is
uncertain. He afterward^ tookBlumb,
of the Royal Academy (it is to be ob
served that our bore takes none but emi
nent people to see sights, and that none
but eminent people take our bore), and
you never saw a man so affected in your
life as Blumb was. He cried like a
child ! And then our bore begins his
description in detail — for all this is in
troductory — and strangles his hearers
with the folds of the purple drapery.

By an equally fortunate conjunction
of accidental circumstances, it happened
that when our bore was in Switzerland,
he discovered a Valley of that superb
character, that Chamouni is not to be
mentioned in the same breath with it.
This is how it was, sir. He was travel
ling on a mule — had been in the saddle
some days — when, as he and the guide,
Pierre Blanquo ; whom you may know,
perhaps ? — our bore is sorry you don't,
because he is the only guide deserving
of the name — as he and Pierre were
descending, towards evening, among
those everlasting snows, to the little
village of La Croix, our bore observed
a mountain track turning off sharply to
the right. At first he was uncertain
whether it was a track at all, and in
fact he said to Pierre. "'Qu'est que c'est
done, mon ami? — What is that my
friend ?" " Oil, monsieur ?" said Pierre
— " Where sir ?" " La!— there !" said
our bore. "Monsieur, ce n'est rien de
tout — sir, it's nothing at all,"said Pierre.
" Allons ! — Make haste. II va neiger
— it's going to snow 1" But, our bore
was not to be done in that way, and he
firmly replied, "I wish to go in that
direction — je veux y oiler. I am bent
npon it — je suis determine. En avant!
Go ahead !" In consequence of which

firmness on our bore's part, they pro
ceeded, sir, during two hours of even
ing, and three of moonlight (they waited
in a cavern till the moon was up), along
the slenderest track, overhanging per
pendicularly the most awful gulfs, until
they arrived, by a winding descent, in a
valley that possibly^ and he may say
probably, was never visited by any
other stranger before. What a valley 1
Mountains piled on mountains ; ava
lanches stemmed by pine forests ; water
falls, chalets, mountain-torrents, wooden
bridges, every conceivable picture of
Swiss scenery ! The whole village
turned out to receive our bore. The
peasant girls kissed him, the men shook
hands with him, one old lady of benevo
lent appearance wept upon his breast.
He was conducted, in a primitive tri
umph, to the little inn : where he was
taken ill next morning, and lay for six
weeks, attended by the amiable hostess
(the same benevolent old lady who had
wept over night) and her charming
daughter, Fanchette. It is nothing to
say that they were attentive to him ;
they doted on him. They called him in
their simple way, VAnge Arujlais — the
English Angel. When on;- bore left
the valley, there was not u dry eye in
the place ; some of the people attended
him for miles. He begs and entreats
of you as a personal favor, that if you
ever go to Switzerland again (you have
mentioned that your last visit was your
twenty-third), you will go to that val-
I6y, and see Swiss scenery for the first
time. And if you want really to know
the pastoraf people of Switzerland, and
to understand them, mention, in that
valley, our bore's name !

Our bore has a crushing brother in
the East, who, somehow or other, was
admitted to smoke pipes with Mehemet
Ali, and instantly became an authority
on the whole range of Eastern matters,
from Haroun Alraschid to the present
Sultan. He is in the habit of express
ing mysterious opinions on this wide
range of subjects, but on questions of
foreign policy more particularly, to our
bore, in letters ; and our bore is continu
ally sending bits of these letters to the
newspapers (which they never insert),
and carrying other bits about in his
pocket-book. It is even whispered that
he has been seen at the Foreign Office,

158

OUR BORE

receiving great consideration from the I
messengers, and having his card prompt
ly borne into the sanctuary of the tem
ple. The havoc committed in society
by this Eastern brother is beyond belief.
Our bore is always ready with him. We
have known our bore to fall upon an
intelligent young sojourner in the wil
derness, in the first sentence of a narra
tive, and beat all confidence out of him
with one blow of his brother. He be
came omniscient, as to foreign policy,
ia the smoking of those pipes with Me-
hemet AH. The balance of power in
Europe, the machinations of the Jesuits,
the gentle and humanising influence of
Austria, the position and prospects of
that hero of the noble soul who is wor
shipped by happy France, are all easy
reading to our bore's brother. And
our bore is so provokingly self-denying
about him ! " I don't pretend to more
than a very general knowledge of these
subjects myself," says he, after enervat
ing the intellects of several strong men,
" but these are my brother's opinions,
and I believe he is known to be well-
informed."

The commonest incidents and places
would appear to have been made special,
expressly for our bore. Ask him whether
he ever chanced to walk, between seven
and eight in the morning, down St.
James's Street, London, and he will tell
you, never in his life but once. But,
it's curious that that once was in
eighteen thirty ; and that as our bore
was walking down the street you have
just mentioned, at the hour you have
just mentioned — half-past seven — or
twenty minutes to eight. No ! Let
him be correct ! — exactly a quarter be
fore eight by the Palace clock — he met
a fresh-colored, grey-haired, good-hu
mored looking gentleman, with a brown
umbrella, who, as he passed him,
touched his hat and said, "Fine morn
ing, sir, fine morning !" — William the
Fourth 1

Ask our bore whether he has seen
Mr. Barry's new Houses of Parliament,
and he will reply that he has not yet
inspected them minutely, but that you
remind him that it was his singular for
tune to be t*he last man to see the old
Houses of Parliament before the fire
s broke out. It happened in this way.
Poor John Spine, the celebrated novel

ist, had taken h m over to South Lam-
beth to read to him the last few chap
ters of what was certainly his best book
— as our bore told him at the time,
adding, "Now, my dear John, touch it,
and you'll spoil it 1" — and our bore war
going back to the club by way of Mill-
bank and Parliament Street, when hp
stopped to think of Canning, and look
at the Houses of Parliament. Now
you know far more of the philosophy
of mind than our bore does, and are
much better able to explain to him than
he is to explain to you why or where
fore, at that particular time, the thought
of fire should come into his head. But
it did. It did. He thought, What a
national calamity if an edifice connected ,
with so many associations should be
consumed by fire ; at that time there
was not a single soul in the street but
himself. All was quiet, dark, and soli
tary. After contemplating the building
for a minute — or, say a minute and a
half, not more — our bore proceeded on
his way, mechanically repeating, What
a national calamity if such an edifice,
connected with such associations, should
be destroyed by A man coming to
wards him in a violent state of agita
tion completed the sentence, with the
exclamation, Fire 1 Our bore looked
round, and the whole structure was in
a blaze,

In harmony and union with these ex
periences, our bore never went anywhere
in a steam-boat but he made either the
best or the worst voyage ever known
on that station. Either he overheard
the captain say to himself, with his
haF.ds clasped, " We are all lost !" or the
captain openly declared to him that he
had never made such a run before, and
never should be able to do it again.
Our bore was in that express train on
that railway, when they made (unknown
to the passengers) the experiment of
going at the rate of a hundred miles an
hour. Our bore remarked on that occa
sion to the other people in the carriage,
" This is too fast, but sit still !" He
was at the Norwich musical festival
when the extraordinary echo for which
science has been wholly unable to ac
count, was heard for the first and last
time. He and the bishop heard it at
the same moment, and caught each
other's eye. He was present at tliak

OUR BORE.

159

illumination of St. Peter's, of which the
Pope is known to have remarked, as he
looked at it out of his window in the
Vatican, " 0 Cielo ! Questa cosa non
sarafatta, mai ancora, come questa — 0
Heaven ! this thing will never be done
again, like'this !'? He has seen every lion
he ever saw uuder some remarkably pro
pitious circumstances. He knows there
is no fancy in it, because in every case the
showman mentioned the fact at the time,
and congratulated him upon it.

4-t one period of his life, our bore
had an illness. It was an illness of a
dangerous character for society at large.
Innocently remark that you are very
well, or that somebody else is very well,
and our bore, with a preface that one
never knows what a blessing health is
until one has lost it, is reminded of that
illness, and drags you through the whole
of its symptoms, progress and treatment.
Innocently remark that you are not well,
or that somebody else is not well, and
the same inevitable result ensues. You
will learn how our bore felt a tightness
about here, sir, for which he couldn't
account, accompanied with a constant
sensation as if he were being stabbed —
or, rather, jobbed — that expresses it
more correctly — jobbed — with a blunt
knife. Well, sir ! This went on, until
sparks began to flit before his eyes,
water-wheels to turn round in his head,
and hammers to beat incessantly thump,
thump, thump, all down his back — along
the whole of the spinal vertebrae. Our
bore, when his sensations had come to
this, thought it a duty he owed to him
self to take advice, and he said, Now,
whom shall I consult ? He naturally
thought of Callow, at that time one of
the most eminent physicians in London,
and he went to Callow. Callow said,
" Liver !" and prescribed rhubarb and
calomel, low diet and moderate exercise.
Our bore went on with this treatment,
getting worse every day, until he lost
confidence in Callow, and went to Moon,
whom half the town was then mad
about. Moon was interested in the
case : to do him justice he was very
much interested in the case ; and he said,
"Kidneys!" He altered the whole
treatment, sir — gave strong acids, cup
ped, and blistered. This went on, our
bore still getting worse every day, until
he openly told Moon it would be a satis

faction to him if he wot Id have a "con
sultation with Clatter. The moment
Clatter saw our bore, he said, "Accu
mulation of fat abo-ut the- heart!"
Snugglewood, who "was called in with
him, differed, and said, "Brain !" But
what they all agreed upon was, to lay
our bore upon his back, to shave his
head, to leech him, to administer enor
mous quantities of Medicine, and to
keep him low ; so that he was reduced
to a mere shadow, you wouldn't have
known him, and nobody considered it
possible that he could ever recover.
This was his condition, sir, when he
heard of Jilkins — at that period in a
very small practice, ana living in the
upper part of a house in Great Portland
Street ; but still, you understand, with
a rising reputation among the few
people to whom he was known. Being
in that condition in which a drowning
man catches at a straw, our bore sent
for Jilkins. Jilkins came. Our bore
liked his eye, and said, " Mr. Jilkins, I
have a presentiment that you will do
me good." Jilkius's reply w&s charac
teristic of the man. It was, " Sir, I
mean to do you good." This confirmed
our bore's opinion of his eye, and they
went into the case together — went com
pletely into it. Jilkins then got up,
walked across the room, came back, and
sat down. His words were these. " You
have been humbugged. This is a case
of indigestion, occasioned by deficiency .
of power in the Stomach. Take a mut
ton chop in half-an-hour, with a glass
of the finest old sherry that can be got
for money. Take two mutton chops to
morrow, and two glasses of the finest
old sherry. Next day, I'll come again."
In a week our bore was on his legs, and
Jilkins's success dates from that period !
Our bore is great in secret informa
tion. He happens to know many
things that nobody else knows He
can generally tell you where the split is
in the Ministry ; he knows a deal about
the Queen ; and has little anecdotes to
relate of the royal nursery. He gives
you the judge's private opinion of
Sludge the murderer, and his thoughts
when he tried him. He happens to
know what such a man got by such a
transaction, and it was fifteen thousand
five hundred pounds, and his income ij
twelve thousand a year. Our bore ia

160

A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY.

also great in mystery. He believes,
with an exasperating appearance of
profound meaning, that you saw Par
kins last Sunday? — Yes, you did. — Did
he say anything particular ? — No, no
thing particular. — Our bore is surprised
at that.— Why ?— Nothing. Only he
understood that Parkins had come to
tell you something. — What about ? —
Well ! our bore is not at liberty to
mention what about. But, he believes
you will hear that from Parkins himself,
soon, and he hopes it may not surprise
you as it did him. Perhaps, however,
yon never heard about Parkins's wife's
sister ? — No. — Ah ! says our bore, that
explains it !

Our bore is also great in argument.
He infinitely enjoys a long humdrum,
drowsy interchange of words of dispute
about nothing. He considers that it
strengthens the mind, consequently, he
" don't see that," very often. Or, he
would be glad to know what you mean
by that. Or, he doubts that. Or, he
has always understood exactly the re-
yerse of that. Or, he can't admit that.
Or, he begs to deny that. Or, surely
you don't mean that. And BO on. He
once advised us ; offered us a piece of
advice, after the fact, totally impracti-

! cable and wholly impossible of accept
ance, because it supposed the fact, then
eternally disposed of, to be yet in abey
ance. It was a dozen years ago, and
to this hour our bore benevolently
wishes, in a mild voice, on certain regu
lar occasions, that we had thought
better of his opinion.

The instinct with which our bore finds
out another bore, and closes with him,
is amazing. We have seen him pick
his man out of fifty men, in a couple of
minutes. They love to go (which they
do naturally) into a slow argument on
a previously exhausted subject, and to
contradict each other, and to wear the
hearers out, without impairing their
own perennial freshness as bores. It
improves the go'od understanding be
tween them, and they get together
afterwards, and bore each other amica
bly. Whenever we see our bore be
hind a door with another bore, we know
that when he comes forth, he will praise
the other bore as one of the most intel
ligent men he ever met. And thig
bringing us to the elose of what we
had to say about our bore, we are anx
ious to have it understood that he nerer
bestowed this praise on us.

A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY. *

IT was profoundly observed by a
witty member cf the Court of Common
Council, in Council assembled in the
City of London, in the year of our
Lord, one thousand eight hundred and
fifty, that the French are a frog-eating
people, who wear wooden shoes.

We are credibly informed, in reference
to the nation whom this choice spirit so
happily disposed of, that the caricatures
and stage representations which were
eurrent in England some half a century
Ago, exactly depict their present condi
tion. For example, we understand that
every Frenchman, without exception,
wears a pigtail and curl-paper. That
he is extremeiy sallow, thin, long-faced,
and lantern-jawed. That the calves of
his legs are invariably undeveloped ; that

his legs fail at the knees, and that his
shoulders are always higher than his
ears. We are likewise assured that he
rarely tastes any food but soup maigre,
and an onion ; that he always says, " By
Gar. Aha ! Vat you telf me, Sare ?"
at the end of every sentence he ut
ters ; and that the true generic name
of his race is the Mounseers, or the
Parly-voos. If he be not a dancing-
master, or a barber, he must be a cook ;
since no other trades but those three
are congenial to the tastes of the peo
ple, or permitted by the Institutions of
the country. He is a slave of course.
The ladies of France (who are also
slaves) invariably have their heads tied
up in Belcher handkerchiefs, wear long
ear-rings, carry tambourines, and be-

A MONUMENT OF FRENCH! FOLLY.

161

guile the weariness of their yoke by
singing in head voices through their
noses — principally to barrel-organs.

It may be generally summed up, of
this inferior people, that they have no
idea of anything.

Of a great Institution like Smithfield,
they are unable to form the least con
ception. A Beast Market in the heart
of Paris would be regarded an impossi
ble nuisance. Nor have they any notion
of slaughter-houses in the midst of a
city. One of these benighted frog-
eaters would scarcely understand your
meaning, if you told him of the exist
ence of such a British bulwark.

It is agreeable, and perhaps pardon
able, to indulge in a little self-compla
cency when our right to it is thoroughly
established. At the present time, to be
rendered memorable by a final attack
on that good old market which is the
(rotten) apple of the Corporation's eye,
let us compare ourselves, to our national
delight and pride as to these two sub
jects of slaughter-houses and beast-
market, with the outlandish foreigner.

The blessings of Smithfield are too
well nnderdstood to need recapitula
tion ; all who run (away from mad bulls
and pursuing oxen) may read. Any
market-day they may be beheld in glori
ous action. Possibly the merits of our
slaughter-houses are not yet quite so
generally appreciated.

Slaughter-houses, in the large towns
of England, are always (with the excep
tion of one or two enterprising towns)
most numerous in the most densely
crowded places, wkere there is the least
circulation of air. They are often
under-ground, in cellars ; they are' some
times in close back yards; sometimes
(as in Spitalfields) in the very shops
where the meat is sold. Occasionally,
under good private management, they
are ventilated and clean. For the most
part, they are unventilated and dirty ;
and, to the reeking walls, putrid fat
and other offensive animal matter clings
with a tenacious hold. The busiest
slaughter-houses in London are in the
neighborhood of Smithfield, in Newgate
Market, in Whitechapel, in Newport
Market, in Leadenhall Market, in Clare-
Market. All these places are surround
ed by houses of a poor description,
swarming with inhabiiiHts. Some of

them are close to the worst burial-
grounds in London. When the slaugh
ter-house is below the ground, it is a
common practice to throw the sheep
down areas, neck and crop — which is
exciting, but not all cruel. When it is
on the level surface, it is often extremely
difficult of approach. Then, the beasts
have to be worried, and goaded, and
pronged, and tail-twisted, for a long
time before they can be got in — which
is entirely owing to their natural ob
stinacy. When it is not difficult of
approach, but is in a foul condition,
what they see and scent, makes them
still more reluctant to enter — which is
their natural obstinacy again. When
they do get in at last, after no trouble
and suffering to speak of (for, there is
nothing in the previous journey into the
heart of London, the night's endur
ance in Smithfield, the struggle out
again, among the crowded multitude,
the coaches, carts, waggons, omnibuses,
gigs, chaises, phaetons, cabs, trucks,
dogs, boys, whoopings, roarings, and
ten thousand other distractions), they
are represented to be in a most unfit
state to be killed, according to micro
scopic examinations made of their fever
ed blood by one of the most distinguished
physiologists in the world, PROFESSOR
OWEN — but that's humbug. When they
are killed, at last, their reeking carcases
are hung in impure air, to become, as the
same Professor will explain to you, less
nutritious and more unwholesome — but
he is only an wncommon counsellor, so
don't mind him. In half a quarter of a
mile's length of Whitechapel, at one
time, there shall be six-hundred newly
slaughtered oxen hanging up, and seven
hundred sheep — but, the more the mer
rier — proof of prosperity. Hard by
Snow Hill and Warwick Lane, you
shall see the little children, inured to
sights of brutality from their birth,
trotting along the alleys, mingled with
troops of horribly busy pigs, up to their
ankles in blood — but it makes the young
rascals hardy. Into the imperfect sewers
of this overgrown city, you shall have
the immense mass of corruption, engen
dered by these practices, lazily thrown
out of sight, to rise, in poisonous gases,
into your house at night, when your
sleeping children will most readily ab
sorb them, and to find its languid way,

162

A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY.

at last, into the river that you drink —
bnt, tho French are a frog-eating peo
ple who wear wooden shoes, and it's 0
the roast beef of England, my boy, the
jolly old English roast beef.

It is quite a mistake — a new-fangled
notion altogether — to suppose that there
is any natural antagonism between putre
faction and health. They know better
than that, in the Common Council. You
may talk about Nature in her wisdom,
always warning man through his sense
of smell, when he draws near to some
thing dangerous ; but, that won't go
down in the- city. Nature very often
don't mean anything. Mrs. Quickly
says that prunes are ill for a green
wound ; but whosoever says that putrid
animal substances are ill for a green
^ound, or for robust vigor, or for any
thing or for any body, is a humanity-
monger and a humbug. Britons never,
never, never, &c., therefore. And pros
perity to cattle-driving, cattle -slaughter
ing, bone-crushing, blood-boiling, trot
ter-scraping, tripe-dressing, paunch-
cleaning, gut-spinning, hide-preparing,
tallow-melting, and other salubrious pro
ceedings, in the midst of hospitals,
churchyards, workhouses, schools, in
firmaries, refuges, dwellings, provision-
shops, nurseries, sick-beds, every stage
and baiting-place in the journey from
birth to death !

These uncommon counsellors, your
Professor Owens and fellows, will con
tend that to tolerate these things in a
civilised city, is to reduce it to a worse
condition than BRUCE found to prevail
in ABYSSINIA. For, there (they say)
the jackals and wild dogs came at night
to devour the offal ; whereas here there
are no such natural scavengers, and
quite as savage customs. Further, they
will demonstrate that nothing in Nature
is intended to be wasted, and that be
sides the waste which such abuses occa
sion in the articles of health and life —
main sources of the riches of any com
munity — they lead to a prodigious waste
of changing matters, which might, with
proper preparation, and under scientific
direction, be safely applied to the in
crease of the fertility of the land. Thus
(they argue) does Nature ever avenge
infractions of her beneficent laws, and
so surely as Man is determined to warp
any of her blessings into curses, shall

they become curses, and sh|ll he suffer
heavily. But, this is cant. Just as it
is cant of the worst description to say
to the London Corporation, " How can
you exhibit to the people so plain a
spectacle of dishonest equivocation, as
to claim the right of holding a marked
in the midst of the great city, for one
of your vested privileges, when you
know that when your last market-hold
ing charter was granted to you by King
Charles the First, Smithfield stood i.v
THE SUBURBS or LONDON, and is in that
very charter so described in those five
words ?" — which is certainly, true but
has nothing to do with the question.

Now to the comparison, in the particu
lars of civilisation, between the capital
of England, and the capital of that frog-
eating and wooden-shoe wearing coun
try, which the illustrious Common Coun-
cilmen so sarcastically settled.

In Paris, there is no Cattle Market.
Cows and calves are sold within the
city, but the Cattle Markets are at
Poissy, about thirteen miles off, on a
line of railway ; and at Sceaux, about
five miles off. The Poissy market is
held every Thursday ; the Sceaux mar
ket, every Monday. In Paris, there are
no slaughter-houses, in our acceptation
of the term. There are five public
Abattoirs — within the walls, though in
the suburbs — and in these all the slaugh
tering for the city must be performed.
They are managed by a Syndicat or
Guild of Butchers, who confer with the
Minister of the Interior on all matters
affecting the trade, and who are con
sulted when any new regulations are
contemplated for its government. They
are, likewise, under the vigilant super
intendence of the police. Every butcher
must be licensed : which proves him. at
once to be a slave, for we don't license
butchers in England — we only license
apothecaries, attorneys, postmasters,
publicans, hawkers, retailers of tobacco,
snuff, pepper, and vinegar — and one or
two other little trades not worth men
tioning. Every arrangement in con
nexion with the slaughterirg and sale of
meat, is a matter of strict police regu
lation. (Slavery again, though we cer
tainly have a general sort of a Police
Act here.)

But, in order that the reader may un
derstand what' a monument of folly the*»

A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY.

163

frog-caters have raised in their abat
toirs and cattle-markets, and may com
pare it with what common counselling
has done for us all these- years, and
would still do but for the innovating
spirit of the times, here follows a short
account of a recent visit to these places :

It was as sharp a February morning
as you would desire to feel at your
fingers' ends when I turned out — tum
bling over a chiffonier with his little
basket and rake, who was picking up
the bits of colored paper that had been
swept out, over night, from a Bon-Bon
shop — to take the Butchers' Train to
Poissy. A cold dim light just touched
the high roofs of the Tuileries which
have seen such changes, such distracted
crowds, such riot and bloodshed ; and
they looked as calm, and as old, all
covered with white frost, as the very
Pyramids. There was not light enough,
yet, to strike upon the towers of Notre
Dame across the water ; but I thought
of the dark pavement of the old Cathe
dral as just beginning to be streaked
with grey; and of the lamps in the
" House of God," the Hospital close to
it, burning low and being quenched ;
and of the keeper of the Morgue going
about with a fading lantern, busy in the
arrangement of his terrible waxwork for
another sunny day.

The sun was up, and shining merrily
when the butchers and I, announcing our
departure with an engine-shriek to
sleepy Paris, rattled away for the Cattle
Market. Across the country, over the
Seine, among a forest of scrubby trees
— the hoar frost lying cold in shady
places, and glittering in the light — and
here we are at Poissy ! Out leap the
butchers who have been chattering all
the way like madmen, and off they
straggle for the Cattle Market (still
chattering, of course, incessantly,) in
hats and caps of all shapes, in coats and
blouses, in calf-skins, cow-skins, horse-
skins, furs, shaggy mantles, hairy coats,
sacking, baize, oil- skin, anything you
please that will keep a man and a
butcher warm, upon a frosty morning.

Many a French town have I seen,
between this spot of ground and Stras-
burgh or Ma-seilles, that might sit for
your picture, little Poissy 1 Barring
the details of your old church, I know

you well, albeit we mane acquaintance,
now, for the first time. I know yoar
narrow, straggling, winding streets-,
with a kennel in the midst, and lamps
slung across. I know your picturesque
street-corners, winding up-hill Heaven
knows why or where 1 I know your
tradesmen's inscriptions, in letters not
quite fat enough ; your barber's brazen
basins dangling over little shops ; your
Cafes and Estarninets, with cloudy bot
tles of stale syrup in the windows, and
pictures of crossed billiard-cues outside.
I know this identical grey horse with
his tail rolled up in a knot like the " back
hair" of an untidy woman, who won't
be shod, and who makes himself heral
dic by clattering across the street on
his hind legs, while twenty voices shriek
and growl at him as a Brigand, an ac
cursed Robber, and an everlastingly-
doomed Pig. I know your sparkling
town-fountain too, my Poissy, and am
glad to see it near a cattle-market, gush
ing so freshly, under the auspices of a
gallant little sublimated Frenchman
wrought in metal, perched upon the top.
Through all the land of France I know
this unswept room at the Glory, with
its peculiar smell of beans and coffee,
where the butchers crowd about the
stove, drinking the thinnest of wine
from the smallest of tumblers ; where
the thickest of coffee-cups mingle with
the longest of loaves, and the weakest
of lump sugar ; where Madame at the
counter easily acknowledges the homage
of all entering and departing butchers ;
where the billiard-table is covered up
in the midst like a great bird-cage — but
the bird may sing by-and-by !

A bell 1 The Calf Market ! Polite
departure of butchers. Hasty payment
and departure on the part of amateur
Visitor. Madame reproaches Ma'am-
selle for too fine a susceptibility in refer
ence to the devotion of a Butcher in a
bear-skin. Monsieur, the landlord of The
Glory, counts a double handful of sous,
without an uuobliterated inscription , or an
undamaged crowned head, among them.

There is little noise without, abun
dant space, and no confusion. The
open area devoted to the market, is
divided into three portions : the Calf
Market, the Cattle Market, the Sheep
Market. Calves at eight, cattle at ten,
sheep at mid-day. All is very clean.

164

A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY.

The Calf 3*1 arket is a raised platform '
o( stone, some three or four feet high,
open on all sides, with a lofty over
spreading roof, supported on stone col
umns, which give it the appearance of a
sort of vineyard from Northern Italy.
Here, on the raised pavement, lie innu
merable calves, all bound hind-legs and
fore-legs together, and all trembling
violently — perhaps with cold, perhaps
with fear, per aps with pain ; for, this
mode of tying, which seems to be an
absolute superstition with the peasan
try, can hardly fail to cause great suffer
ing. Here, they lie, patiently in rows,
among the straw, with their stolid faces
and inexpressive eyes, superintended by
men and women, boys and girls ; here
they are inspected by our friends, the
butchers, bargained for, and bought.
Plenty of time ; plenty of room ; plenty
of good humor. " Monsieur Frangois
in the bear-skin, how do you do, my
friend ? You coine from Paris by the
train ? The fresh air does you good.
If you are in want of three or four fine
calves this market-morning, my angel, I
Madame Doche, shall be happy to deal
with you. Behold these calves, Mon-
•ieur Frangois ! Great Heaven, you
are doubtful ! Well, sir, walk round
and look about 3rou. If you find better
for the money, buy them. If not, come
to me !" Monsieur Francois goes his
way leisurely, and keeps a wary eye
upon the stock. No other butcher jos
tles Monsieur Fra^ois ; Monsieur
Franqois jostles no other butcher. No
body is flustered and aggravated. No
body is savage. In the midst of the
country blue frocks and red handker
chiefs, and the butchers' coats, shaggy,
furry, and hairy : of calf-skin, cow-skin,
and bear-skin : towers a cocked hat and
a blue cloak. Slavery ! For our Police
wear-great coats and glazed hats.

But now the bartering is over, and
the calves are sold. " Ho ! Gregorie,
Antoine, Jean, Louis ! Bring up the
carts, my children ! Quick, brave in
fants ! Hola! Hi!"

The carts, well littered with straw,
are backed up to the edge of the raised
pavement, and various hot infants carry
calves upon their heads, and dexterously
pitch them in, while other hot infants,
itanding in the carts, arrange the calves,
nd pack them carefully in straw. Here

is a promising young calf, not sold,
whom Madame Doche unbinds. Par
don me, Madame Doche, but I fear this
mode of tying the four legs of a quad
ruped together, though strictly a la
mode, is not quite right. You observe,
Madame Doche, that the cord leaves
deep indentations in the skin, and that
the animal is so cramped at first as not
to know, or even remotely suspect, that
he is unbound, until you are so oblig»g
as to kick him, in your delicate little
way, and pull his tail like a bell-rope.
Then, he staggers to his knees, not be
ing able to stand, and stumbles about
like a drunken calf, or the horse at Fram*
coni's, whom you may have seen, Ma
dame Doche, who is supposed to have
been mortally wounded in battle. But,
what is this rubbing against me, as I
apostrophise Madame Doche ? It is
another heated infant with a calf upon
his head. " Pardon, Monsieur, but will
you have the politeness to allow me to
pass ?" " Ah, Sir, willingly. I am
vexed to obstruct the way." On he
staggers, calf and all, and makes no allu
sion whatever either to my eyes or
limbs.

Now, the carts are all full. More
straw, my Antoine, to shake over these
top rows ; then, off we will clatter,
rumble, jolt, and rattle, a long row of
us, out of the first town-gate, and out
at the second town-gate, and past the
empty sentry-box, and the little thin
square bandbox of a guardhouse, where
nobody seems to live ; and away for
Paris, by the paved road, lying, ~a
straight straight line, in the long long
avenue of trees. We can neither choose
our road, nor our pace, for that is all
prescribed to us. The public conveni
ence demands that our carts should get
to Paris by such a route, and no other
(Napoleon had leisure to find that out,
while he had a little war with the world
upon his hands)* and woe betide us if
we infringe orders.

Droves of oxen stand in the Cattle
Market, tied to iron bars fixed into posts
of granite. Other droves advance slow
ly clown the long avenue, past the sec
ond town-gate, and the first town-gate,
and the sentry-box, and the bandbox,
thawing the morning with their smoky
breath as they come along. Plenty of
room ; plenty of time Neither man

A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY.

1C5

nor beast is driven out of his wits by
coaches, carts, waggons, omnibuses,
gigs, chaises, phaetons, cabs, trucks,
boys, whoopings, roarings, and multi
tudes. No tail-twisting is necessary —
no iron pronging is necessary. There |
are no iron prongs here. The market
for cattle is held as quietly as the mar
ket for calves. In due time, off the
cattle go to Paris ; the drovers can no
more choose their road, nor their time,
nor the numbers they shall drive, than
they can choose their hour for dying in
'the course of nature.

Sheep next. The Sheep-pens are up
here, past the Branch Bank of Paris
established for the convenience of the
butchers, and behind the two pretty
fountains they are making in the Mar
ket. My name is Bull ; yet I think I
should like to see as good twin foun
tains — not to say in Smithfield, but in
England anywhere. Plenty of room ;
plenty of time. And here are sheep
dogs, sensible as ever, but with a cer
tain French air about them — not with
out a suspicion of dominoes — with a
kind of flavor of moustache and beard
— demonstrative dogs, shaggy and loose
where an English dog would be tight
and close — not so troubled with busi
ness calculations as our English drovers'
dogs, who have always got their sheep
upon their minds, and think about their
work, even resting, as you may see by
their faces ; but, dashing, showy, rather
unreliable dogs : who might worry me
instead of their legitimate charges if
they saw occasion — and might see it
somewhat suddenly. The market for
sheep passes off like the other two ; and
away they go, by their allotted road to
Paris. My way being the Railway, I
make the best of it at twenty miles an
hour ; whirling through the now high
lighted landscape ; thinking that the
inexperienced green buds will be wish
ing before long, they had not been
tempted to come out so soon ; and
wondering who lives in this or that cha
teau, all window and lattice, and what
the family may have for breakfast this
sharp morning.

After the Market comes the Abattoir.
What abattoir shall I visit first ? Mont-
martre is the largest. So, I will go
there.

The abattoirs are all within the walls

of Paris, with an eye to the receipt of
the octroi duty ; but, they stand in open
places in the suburbs, removed from the
press and bustle of the city. They are
managed by the Syudicat or Guild of
Butchers, under the inspection of the
Police. Certain smaller items of the
revenue derived from them are in part
retained by the Guild for the payment
of their expenses, ai^d in part devoted
by it to charitable purposes in connexion
with the trade. They cost six" hundred
and eighty thousand pounds ; and they
return to the city of Paris an interest on
that outlay, amounting to nearly six
and a-half per cent. '

Here, in a sufficiently dismantled
space is the Abattoir of Montmartre,
covering nearly nine acres of ground,
surrounded by a high wall, and looking
from the outside like a cavalry barrack.
At the iron gates is a small functionary
in a large cocked hat. " Monsieur de
sires to see the abattoir ? Most cer
tainly." State being inconvenient ia
private transactions, and Monsieur
being already aware of the cocked hat,
the functionary puts it into a little offi
cial bureau, which it almost fills, and
accompanies me in the modest attire —
as to his head — of ordinary life.

Many of the animals from Poissy
have come here. On the arrival of
each drove, it was turned into yonder
ample space, where each butcher who
had bought, selected his own purchases.
Some, we see now, in these long per
spectives of stalls with a high over
hanging roof of wood and open tiles
rising above the walls. While they
rest here, before being slaughtered, they
are required to be fed and watered, and
the stalls must be kept clean. A stated
amount of fodder must always be ready
in the loft above ; and the supervision
is of the strictest kind. The same
regulations apply to sheep and calves ;
for which, portions of these perspectives
are strongly railed off. All the build
ings are of the strongest and most solid
description.

After traversing these lairs, through
which, besides the upper provision for
ventilation just mentioned, there may
be a thorough current of air from oppo
site windows in the side walls, and from
doors at either end, we traverse the
broad, paved, court-yard until we

166

A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY.

to the slaughter-houses. They are all
exactly alike, and adjoin each other, to
the number of eight or nine together,
in blocks of solid building. Let us walk
into the first.

It is firmly built and paved with stone.
It is well lighted, thoroughly aired, and
lavishly provided with fresh water. It
has two doors "opposite each other ; the
first, the door by which I entered from
the main yard ; the second, which is
opposite, opening on another smaller
yard, where the sheep and calves are
killed on benches. The pavement of
that yard, I see, slopes downward to a
gutter, for its being more easily cleansed.
The slaughter-house is fifteen feet high,
sixteen feet and a-half wide, and thirty-
three feet long. It is fitted with a
powerful windlass, by which one man
at the handle can bring the head of an
ox down to the ground to receive the
blow from the pole-axe that is to fell
him — with the means of raising the car
cass and keeping it suspended during
the after-operation of dressing — and
with hooks on which carcasses can hang,
when completely prepared, without
touching the walls. Upon the pave
ment of this first stone chamber, lies an
ox scarcely dead. If I except the blood
draining from him, into a little stone
well in a corner of the pavement, the
place is as free from offence as the Place
de la Concorde. It is infinitely purer
and cleaner, I know, my friend the func
tionary, than the Cathedral of Notre
Dame. Ha, ha ! Monsieur is pleas
ant, but, truly, there is reason, too, in
what he says.

I look into another of these slaugh
ter-houses. "Pray enter," says a gen
tleman in bloody boots. " This is a
calf I have killed this morning. Hav
ing a little time upon my hands, I have
cut and punctured this lace pattern in
the coats of his stomach. It is pretty
enough. I did it to divert myself." —
" It is beautiful, Monsieur, the slaugh
terer I" He tells me I have the gen
tility to say so.

I look into rows of slaughter-houses.
In many, retail dealers, who have come
here for the purpose, are making bar
gains for meat. There is killing
enough, certainly, to satiate an unused
eye ; and there are steaming carcasses
enough, to suggest the expediency of a

fowl and salad for dinner; but, every
where, there is an orderly, clean, well-
ystematised routine of work in progress
— horrible work at the best, if you
please ; but, so much the greater rea
son why it should be made the best of.
I don't know (I think I have observed,
my name is Bull) that a Parisian of the
lowest order is particularly delicate, or
that his nature is remarkable for an in
finitesimal infusion of ferocity ; -but, I
do know, my potent, grave, and com
mon counselling Signers, thaj; he is
forced, when at this work, to submit
himself to a thoroughly good system,
and to make an Englishman very heartily
ashamed of you.

Here, within the walls of the same
abattoir, in other roomy and commodi
ous buildings, are a place for convert
ing the fat into tallow and packing it
for market — a place for cleansing and
scalding calves' heads and sheeps' feet
— a place for preparing tripe — stables
and coach-houses for the butchers — in
numerable conveniences, aiding in the
diminution of offensiveness to its lowest
possible point, and the raising of clean
liness and supervision to their highest.
Hence, all the meat that goes out of
the gate is sent away in clean covered
carts. And if every trade connected
with the slaughtering of animals were
obliged by law to be carried on in the
same place, I doubt, iny friend, now
reinstated in the cocked hat (whose
civility these two francs imperfectly ac
knowledge, but appear munificently to
repay), whether there could be better
regulations than those which are carried
out at the Abattoir of Montmatre.
Adieu, my friend, for I am away to the
other side of Paris, to the Abattoir of
Grenelle ! And there, I find exactly
the same thing on a smaller scale, with
the addition of a magnificent Artesian
well, and a different sort of conductor,
in the person of a neat little woman,
with neat little eyes, and a neat little
voice, who picks her neat little way
among the bullocks in a very neat little
pair of shoes and stockings.

Such is the Monument of French
Folly whichaforeigneering people have
erected, in a national hatred and antipa
thy for common counselling wisdom,
wisdom, assembled in the City of

A CHRISTMAS TREE.

167

London, having distinctly refused, after
a debate three days long, and by a ma
jority of nearly seven to one, to asso
ciate itself with any Metropolitan Cat
tle-Market unless it be held in the midst
of the City, it follows that we shall lose
the inestimable advantage of common
counselling protection, and be thrown,
for a market, on our own wretched re
sources. In all human probability we
shall thus come, at last, to erect a
monument of folly very like this French
tionurnent. If that be done, the conse

quences are obvious. The leather trade
will be ruined, by the introduction of
American timber, to be manufactured
into shoes for the fallen English ; the
Lord Mayor will be required, by tbo
popular voice, to live entirely on frogs ;
and both these changes will (how, is
not at present quite clear, but certainly
somehow or other) fall on that unhappy
landed interest which is always being
killed, yet is always found to be alive —
and kicking.

A CHRISTMAS TREfe.

I HAVE been looking on, this evening,
at a merry company of children assem
bled round that pretty German toy, a
Christmas Tree. The tree was planted
in the middle of a great round table,
and towered high above their heads. It
was brilliantly lighted by a multitude of
little tapers ; and everywhere sparkled
and glittered with bright objects. There
were rosy-cheeked dolls, hiding behind
the green leaves ; there were real watches
(with moveable hands, at least, and an
endless capacity of being wound up)
dangling from innumerable twigs ; there
were French-polished tables, chairs, bed
steads, wardrobes and eight-day clocks,
and various other articles of domestic
furniture (wonderfully made, in tin, at
Wolverhampton), perched among the
boughs, as if in preparation for some
fairy housekeeping ; there were jolly,
broad-faced little men, much more agree
able in appearance than many real men
— and no wonder, for their heads took
off, and showed them to be full of sugar
plums ; there were fiddles and drums ;
there were tambourines, books, work-
boxes, paint-boxes, sweetmeat-boxes,
peep-show boxes, all kinds of boxes ;
there were trinkets for the elder girls,
far brighter than any grown-up gold
and jewels ; there were baskets and pin
cushions in all devices ; there were guns,
swords, and banners ; there were witches
standing in enchanted rings of paste
board, to tell fortunes ; there were tee
totums, humming-tops, needle.-cases, pen
wipers, smelling-bottles, conversation-

cards, bouquet-holders ; real fruit, mads
artificially dazzling with gold leaf; im
itation apples, pears, and walnuts, cram
med with surprises ; in short, as a pretty
child, before me, delightfully whispered
to another pretty child, her bosom friend,
"There was everything, and more."
This motley collection of odd objects,
clustering on the tree like magic fruit,
and flashing back the bright looks direct
ed towards it from every side — seme of
the diamond-eyes admiring it were hard
ly on a level with the table, and a few
were languishing in timid wonder on the
bosoms of pretty mothers, aunts and
nurses — made a lively realisation of the
fancies of childhood ; and set me think
ing how all the trees that grow and all
the things that come into existence on
the earth, have their wild adornments at
that well-remembered time.

Being now at home again, and alone,
the only person in tlie house awake, my
thoughts are drawn back, by a fascina
tion which I do not care to resist, to my
own childhood. I begin to consider,
what do we all remember best upon the
branches of the Christmas Tree of onr
own young Christmas days, by which
we climbed to real life.

Straight, in the middle of the room,
cramped in the freedom of its growth
by no encircling walls or soon-reached
ceiling, a shadowy tree arises; and,
looking up into the dreamy brightness
of its top — for I observe in this tree the
singular property that it appears to
grow downwards towards the earth — I

168

A CHRISTMAS TREE.

look into ray youngest Christmas recol
lections !

All toys at first, I find. Up yonder,
among the green holly and red berries,
is the Tumbler with his hands in his
pockets, who wouldn't lie down, but
whenever he was put upon the floor,
persisted in rolling his fat body about,
until he rolled himself still, and brought
those lobster eyes of his to bear upon
me — when I affected to laugh very much,
but in my heart of hearts was extremely
doubtful of him. Close beside him is
that infernal snuff-box, out of which
there sprang a demoniacal Counsellor
iu a black gown, with an obnoxious
head of hair, and a red cloth mouth,
wide open, who was not to be endured
on any terms, but could not be put away
either ; for he used suddenly, in a highly
magnified state, to fly out of Mammoth
Snuff-boxes in dreams, when least, ex
pected. Nor is the frog with cobbler's
wax on his tail, far off; for there was
no knowing where he wouldn't jump ;
and when he flew over the candle, and
came upon one's hand with that spotted
back — red on a green ground — he was
horrible. The card-board lady in a blue-
tilk skirt, who was stood up against the
candlestick to dance, and whom I see
on the same branch, was milder, and
was beautiful ; but I can't say as much
for the larger card-board man, who used
to be hung up against the wall and
pulled by a string ; there was a sinister
expression in that nose of his ; and
when he got his legs round his neck
(which he very often did), he was ghastly,
and not a creature to be alone with.

When did that dreadful Mask first
look at me ? Who put it on, and why
was I so frightened that the sight of it
is an era in my life ? It is not a hide
ous visage in itself; it is even meant to
be droll ; why, then, were its stolid fea
tures so intolerable ? Surely not be
cause it hid the wearer's face. An apron
would have done as much ; and though
I should have preferred even the apron
away, it would not have been absolutely
insupportable, like the mask ? Was it
the immovability of the mask ? The
doll's face was immovable, but I was
not afraid of her. Perhaps that fixed
and set change coming over a real face,
infused into my quickened heart some
remote suggestion and dread of the

universal change that is to come on
every face, and make it still ? Nothing
reconciled me to it. No drummers,
from whom proceeded a melancholy
chirping on the turning of a handle ;
no regiment of soldiers, with a muto
band, taken out of a box, and fitted,
one by one, upon a stiff and lazy little
set of lazy-tongs ; no old woman, made
of wires and a brown-paper composi
tion, cutting up a pie for two* small
children ; could give me a permanent
comfort, for a long time. Nor was it
any satisfaction to be shown the Mask,
and see that it was made of paper, or
to have it locked up and be assured
that no one wore it. The mere recol
lection of that fixed face, the mere
knowledge of its existence anywhere,
was sufficient to awake me in the night
all perspiration and horror, with, "01
know it's coming ! O the mask !"

I never wondered what the dear old
donkey with the panniers — there he is !
— was made of, then ! His hide was
real to the touch, I recollect. And the
great black horse with round red spots
all over him — the horse that I could
even get upon — I never wondered what
had brought him to that strange condi
tion, or thought that such a horse was
not commonly seen at Newmarket. The
four horses of no color, next to him,
that went into the waggon of cheeses,
and could be taken out -and stabled un
der the piano, appear to have bits of
fur-tippet for their tails, and other bits
for their manes, and to stand on pegs
instead of legs, but it was not so when
they were brought home for a Christ
mas present. They were all right, then ;
neither was their harness unceremoni
ously nailed into their chests, as appears
to be the case now. The tinkling works
of the music-cart, I did find out to be
made of quill tooth-picks and wire ;
and I always thought that little tumbler
in his shirt sleeves, perpetually swarm
ing up one side of a wooden frame, and
coming down, head foremost, on the
other, rather a weak-minded person —
though good-natured ; but the Jacob's
Ladder, next him, made of little squares
of red wood, that Went flapping and
clattering over one another, each de
veloping a different picture, and the
whole enlivened by small bells, was a
mighty marvel and a great delight.

A CHRISTMAS TREE.

161

Ah ! The Doll's house !— of which
I was not proprietor, but where I visit
ed. I don't admire the Houses of Par
liament half so much as that stone-
fronted mansion with real glass win
dows, and door-steps, and a real balcony
—greener than I ever see now, except
at watering-places ; and even they af
ford but a poor imitation. And though
ii did open all at once, the entire house-
front (which was a blow, I admit, as
cancelling the fiction of a staircase), it
was but to shut it up again, and I could
believe. Even open, there were three
distinct rooms in it : a sitting-room
and bedroom, elegantly furnished, and,
best of all, a kitchen, with uncommonly
soft fire-irons, a plentiful assortment of
diminutive utensils — oh, the warming-
pan ! — and a tin man-cook in profile,
who was always going to fry two fish.
What Barmecide justice have I done
to the noble feasts wherein the set of
wooden platters figured, each with its
own peculiar delicacy, as a ham or tur
key, glued on to it, and garnished with
something green, which I recollect as
moss ! Could all the Temperance So
cieties, of these later days, united, give
me such a tea-drinking as I have had
through the means of yonder little set
of blue crockery, which really would
hold liquid (it ran out of the small
wooden cask, I recollect, and tasted of
matches), and which made tea, nectar.
And if the two legs of the ineffectual
little sugar-tongs did tumble over one
another, and want purpose, like Punch's
hands, what does it matter ? And if I
did once shriek out, as a poisoned
child, and strike the fashionable com
pany with consternation, by reason of
having drunk a little teaspoon, inadvert
ently dissolved in too hot tea, I was
never the worse for it, except by a
powder !

Upon the next branches of the tree,
lower down, hard by the green roller
and miniature gardening tools, how
thicji the books begin to hang. Thin
books, in themselves, at first, but many
of them, and with deliciously smooth
covers of bright red or green. What
fat black letters to begin with ! " A
was an archer, and shot at a frog." Of
course he was. He was an apple-pie
also, and there he is 1 He was a good
many tilings in his time, was A, aud so
11

were most of his friends, except X, who
lad so little versatility, that I never
jnew him to go beyond Xerxes or
Xantippe — like Y, who was always con
fined to a Yacht or a Yew-tree ; and Z
ondemned for ever to be a Zebra or a
Zany. But, now, the very tree itself
hanges, and becomes a bean-stalk —
the marvellous bean-stalk up which Jack
limbed up to the Giant's house ! And
now, those dreadfully interesting, double-
headed giants, with their clubs over their
shoulders, begin to stride along the
boughs in a perfect throng, dragging
knights^ and ladies home for dinner by
the hair of their heads. And Jack —
how noble, with his sword of sharpness,
and IMS shoes of swiftness ! Again thoso
old meditations come upon me as I
gaze up at him ; and I debate within
myself whether there was more than one
Jack (which I am loth to believe possi
ble), or only one genuine original ad
mirable Jack, who achieved all the re
corded exploits.

Good for Christmas time is the ruddy
color of the cloak, in which — the tree
making a forest of itself for her to trip
through, with her basket — Little Red
Riding-Hood comes to me one Christ
mas Eve to give me information of the
cruel ty\and treachery of that dissembling
Wolf WTIO ate her grandmother, without
making any impression on his appetite,
and then ate her, after making that fe
rocious joke about his teeth. She was
my first love. I felt that if I could
have married Little Red Riding-Hood,
I should have known perfect bliss. But,
it was not to be ; and there was nothing
for it but to look out the Wolf in the
Noah's Ark there, and put him late in
the procession on the table, as a mon
ster who was to be degraded. 0, the
wonderful Noah's Ark ! It was not
found seaworthy when put in a washing-
tub, and the animals were crammed in
at the roof, and needed to have their
legs well shaken down before they could
be got in, even there — and then, ten to
one but they began to tumble out at
the door, which was but imperfectly
fastened with a wire latch — but what
was that against it 1 Consider the noble
fly, a size or two smaller than the ele
phant : the lady-bird, the butterfly — all
triumphs of art 1 Consider the goose,
whose feet were so small, and who««

170

A CHRISTMAS TREK,

balance was so indifferent, that he usu
ally tumbled forward, and knocked down
all the animal creation.' Consider Noah
and his family, like idiotic tobacco-stop
pers ; and how the leopard stuck to
warm little fingers ; and how the tails
of the larger animals used gradually to
resolve themselves into frayed bits of
string !

Hush ! Again a forest, and some
body up in a tree — not Robin Hood,
not Valentine, not the Yellow Dwarf (I
have passed him and all Mother Bunch's
wonders, without mention), but an East
ern King with a glittering scimitar and
turban. By Allah! two Eastern Kings,
for I see another, looking over his
shoulder ! Down upon the grass, at the
tree's foot, lies the full length of a coal-
black Giant, stretched asleep, with his
head in a lady's lap ; and near them is
a glass box, fastened with four locks qf
shining steel, in which he keeps the lady
prisoner when he is awake. I see the
four keys at his girdle now. The lady
makes signs to the two kings in the
tree, who softly descend. It is the set-
ting-in of the bright Arabian Nights I

Oh, now all common things become
uncommon and enchanted to me ! All
lamps are wonderful ; all rings are talis
mans. Common flower-pots are full of
treasure, with a little earth scattered on
the top ; trees are for Ali Baba to hide
in ; beef-steaks are thrown down into the
Valley of Diamonds, that the precious
stones may stick to them, and be carried
by the eagles to their nests, whence the
traders, with loud cries, will scare them.
Tarts are made, according to the recipe
of the Vizier's son of Bussorah, who
turned pastrycook after he was set down
in his drawers at the gate of Damascus ;
cobblers are all Mustaphas, and in the
habit of sewing up people cut into four
pieces, to whom they are taken blind
fold.

Any iron ring let into stone is the
entrance to a cave which only waits for
the magician, and the little fire, and
the necromancy, tftat will make the
earth shake. All the dates imported
come from the same tree as that un
lucky date, with whose shell the mer
chant knocked out the eye of the genie's
invisible son. All olives arev of the
stock of that fresh fruit, concerning
Which the Commander of the Faithful

overheard the boy conduct the fictitious
trial of the fraudulent olive merchant ;
all apples are akia to the apple pur
chased (with two others) from the Sul
tan's gardener for three sequins, and
which the tall black slave stole from
the child. All dogs are associated with
the dog, really a transformed man, who
jumped upon the baker's counter, and
put his paw upon the piece of bad
money. All rice recalls the rice which
the awful lady, who was a ghoule, could
only peck by grains, because of her
nightly feasts in the burial-place. My
very rocking-horse, — there he is, with
his nostrils turned completely inside-
out, indicative of Blood ! — should have
a peg in his neck, by virtue thereof to
fly away with me, as the wooden horse
did with the Prince of Persia, in the
sight of all his father's Court.

Yes, on every object that I recognise
among those up.per branches of my
Christmas Tree, I see this fairy light 1
When I wake in bed, at daybreak, on
the cold dark winter mornings, the white
snow dimly beheld, outside, through the
frost on the window-pane, I hear Di-
narzarde. " Sister, sister, if you are
yet awake, I pray you finish the history
of the Young King of the Black Is
lands." Scheherazade replies, " If my
lord the Sultan will suffer ine to liye
another day, sister, I will not only fin
ish that, but tell you a more wonderful
story yet." Then, the gracious Sultan
goes out, giving no orders for the exe
cution, and we all three breathe again.

At this height of my tree I begin to
see, cowering among the leaves — it may
be born of turkey, or of pudding, or
pie, or of these many fancies, jumbled
with Robinson Crusoe on hi.s desert
island, Philip Quarll among the mon
keys, Sandford and Merton with Mr.
Barlow, Mother Bunch, and the Mask
— or it may be the result of indigestion,
assisted by imagination and over-doc
toring — a prodigious nightmare. It is
so exceedingly indistinct, that I don't
know why it's frightful — but I know it
is. I can only make out that it is an
immense array of shapeless things, which
appear to be planted on a vast exagge
ration of the lazy tongs that used to
bear the toy soldiers, and to be slowly
coming close to my eyes, and receding
to an immeasurable distance. When ft

A CHRISTMAS TREE.

171

comes closest, it is worst. In connec
tion with it I descry remembrances of
winter nights incredibly long ; of being
sent early to bed, as a punishment for
some small offence, and waking in two
hours, with a sensation of having been
asleep two nights ; of the laden hope
lessness of morning ever dawning ; and
the oppression of a weight of remorse.
And now, I see a wonderful row of
little lights rfse smoothly out of the
ground, before a vast green curtain.
Now, a bell rings — a magic bell, which
still sounds in my ears unlike all other
bells — and music plays, amidst a buzz
of voices, and a fragrant smell of orange-
peel and oil. Anon, the magic bell
commands the music to cease, and the
great green curtain rolls itself up ma
jestically, and The Play begins 1 The
devoted dog of Montargis avenges the
death of his master, foully murdered in
the Forest of Bondy; and a humorous
Peasant with a red nose and a very
little hat, whom I take from this hour
forth to my bosom as a friend (I think
he was a Waiter or an Hostler at a
village Inn, but many years have passed
since he and I have met), remarks that
the sassigassity of that dog is indeed
surprising ; and evermore this jocular
conceit will live in my remembrance
fresh and unfading, overtopping all pos
sible jokes, unto the end of time. Or
now, I learn with bitter tears how poor
Jane Shore, dressed all in white, and
with her brown hair hanging down,
went starving through the streets ; or
how George Barnwell killed the wor
thiest uncle that ever man had, and was
afterwards so sorry for it that he ought
to have been let off. Comes swift to
comfort me, the Pantomime — stupend
ous Phenomenon 1 — when Clowns are
shot from loaded mortars into the great
chandelier, bright constellation that it
is ; when Harlequins, covered all over
with scales of pure gold, twist and
sparkle, like amazing fish ; when Pan
taloon (whom I deem it no irreverence
to compare in my own mind to my
grandfather) puts red-hot pokers in his
pocket, and cries " Here's somebody
coming 1" or taxes the Clown with
petty larceny, by saying "Now, I
sawed yon do it 1" when Everything is
capable, with the greatest ease, of being
changed into Anything; ard" Nothing

is, but thinking makes it so." Now,
too, I perceive my first experience of
the dreary sensation — often to return in
after-life — of being unable, next day, to
get back to the dull, settled world ; of
wanting to live for ever in the bright
atmosphere I have quitted ; of doting
on the little Fairy, with the wand like
a celestial Barber's Pole, and pining for
a Fairy immortality along with her.
Ah she comes back, in many shapes, as
my eye wanders down the branches of
my Christmas Tree, and goes as. often,
and has never yet stayed by me !

Out of this delight springs the toy-
theatre, — there it is, with its familiar
proscenium, and ladies in feathers, in
the boxes 1 — and all its attendant occu
pation with paste and glue, and gum,
and water colors, in the getting-up of
The Miller and his Men, and Elizabeth,
or the Exile of Siberia. In spite of a
few besetting accidents and failures
(particularly an unreasonable disposi
tion in the respectable Kelmar, and
some others, to become faint in the
legs, and double up, at exciting points
of the drama), a teeming world of fan
cies so suggestive and all-embracing,
that, far below it, on my Christmas
Tree, I see dark, dirty, real Theatres in
the day-time, adorned with these asso
ciations as with the freshest garlands
of the rarest flowers, and charming me
yet.

But hark I The Waits are playing,
and they break my childish sleep I
What images do I associate witk the
Christmas music as I see them set forth
on the Christmas Tree? Known before
all the others, keeping far apart from
all the others, they gather round my
little bed. An angel, speaking to a
group of shepherds in a field ; some
travellers, with eyes uplifted, following
a star ; a baby in a manger ; a child in
a spacious temple, talking with grave
men ; a solemn figure, with a mild and
beautiful face, raising a dead girl by
the hand ; again, near a city gate, call
ing back the son of a widow, o'n hia
bier, to life ; a crowd of people looking
through the opened roof of a chamber
where he sits, and letting down a sick
person on a bed, with ropes ; the same,
in a tempest, walking on the water to a
ship ; again, on a sea-shore, teaching a
great multitude; again, with a child

172

A CHRISTMAS 1...EE.

upon his knee, and other children round ;
again, restoring sight to the blind, speech
to the dumb, hearing to the deaf, health
to the sick, strength to the lame, know
ledge to the ignorant; again, dying
npon a Cross, watched by armed sol
diers, a thick darkness coming on, the
earth beginning to shake, and only one
voice heard. " Forgive them, for they
know not what they do 1"

Still, on the lower and maturer bran
ches of the Tree, Christmas associations
cluster thick. School-books shut up ;
Ovid and Virgil silenced; the RuH of
Three, with its cool impertinent enquir
ies, long disposed of ; Terence and
Plautus acted no more, in an arena of
huddled desks and forms, all chipped,
and notched, and inked ; cricket-bats,
etumps, and balls, left higher np, with
the smell of trodden grass and the
softened -noise of shouts in the evening
air ; the tree is still fresh, still gay. If
I no more come home at Christmas
time, there will be girls and boys
(thank Heaven !) while the "World lasts ;
and they do ! Yonder they dance and
play upon the branches of ray Tree,
God bless them, merrily, and my heart
dances and plays too !

And I do come home at Christmas.
"We all do, or we all should. We all
come home, or ought to come home, for
a short holiday — the longer, the better
—from the great boarding-school, where
we are for ever working at our arithme
tical slates, to take, and give a rest. As
to going a visiting, where can we not
go, if we will ; where have we not been,
when we would ; starting our fancy from
our Christmas Tree !

Away into the winter prospect. There
are many such upon the tree 1 On, by
low-lying misty grounds, through fens
and fogs, up long hills, winding dark as
caverns between thick plantations, almost
shutting out the sparkling stars ; so,
out on broad heights, until we stop at
last, with sudden silence, at an avenue.
The gate-bell has a deep half-awful
sound -in the frosty air ; the gate swings
open on its hinges ; and, as we drive up
to a great house, the glancing lights
grow larger in the windows, and the
opposing rows of trees seem to fall
solemnly back on either side, to give us
place. At intervals, all day, a frighten
ed hare has shot across this whitened

turf; or the distant clatter of a jerd
of deer traihpling the hard frost, has,
for the minute, crushed the silence too.
Their watchful eyes beneath the fern
may be shining now, if we could see
them, like the icy dewdrops on the
leaves ; but they are still, and all is still.
And so, the lights growing larger, and
the trees falling back before us, and
closing up again behind us, as if to for
bid retreat, we come to the house.

There is probably a smell of roasted
chestnuts and other good comfortable
things all the time, for we are telling
Winter Stories — Ghost Stories, or more
shame for us — round the Christmas fire ;
and we have never stirred, except to
draw a little nearer to it. But, no mat
ter for that. We came to the house,
and it is an old house, full of great
chimneys where wood is burnt on an
cient dogs upon the hearth, and grim
portraits (some of them with grim
legends, too) lower distrustfully from
the oaken panels of the walls. We are
a middle-aged nobleman, and we make
a generous supper with our host and
hostess and their guests — it being Christ
mas-time, and the old house full of com
pany — and then we go to bed. Our
room is a very old room. It is hung
with tapestry. We don't like the por
trait of a cavalier in green, over the
fireplace. There are great black beams
in the ceiling, there is a great black
bedstead, supported at the foot by two
great black figures, who seem to have
come off a couple of tombs in the old
baronical church in the park, for our
particular accommodation. But, we
are not a superstitious nobleman, and
we don't mind. Well ! we dismiss our
servant, lock the door, and sit before
the fire in our dressing-gown, musing
about a great many things. At length
we go to bed. Well ! we can't sleep.
We toss and tumble, and can't sleep.
The embers on the hearth burn fitfully
and make the room look ghostly. We
can't help peeping out over the counter
pane, at the two black figures and the
cavalier — that wicked-looking cavalier
• — in green. In the flickering light,
they seem to advance and retire : which,
though we are not by any means a su
perstitious nobleman, is not agreeable.
Well ! we get nervous — more and more
nervous. We say " This is very foolish

S TREE.

1T3

but we can't stand this; we'll pretend
to be ill, and knock up somebody."
"Well ! we are just going to do it, when
the locked door opens, and there conies
in a young woman, deadly pale, and
with long fair hair, who glides to the
fire, and sits down in the chair we have
left there, wringing her hands. Then,
we notice that her clothes are wet. Our
tongue cleaves to the roof of our mouth,
and we can't speak ; but we observe her
accurately. Her clothes are wet ; her
long hair is dabbled with moist mud;
she is dressed in the fashion of two hun
dred years ago ; and she has at her gir
dle a bunch of rusty keys. Well ! there
she sits, and we can't even faint, we are
in such a state about it. Presently she
gets up, and tries all the locks in the
room with the rusty keys, which won't
fit one of them ; then, she fixes her eyes
on the portrait of the cavalier in green,
and says, in a low, terrible voice, " The
stags know it !" After that, she wrings
her hands again, passes the bedside, and
goes out at the door. We hurry on
our dressing-gown, seize our pistols (we
always travel with pistols), and are fol
lowing, when we find the door locked.
We turn the key, look out into the dark
gallery ; no one there. We wander
away, and try to find our servant. Can't
be done. We pace the gallery till day
break ; then return to our deserted room,
fall asleep, and are awakened by our
servant (nothing ever haunts him) and
the shining sun. Well ! we make a
wretched breakfast, and all the company
say we look queer. After breakfast, we
go over the house with our host, and
then we take him to the portrait of the
cavalier in green, then it all comes out.
He was false to a young housekeeper
once attached to that family, and famous
for her beauty, who drowned herself in
a pond, and whose body was discovered,
after a long time, because the stags re
fused to drink of the water. Since
which, it has been whispered that she
traverses the house at midnight (but
goes especially to that room where t'he
cavalier in green was wont to sleep),
trying the old locks with the rusty keys.
Well ! we tell our host of what we have
Been, and a shade comes over his fea
tures, and he begs it may be hushed up ;
and so it is. But, it's all true ; and we

said so, before we died (we are dead
now) to many responsible people.

There is no end to the old houses,
with resounding galleries, and dismal
state-bed-chambers, and haunted wings
shut up for many years, through which
we may ramble, with an agreeable creep^
ing up our back, and encounter any
number of ghosts, but (it is worthy of
remark, perhaps) reducible to a very
few general types and classes ; for, ghosts
have little originality, and "walk" in a
beaten track. Thus, it comes to pass,
that a certain room in a certain old hall,
where a certain bad lord, baronet, knight,
or gentleman, shot himself, has certain
planks in the floor from which the blood
will not be taken out. You may scrape
and scrape, as the present owner has
done, or plane and plane, as his father
did, or scrub and scrub, as his grand
father did, or burn and burn with strong
acids, as his great-grandfather did, but,
there the blood will still be — no redder
and no paler — no more and no less —
always just the same. Thus, in such
another house there is a haunted door,
that will uever keep open ; or another
door that never will keep shut ; or a
haunted sound of a spinning-wheel, or
a hammer, or a footstep, or a cry, or a
sigh, or a horse's tramp, or the rattling
of a chain. Or else, there is a turret-
clock, which, at the midnight hour,
strikes thirteen when the head of the
family is going to die ; or a shadowy,
immovable black carriage which at such
a time is always seen by somebody, wait
ing near the great gates in the stable-
yard. Or thus, it came to pass how
Lady Mary went to^pay a visit at a
large wild house in the Scottish High
lands, and, being fatigued with her long
journey, retired to bed early, and inno
cently said, next morning, at the break
fast-table, " How odd, to have so late a
party last night, in this remote place,
and not to tell me of it, before I went
to bed !" Then, every one asked Lady
Mary what she meant? Then, Lady
Mary replied, " Why, all night long, the
carriages were driving round and round
the terrace, underneath my window 1"
Then, the owner of the house turned
pale, and so did his Lady, and Charles
Macdoodle of Macdoodle signed to
Lady Mary to say no more, and ever/

A CH&I&MAS TREE.

one was silent. After breakfast, Charles
Macdoodle told Lady Mary that it was
a tradition in the family that those rum
bling carriages on the terrace betokened
death. And so it proved, for, two
months afterwards, the Lady of the
mansion died. And Lady Mary, who
was a Maid of Honor at Court, often
told this story to the old Queen Char
lotte ; by this token that the old King
always said, "Eh, eh? What, what?
Ghosts, ghosts ? No such a thing, no
euch a thing!" And never left off say
ing so, until he went to bed.

Or, a friend of somebody's, whom
most of us know, when he was a young
man at college, had a particular friend,
with whom he made the compact that,
if it were possible for the Spirit to re
turn to this earth after its separation
from the body, he of the twain who first
died, should reappear to the other. In
the course of time, this compact was for
gotten by our friend ; the two young
men having progressed in life, and taken
diverging paths that were wide asunder.
But, one night, many years afterwards,
our friend being in the North of En
gland, and staying for the night in an
inn, '.A\ the Yorkshire Moors, happened
to 1 ok out of bed; and there, in the
moonlight, leaning on a bureau near the
window, stedfastly regarding him, saw
his old college friend ! The appearance
being solemnly addressed, replied, in a
kind of whisper, but very audibly, " Do
not come near me. I am dead. I am
here to redeem my promise. I come
from another world, but may not dis
close its secrets 1" Then, the whole
form becoming paler, melted, as it were,
into the moonlight, and faded away.

Or, there was the daughter of the first
occupier of the picturesque Elizabethan
house, so famous in our neighborhood.
TOQ have heard about her ? No ! Why,
She went out one summer evening, at
twilight, when she was a beautiful girl,
just seventeen years of age, to gather
flowers in the garden ; and presently
came running, terrified, into the hall to
her father, saying, " Oh, dear father, I
have met myself!'' He took her in his
arms, and told her it was fancy, but she
said " Oh no ! I met myself in the broad
walk, and I was pale and gathering
withered flowers, and I turned my head,
and held them up I" And, that night,

she died ; and a picture of her story
was begun, though never finished, and
they say it is somewhere in the house to
this day, with its face to the wall.

Or, the uncle of my brother's wife
was riding home on horseback, one
mellow evening at sunset, when, in a
green lane close to own house, he saw a
man standing before him, in the very
centre of the narrow way. " Why does
that man in the cloak stand there !" he
thought. "Does he want me to ride
over him ?" But the figure never
moved. He felt a strange sensation at
seeing it so still, but slackened his trot
and rode forward. When he was so
close to it, as almost to touch it with
his stirrup, his horse shied, and the
figure glided up the bank, in a curious,
unearthly manner — backward, and with
out seeming to use its feet — and was
gone. The uncle of my brother's wife,
exclaiming, "Good Heaven! It's my
cousin Harry, from Bombay !" put
spurs to his horse, which was suddenly
in a profuse sweat and, wondering at
such strange behavior, dashed round to
the front of his house. There, he saw
the same figure, just passing in at the
long French window of the drawing,
room, opening on the ground. He
threw his bridle to a servant, and has
tened in after it. His sister was sitting
there, alone. "Alice, where 's my
cousin Harry?" "Yoar cousin Harry,
John?" "Yes. From Bombay. I
met him in the lane just now, and saw
him enter here, this instant." Not a
creature had been seen by any one ; and
in that hour and minute, as it after
wards appeared, this cousin died in
Lndia.

Or, it was a certain sensible old maid
en lady, who died at ninety-nine, and
retained her faculties to the last, who
really did see the Orphan Boy ; a story
which has often been incorrectly told,
but, of which the real truth is this — be
cause it is, in fact, a story belonging to
our family — and she was a connexion
of our family. When she was about
forty years of age, and still an uncom
monly fine woman (her lover died young,
which was the reason why she never
married, though she had many offers),
she went to stay at a place in Kent,
which her brother, an Indian-Merchant,
had newly bought. There was a story

A CHRISTMAS TREB.

175

that this place had once been held in
trust, by the guardian of a young boy ;
who was himself the next heir, and who
killed the young boy by harsh and cruel
treatment. She knew nothing of that.
It has been said that there was a Cage
in her bed-room in which the guardian
used to put the boy. There was no
such thing. There was only a closet.
She went to bed, made no alarm what
ever in the night, and in the morning
said composedly to her maid when she
came in, "Who is the pretty forlorn-
looking child who has been peeping out
of that closet all night ?" The maid
replied by giving a loud scream, and
instantly decamping. She was sur
prised ; but, she was a woman of re
markable strength of mind, and she
dressed herself and went down stairs,
and closeted herself with her brother.
" Now, Walter," she said, " I have been
disturbed all night by a pretty, forlorn-
looking boy, who has been constantly
peeping out of that closet in my room,
which I can't open. This is some
trick." "I am afraid not, Charlotte,"
said he, "for it is the legend of the
house. It is the Orphan Boy. What
did he do ?" " He opened the door
softly." said she, "and peeped out.
Sometimes, he came a step or two into
the room. Then, I called to him, to
encourage him, and he shrunk, and
shuddered, and crept in again, and shut
the door." " The closet has no com
munication, Charlotte," said her brother,
" with any other part of the house, and
it's nailed up." This was undeniably
true, and it took two carpenters a wh*ble
forenoon to get it open, for examina
tion. Then, she was satisfied that she
had seen the Orphan Boy. But, the
wild and terrible part of the story is,
that he was also seen by three of her
brother's sons, in succession, who all
died young. On the occasion of each
child being taken ill, he came. home in
a heat, twelve hours before, and said,
Q.h, Mamma, he had been playing under
a particular oak tree, in a certain mea
dow, with a strange boy — a pretty, for
lorn-looking boy, who was very timid,
and made signs I From fatal experi
ence, the parents came to know that this
wag the Orphan Boy, and that the
10

course of that child whom he chose for
his little playmate was surely run.

Legion is the name of the German
castles, where we sit up alone to wait for
the Spectre — where we are shown into a
room, made comparatively cheerful for
our reception — where we glance round
at the shadows, thrown on the blank
walls by the crackjing fire — where we
feel very lonely when the village inn
keeper and his pretty daughter have re
tired, after laying down a fresh store of
wood upon the hearth, and setting forth
on the small table such supper-cheer as
a cold roast capon, bread, grapes, and
a flask of old Rhine wine — where the
reverberating doors close on their re^
treat, one after another, like so many
peals of sullen thunder — and where,
about the small hours of the night, we
come into the knowledge of divers
supernatural mysteries. Legion is the
name of the haunted German students,
in whose society we draw yet nearer to
the fire, while the schoolboy in the cor
ner opens his eyes wide and round, and
flies off the footstool he has chosen for
his seat, when the door accidentally
blows open. Vast is the crop of such
fruit, shining on our Christmas Tree;
fn blossom, almost at the very top;
ripening all down the boughs !

Among the later toys and fancies
hanging there — as idle often and less
pure — be the images once associated
with the sweet old Waits, the softened
music in the night, ever unalterable I
Encircled by the social thoughts of
Christmas time, still let the benignant
figure of my childhood stand unchanged !
In every cheerful image and suggestion
that the season brings, may the bright
star that rested above the poor roof, be
the star of all the Christian world I A
moment's pause, 0 vanishing tree, of
which the lower boughs are dark to me
as yet, and let me look once more 1 I
know there are blank spaces on thy
branches, where eyes that I have loved,
have shone and smiled ; from which they
are departed. But, far above, I see the
raiser of the dead girl, and the Widow's
Son; and God is good 1 If Age be
hiding for me in the unseen portion of
thy downward growth, 0 may I, with a
grey head, turn a child's heart to that

176

A CHRISTMAS TREE.

figure yet, and a child's trustfulness and
confidence 1

Now, the tree is decorated with bright
merriment, and song, and dance, and
cheerfulness. And they are welcome.
Innocent and welcome be they ever
held, beneath the branches of the

Christmas Tree, which cast no gloomy
shadow 1 But, as it sinks into the
ground, I hear a whisper going through
the leaves. " This, in commemoration
of the law of love and kindness, mercj
and compassion. This, in remembrance
of Me)"

MESSAGE FROM THE SEA;

AND THE

UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

BY CHARLES DICKENS.

("B O Z.")

PETERSONS' UNIFORM EDITION OF DICKENS' WORKS,

CONTAINING

THE PICKWICK PAPERS.

NICHOLAS NICKLEBY.

DOMBEY AND SON.

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

BLEAK HOUSE.

LITTLE DORRIT.

DICKENS' NEW YEARS' STORIES.

OLIVER TWIST.

MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT.

OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.

BARNABY RUDGE.

DICKENS' HOLIDAY STORIES.

SKETCHES BY BOZ.

CHRISTMAS STORIES.

AMERICAN NOTES.

PIC-NIC PAPERS.

THE HAUNTED HOUSE.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

THE CHIMES. t

CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. V

THE HAUNTED MAN.

THE GHOST'S BARGAIN.

A TALE OP TWO CITIES.
DICKENS' NEW STORIES.
DICKENS' SHORT STORIES.
PICTURES FROM ITALY.
SKETCHES FROM OUR PARISH
STREET SCENES.
REAL CHARACTERS.
LIFE OF MR. TULRUMBLK.
HARD TIMES.
SEVEN POOR TRAVELERS.
THE SCHOOLBOY'S STORY.
THE OLD LADY'S STORY.
OVER THE WAY'S STORY.
THE ANGEL'S STORY.
THE SQUIRE'S STORY.
UNCLE GEORGE'S STORY.
THE COLONEL'S STORY.
THE SCHOLAR'S STORY.
THE BOARDING HOUSE.
THE TWO APPRENTICES.
THE BATTLE OF LIFE.
A HOUSE TO LET, ETC., ETC.

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,

306 CHESTNUT STREET.

LIH/.I1Q

: /) I v cf h 6 n 1 i

CONTENTS.

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA 9

CHAPTER I.
THE VILLAGE 9

CHAPTER II.

THE MONET

CHAPTER III.
THE CLUB-NIGHT 19

CHAPTER IV.
THE SEA-FARING MAN -. 51

CHAPTER V,
THE RESTITUTION 68

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER 75

(7)

.8 T VT3 T -V. 0

C '

C •

,
'.

: , .

•

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA,

CHAPTER I.

THJ VILLAGE.

"ANDamigity sing'lar and pretty

place it is, as e

of my life !" saip. Captain Jorgan, look
ing up at it.

Captain Jor
look at it, for t

There was no
wheeled vehicl
level yard

in i

er I saw in all the days

an had to look high to
village was built sheer

up the face of a steep and lofty cliff.

oad in it, there was no
in it, there was not a
From the sea-beach
to the cliff-top two irregular rows of
white houses, placed opposite to one
another, and twisting here .and there,
and there and! here, rose, like the sides
of a long succ&sion of stages of crooked
ladders, and yjm climbed up the village

or climbed d

>wn the village by the

staves betwee

: some six feet wide or

so, and made

>f sharp, irregular stones.

The old pack

addle, long laid aside in

most parts o

England as one of the

appendages

• its infancy, flourished

here intact.

trings of pack-horses and

pack-donkeys

oiled slowly up the staves

of the ladder

bearing fish, and coal,

and such othe

cargo as was unshipping

at the pier i

>m the dancing fleet of

village boats

and from two or three

little coasting

traders. As the beasts

of burden asc

nded laden, or descended

light, they go

so lost at intervals in the

floating clom

s of village staoke, that

they seemed 1

dive down some of the

village chimi

ys and come to the sur-

face again ft

off, high above others.

No two house

in the village were alike,

in chimney,

ze, shape,t door, window,

gable, roof-tr

e, any thing. The sides

of the ladder) were musical with water,

running cleai and bright. The staves

were musical with the clattering feet of

the pack-horses and pack-donkeys, antJ
the voices of the fishermen urging them
j up, mingled with the voices of the fish-
' ermen's wives and their many children.
The pier was musical with the wash of
the sea, the creaking of capstans and
; windlasses, and the airy fluttering 'of
! little vanes and sails. The rough, sea-
bleached boulders of which the pier was
made, and the whiter boulders of the
shore, were brown with drying nets.
The red -brown cliffs, richly wooded to
: their extrcmest verge, had their softened
1 and beautiful forms reflected in the
bluest water, under the clear North
Devonshire sky of a November day
without a cloud. The village itself
| was so steeped in autumnal foliage, from
the houses lying on the pier to the top
most round of the topmost ladder, that
one might have fancied it was out a
birds'-nesting, and was (as indeed it
was) a wonderful 'climber. And men
tioning birds, the place was not without
| some music from them too ; for the rook
was very busy on the higher levels, and
the gull with his flapping wings was
fishing in the bay, and the lusty little
robin was hopping among the great
stone blocks and iron rings of the break
water, fearless in the faith of his ances
tors and the Children in the Wood.

Thus it came to pass that Captain
Jorgan, sitting balancing himself on
the pier-wall, struck his leg with his
open hand, as some men do when they
are pleased — and as he always did when
he was pleased — and said,

"A mighty sing'lar and pretty place
it is, as ever I saw in all the days of my
life !" »

Captain Jorgan had not been through
the village, but had come down to the
pier by a winding side-road, to have a
preliminary look at it from the level of

(93

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

his own natural element. He ha^ seen
many things and places, and had stowed
them all away in a shrewd intellect and
a vigorous memory. He was an Ameri
can born, was Captain Jorgan — a New
Englander — but he was a citizen of the
world, and a combination of most of the
best qualities of most of its best coun
tries.

For Captain Jorgan to sit anywhere
in his long-skirted blue coat and blue
trowsers, without holding converse with
every body within speaking distance,
was a sheer impossibility. So the cap
tain fell to talking with the fishermen,
and to asking them knowing questions
about the fishery, and the tides, and the
currents, and the race of water off that
point yonder, and what you kept in your
eye and got into a line with what else
when you ran into the little harbor ; and
other nautical profundities. Among the
men who exchanged ideas with the cap
tain was a young fellow who exactly hit
his fancy — a young fisherman of two or
three-and-twenty, in the rough sea-dress
of his craft, with a brown face, dark
curling hair, and bright, modest eyes
under his Sou'wester hat, and with a
frank but simple and retiring manner,
which the captain found uncommonly
taking. " I'd bet a thousand dollars,"
said the captain to himself, " that your
father was an honest man !"

" Might you be married now ?" asked
the captain, when he had had some talk
with this new acquaintance.

" Not yet."

" Going to be ?" said the captain.

"I hope so."

The captain's keen glance followed
the slightest possible turn of the dark
eye, and the slightest possible tilt of
the Sou'wester hat. The captain then
slapped both his legs, and said to himself,

"Never knew such a good thing in
all my life ! There's his sweet-heart
looking over the wall !"

There was a very pretty girl looking
over the wall, from a little platform
of cottage, vine, and fuchsia ; and she
certainly did not look as if the presence
of this young fisherman in the landscape
made it any the less sunny and hopeful
for her.

Captain Jorgan, having doubled him
self up to laugh with that hearty good
nature which is quite exultant in the

innocent happiness of other people, had
undoubled himself, and was going to
start a new subject, when, there ap
peared coming down the lower ladders
of stones, a man whom he hailed as
" Tom Pettifer, Ho !' Tom Pettifer,
Ho, responded with alacrity, and in
speedy course descended on the pier.

" Afraid of a sun-stroke in England
in November, Tom, that you wear your
tropical hat, strongly paid outside and
paper-lined inside, here ?" said the cap
tain, eying it.

" It's as well to be on the safe side,
sir," replied Tom.

" Safe side !" repea:ed the captain,
laughing. " You'd guard against a
sun -stroke, with that o.d hat, in an ICG
Pack. Wa'al ! Wha-, have you made
out at the Post-office ?"

" It is the Post-offict, sir,"

" What's the Post-office ?" said the
captain.

" The name, sir. The name keeps
the Post-office."

" A coincidence !" stid the captain.
" A lucky hit ! Show me where it is.
Qood-by, shipmates, for the present ! I
shall come and have another look at
you, afore I leave, this ifternoon."

This was addressed to all there, but
especially the young fiaierman ; so all
there acknowledged it, but especially
the young fisherman. ''He's a sailor !"
said one to another, is they looked
after the captain moviig away. That
lie was ; and so outsp:aking was the
sailor in him, that although his dress
tiad nothing nautical about it, with the
ingle exception of its (olor, but was a
suit of a shore-going slape and form,
too long in the sleeves aid too short in
the legs, and too unaccommodating
veyywhere, terminating earthward in
a pair of Wellington >oots, and sur
mounted by a tall, stiff hat, which no
mortal could have won at sea in any
wind under Heaven ; nevertheless, a
glimpse of his sagacious.weather-beaten
face, or his strong, brovn hand, would
liave established the caitain's calling.
Whereas, Mr. Pettifer-^. man of a cer
tain plump neatness, with a curly
whisker, and 'elaborately nautical in a
jacket and shoes and al things corres
pondent — looked no m re like a sea-
nan, beside Captain J»rgan, than he
looked like a sea-serpent

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

The two climbed high up the vil
lage — which had the most arbitrary
turns and twists in it, so that the cob
bler's house came dead across the ladder,
and to have held a reasonable course,
you must have gone through his house,
and through him too, as he sat at his
work between two little windows, with
one eye microscopically on the geologi
cal formation of that part of Devon
shire, and the other teleseopically on
the open sea — the two climbed high up
the village, and stopped before a quaint
little house, on which was painted,
" MRS. RAYBROCK, DRAPER ;" and also
"POST-OFFICE." Before it, ran a rill
of murmuring water, and access to it
was gained by a little plank-bridge.

" Here's the name," said Captain
Jorgan, " sure enough. You can come
in if you like, Tom."

The captain opened the door, and
passed into an odd little shop, about
six feet high, with a great variety of
beams and bumps in the ceiling, and,
besides the principal window giving on
the ladder of stones, a purblind little
window of a single pane of glass : peep
ing out of an abutting corner at the
sun-lighted ocean, and winking at its
brightness.

" How do you do, ma'am ?" said the
captain. " I am very glad to see you.
I have come a long way to see you."

"Have you, sir ? Then I am sure I
am very glad to see you, though I don't
know you from Adam."

Thus a comely elderly woman, short
of stature, plump of form, sparkling
and dark of eye, who, perfectly clean
and neat herself, stood in the midst of
her perfectly clean and neat arrange
ments, and surveyed Captain Jorgan
with smiling curiosity. " Ah ! but you
are a sailor, sir," she added, almost im
mediately, and with a slight movement
of her hands, that was uot very unlike
wringing them ; " then you are heartily
welcome."

" Thank'ee, ma'am," said the captain.
" I don't know what it is, I am sure,
that brings out the salt in me, but every
body seems to see it on the crown of my
hat and the collar of my coat. Yes,
ma'am, I am in that way of life."

" And the other gentlemen, too," said
Mrs. Raybrock.

"Well now, ma'am," said the cap-

• tain, glancing shrewdly at the other
I gentleman, " you are that nigh right,
that he goes to sea — if that makes him
a sailor. This is my steward, ma'am,
Tom Pettifer] he's been a'most all
trades you could name, in the course of
his life — would have bought all your
chairs and tables, once, if you had
wished to sell 'em — but now he's my
steward. My name's Jorgan, and I'm
a ship-owner, and I sail my own and my
partners' ships, and have done so this
five-and -twenty year. According to
custom I am called Captain Jorgan,
but I am no more a captain, bless your
heart! than you are."

"Perhaps you'll come into my par
lor, sir, and take a chair ?" said Mrs.
Raybrock.

"Ex-actly what I was going to pro
pose myself, ma'am. After you."

Thus replying, and enjoining Tom to
give an eye to the shop, Captain Jorgaa
followed Mrs. Raybrock into the little
low back-room — decorated with divers
plants in pots, tea-trays, old china tea
pots, and punch-bowls — which was at
once the private sitting-room of the
Raybrock family and the inner cabinet
of the post-office of the village of Steep-
ways.

"Now, ma'am," said the captain, "it
dou't signify a cent to you where I was
born, except — " But here the shadow
of some one entering fell upon the cap
tain's figure, and he broke off to double
himself up, slap both his legs, and ejacu
late, " Never knew such a thing in all
my life 1 Here he is again ! How are
you ?"

These words referred to the young
fellow who had so taken Captain Jor-
gan's fancy down at the pier. To make
it all quite complete he came in accom
panied by the sweet-heart whom the
captain had detected looking over the
wall. A prettier sweet-heart the sun
could not have shone upon that shining
day. As she stood before the captain,
with her rosy lips just parted in sur
prise, her brown eyes a little wider
open than was usual from the same
cause, and her breathing a little quick
ened by the ascent (and possibly by
some mysterious hurry and flurry at the
parlor door, in which the captain had
observed her face to be for a moment
totally eclipsed by the Sou'wester hat),

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

she looked so charming, that the cap
tain felt himself under a moral obliga
tion to slap both his legs again. She
was very simply dressed, with no other
ornament than an autumnal flower in
her bosom. She wore neither hat nor
bonnet, but merely a scarf or kerchief,
folded squarely back over the head, to
keep the sun off — according to a fashion
that may be sometimes seen in the more
genial parts of England as well as of
Italy, and which is probably the first
fashion of head-dress that came into
the world when grasses and leaves went
out.

"In my country," said the captain,
rising to give her his chair, and dex
terously sliding it close to another chair
on which the young fisherman must
necessarily establish himself — "in my
country we should call Devonshire
beauty first-rate I"

Whenever a frank manner is offensive,
it is because it is strained or feigned ;
for there may be quite as much intoler
able affectation in plainness as in minc-
^ng nicety. All that the captain said
and did was honestly according to his
nature ; and his nature was open nature
and good nature; therefore, when he
paid this little compliment, and ex
pressed with a sparkle or two of his
knowing eye, " I see how it is, and no
thing could be better," he had estab
lished a delicate confidence on that sub
ject with the family.

" I was saying to your worthy mo
ther," said the captain to the young
man, after again introducing himself by
name and occupation : " I was saying
to your mother (and you're very like
her) that it didn't signify where I was
born, except that I was raised on ques
tion-asking ground, where the babies
as soon as ever they come into the
world, inquire of their mothers, 'Neow,
how old may you be, and wa'at air you
a goin' to name me?' — which is a fact."
Here he slapped his leg. " Such being
the case, I may be excused for asking
you if your name's Alfred ?"

" Yes, sir, my name is Alfred," re
turned the young man.

" I am not a conjuror," pursued the
captain, " and don't think me so, or I
shall right soon undeceive you. Like
wise don't think, if you please, though
I do come from that country of the

babies, that I am asking question!? for
question-asking's sake, for I am not.
Somebody belonging to you went to
sea?"

" My elder brother, Hugh," returned
the young man. He said it in an al
tered and lower voice, and glanced at
his mother, who raised her hands hur
riedly, and put them together across
her black gown, and looked eagerly at
the visitor.

" No 1 For God's sake, don't think
that!" said the captain, in a solemn
way; "I bring no good tidings of him."

There was a silence, and the mother
turned her face to the fire and put her
hand between it and her eyes. The
young fisherman slightly motioned to
ward the window, and the captain, look
ing in that direction, saw a young widow,
sitting at a neighboring window across
a little garden, engaged in needle-work,
with a young child sleeping on her bo
som. The silence continued until the
captain asked of Alfred :

" How long is it since it happened ?"

" He shipped for his last voyage bet
ter than three years ago."

" Ship struck upon some reef or
rock, as I take it," said the captain,
" and all hands lost ?"

"Yes."

" Wa'al !" said the captain, after a
shorter silence. "Here I sit who may
come to the same end, like enough.
He holds the seas in the hpllovv of His
hand. We must all strike somewhere
and go down. Our comfort, then, for
ourselves and one another, is, to have
done our duty. I'd wager your brother
did his !"

" He did !" answered the young
fisherman. " If ever man strove faith
fully on all occasions to do his duty, my
brother did. My brother was not a
quick man (any thing but that), but he
was a faithful, true, and just man. We
were the sons of only a small tradesman
in this county, sir ; yet our father was
as watchful of his good name as if he
had been a king."

" A precious sight more so, I hope —
bearing in mind the general run of that
class of crittur," said the captain.
"But I interrupt."

" My brother considered that our
father left the good .name to us, to
keep clear and true."

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

"Your brother considered right,"
said the captain; "and you couldn't
take care of a better legacy. But again
I interrupt."

"No; for I have nothing more to
say. We know that Hugh lived well
for the good name, and we feel certain
that he died well for the good name.
And now it has come into my keeping.
And that's all."

" Well spoken 1" cried the captain.
" Well spoken, young man ^ Concern
ing the manner of your brother's
death" — by this time the captain had
released the hand he had shaken, and
sat with his own broad brown hands
spread out on his knees, and spoke
aside — " concerning the manner of your
brother's death, it may be that I have
some information to give you ; though
it may not be, for I am far from sure.
Can we have a little talk alone ?"

The young man rose ; but not before
the captain's quick eye had noticed that,
on the pretty sweet-heart's turning to
the window to greet the young widow
with a nod and a wave of the hand, the
young widow had held up to her the
needlework on which she was engaged,
with a patient and pleasant smile. So
the captain said, being on his legs :

" What might she be making now ?"

" What is Margaret making, Kitty ?"
aeked the young fisherman — with one of
his arms apparently mislaid somewhere.

As Kitty only blushed in reply, the
captain doubled himself up as far as he
could, standing, and said, with a slap
of his leg :

" In my country we should call it
wedding-clothes.4 Fact 1 We should,
I do assure you."

But it seemed to strike the captain
in another light too ; for his laugh was
not a long one, and he added, in quite
a gentle tone :

" And it's very pretty, my dear, to
see her — poor young thing, with her
fatherless child upon her bosom — giving
up her thoughts to your home and your
happiness. It's very pretty, ray dear,
and it's very good. May your marriage
be more prosperous than hers, and be a
comfort to her too. May the blessed
sun see you all happy together, in pos
session of the go id name, long after I
have done plowing the great salt field
that ;s never sown !"

Kitty answered' very earnestly. " Oh !
Thank you, sir, with all my heart!"
And, in her loving little way, kissed her
hand to him, and possibly by implica
tion to the young fisherman too, as the
latter held the parlor door open for the
captain to pass out.

•*•

CHAPTER II.

'•K

THE MONEY.

"THE stairs^ are very narrow, sir,"
said Alfred Raybrock to Captain Jor-
gan.

"Like my cabin-stairs," returned the
captain, "on many a voyage."

" And they are rather inconvenient
for the head."

" If my head can't take care of itself
by this time, after all the knocking
about the world it has had," replied
the captain, as unconcernedly as if he
had no connection with it, " it's not
worth looking after."

Thus they came into the young fish
erman's bed-room, which was as per
fectly neat and clean as the shop and
parlor below : though it was but a
Ifttle place, with a sliding window, and
a phrenological ceiling expressive of
all the peculiarities of the house-roof.
Here the captain sat down on the foot
of the bed, and, glancing at a dreadful
libel on Kitty which ornamented the
wall — the production of sorue wander
ing limner, whom the captain secretly
admired, as having studied portraiture
from the figure-heads of ships — mo
tioned to the young man to take the
rush-chair on the other side of the
small round table. That done, the
captain put his hand in the deep
breast-pocket of his long-skirted blue
coat, and took out of it a strong
square case-bottle — not a large bottle,
but such as may be seen in any ordi
nary ship's medicine-chest. Setting
this bottle on the table without remov
ing his hand from it, Captain Jorgau
then spake as follows :

" In my last voyage homeward-
bound," said the captain, " and that's
the voyage off of which I now come
straight, I encountered such weather
off the Horn as is not very often met

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

with, even there. I have rounded that
stormy Cape pretty often, and I be
lieve I first beat aboift there in the
identical storms that blew the devil's
horns and tail off, and led to the horns
being worked np into tooth-picks for
the plantation overseers in my country,
who may 'be seen (if you travel down
South, or away West, fur enough)
picking their teeth with 'em, while the
whips, made of the tail, flog hard. In
this last voyage, homeward-bound for
Liverpool from South America, I say
to you, my young friend, it blew.
Whole measures ! No half measures,
nor making believe to blow ; it blew !
Now I warri't blown clean out of the
water into the sky — though I expected
to be even that — but I was blown clean
out of my course ; and when at last it
fell calm, it fell dead calm, and a
strong current set one way, day and
night, night and day, and I drifted —
drifted—drifted — out of all the ordinary
tracks and courses of ships, and drifted
yet, and yet drifted. It behooves a man
who takes charge of fellow-crutturs'
lives, never to rest from making him
self master of his calling. I never did
rest, and consequently I knew pretty
well ('specially looking over the side
in the dead calm of that strong cur
rent) what dangers to expect, and what
precautions to take against 'em. In
short, we were driving head on to an
island. There was no island in the
chart, and, therefore, you may say it
was ill manners in the island to be
there ; I don't dispute its bad breed
ing, but there it was. Thanks be to
Heaven, I was as ready for the island
as the island was ready for me. I
made it out myself from the masthead,
and I got enough way upon her in
good time to keep her off. I ordered
a boat to be lowered and manned, and
went in that boat myself to explore the
island. There was a reef outside it,
and, floating in a corner of the smooth
water within the reef, was a heap of
sea-weed, and entangled in that sea
weed was this bottle."

Here the captain took his hand from
the bottle for a 'moment, that the
young fisherman might direct a won
dering glace at it ; and then replaced
his hand and went on :

" If ever you come — or even if ever
you don't come — to a desert place, use
you your eyes and your spy-glass well ;
for the smallest thing you see may
prove of use to you, and may have
some information or some warning in
it. That's the principle on which I
came to see this bottle. I picked up
the bottle and ran the boat alongside
the island and made fast and went
ashore, armed, with a part of my boat's
crew. We found that every scrap- of
vegetation on the island (I give it you
as my opinion, but scant and scrubby
at the best of times) had been con
sumed by fire. As we were making
our way, cautiously and toilsomely,
over the pulverized embers, one of rny
people sank into the earth, breast high.
He turned pale, and ' Haul me out
smart, shipmates,' says he, 'for my feet
are among bones.' We soon got him
on his legs again, and then we dug up
the spot, and we found that the man
was right, and that his feet had been
among bones. More than that, they
were human fcones ; though whether
the remains of one man, or of two or
three men, what with calcination and
ashes, and what with a poor practical
knowledge of anatomy, I can't under
take to say. We examined the whole
island and made out nothing else, save
and except that, from its opposite side,
I sighted a considerable tract of land,
which land I was able to identify, and
according to the bearings of which
(not to trouble you with my log) I took
a fresh departure. When I got aboard
again I opened the bottle, which waa
oilskin -covered as you see, and glass-
stoppered as you see. Inside of it,"
pursued the captain, suiting his action
to his words, " I found this little crum
pled folded paper, just as you see.
Outside of it was written, as you see,
these words : ' Whoever finds this, is
solemnly entreated by the dead to con
vey it unread to Alfred Raybrock,
Steepways, North Devon, England.'
A sacred charge," said the captain,
concluding his narrative, " and, Alfred
Raybrock, there it is I"

" This is my poor brother's writing 1"
" I suppose so," said Oapt. Jurgan.
" I'll take a look oat of this little win
dow while you read it."

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

" Pray no, sir ! I should be hurt.
My brother couldn't know it would
fall into such hands as yours."

The captain sat down again on the
foot of the bed, and the young man
opened the folded paper with a trem
bling hand, and spread it on the table.
The ragged paper, evidently creased
and torn both before and after being
written on, was much blotted and
stained, and the ink had faded and run,
and many words were wanting. What
•the captain and the young fisherman
made out together, after much re-reading
and much humoring of the folds of the
paper, is given on the preceding page.

The young fisherman had become
more and more agitated, as the writing
had become clearer to him. He now
left it lying before the captain, over
whose shoulder he had been reading it,
and, dropping into his former seat,
leaned forward on the table and laid
his face in his hands.

" What, man," urged the captain,
" don't give in ! Be up and doing, like
a man !"

" It is selfish, I know — but doing
what, doing what ?" cried the young
fisherman, in complete despair, and
stamping his sea-boot on the ground.

' " Doing what ?" returned the captain.
" Something ! I'd go down to the little
breakwater below, yonder, and take 'a
wrench at one of the salt-rusted iron-
rings there, and either wrench it up by
the roots or wrench my teeth out of my
head, sooner than I'd do nothing.
Nothing !" ejaculated the captain.
" Any fool or faint-heart can do that,
and nothing can come of nothing —
which was pretended to be found out,
I believe, by one of them Latin critters,"
said the captain, with the deepest dis
dain ; "as if Adam hadn't found it out,
afore ever he so much as named the
beasts !"

Yet the captain saw, in spite of his
bold words, that there was some greater
reason than he yet understood for the
young man's distress. And he eyed him
with a sympathizing curiosity.

"Come, come 1" continued the cap
tain. " Speak out. What is it, boy !"

"You have seen how beautiful she is,
sir," said the young man, looking up
for the moment, with a flushed face and
rumpled hair.

"Did any man ever say she warn't
beautiful ?" retorted the captain " If
so, go and lick him."

The young man laughed fretfully in
spite of himself, and said, " It's not that,
it's not that."

" Wa'al, then, what is it ?" said the
captain, in a more soothing tone.

The young fisherman mournfully com
posed himself to tell the captain what
it was, and began : " We were to have
been married next Monday week — "

"Were to have been 1" interrupted
Captain Jorgan. "And are to be?
Hey ?"

Young Raybrock shook his head, and
traced out with his forefinger the words
"poor father's five hundred pounds,"
•in the written paper.

" Go along," said the captain. " Five
hundred pounds ? Yes ?"

" That sum of money," pursued the
young fisherman, entering with the
greatest earnestness on his demonstra
tion, while the captain eyed him with
equal earnestness, " was all my late
father possessed. When he died, he
owed no man more than he left means to
pay, but he had been able to lay by only
five hundred pounds."

" Five hundred pounds," repeated
the captain. " Yes ?"

" In his lifetime, years before, he had
expressly laid the money aside, to leave
to my mother — like to settle upon her,
if I make myself understood."

" Yes ?"

" He had risked it once — my father
put down in writing at that time, re
specting the money — and was resolved
never to risk it again."

" Not a spectator," said the captain.
" My country wouldn't have suited him.
Yes ?"

" My mother has never touched the
money till now. And now it was to
have been laid out, this very next week,
in buying me a handsome share in our
neighboring fishery here, to settle me iu
life with Kitty."

The captain's face fell, and lie passed
and repassed his sun-browned right
hand over his thin hair, in a discomfited
manner.

"Kitty's father has no more than
enough to live on, even in the sparing
way iu which we live about here. He
is a kind of bailiff or steward of manor

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

rights here, and they are not much, and
it is bat a poor little office. He was
better off once, and Kitty must never
marry to mere drudgery and hard liv
ing."

The captain still sat stroking his thin
hair, and looking at the young fisher
man.

" I am as certain that my father had
no knowledge that any one was wronged
as to this money, or that any restitution
ought to be made, as I am certain that
the sun now shines. But, after this sol
emn warning from my brother's grave in
the sea, that the money is Stolen Mo
ney," said Young Raybrock, forcing
himself to the utterance of the words,
" can I doubt'it ? Can I touch it ?"

" About not doubting, I ain't so sure,"
observed the captain ; " but about
not touching — no — I don't think you
can."

" See then," said Young Raybrock,
" why I am so grieved. Think of Kitty.
Think what I have got to tell her !"

His heart quite failed him again when
he had come round to that, and he once
more beat his sea-boot softly on the
floor. But not for long ; he soon be
gan again, in a quietly resolute tone.

"However! Enough of that ! You
spoke some brave words to me just now,
Captain Jorgan, and they shall not be
spoken in vain. I have got to do some
thing. What I have got to do, before all
other things, is to trace out the meaning
of this paper, for the sake of the Good
Name that has no one else to put it
right or keep it right. And 'still, for
the sake of the Good Name, and my
father's memory, not a word of this
writing must be breathed to ray mother,
or to Kitty, or to any human creature.
You agree in this ?"

"I don't know what they'll think of
us below," said the captain, "but for
certain I can't oppose it. Now, as to
tracing. How will you do ?"

They both, as by consent, bent over
the paper again, and again carefully
puzzled out the whole of the writing.

" I make out that this would stand,
if all the writing was here, 'Inquire
among the old men living there, for' —
some one. Most like, you'll go to this
village named here ?" said the captain,
musing, with his finger on the name.
" Yes ! And Mr. TreKarthen is a

Cornishman, and — to be sure ! — comes
from Lanrean."

" Does he ?" said the Captain quietly.
"As I ain't acquainted with him, who
may he be ?"

" Mr. Tregarthen is Kitty's father."

" Ay, ay !" cried the captain. " Now
you speak ! Tregarthen knows this
village of Lanrean, then ?"

"Beyond all doubt he does. I have
often heard him mention it, as being his
native place. He knows it well."

" Stop half a moment," said the cap
tain. " We want a name here. You
could ask Tregarthen (or if you couldn't
I could) what names of old men he re
members in his time in those diggings ?
Hey ?"

" I can go straight to his cottage, and
ask him now. "

"Take me with you," said the cap
tain, rising in a solid way that had a
most comfortable reliability in it, " and
just a word more first. I have knocked
about harder than you, and have got
along further than you. I have had,
all my sea-going life long, to keep my
wits polished bright with acid and
friction, like the brass cases of the
ship's instruments. I'll keep you com
pany on this expedition. Now you
don't live by talking any more than I
do. Clench that hand of yours in this
hand of mine, and that's a speech on
both sides."

Captain Jorgan took command of
the expedition with that hearty shake.
He at once refolded the paper exactly
as before, replaced it in the bottle, put
the stopper in, put the oilskin over the
stopper, confided the whole to Young
Raybrock's keeping, and led the way
down stairs.

But it was harder navigation below
stairs than above. The instant they
set foot in the parlor the quick, womanly
eye detected that there was something
wrong. Kitty exclaimed, frightened,
as she ran to her lover's side, "Alfred !
What's the matter?" Mrs. Raybrock
cried out to the captain, " Gracious !
what have you done to my son to change
him like this all in a minute !" And
the young widow — who was there with
her work upon her arm — was at first so
agitated that she frightened the little
I girl she held in her hand, who hid her
i face in her mother's skirts and screamed.

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

The captain, conscious of being held
responsible for this domestic change,
contemplated it with quite a guilty ex
pression of countenance, and looked to
the young fisherman to comie to his
rescue.

" Kitty, darling," said Young Ray-
brock, " Kitty, dearest love, I must go
away to Lanrean, and I don'f, know
where else or how much further, this
very day. Worse than that — our mar
riage, Kitty, must be put off, and I
don't know for how long."

Kitty stared at him, in doubt and
wonder and in anger, and pushed him
from her with her hand.

"Put off?" cried Mrs. Raybrock.
" The marriage put off ? And you
going to Lanrean ! Why, iu the name
O'f the dear Lord ?"

"Mother dear, I can't say why ; I
must not say why. It would be dis
honorable and undutiful to say why."

"Dishonorable and undutiful ?" re
turned the dame. " And is there no
thing dishonorable or undutiful in the
boy's breaking the heart of his own
plighted love, and his mother's heart
too, for the sake of the dark secrets and
counsels of a wicked stranger ? Why
did you ever come here ?" she apostro
phized the innocent captain. " Who
wanted you ? Where did you come
from ? Why couldn't you rest in your
own bad place, wherever it is, instead
of disturbing the peace of quiet un
offending folk like us ?" i
] "And what," sobbed the poor little
Kitty, "have I ever done to you, you
hard and cruel captain, that you should
come and serve me so ?"

And then they both began to weep
most pitifully, while the captain could
only look from the one to the other, and
lay hold of himself by the coat collar.

" Margaret," said the poor young
fisherman, on his knees at Kitty's feet,
while Kitty kept both her hands before
her tearful face, to shut out the traitor
from her view — but kept her fingers
wide asunder, and looked at him all the
time : " Margaret, you have suffered so
much, so uncomplainingly, and are
always so careful and considerate 1 Do
take my part for poor Hugh's sake I"

The quiet Margaret was not appealed
to in vain. " I will, Alfred," she re
turned, " and I do. I wish this gentle

man had never come near us;" where
upon the captain laid hold of himself
the tighter ; " but I take your part, for
all that. I am sure you have some
strong reason and some sufficient rea
son for what you do, strange as it is,
and even for not saying why you do it,
strange as that is. And, Kitty darling,
you are bound to think so, more than
any one, for true love believes every
thing, and bears every thing, and trusts
every thing. And mother dear, you
are bound to think so too, for you know
you have been blest with good sons,
whose word was always as good as
their, oath, and who were brought up
in as true a sense of honor as any gen
tleman in this land. And I am sure
you have no more call, mother, to doubt
your living son than to doubt your
dead son ; and for the sake of the dear
dead, I stand up for the dear living."

" Wa'al now," the captain struck in,
with enthusiasm, " this I say, That
whether your opinions flatter me or not,
you are a young woman of sense, and
spirit, and feeling ; and I'd sooner have
you by my side, i n the hour of danger, than
a good half of the men I've ever fallen
in with — or fallen out with, ayther."

Margaret did not return the captain's
compliment, or appear fully to recipro
cate his good opinion, but she applied
herself to the consolation of Kitty, and
of Kitty's mothe -in-law that was to have
been next Monday week, and soon re
stored the parlor to a quiet condition.

" Kitty, my darling," said the young
fisherman, " I must go to your father to
entreat him still to trust me in spite of
this wretched change and mystery, and
to ask him for some directions concern
ing Lanrean. Will you come home ?
Will you come with me, Kitty?"

Kitty answered not a word, but rose
sobbing, with the end of her simple
head-dress at her eyes. Captain Jor-
gan followed the lovers out, quite sheep
ishly: pausing in the shop to give an
instruction to Mr. Pettifer.

" Here, Tom 1" said the captain, in a
low voice. " Here's something in your
line. Here's an old lady poorly and
low in her spirits. Cheer her up a bit,
Tom. Cheer 'em all up."

Mr. Pettifer, with a brisk nod of in
telligence, immediately assumed his
steward face, and went with his quiet

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

helpful steward step into the parlor,
where the captain had the great satisfac
tion of seeing him, through the glass
door, take the child in his arms (who
offered no objection), and bend over
Mrs. Raybrock, administering soft words
of consolation.

" Though what he finds to say, unless
he's telling her that it'll soon be over,
or that most people is so at first, or
that it'll do her good afterward, I can
not imaginate I" was the captain's re
flection as he followed the lovers.

He had not far to follow them, since
it was but a short descent down the
stony ways to the cottage of Kitty's fa
ther. But, short as the distance was,
it was long enough to enable the cap
tain to observe that he was fast becom
ing the village Ogre ; for there was not
a woman standing working at her door,
or a fisherman coming up or going down,
who saw Young Raybrock unhappy and
little Kitty in tears, but she or he in
stantly darted a suspicious and indig
nant glance at the captain, as the for
eigner who must somehow be responsi
ble for this unusual spectacle. Conse
quently, when they came into Tregar-
then's little garden — which formed the
platform from which the captain had
seen Kitty peeping over the wall — the
captain brought to, and stood off and
on at the gate, while Kitty hurried to
hide her tears in her own room, and Al
fred spoke with her father, who was
working in the garden. He was a ra
ther infirm man, but could scarcely be
called old yet, with an agreeable face
and r, promising air of making the best
of tuings. The conversation began on
his side with great cheerfulness and
good humor, but soon became distrust
ful, and soon angry. That was the cap
tain's cue for striking both into the con
versation and the garden.

"Morning, sir!" said Captain Jor-
gan. " How do you do ?"

" The gentleman I am going away
with," said the young fisherman to Tre-
garthen.

" Oh I" returned Kitty's father, sur
veying the unfortunate captain with a
look of extreme disfavor. " I confess
that I can't say I am glad to see
you."

" No," said the captain, " and, to ad
mit the truth, that seems to be the gene

ral opinion in these parts. But don't
be hasty ; yon may think better of 'me
by-and-by."

" I hope so," observed Tregarthen.

"Wa'al, / hope so," observed the
captain, quite at his ease ; " more than
that, I believe so — though you don't.
Now, Mr. Tregarthen. you don't want
to exchange words of mistrust with me ;
and if you did, you couldn't, because I
wouldn't. Yon and I are old enough to
know better than to judge against ex
perience from surfaces and appearances ;
and if you haven't lived to find out the
evil and injustice of such judgments,
you are a lucky man."

The other seemed to shrink under
this remark, and replied, " Sir, I have
lived to feel it deeply."

" Wa'al," said the captain, mollified,
" then I've made a good cast without
knowing it. Now, Tregarthen, there
stands the lover of your only child, and
here stand I who know his secret. I
warrant it 'a righteous secret, and none
of his making, though bound to be of
his keeping. I want to help him out
with it, and tew wards that end we ask
you to favor us with the names of two
or three old residents in the village of
Lanrean. As 1 am taking out my
pocket-book and pencil to put the
names down, I may as well observe to you
that this, wrote atop of the first page
here, is my name and address : ' Silas
Janas Jorgan, Salem, Massachusetts,
United States.' If ever you take it in
your head to run over any morning, I
shall be glad to welcome yon. Now,
what may be the spelling of these said
names ?"

"There was an elderly man," said
Tregarthen, " named David Polreath.
He may be dead."

"Wa'al," said the captain, cheer
fully, "if Polreath's dead and buried,
and can be made of any service to us,
Polreath won't object to our digging
of him up. Polreath's down, any how."

" There was another named Peure-
wen. I don't know his Christian
name."

" Never mind his Chris'en name,"
said the captain. " Penrewen for
short."

" There was another named John,
Tredgear."

"And a pleasant-sounding

too," said the captain ; " John Tred-
gear's booked."

"I can recall no other except old
Parvis."

" One of old Parvis's fam'ly, I reck
on," said the captain, " kept a dry-
goods store in New York city, and
realized a handsome competency by
burning his house to ashes. Same name,
any how. David Polreath, Unchris'en
Penrewen, John Tredgear, and old Ar-
Bon Parvis."

" I can not recall any others at the
moment."

" Thank'ee," said the captain. " And
so, Tregarthen, hoping for your good
opinion yet, and likewise for the fair
Devonshire Flower's, your daughter's,
I give you my hand, sir, and wish you
good-day."

Young Raybrock accompanied him
disconsolately ; for there was no Kitty
at the window when he looked up, no
Kitty in the garden when he shut the
gate, no Kitty gazing after them along
the stony ways when they begin to
climb back.

" Now I tell you what," said the
captain. " Not being at present cal-
c'lated to promote harmony in your
family, I won't come in. You go and
get your dinner at home, and Pll get
mine at the little hotel. Let our hour
of meeting be two o'clock, and you'll
find me smoking a cigar in the sun
afore the hotel door. Tell Tom Pet-
tifer, my steward, to consider himself
on duty, and to look after your people
till we come back ; you'll find he'll have
made himself useful to 'em already, and
will be quite acceptable."

All was done as Captain Jorgan di
rected. Punctually at two o'clock the
young fisherman appeared with his
knapsack at his back ; and punctually
at two o'clock the captain jerked away
the last feather-end of his cigar.

" Let me carry your baggage, Cap
tain Jorgan ; I can easily take it with
mine."

" Thauk'ee," said the captain. " I'll
carry it myself. It's only a comb."

They climbed out of the village, and
paused among the trees and fern on
the summit of the hill above, to take
breath and to look down at the beauti
ful sea. Suddenly the captain gave
his leg a resounding slap, and cried,

" Never knew such a right thing in all
my life !" — and ran away.

The cause of this abrupt retirement
on the part of the captain was little
Kitty among the trees. The captain
went out of sight and waited, and
kept out of sight and waited, until it
occurred to him to beguile the time
with another cigar. He lighted it,
and smoked it out, and still he was out
of sight and waiting. He stole within
sight at last, and saw the lovers, with
their arms entwined and their bent
heads touching, moving slowly among
the trees. It was the golden time of
the afternoon then, and the captain
said to himself, " Golden sun, golden
sea, golden sails, golden leaves, golden
love, golden youth, — a golden state of
things altogether !"

Nevertheless the captain found it ne
cessary to hail his young companion
before going out of sight again. In a
few moments more he came up, and
they began their journey.

" That still young woman with the
fatherless child," said Captain Jorgan,
as they fell into step, " didn't throw
her words away ; but good honest
words are never thrown away. And
now that I am conveying you off from
that tender little thing that loves and
relies and hopes, I feel just as if I was
the snarling crittur in the picters, with
the tight legs, the long nose, and the fea
ther in his cap, the tips of whose mus
taches get up nearer to his eyes the
wickeder he gets."

The young fisherman knew nothing
of Mephistopheles ; but he smiled
when the captain stopped to double
himself up and slap his leg, and they
went along in right good-fellowship.

CHAPTER III.

THE CLUB-NIGHT.

A CORNISH MOOR, when the east
wind drives over it, is as cold and
rugged a scene as a traveler is likely
to find in a year's travel. A Cornish
Moor, in the dark, is as black a soli
tude as the traveler is likely to wish
himself well out of in the course of a
life's wanderings. A Cornish Moor,

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

in a night fog, is a wilderness where
the traveler needs to know his way
well, or the chances are very strong
that his life and his wanderings will
soon perplex him no more.

Captain Jorgan and the young fish
erman had faced the east and the
southeast winds from the first rising of
the sun after their departure from the
village of Steepways. Thrice had the
sun risen, and still all day long had
the sharp wind blown at them like
some malevolent spirit bent on forcing
them back. But Captain Jordan was
too familiar with all the winds that
blow, and too much accustomed to cir
cumvent their slightest weaknesses,
and get the better of them in the long
run, to be beaten by any member of the
airy family. Taking the year round,
it was his opinion that it mattered little
what wind blew, or how hard it blew ;
so he was as indifferent to the wind on
this occasion as a man could be who
frequently observed " that it fresh
ened him up," and who regarded it in
the light of an old acquaintance. One
might have supposed, from his way,
that there was even a kind of fraternal
understanding between Captain Jorgan
and the wind, as between two professed
fighters ofien opposed to one another.
The young fisherman, for his part, was
accustomed within his narrower limits
to hold hard weather cheap, and had
his anxious object before him ; so the
wind went by him, too, little heeded,
and went upon its way to kiss Kitty.

Their varied course had lain by the
side of the sea, where the brown rocks
cleft it into fountains of spray, and in
land where once barren moors were
reclaimed and cultivated, and by lonely
villages of poor-enough cabins with
mud walls, and by a town or two with
an old church and a market-place.
But, always traveling through a sparely
inhabited country and over a broad ex
panse, they had come at last upon the
true Cornish Moor within reach of
Lanrean. None but gaunt spectres of
miners passed them here, with metallic
masks of faces, ghastly with dust of
copper and tin ; anon, solitary works
on remote hill-tops, and bare machi
nery of torturing wheels and cogs and
chains, writhing up hill-sides, were the
few scattered hints of liurnuu presence

in the landscape ; during long inter
vals, the bitter wind, howling and tear
ing at them like a fierce wild monster,
had them all to itself.

"A sing'Iar thing it is," said the cap
tain, looking round at the brown desert
of rank grass and poor moss, " how like
this airth is to the men that live upon
it ! Here's a spot of country rich with
hidden metals, and it puts on the worst
rags of clothes possible, and crouches
and shivers and makes believe to be so
poor that it can't so much as afford a
feed for a beast. Just like a human
miser, ain't it ?"

" But they find the miser out," re
turned the young fisherman, pointing to
where the earth by the water-courses
and along the valleys was turned up,
for miles, in trying for metal.

"Ay, they find him out," said the
captain ; "but he makes a struggle of
it even then, and holds back all he can.
He's a 'cute 'un."

The gloom of etening was already
gathering on the dreary scene, and they
were, at the shortest and best, a dozen
miles from their destination. But the
captain, in his long-skirted blue coat
and his boots and his hat and his square
shirt-collar, and without any extra de
fense against the weather, walked coolly
along with his hands in his pockets, as
if he lived under-ground somewhere
hard by, and had just come up to show
his friend the road.

" I'd have liked to have had a look
at this place, too," said the captain,
" when there was a monstrous sweep of
water rolling over it, dragging the pow
erful great stones along and piling 'era
atop of one another, and depositing the
foundations for all manner of super
stitions. Bless you 1 the old priests,
smart mechanical critturs as they were,
never •piled up many of these stones.
Water's the lever that moved 'em.
When you see 'em thick and blunt tew-
wards one point of the compass, and
fined away thin tewwards the opposite
point, you may be as good as moral
sure that the name of the ancient Druid
that fixed 'em was Water. "

The captain referred to some great
blocks of stone presenting this charac
teristic, which were wonderfully bal
anced and heaped on one another, on a
desolate hill. Looking back at these,

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

as they stood out against the lurid glare
of the west, just then expiring, they
were not unlike enormous antediluvian
birds, that had perched there on crags
and peaks, and had been petrified there.
"But it's an interesting country,"
said the captain, " — fact ! It's old in
the annals of that said old Arch-Druid,
"Water, and it's old in the annals of the
said old parson-critturs too. It's a
mighty interesting thing to set your
boot (as I did this day) on a rough,
honey-combed old stone, with just no
thing you can name but weather visible
upon it : which the scholars that go
about with hammers, chipping pieces
off the universal airth, find to be an in
scription entreating prayers for the soul
of some for-ages-bust-up crittur of a
governor that over-taxed a people never
heard of." Here the captain stopped to
slap his leg. " It's a mighty interesting
thing to come upon a score or two of
stones set up on end in a desert — some
short, some tall, some leaning here, some
leaning there, and to know that they
were pop'larly supposed — and may be
still — to be a group of Cornish men that
got changed into that geological forma
tion for playing a game upon a Sunday.
They wouldn't have it in my country, I
reckon, even if they could get it — but
it's very interesting."

In this the captain, though it amused
him, was quite sincere. Quite as sin
cere as when he added, after looking
well about him : " That fog-bank coming
up as the sun goes down, will spread,
and we shall have to feel our way into
Lanrean full as much as see it."

All the way along the young fisher
man had spoken at times to the captain
of his interrupted hopes, and of the
family good name, and of the restitution
that must be made, and of the cherished
plans of his heart, so near attainment,
which must be set aside for it. In his
simple faith and honor, he seemed in
capable of entertaining the idea that it
was within the bounds of possibility to
evadejthe doing of what their inquirie
should establish to be right. This was
very agreeable to Captain Jorgan, and
won his genuine admiration. Where
fore he no\v turned the discourse back
into that channel, and encouraged his
companion to talk of Kitty, and to cal
culate how many years it would take
2

without a share in the fishery, to estab
lish a home for her, and to relieve his
honest heart by dwelling on its anx
ieties.

Meanwhile it fell very dark, and the
fog became dense, though the wind
howled at them and bit them as savage
ly as ever. The captain had carefnlly
taken the bearings of Laurean from (he
map, and carried his pocket-compuss
with him ; the young fisherman, too,
possessed that kind of cultivated in
stinct for shaping a course which is
often found among men of such pur
suits. But although they held a true
course in the main, and corrected it
when they lost the road by aid of the
compass and alight obtained with great
difficulty in the roomy depths of the
captain's hat, they could not help losing
the road often. On such occasions they
would become involved in the difficult
ground of the spongy moor, and, after
making a laborious loop, would emerge
upon the road at some point they had
passed before they left it, and thus
would have a good deal of work to do
twice over. But the young fisherman
was not easily lost, and the captain (and
his comb) would probably have turned
up, with perfect coolness and self-pos
session, at any appointed spot on the
surface of this globe. Consequently,
they were no more than retarded in
their progress to Lanrean, and arrived
in that small place at nine o'clock. By
that time the captain's hat had fallen
back over his ears, and rested on the
nape of his neck ; but he still had his
hands in his pockets, and showed no
other sign of dilapidation.

They had almost run against a low
stone house with red-curtained windows,
before they knew they had hit upon the
little hotel, the King Arthur's Arms.
They could just descry through the
mist, on the opposite side of the nar
row road, other low stone buildings
which were its outhouses and stables ;
and somewhere overhead its invisible
sign was being wrathfully swung by the
wind.

" Now, wait a bit," said the captain.
" They might be full here, or they might
offer us cold quarters. Consequently,
the policy is to take an observation,
and, when we've found the warmest
room, walk right slap into it."

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

The warmest room was evidently that
from which fire and candle streamed
reddest, and brightest, and from which
the sound of voices engaged in some
discussion came out into the night.
Captain Jorgan having established the
bearings of this room, merely said to
his young friend, " Follow me 1" and
was in it before King Arthur's Arms
had any notion that they infolded a
stranger.

"Order, order, order!" cried several
voices, as the captain, with his hat
under his arm, stood within the door he
had opened.

" Gentlemen," said the captain, ad
vancing, "I am much beholden to you
for the opportunity you give me of ad
dressing you ; but will not detain you
with any lengthened observations. I
have the honor to be a cousin of yours
on the Uncle Sam side ; this young
friend of mine is a nearer relation of
yours on the Devonshire side ; we are
both pretty nigh used up, and much in
want of supper. I thank you for your
welcome, niul I am proud to take you by
the hand, sir, and I hope I see you well."

These last words were addressed to a
jolly-looking chairman, with a wooden
hammer near him ; which, but for the
captain's friendly grasp, he would have
taken up and hammered the table with.

" How do you do, sir ?" said the
captain, shaking this chairman's hand
with the greatest heartiness, while his
new friend ineffectually eyed his hammer
of office ; " when you come to my coun
try, I shall be proud to return your
welcome, sir, and that of this good
company."

TJie captain now took his seat near
the fire, and invited his companion to
do tjbe like — whom he congratulated
aloud, ,oti their having "fallen on their
feet."

Th-e^eoonpany, who might be about a
dozen in .number, were at a loss what
to make .of, or do with, the captain.
But iO,ne -little old man in long flapping
shirt ;ea.lla*s:-: who, with only his face
and ithem.visiblle through a cloud of to
bacco smoke, iooked like a superan
nuated 'Cherubjni.: said sharply,
I "Tihisis a.Qlub,"

"Tlris is ;a ^Clttb/' the captain re
peated to his .young friend. "Wa'al
sow, iUat's suripjtisj Didn't I say,

coming along, if we could only light
upon a Club ?"

The captain's doubling himself up
and slapping his leg finished the chair
man. He had been softening toward
the captain from the first, and he melted.
" Gentlemen King Arthurs," said he,
rising, " though it is not the custom to
admit strangers, still, as we have broken
the rule once to-night, I will exert my
authority and break it again. And
while the supper of these travelers is
cooking ;" here his eye fell on the land
lord, who discreetly took the hint and
withdrew to see about it ; "I will re
call you to the subject of the sea-faring
man."

" D'ye hear !" said the captain, aside
to the young fisherman ; " that's in our
way. Who's the sea-faring man, I
wonder ?"

" I see several old men here," re
turned the young fisherman, eagerly,
for his thoughts were always on his ob
ject. " Perhaps one or more of the
old men whose names you wrote down
in your book may be here."

" Perhaps," said the captain ; I've
got my eye on 'em. But don't force it.
Try if it won't come nat'ral."

Thus the two, behind their hands,
while they sat warming them at the fire.
Simultaneously, the Club beginning to
be at its ease again, and resuming the
discussion of the sea-faring man, the
captain winked to his fellow-traveler to
let him attend to it.

As it was a kind of conversation not
altogether unprecedented in such as
semblages, where most of those who
spoke at all spoke all at once, and
where half of those could put no begin
ning to what they bad to say, and the
other half could put no end, the ten
dency of the debate was discursive, and
not very intelligible. All the captain
had made out, down to the time when
the separate little table laid for two was
covered with a smoking broiled fowl
and rashers of bacon, reduced itself to
these heads. That, a sea-faring man
had arrived at the King Arthur's Arms,
benighted, an hour or so earlier in the
evening. That, the Gentlemen King
Arthurs had admitted him, though all
unknown, into the sanctuary of their
Club. That, they had invited him to
make his footing good by telling a

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

story. That, he had, after some press
ing, begun a story of adventure and
shipwreck ; at an interesting point of
which he had suddenly broke off, and
positively refused to finish. That, he
had thereupon taken up a candlestick,
and gone to bed, and was now the sole
occupant of a double-bedded room up
stairs. The question raised on these
premises appeared to be, whether the
sea-faring man was not in a state of
contumacy and contempt, and ought
not to be formally voted and declared
in that condition. This deliberation
involved the difficulty (suggested by
the more jocose and irreverent of the
Gentlemen King Arthurs) that it might
make no sort of difference to the sea
faring man whether he was so voted
and declared, or not.

Captain Jorgau and the young fish
erman ate their supper and di'ank their
beer, and their knives and forks had
ceased to rattle and their glasses had
ceased to clink, and still the discussion
showed no symptoms of coming to any
conclusion. But when they had left
their little supper-table and had re
turned to their seats by the fire, the
Chairman hammered himself into atten
tion, and thus outspake :

" Gentlemen King Arthurs ; when
the night is so bad without, harmony
should prevail within. When the moor
is so windy, cold, and bleak, this room
should be cheerful, convivial, and en
tertaining. Gentlemen, at present it is
neither the one, nor yet the other, nor
yet the other. Gentlemen King Arthurs,
I recall you to yourselves. Gentlemen
King Arthurs, what are you ? You are
inhabitants — old inhabitants — of the no
ble village of Lanrean. You are in coun
cil assembled. You are a monthly Club
through all the winter months, and they
are many. It is your perroud perrivi-
lege, on a new member's entrance, or
on a member's birthday, to call upon
that member to make good his footing
by relating to you some transaction or
adventure in his life, or in the life of a
relation, or in the life of a friend, and
then depute me as your representative
to spin a teetotum to pass it round.
Gentlemen King Arthurs, your pcrroud
perrivileges shall not suffer in my keep-
jug. N — no 1 Therefore, as the mem
ber whose birthday the present occasion

has the honor to be, has gratified you ;
and as the sea-faring man overhead has
not gratified you ; I start you fresh, by
spinning the teetotum attached to my
office, and calling on the gentlemen it
falls to to speak up when his name is
declared."

The captain and his young friend
looked hard at the teetotum as it whirled
rapidly, and harder still when it gradu
ally became intoxicated and began to
stasrirer about the table in an ill-con
ducted and disorderly manner. Finally
it came into collision with a candlestick,
and leaped against the pipe of the old
gentleman with the flapping shirt col
lars. Thereupon the chairman struck
the table once with his hammer and said :

" Mr. Parvis !"

" D'ye hear that ?" whispered the
captain, greatly excited, to the young
fisherman. " I'd have laid you a thou
sand dollars a good half-hour ago, that
that old cherubim in the clouds was
Arson Parvis 1"

The respectable personage in ques
tion, after turning up one eye to assist
his memory — at which time he bore a
very striking resemblance indeed to the
conventional representations of his race
as executed in oil by various ancient
masters—- commenced a narrative, of
which the interest centred in a waistcoat.
It appeared that the waistcoat was a
yellow waistcoat with a green stripe,
white sleeves, and a plain brass button.
It also appeared that the waistcoat was
made to order, by Nicholas Pendold of
Penzance, who was thrown off the top
of a four-horse coach coming down the
hill on the Plymouth road, and, pitch
ing on his head where he was not sensi
tive, lived two-and-thirty years after
ward, and considered himself the better
for the accident — roused up, as it might
be. It further appeared that the waist
coat belonged to Mr. Parvis's father,
and had once attended him, in company
with a pair of gaiters, to the annual
feast of miners at St. Just; where the
extraordinary circumstances which ever
afterward rendered it a waistcoat famous
in story had occurred. But the cele
brity of the waistcoat was not thoroughly
accounted for by Mr. Parvis, and had
to be to some extent taken on trust by
the company, in consequence of that
gentleman's entirely forgetting all about

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

the extraordinary circumstance that had
handed it down to fame. Indeed, he
was even unable, on a gentle cross-ex
amination instituted for the assistance
of his memory, to inform the Gentlemen
King Arthurs whether it was a circum
stance of a natural or a supernatural
character. Having thus responded to
the teetotum, Mr. Parvis, after looking
out from his clouds as if he would like
to see the man who would beat that,
subsided into himself.

The fraternity were plunged into a
blank condition by Mr. Parvis's success,
and the chairman was about to try an
other 'spin, when young Raybrock —
whom Captain Jorgan had with diffi
culty restrained — rose, and said might
he ask Mr. Parvis a question.

The Gentlemen King Arthurs hold
ing, with loud cries of " Order !" that he
might n.ot, he asked the question as soon
as he could possibly make himself heard.

Did the forgotten circumstance relate
in any way to money ? To a sum of
money, such as five hundred pounds ?
To money supposed by its possessor to
be honestly come by, but in reality ill-
gotten and stolen ?

A general surprise seized upon the
club when this remarkable inquiry was
preferred ; which would have become
resentment but for the captain's inter
position.

" Strange as it sounds," said he, "and
suspicious as it sounds, I pledge myself,
gentlemen, that my young friend here
has a manly stand-up, Cornish reason for
his words. Also, I pledge myself that
they are inoffensive words. He and I
are searching for information on a sub
ject which those words generally de
scribe. Such information we may get
from the honestest and best of men —
may get, or not get, here or anywhere
about here. I hope the Honorable
Mr. Arson — I ask his pardon — Parvis
— will not object to quiet my young
friend's mind by saying Yes or No."

After some time, the obtuse Mr. Par-
vis was with great trouble and difficulty
induced to roar out " No !" For which
concession the captain rose and thanked
him.

" Now, listen to the next," whispered
the captain to the young fisherman.
" There may be more in him than in the

other crittur. Don't interrupt him
Hear him out."

The chairman with all due formality
spun the teetotum, and it reeled into
the brandy-and-water of a strong brown
man of sixty or so ; John Tredgear ;
the manager of a neighboring mine.
He immediately began as follows, with a
plain business-like air that gradually
warmed as he proceeded :

" It happened that at one period of
my life the path of my destiny (not a
tin path then) lay along the highways
and byways of France, and that I had
occasion to make frequent stoppages at
common French roadside cabarets — that
kind of tavern which has. a very bad
name in French books and French
plays. I had engaged myself in an un
dertaking which rendered such journeys
necessary. A very old friend of mine
had recently established himself at Paris
in a wholesale commercial enterprise,
into the nature of which it is not neces
sary for our present purpose to enter.
He had proposed to me a certain share
in the undertaking, and one of the du
ties of my post was to involve occasional
journeys among the smaller towns and
villages of France, with the view of es
tablishing agencies and opening con
nections. My friend had applied to me
to undertake this function, rather than
to a native, feeling that he could trust
me better than a stranger. He knew
also that, in consequence of my having
been half of my life at school in France,
my knowledge of the language would be
sufficient for every purpose that could
be required.

I accepted my friend's proposal, and
entered with such energy as I could
command upon my new mode of life.
Sometimes my journeyings from place
to place were accomplished by means
of the railroad, or other public convey
ance ; but there were other occasions,
and these last I liked the best, when it
was necessary I should go to out-of-
the-way places, and by such cross-roads
as rendered it more convenient for me
to travel with a carriage and horse of
my own. My carriage was a kind of
phaeton without a coach-box, with a
leather hood that would put up and
down ; and there was plenty of room
at the back for such specimens or sam-

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

pies of goods as it was necessary that
I should carry with me. For my horse
— it was absolutely indispensable that
it should be an animal of some value,
as no horse but a very good one would
be capable of performing the long
courses, day after day, which my mode
of traveling rendered necessary. He
cost me two thousand francs, and was
any thing but dear at the price.

Many were the journeys we per
formed together over the broad acres
of beautiful France. Many were the
hotels, many the auberges, many the
bad dinners, many the damp beds, and
many the fleas which I encountered en
route. Many were the dull old forti
fied towns over whose draw-bridges I
rolled ; many the still more dull old
towns without fortifications and with
out draw-bridges, at which my avoca
tions made it necessary for me to halt.

I don't know how it was that on the
morning when I was to start from the
town of Doulaise, with the intention
of sleeping at Francy-le-Grand, I was
an hour later in commencing tny jour
ney than I ought to have been. I
have said I don't know how it was, but
this is scarcely true. I do know how
it was. It- was because on that morn
ing, to use a popular expression, every
thing went wrong. So it wsts an hour
later than it ought to have been, Gen
tlemen, when I drew up the sheep-skin
lining of my carriage apron over my
legs, and, establishing my little dog
comfortably on the seat beside me, set
off on my journey. In all my expedi
tions I was accompanied by a favorite
terrier of mine, which I had brought
with me from England. £never tra
veled without her, and found her a com
panion.

It was a miserable day in the month
of October. A perfectly gray sky,
with white gleams about the horizon,
gave unmistakable evidence that the
small drizzle which was falling would
continue for four-and-twenty hours at
least. It was cold and cheerless weather,
and on the deserted road I was pursu
ing there was scarcely a human being
(unless it was an occasional cantonnier,
or road-mender) to break the solitude.
A deserted way indeed, with poplars
on each side of it, which had turned
yellow in the autumn, and had shed

their leaves in abundance all across the
road, so that my mare's footsteps had
quite a muffled sound as she trampled
them under her hoofs. Widely-extended
flats spread out on either side till the
view was lost in an inconceivably melan
choly scene, and the road itself was so
perfectly straight, that you could see
something like ten miles of it diminish
ing to a point in front of you, while a
similar view was visible through the
little window at the back of the car
riage.

In the hurry of the morning's de
parture, I had omitted to inquire, a^ I
generally did in traveling an unknown
road, at what village it would be best
for me to stop, about noon, to bait, and
what was the name of the most respect
able house of public entertainment in
my way ; so that when I arrived, be
tween twelve and one o'clock, at a cer
tain place where four roads met, and
when, at one of the corners formed by
their union, I saw a great bare-looking
inn, with the sign of the Tete Noire
swinging in front, I had nothing for it
but to put np there, without knowing
any thing of the character of the house.

The look of the place did not please
me. It was a great, bare, uninhabited-
looking house, which seemed much
larger than was necessary, and pre
sented a black and dirty appearance,
which, considering the distance from
any town, it was difficult to account
for. All the doors and all the win
dows were shut ; there was no sign of
any living creature about the place ;
and niched into the wall above the
principal entrance was a grim and
ghastly-looking life-size figure of a
Saint. For a moment I hesitated
whether I should turn into the open
gates of the stable-yard, or go further
in search of some more attractive halt
ing-place. But my mare was tired, I
was more than half-way on my road,
and this would be the best division of
the journey. Besides, Gentlemen, why
not put up here ? If I was only going
to stop at such places of entertainment
as completely satisfied me, externally as
well as internally, I had better give up
traveling altogether.

T litre were no more signs of life in
the interior of the yard than were pre
sented by the external aspect of the

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

house as it fronted the road. Every
thing seemed shut up. .All the stables
and out-houses were characterized by
closed doors, without so much as a
straw clinging to their thresholds to in
dicate that these buildings were some
times put to a practical use. I saw no
manure strewed about the place, and
no living creature : no pigs, no ducks,
no fowls. It was perfectly still and
quiet, and as it was one of those days
when a fine small rain descends quite
straight, without a breath of air to
drive it one way or the other, the si
lence was complete and distressing. I
gave a loud shout, and began undoing
the harness while my summons was
taking effect.

The first person whom the sound of
my voice appeared to have reached was
a small but precocious boy, who opened
a door in the back of the house, and
descending the flight of steps which led
to it, approached to aid me in my task.
I was just undoing the final buckle on
my side of the harness, when, happen
ing to tnrn round, I discovered, stand
ing close behind me, a personage who
had approached so quietly that it would
have been a confusing thing to find him
so near, even if there had been nothing
in his appearance which was calculated
tQ startle one. He was the most ill-
looking man, Gentlemen, that it was
ever my fortune to behold. Nearer
fifty than any other age, I could give
him, his dry, spare nature had kept him
as light and'active as a restless boy.
An absence of flesh, however, was not
the only want I felt to exist in the per
sonal appearance of the landlord of the
Tete Noire. There was a much more
serious defect in him than this. A
want of any hint of mercy, or con
science, or any accessible approach to
the better side (if there was a better
side) of the man's nature. When first I
looked at his eyes, as he stood behind
me in the open court, and as they
rapidly glanced over the comely, points
of my horse, and thence to the pack
ages inside my carriage, and the port
manteau strapped on in front of it — at
that time the color of his eyes appeared
to me to be of an almost orange tinge ;
but when, a minute afterward, we*stood
together in the dark stable, I noted
that a kind of blue phosphorescence

gleamed upon their surface, vailing their
real hue, and imparting to them a tiger
ish lustre. The moment when I re
marked this, by-the-by, was when the
organs I have been describing were
fixed upon the very large gold ring
which I had not ceased to wear when I
adopted my adventurous life, and which
you may see upon my finger now.
There were two other things about this
man that struck me. These were, a
bald red projecting lump of flesh at the
back of his head, and a deep scar,
which a scrap of frouzy whisker on his
cheek wholly declined to conceal.

"A nasty day for a journey of pleas
ure," said the landlord, looking at me
with a satirical smile.

" Perhaps it is not a journey of pleas
ure," I answered, dryly.

"We have few such travelers on the
road now," said the evil-faced man.
"The railroads make the country a
desert, and the roads are as wild as
they were three hundred years ago."

"They are well enough," I answered
carelessly, "for those who are obliged
to travel by them. Nobody else, I
should think, would be likely to make
use of them."

"Will you come into the house?"
said the landlord, abruptly, looking
me full in the face.

I never felt a stronger repugnance
than I entertained toward the idea of
entering this man's doors. Yet what
other course was open to me ? My
mare was already half through the first
installment of her oats, so there was no
more excuse for remaining in the stable.
To take a jvalk in the drenching rain
was out of the question, and to remain
sitting in my caleche would have been
a worse indication of suspicion arid
mistrust. Besides, I had had nothing
since the morning's coffee, and I wanted
something to eat and drink. There
was nothing to be done, then, but to
accept my ill-looking friend's offer.
He led the way up the flight of steps
which gave access to the interior of the
building.

The room in which I found myself
on passing through the door at the top
of these steps, was one of those rooms
which an excess of light not only fails
to enliven, but seems even to invest
with an additional degree of gloom.

A -MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

There is sometimes this character about
light, and I have seen before now a
work-house ward, and a barren school
room, which have owed a good share
of their melancholy to an immoderate
amount of cold gray daylight. This
room, then, into which I was shown,
was one of those which, on a wet day,
seemed several degrees lighter than the
open air. Of course it could not be
really lighter than the thing that lit it,
but it seemed so. It also appeared
larger than the whole out-door world ;
and this, certainly, could not be, either,
but seemed so. Vast as it was, there
appeared through two glass-doors in
one of the walls another apartment of
similar dimensions. It was not a square
room, uor an oblong room, but was
smaller at one end than at the other ; a
phenomenon which, as you have very
likely observed, Gentlemen, has always
an unpleasant effect. The billiard-
table, which stood in the middle of the
apartment, though really of the usual
size, looked quite a trifling piece of
furniture ; and as to the other tables,
which were planted sparingly here and
there for purposes of refreshment, they
were quite lost in the immensity of
space about them. A cupboard, a rack
of billiard cues, a marking-board, and a
print of the murder of the Archbishop
of Paris, in a black frame, alone broke
the uniformity of wall. The ceiling, as
far as one could judge of any thing at
that altitude, appeared to be traversed
by an enormous beam with rings fastened
into it adapted for suicidal purposes,
and splashed with the whitewash with
which the ceiling itself and the walls
had just been decorated. Even my
little terrier, whom I had been obliged
to take up in my arms on account of
the disposition she had manifested to
fly at the shins of our detested landlord,
looked round the room with a gaze of
borror as I set her down, and trembled
and shivered as if she would come out
of her skin.

"And so you don't like him, Nelly,
and your little beads of eyes, that look
up at me from under that hairy pent
house, with nothing but love in them,
are all ablaze with fury when they are
turned upon his sinister face ? And
how did he get that scar, Nelly ? Did
he get it when he slaughtered his last

traveler? And what do yon think of
his eyes, Nelly?. And what do you
think of the back of his head, my dog?
What do you think he's about now, eh ?
What mischief do you think he's hatch
ing ? Don't you wish you were sitting
by my side in the caleche, and that we
were out on the free road again ?"

To all these questions and remarks
my little companion responded very in
telligibly by faint thumpings of the
ground with her tail, and by certain
flutterings of her ears, which, from long
habits of intercourse, I understood very
well to mean that whatever my opinion
might be she coincided in it.

I had ordered an omelet and some
wine when I first entered the house,
and as I now sat waiting for it, I ob
served that my landlord would every
now and then leave what he was about
in the other room — where I concluded
that he was engaged preparing my
meal — and would come and peer at me
furtively through the glass-doors which
connected the room I was in with that
in which he was. Once, too, I heard
him go out, and I felt sure that he had
retired to the stables, to examine more
minutely the value of my horse and car
riage.

I took it into my head that my land
lord was a desperate rogue ; that his
business was not sufficient to support
him ; that he had remarked that I was
in possession of a very valuable horse,
a carriage which would fetch something,
and a quantity of luggage in which there
were probably articles of price. I had
other things of worth about my person,
including a sum of money, without which
I could not be traveling about, as he saw
me, from place to place.

While my mind was amusing itself
with these cheerful reflections a little
girl, of about twelve years old, entered
the room through the glass-doors, and,
after honoring me with a long stare,
went to the cupboard at the other end
of the apartment, and, opening it with
a bunch of keys which she brought with
her in her hand, took out a small white
paper packet, about four inches square,
and retired with it by the way by which
she had entered ; still staring at me so
diligently that, from want of proper at
tention to where she was going, she got
(I am happy to state) a severe bump

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA,

against the door as she passed through
it. She was a horrid little girl this,
with eyes that iu shirking the necessity
of looking straight at any body or any
thing, had got at last to look only at
her nose — finding it, probably, as bad a
nose as could be met with, and therefore
a congenial companion. She had, more
over, frizzy and fluey hair, was excess
ively dirty, and had a slow, crab-like
way of going along without looking at
what she was about, which was very
noisome and detestable.

It was not long before this young
lady reappeared, bearing in her hand a
plate containing the omelet, which she
placed upon the table without going
through the previous form of laying a
cloth. She next cut an immense piece
of bread from a loaf shaped like a ring,
and, having clapped this also down upon
the dirtiest part of the table, and having
further favored me with a wiped knife
and fork, disappeared once more. She
disappeared to fetch the wine. When
this had been brought, and some water,
the preparations for my feast were con
sidered complete, and I was left to enjoy
it alone.

I must not omit to mention that the
horrid waiting-maid appeared to exoite
as strong an antipathy in the breast of
my little dog as that which my landlord
himself had stirred up ; and, I am happy
to say, that as the child left the room
I was obliged to interfere to prevent
Nelly from harassing her retreating
calves.

Gentlemen, an experienced traveler
soon learns that he must eat to support
nature ; closing his eyes, nose, and ears
to all suggestions. I set to work then,
at the omelet with energy, and at the
tough sour bread with good will, and
had swallowed half a tumbler of wine
and water, when a thought suddenly
occurred to me which caused me to set
the glass down upon the table. I had
no sooner done this than I raised it
again to my lips, took a fresh sip, rolled
the liquid about in my mouth two or
three times, and spat it out upon the
floor. But I uttered, as I did so, in an
audible tone, the monosyllable " Pooh !"

"Pooh ! Nelly," I said, looking down
at my dog, who was watching me in
tensely with her head on one side —

" pooh ! Nelly," I repeated, "what fran
tic and inconceivable nonsense !"

And what was it that I thus stigma
tized ? What was it that had given me
pause in the middle of my draught ?
What thought was it that caused me to
set down my glass with half its con
tents remaining in it ? It was a sus
picion, driven straight and swift as an
arrow into the innermost recesses of my
soul, that the wine I had just been
drinking, and which, contrary to my
custom, I had mingled with water, was
drugged I

There are some thoughts which, like
noxious insects, come buzzing back into
one's mind as often as we repulse them.
We confute them in argument, prove
them illogical, leave them not a leg to
stand upon, and yet there they are the
next moment as brisk as bees, and
stronger on their pins than ever. It
was just such a thought as this with
which I had now to deal. It was well
to say "Pooh 1" it was well to remind
myself that this was the nineteenth cen
tury, that I was not acting a part in a
French melodrama, that such things as
I was thinking of were only known in
romances ; it was well to argue that to
set a respectable man down as a mur
derer, because he had peculiar colored
eyes and a scar upon his cheek, were
ridiculous things to do. There seemed
to be two separate parties within me :
one possessed of great powers of argu
ment and a cool judgment : the other,
an irrational or opposition party, whose
chief force consisted in a system of dog
ged assertion which all the arguments
of the rational party were insufficient to
put down.

It was not long before an additional
force was imparted to the tactics of the
irrational party, by certain, symptoms
which began to develop themselves in
my internal organization, and which
seemed favorable to the view of the case
I was so anxious- to refute. In spite of
all ray efforts to the contrary, I could
not help feeling that some very remark
able sensations were slowly and gradu
ally stealing over me. First of all, 1^
began to find that I was a little at fault
in my system of calculating distances :
so that when I took up any object and
attempted to replace it on the table, I

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

either brought it into contact with that
article of furniture with a crash, in con
sequence of conceiving it to be lower
than it was; or else, imagining that the
table was several inches nearer to the
ceiling than was the case, I abandoned
whatever I held in my hand sootier than
I should, and found that I was con
fiding it to space. Then, again, my
head felt light upon my shoulders, there
was a slight tingling in my hands, and
a sense that they, as well as my feet
(which were very cold), were swelling
to gigantic size, and were also sur
rounded with numerous rapidly revolv
ing wheels of a light structure, like
Catherine-wheels previous to ignition.
It also appeared to me that when I
spoke to my dog my voice had a curious
sound, and my words were very imper
fectly articulated.

It would happen, too," that when I
looked toward the glass-doors, my land
lord was there, peering at me through
the muslin curtain : or the horrid little
girl would enter, with no obvious inten
tion, and having loitered for a little
time about the room, would leave it
again. At length the landlord himself
came in, and coolly walking up to the
table at which I was seated, glanced at
the hardly tasted wine before me.

"It would appear that the wine of
the country is not to your taste," he said.

" It is good enough," I answered, as
carelessly as I could ; the words sound
ing to me as if they were uttered inside
the cupola of St. Paul's, and were con
veyed ly iron tubes to the- place I occu
pied.

I was 'in a strange state — perfectly
conscious, but imperfectly able to con
trol my thoughts, my words, my actions.
I believe my landlord stood staring
down at me as I sat staring up at
him, and watching the Catherine-wheels
as they revolved round his eyes and
nose arid chin — Gentlemen, they seemed
absolutely to fizz when they got to the
scar on his cheek.

At this time a noisy party entered
the main room of the auberge, which I
have described as being visible through
the glass-doors, and the landlord had
to leave me for a time to go and attend
to them. I think I must have fallen
into a slight and strongly-resisted doze,
and that when I started out of it it was

in consequence of the violent barking
of my terrier. The landlord was in the
'room ; he was just unlocking the cup
board from which the little girl had
taken the paper parcel. He took out
just such another paper parcel, aud re
turned again through the doors. As
he did so, I remember stupidly wonder
ing what had become of the little girl.
Presently his evil face appeared again
at the door.

" I am going to prepare the coffee,"
said the laifdlord ; " perhaps Monsieur
will like it better than the wine."

As the man disappeared I started
suddenly and .violently upon my feet. I
could deceive myself no longer. My
thoughts were like lightning. "The
wine having been taken in so small a
quantity and so profusely mixed with
water, has done its work (as this man
can see) but imperfectly. The coffee
will finish that work. He is now pre
paring it. The cupboard, the little
parcel-*-there can be no doubt. I will
leave this place" while I yet can. Now
or never ; if those men whose voices I
hear in the other room leave the house,
it will be too late. With so many wit
nesses no attempt can be made to pre
vent my departure. I will not sleep —
I will act — I will force my muscles to
their work, and get away from this place. "

Gentlemen, in compensation for a set
of nerves of distressing sensitiveness, I
have received from nature a remarkable
power of controlling my nerves for a
time. I staggered to the door, closing
it after me more violently than I had in
tended, and descended — the fresh air
making me feel very giddy — into the yard.

As I went down the steps I saw the
truculent little girl of whom I have
already spoken entering the yard, fol
lowed by a blacksmith, carrying a ham
mer and some other implements of his
trade. Catching sight of me, the little
girl spoke quickly to the blacksmith,
and in an instant they both changed
their course, which was directed toward
the stable, and entered an outhouse on
the other side of the yard. The thought
entered my head that this man had been
sent for to drive a nail into my horse's
foot, so that in the event of the drugged
wine failing I might still be unable to
proceed. This horrible idea added
new force to my exertions. I seized

A MESSAGE FROM TEIE SEA.

the shafts of my carriage and com
menced dragging it out of the yard and.
round to the front of the house : feeling
that if it was once in the highway there
would be less possibility of offering any
impediment to my starting. I am con
scious of having fallen twice to the
ground in my struggles to get the car
riage out of the yard. Next I hastened
to the stable. My mare was still har
nessed, with the exception of the head
stall. I managed to get the bit into
her month, and dragged her to the
place where I had left the carriage.
After I know not how many efforts to
place the docile beast in the shafts —
for I was as incapable of calculating
distances as a drunken man — I recollect,
but how I know not, securing the
assistance of the boy I had seen. I
\vas making a final effort to fasten the
trace to its little pin, when a voice be
hind me said :

" Are you going away without drink
ing your coffee ?"

I turned round and saw my landlord
standing close beside me. He was
watching my bungling efforts to secure
the harness, but he made no movement
to assist me.

" I do not want any coffee," I
answered.

" No coffee, and no wine ! It would
appear that the gentleman is not a
great drinker. You have not given
your horse much of a rest," he added,
presently.

"I am in haste. What have I to pay ?"

"You will take something else," said
the landlord; "a glass of brandy before
starting in the wet ?"

"No, nothing more. What have I
to pay ?"

" You will at least come in for an
instant, and warm your feet at the
stove."

"No. Tell me at once how much
I am to pay."

Baffled in all his efforts to get me
again into the hpnse, my detested land
lord had nothing for it but to answer
my demand.

" Four litres of oats," he muttered,
"a half-truss of hay, breakfast, wine,
coffee" — he emphasized the last two
words with a malignant grin — " seven
francs fifty centimes."

My mare was by this time somehow

or other buckled into the shafts, and
now I had to get out my purse to pay
this demand. My hands were cold, my
head was giddy, my sight was dim, and,
as I brought out my purse (which was a
porte-monnaie, opening with a hinge), I
managed while paying the bill to turn
the purse over and to drop some gold
pieces.

" Gold !" cried the boy who had been
helping me to harness the horse : speak
ing as if by an irresistible impulse.

The landlord made a sudden dart at
it, but instantly checked himself.

" People want plenty of gold," he
said, " when they make a journey of
pleasure."

I felt myself getting worse. I conld
not pick up the gold pieces as they lay
on the ground. I fell on my knees, and
my head bowed forward. I could not
hit the place where a coin lay ; I
could see it but I could not guide my
fingers to it. Still I did not yield. I
got some of the money up, and the
stable-boy, who was very officious in as
sisting me, gave me one or two pieces
— to this day, I don't know how many
he kept. I cast a hasty glance, and
seeing no more gold on the ground,
raised myself by a desperate effort and
scrambled to my place in the carriage.
I shook the reins instinctively, and the
mare began to move.

The well-trained beast was beginning
to trot away as cleverly as usual, when
a thought suddenly flashed into my
brain, as will sometimes happen when
we are just going to sleep — a thought
which woke me up like a pistol-
shot, and caused me to spring for
ward and gather up the reins so violently
as almost to bring the mare back upon
her haunches.

" My dog, my dear little Nelly !" I
had left her behind !

To abandon ray little favorite was a
thing that never entered my head.
" No, I must return. I must go back
to the horrible place I have just escaped
from. He has seen my gold, too, now,"
I said to myself as I turned my horse's
head with many clumsy efforts ; " the
men who were drinking in the auberge
are gone ; and what is worse than all, I
feel more under the influence of the
drugs I have swallowed."

As I approached the auberge once

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

more I remember noticing that its walls
looked blacker than ever, that the rain
was falling more heavily, that the land
lord and the stable-boy were on the
steps of the inn, evidently on the look
out for me. One thing more I noticed
—on the road a small speck, afe of some
vehicle nearing the place.

" I have come back for my dog,"
said I.

" I know nothing of your dog."

" It is false ! I left her shut up in the
inner room."

"Go there and find her, then," re
torted the man, throwing off all disguise.

"I will," was my answer.

I knew it was a trap to get me into
the house ; I knew I was lost if I en
tered it; but I did not care. I de
scended from the carriage, I clambered
up the steps with the aid of the balus
ters, I heard the barking of my little
Nelly as I passed through the outer
room and approached the glass-doors,
steadying myself as I went by the articles
of furniture in the room. I burst the
doors open, and my favorite bounded
into my arms.

And now I felt that it was too late.
As I approached the door that opened
to the road I saw my carriage being led
round to the back of the house, and the
form of the landlord appeared in the
door-way blocking up the passage. I
made an effort to push past him, but it
was useless. My little Nelly fell out
of my arms on the steps outside ; the
landlord slammed the door heavily ; and
I fell, without sense or knowledge at
his feet.
*******

It was dark, gentlemen — dark and
Very cold. The little patch of sky I was
looking up :it had in it a marvelous num
ber of stars, which would have looked
bright but for a blazing planet which
seemed to eclipse, in the absence of the
moon, all the other luminaries round
about it. To lie thus was, in spite of
the cold, quite a luxurious sensation.
As I turned my head to ease it a little
(for it seemed to have been in this po
sition some time), I felt stiff and weak.

At this moment, too, I feel a stirring j
close beside me, and first a cold nose
touching my hand, and then a hot
tongue licking it. As to my other sen- '
sation, I was aware of a gentle rumbling

sound, and I could feel that I was be
ing carried slowly along, and that every
now and then there was a slight jolt :
one of which, perhaps, more marked
than the rest, might be the cause of my
being awake at all.

Presently, other matters began to
dawn upon my mind through the me
dium of my senses. I could see the
regular movement of a horse's ears
walking in front of me ; surely I saw,
too, part of the figure of a man — a pair
of sturdy shoulders, the hood of a coat,
and a head with a wide-awake hat upon
it. I could hear the occasional sounds
of encouragement which seemed to
emanate from this figure, and which
were addressed to the horse. I could
hear the tinkling of bells upon the^ani-
mal's neck. Surely, too, I hear'd a
rumbling sound behind us, and the
tread of a horse's feet — just as if there
were another vehicle following close
upon USA Was there any thing more ?
Yes, in^ie distance I was able to de
tect the twinkling of a light or two, as
if a town were not far off.

Now, Gentlemen, as I lay and ob
served all these things, there was such
a languor shed over my spirits, such a
sense of utter but not unpleasant weak
ness, that I hardly cared to ask myself
what it all meant, or to inquire where I
was, or how I came there. A convic
tion that all was well with me, lay like
an anodyne upon my heart, and it was
only slowly and gradually that any
curiosity as to how I came to be so de
veloped itself in my brain. I dare say
we had been jogging along for a quar
ter of an hour, during which I had been
perfectly conscious, before I struggled
up into a sitting posture, and recog
nized the hooded back of the man at
the horse's head.

" Dufuy ?»

The man with the hooded coat, who
was walking by the side of the horse,
suddenly cried out "Wo!" in a sturdy
voice ; then ran to the back of the car
riage and cried out " Wo !" again ;
and then we came to a stand-still. In
another moment he had mounted on the
step of the carriage, and had taken me
cordially by the hand.

"What,''' he said, "awake at last?
Thank Heaven ! I had almost begun
to despair of you."

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

" My dear friend, what does all this
mean ? Where am I ? Where did you
come from ? This is not my caleche,
that is not my horse."

"Both are safe behind," said Dufay,
heartily ; " and having told you so
much, I will not utter another word till
you are safe and warm at the Lion
d'Or. See ! There are the lights of
the town. Now, not another word."
And pulling the horse-cloth under
which I was lying more closely over
me, my friend dismounted from the
step, started the vehicle with the cus
tomary cry of "Aliens done!" arid a
crack of the whip, and we were soon
once more in motion.

Castaing Dufay was a man into
whose company circumstances had*
thrown me very often, and with whom
I had" become intimate from choice.
Of the numerous class to which he be
longed, those men whose sturdy vehi
cles and sturdier horses are to be seen
standing in the yards and sMDles of
all the inns in provincial France — the
class of the commis-voyageurs, or
French commercial travelers — Castaing
Dufay was more than a favorable speci
men. I was very fond of him. ' In the
course of our intimacy I had been for
tunate enough to have the opportunity
of being useful to him in matters of
some importance. I think, Gentlemen,
we like those we have served quite as
well as they like us.

The town lights were, indeed, close
by, and it was not long before we
turned into the yard of the Lion d'Or,
and found ourselves in the midst of
warmth and brightness, and surrounded
by faces which, after the dangers I had
passed through, looked perfectly an
gelic.

I had no idea, till I attempted to
move, how weak and dazed I was. I
was too far gone for dinner. A bed
and a fire were the only things I
coveted, and I was soon in possession
of both.

I was no sooner snugly ensconced
with my head on the pillow, watching
the crackling logs as they sparkled —
my little Nelly lying outside the coun
terpane — than my friend seated himself
beside me, and volunteered to relieve
my curiosity as to the circumstance of
my escape from the Tete Noire. It

was now. my turn to refuse to listen, as
it had been his before to refuse to
speak.

"Not one word," I said, "till you
have had a good dinner, after which
you will come up and sit beside me,
and tell me all I am longing to know.
And stay — yon will do one thing more
for me, I know : when you come up
you will bring a plateful of bones for
Nelly ; she will not leave me to-night,
I swear, to save herself from starving.'

" She deserves some dinner," said
Dufay, as he left the room, "for I think
it is through her instrumentality that
you are alive at this moment."

The bliss in which I lay after Dufay
had left the room, is known only to
those who have passed through some
great danger, or who, at least, are
newly relieved from some condition of
severe and protracted suffering. It was
a state of perfect repose and happiness.

When my friend came back, h'e
brought — not only a plate of fowl-
bones for Nelly, but a basin of soup
for me. When I had finished lapping
it up, and while Nelly was still crunch
ing the bones, Dufay spoke as follows :

" I said just now that it was to your
little dog you owe the preservation of
your life, and I must now tell you how
it was. You remember that you left
Doulaise this morning — "

"It se^ms a week ago," I inter
rupted.

— "This morning," continued Dufay.
" Well 1 You were hardly out of the
inn-yard before I drove into it, having
made a small stage before breakfast. I
heard where you were gone, and as I
was going that way too, I determined
to give my horse a rest of a couple of
hours, while I breakfasted and trans
acted some business in the town, and
then to set off after you. ' Have you
any idea,' I said, as I left the inn at
Doulaise, 'whether monsieur meant to
stop en route, and if so, where ?' The
gar$on did not know. ' Let me see,' I
said, 'the Tete Noire at Mauconseil
would be a likely place, wouldn't it ?'
' No,' said the boy ; " the house does
not enjoy a good character, and no one
from here ever stops there.' 'Well,'
said I, thinking no more of what he
said, ' I shall be sure to find him. I
will inquire after him as I go along.'

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

" The afternoon was getting on when
I came within sight of the inn of the
TSte Noire. As you know, I am a lit
tle near-sighted, but I saw, as I drew
near the auberge, that a conveyance of
some kind was being taken round to
the yard at the back of the house.
This circumstance, however, I should
have paid no attention to, had not my
attention been suddenly caught by the
violent barking of a dog, which seemed
to be tryiug to gain admittance at the
closed dour of the inn. At a second
glance I knew the dog to be yours.
Pulling up my horse, I got down and
ascended the steps of the auberge.
One sniff at my shins was enough to
convince Nelly that a friend was at
hand, and her excitement as I ap
proached the door was frantic.

" On my entering the house I did not
jtt first see you, but on looking in the
direction toward which your dog had
hastened as soon as the door was open
ed I saw a dark wooden staircase, which
led out of one corner of the apartment
I was standing in. I saw also, that you,
my friend, were being dragged up the
stairs in the arms of a very ill-looking
man, assisted by (if possible) a still
more ill-looking little girl, who had
charge of your legs. At sight of me
the man deposited you upon the stairs,
and advanced to meet me.

" 'What are you doing with that gen
tleman ?' I asked.

" ' He is unwell,' replied the ill-look
ing man, ' and I am helping him up
stairs to bed.'

" ' That gentleman is a friend of mine.
What is the meaning of his being in
this state ?'

" ' How should I know ?' was the an
swer ; ' I am not the guardian of the
gentleman's health.'

" ' Well, then, I am,' said I, approach
ing the place where you were lying ;
' and I prescribe, to begin with, that he
shall leave this place at once.'

" I must own," continued Dufay,
" that you were looking horribly ill, and
as I bent over and felt your hardly flut
tering pulse, I felt for a moment doubt
ful whether it was safe to move you.
However, I determined to risk it.

" ' Will you help me,' I said, ' to
move this gentleman to his carriage ?'

" ' No,' "replied the ruffian, ' he is

not fit to travel. Besides, what right
have you over him ?'

" ' The right of being his friend.'

" ' How do I know that ?'

" ' Because I tell you so. See, his
dog knows me.'

" ' And suppose I decline to accept
that as evidence, and refuse to let this
gentleman leave my house in his pres
ent state of health ?'

" ' You dare not do it.'

"'Why?'

"'Because,' I answered, slowly, 'I
should go to the Gendarmerie in the
village, and mention under what suspi
cious circumstances I found my friend
here, and because your house has not
the best of characters.'

" The man was silent for a moment,
as if a little baffled. He seemed, how
ever, determined to try once more.

" ' And suppose 1 close my doors,
and decline to let either of you go ;
what ifcto prevent me ?'

"'In the first place,' I answered,
' I will effectually prevent your detain
ing me single-handed. If you have
assistance near, I am expected to-night
at Francy, and if I do not arrive there,
I shall soon be sought out. It was
known that I left Doulaise this morn
ing, and most people are aware that
there is an auberge on the road which
does not bear the best of reputations,
and that its name is La Tete ^jfoire.
Now, will you help me ?'

« «No/ replied the savage. 'I will
have nothing to do with the affair.'

" It was not an easy task to drag
you without assistance from the place
where you were lying, out into the opeti
air, down the steps, and to put you into
my conveyance, which was standing
outside ; but I managed to do it. The
next thing I had to accomplish was the
feat of driving two carriages and two
horses single-handed. I could see only
one way of managing this. I led my
own horse round to the gate of the
stable-yard, where I could keep my eye
upon him, while I went in search of
your horse and carriage,1 which I had
to get right without assistance. It was
done at last. I fastened your horse's
head by a halter to the back of my car
riage, and then leading my own beast
by the bridle I managed to start the
procession. And so (though only at a

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

foot-pace) we turned our backs upon
the Tete Noire. And now you know
every thing."

" I feel, Castaing, as if I should
never be able to think of this adven
ture, or to speak of it again. It wears,
somehow or other, such a ghastly aspect,
that I sicken at the mere memory of
it."

"Not a bit of it." said Dufay,
cheerily; "you will live to tell it as a
stirring tale some winter night, take my
word for it."

Gentlemen, the prediction is verified.
May the teetotum fall next time with
more judgment 1

" Wa'al, now 1" said Captain Jor-
gan, rising, with his hand upon the
sleeve of his fellow-traveler to keep him
down ; " I congratulate you, sir, upon
that adventer ; unpleasant at the time,
but pleasant to look back upon, as
many adventers in many lives are. Mr.
Tredgear, you had a feeling for your
money on that occasion, and it went
hard on being Stolen Money. It was
not a sum of five hundred pound,
perhaps ?"

"I wish it had been half as much,"
was the reply.

" Thank you, sir. Might I ask the
question of you that has been already
put ? About this place of Lanrean,
did yu ever heur of any circumstances
whatever that might seem to have a
bearing — anyhow — on that question ?"

" Never."

"Thank you again for a straight-
for'ard answer," said the captain, apolo
getically. " You see, we have referred
to Lanrean to make inquiries, and hap
pening in among the inhabitants present,
we use the opportunity. In my coun
try we always do use opportunities."

" And you turn them to good ac
count, I believe, and prosper ?"

" It's a fact, sir," said the captain,
"that we get along. Yes, we get
along, sir. — But I stop the teetotum."

It was twirled again, and fell to
David Polreath ; an iron-gray man ;
"as old as the hills," the captain
whispered to young Raybrock, " and
as hard as nails. And I admire,"
added the captain, glancing about,
" whether Unchris'en Penrewen is here,
and which is he 1"

David Polreath stroked down the
long iron-gray hair that fell massively
upon the shoulders of his large-buttoned
coat, and spake thus :

THE question was, Did he throw
himself over the cliff of set purpose, or
did he lose his way in the dusk and fall
over accidentally, or was he pushed
over by some person or persons un
known ?

His body was found nearly fifty yards
below the fall, caught in the low
branches of the trees that overhang the
water at the foot of the track down the
cliff. It was shockingly bruised and
disfigured, so much so as to be hardly
recognizable ; but for his clothing, and
the name on his linen, I doubt whether
any body could have identified him
except myself. There was, however,
no suspicion of foul play ; the signs o£
rough usage might all have been caused
by the body having been driven about
among the stones that encumber the
bed of the river a long way below the
fall.

When I speak of the fall, I speak of
the Ashenfall, by Ashendell village,
within an hour's drive of this house.
This, Gentlemen, is for the information
of strangers.

He had been seen by many persons
about the village during the day ; I
myself had seen him go up the hill past
the parsonage toward the church:
which I rather wondered at, considering
who was buried there, and how, and
why. I will even confess that I watched
him ; and he went — as I expected he
would, since he had the heart to go
near the place at all — round to the
back of the church where Honor Liv
ingston's grave is ; and there he staid,
sitting by himself on the low wall for
an hour or more. Sometimes, he
turned to look across the valley — many
a time and oft I had seen him there be
fore, with Honor beside him, watching,
while he sketched the beautiful land-
sea^ — and sometimes he had his back
to it, and his head down, as if he were
watching her grave. Not that there is
any thing pleasant or comforting to
read there, as on the graves of good
Christian people who have died in
their beds ; for being a suicide, when
they buried her on the north side of the

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA,

church it was at dusk, and without any
service, and, of course, no stone was
allowed to be put up over it. Our
clergymen has talked of having the
mound leveled and turfed over, and I
wish he would; it always hurts me
when I go up to Sunday service, to see
that ragged grave lying in the shadow
of the wall, for I remember the pretty
little lass ever since she could ' run
alone ; and though she was passionate,
her heart was as good as gold. She
had been religiously brought up, and I
am quite sure in ray own mind, let the
coroner's inquest have said what it
would, that she was out of herself, and
Bedlam-mad when she did it.

The verdict on him was "accidental
death," and he had a regulaj funeral —
priest, bell, clerk, and sexton, com
plete ; and there he lies, only a stone's-
throw from Honor, with a ton or two
of granite over him, and an inscription,
setting forth what a great man he was
in his day, and»what mighty engineering
works he did at home and abroad, and
how he sleeps now in the hope of a joy
ful resurrection with the just made per
fect. These present strangers can read
it for themselves ; many strangers go
up to look at it. His grave is as fa
mous as the Ashenfall itself, and I have
known folks come away with tears in
their eyes after reading the flourishing
inscription : believing it all like gospel,
and saying how sad that so distin
guished a man should have been cut off
in the prime of his days. But I don't
believe it He was never any more
than plain James Lawrence to me — a
young fellow who, as a lad, had paddled
bare-legged over the stones of the river
as a guide across for visitors ; who had
been taken a fancy to by one of them,
and decently educated ; who had made
the most of his luck, and done a clever
thing or two in engineering ; who had
come back among us in all his glory, to
dazzle most people's eyes, and break
little Honor Livingston's heart. The
one good thing I know of him was,
that he pensioned his poor old mother ;
but he did not often come near her, and
never after Honor Livingston was dead
— no, not even in her last illness. It
was a marvel to every body what brought
him over here, when we saw him the
day before he was found dead j but it

was his fate, and he couldn't keep
away. That is my view of it. About
his death, and the manner of it, all
Lanrean had its speculation, and said
its say ; but I held my peace. I had
my opinion, however, and I keep it. I
have never seen reason to change it ;
but, on the contrary, I can show you
evidence to establish it. I do not be
lieve he either threw himself over the
cliff, or fell over, or was pushed over ;
no, I believe he was drawn over —
drawn over by something below. When
you have heard the notes he made in a
little book that was found among his
things after he was dead, you will know
what I mean. His cousin gave that
book to me, knowing I am curious
after odd stories of the neighborhood ;
and what I am going to read, is written
in his hand. I know his hand well,
and certify to it:

PASSAGES FROM JAMES LAWRENCE'S
JOURNAL.

LONDON, August 11, 1829.

Honor Livingston has kept her word
with me. • I saw her last night as
plainly as I now see this pen I am
writing with, and the ink-bottle I have
just dipped it into. I saw her stand
ing betwixt the two lights, looking at
me, exactly as she looked the last time
I saw her alive. I was neither asleep,
nor dreaming-awake. I had only drunk
a couple of glasses of wine at dinner,
and was as much my own man as ever
I was in my life. It is all nonsense to
talk about fancy and optical delusions
iu this case ; I saw her with my eyes as
distinctly as I ever saw her alive in the
body. The hall clock had just struck
eight, and it was growing dusk : ex
actly the time of evening, as I well re
member, when she came creeping round
by the cottage wall, and saw me
through the open window, gathering
up my books and making ready to go
away from Ashendell. She was the
last thopght to have come into my mind
at that moment, for I was just on the
point of lighting my cigar and going
out for a stroll, before turning in at the
Daltons to chat with Anne. All at
once there she was, Honor herself 1 I
could have sworn it, had I not seen
them put her under ground just a

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

twelvemontn ago. I could not take my
eyes off her ; and there she stood, as
nearly as I can tell, a minute — but it
may have been an hour — and then the
place she had filled was empty. I was
so much bewildered, and out of myself
as it were, that for a while I could
neither think of any thing, nor hear any
thing, but the mad heavy throbbing of
my own pulses. I cannot say that I
was scared exactly; for the time I was
completely rapt away ; the first actual
sensation I had was of my own heart
thumping in my breast like a sledge
hammer.

But I can call her up now and
analyze her — a wan, vague, misty out
line, with Honor's own eyes full upon
me. I can almost fancy I hear her
asking again, " Is it true you're going,
James ? You're not really going,
James ?"

Now I am not Uhe man to be
frightened by a shadow, though that
shadow be Honor Livingston, whom
they say I as good as murdered. I
always had a turn for investigating
riddles, spiritual, physiological, and
otherwise ; and I shall follow this mys
tery up, and note whether she comes
back to me year by year, as she pro
mised. I have never kept a diary of
personal matters before, not being one
who cares to see spectres of himself at
remote periods of his life, talking to
him again of his adventures and misad
ventures out of yellow old pages that
had better never have been written ;
but this is a marked event worth com
memorating, and a well-authenticated
ghost-story to me who never believed
in ghosts before.

It was a rather spiteful threat of
Honor — " I'll haunt you till you come
to the Ashenfall, where I'm going now I"
I might have stopped her, but it never
entered my mind what she meant until
it was done. I did not expect she would
make a tragedy of a little love story ;
she did not lo<^k like that sort of thing.
She was no ghost, bless her I in the
flesh, but as round, rosy, dimpled lit
tle creature as one would wish to see ;
and what could possess her to throw
herself over the fall, Heaven only knows.
Bah 1 Yes, I know ; I need tell no lies
here, I need not do any false swearing
to myself — the poor little creature loved

me, and I wanted her to love me, and I
petted and plagued her into loving me,
because I was idle and I had the op
portunity ; and then I had nothing better
to tell her than that I was only in jest — I
could not marry her, for I was engaged
to another woman. She would not be
lieve it. That sounded, to her, more
like jest than the other. vAnd she did
not believe it until she saw me making
ready to go ; and then, all in a moment,
I suppose, madness seized her, and she
^neither knew where she went nor what
she did.

I fancy I can see her now coming
tripping down the fields leading her
little brother by the hand, and I fancy
I can see the saucy laugh she gave me
over her shoulder as I asked her if she
had any ripe cherries to sell. She
looked the very mischief with those
pretty eyes, and I was taken rather
aback when she said, " I know you,
Jemmy Lawrence." That was the be
ginning of it. Little Honor and her
mother lived next door to mine, and she
had not forgotten me though I had been
full seven years away. I did not know
her, the gipsy, but I must needs go in
and see her that evening ; and so we
went on until I asked her if she remem
bered when we went to dame-school to
gether, and when she promised to be
my little wife ? If she remembered 1
Of course she did, every word of it, and
more ; and she was so pretty, and the
lanes in the summer were so pleasant
that sometimes my fancy did play Anne
Dalton false, and I believed I should
like Honor better ; and I said more than
I meant, and she took it all in the grand
serious manner.

I was not much to blame. I would
not have injured her for the world ; she
was as good a little soul as ever lived.
Love and jealousy, as passions, seem to
find their strong-holds under thatch.
If Phillis, the milkmaid, is disappointed,
she drowns herself in the mill-pool ; if
Lady Clara gets a cross of the heart,
she indites a lachrymose sonnet, and
marries a gouty peer; if Colin's sweet
heart smiles on Lnbin, Colin loads his
gun and shoots them both ; if Sir
Harry's fair flouts him, he whistles her
down the wind, and goes a wooing else
where. Had little Honor been a tint
lady she would be living still. Oh, the

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

pretty demure lips, and the shy glances
and rosy blushes ! When I saw Anne
Dalton to-day I could not help compar
ing her frigid gentility with poor Honor.
Anne loves herself better than she will
ever love any man alive. But then I
know she is the kind of wife to help a
man up in the world, and that is the
kind of wife for me.

Honor Livingston lying on her little
bed, and her blind mother feeling her
cold dead face 1 I wish I had never
seen it. 1 would have given the world
to keep away, but something compelled
tne to go in and look at her ; and I did
feel then as if I had killed her. Last
night she was a shadowy essence of this
drowned Ophelia and of her living self.
She was like, yet unlike ; but I knew it
was Honor; and I suppose, if she has
her will, wherever her restless spirit may
be condemned to bide between whiles —
on the tenth of August she will always
come back to me, and haunt me until I
go to her.

HASTINGS, August 11, 1830.

Again ! I had forgotten the day —
forgotten every thing about that
wretched business of poor Honor Liv
ingston when last night I saw her.

Anne and I were sitting together out
in the veranda, talking of all sorts of
commonplace things — our neighbors'
affairs, money, this, that, and the other
. — the sea was looking beautiful, and I
was on the point of proposing a row by
moonlight, when Anne said, "How
lovely the evenings are, James, in this
place ! Look at the sky over the down,
how clear it is!" Turning my head, I
saw Honor standing on the grass only
a few paces oif, her shadowy shape quite
distinct against the reds and purples
of the clouds.

Anne clutched my hand with a sud
den cry, for she was looking at my face
all the time, and asked me passionately
what I saw. With that Honor was
gone, and, passing my hand over my
eyes, I put ray wife off with an excuse
about a spasm at my heart. And, in
deed, it was no lie to say so, for this
visitation gave me a terrible shock.

Anne insisted on my seeing the doc
tor. " It must be something dreadful,
if not dangerous, that could make you
3

look in that way ; you had an awful
face, James, for a moment."

I begged her not to talk about it,
assured her that it was a thing of very rare
occurrence with me and that there was no
cure for it. But this did not pacify her,
and this morning no peace could be had
until Dr. Hutchinson was sent for and
she had given the old gentleman her
own account of me. He said he would
talk to me by-and-by. And when he
got me by myself, I can not tell how it
was, but he absolutely contrived to
worm the facts out of me, and I was fool
enough to let him do it. He looked at
me very oddly, with a sort of suspicious
scrutiny in his eye ; but I understood
him, aud said, laughing, " No, doctor,
no, there is nothing wrong here," tap
ping my forehead as I spoke.

" I should say not, except this fancy
for seeing ghosts," replied he, dryly.
But I perceived, all the time that he was
with me, that I was the object of a fur
tive and carefully dissembled observa
tion, which was excessively trying. I
could with difficulty keep my temper un
der it, and I believe he saw the struggle.

I fancy he wanted to have some talk
with Anne by herself, but I prevented
that by never losing sight of him until
he was safely off the premises. If he
proposed a private interview while I
was out alone, I prevented that, too, by
immediately ordering Anne to pack up
our traps, and coming back to town
that very day. I have not been well
since. I feel out of spirits, bored,
worried, sick of every thing. If the
feeling does not leave me, in spite of all
Anne may say, I shall take that offer to
go to South America, and start by the
next packet. I should like to see Dr.
Hutchinsou's face when he calls at our
lodgings to visit his patient, aud finds
the bird flown.

LONDON, August 20, 1830.
This wretched state of tilings does
not cease. One day I feel in full, tirm,
clear possession of my soul, and tlie
next, perhaps, I am hurried to and fro
with the most tormenting fancies. I
see shadows of Honor wherever I turn,
and she is no longer motionless as be
fore, but beckons me with her hand
until I tremble in every limb. My

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

heart is sick almost to death. For
three days now I have had no rest. I
can not sleep at nights for hideous
dreams ; and Anne watches me stealthi
ly, I see, and never remains alone with
me longer than she can help. I can
perceive that she is afraid of me, and
that she suspects something, without
exactly knowing what. To-day she
must needs suggest my seeing a doctor
here, and when I replied I was going to
South America, she told me I was not
fit for it, in such a contemptuous tone
of provocation that I lifted my hand and
struck her. Then she quailed, and
while shrinking under my eyes, she said,
"James, your conduct is that of a mad
man !" Since then I know she sits
with me in silent terror, longing to es
cape and find some one to listen to her
grievances. But I shall keep strict
ward that she does nothing of the kind.
I will not have my foes of my own
household, and no spying relatives shall
come between us to put asunder those
whom God has joined together.

ACAPULCO, March IT, 1831.
It is six months since I wrote the
above. In the interval I have been
miserably ill, grievously tormented both
in mind and body ; but now that I have
got safely away from them all, with the
Atlantic between myself and my wicked
wife, whose conduct toward me I will
never forgive, I can collect my powers
of mind, and bend them again to
my work. Burton came out in the
same ship with me to engage in the
same enterprise. After a few days' rest
we intend setting out on our journey to
the mining districts, where we are to act.
My bead feels perfectly light and clear,
all my impressions are distinct and vivid
again, and I can get through a hard
day's close study without inconvenience.
There was nothing but my miserable
liver to blame, and when that was set
right all my imaginary phantoms disap
peared. TJmpleby said it had been
coming on gradually for months, and
that there was nothing at all extraordi
nary in my delusions; my diseased state
was one always so attended, more or less.
And Anne, in her cowardly malignity,
would have consigned me for life to a
lunatic asylum ! It was Umpleby who
Bared me, and I have put his name

down in my will for a handsome remem
brance. As for Anne, she has chosen
to return to her family, and they may
keep her; she will never see my face
again, of my free will, as long as I
live.

The picturesqueness of this place is
not noteworthy in any high degree.
The harbor is inclosed by a chain of
mountains, and has to entrances
formed by the island of Roquetta ; the
castle of St. Diego commands the town
and the bay, standing on a spur of the
hills. Burton has been two and fro on
his rambles ever since we landed ; but I
find the heat too great for much exer
tion, and when we begin our journey
into the interior I have need of all my
forces ; therefore, better husband them
now.

MEXICO, April 24, 1831.

We are better off here than we antici
pated. Burton has found an old fellow-
pupil engaged as engineering tutor in
the School of Mines, and there are civil
ized amusements which we neither of us
had any hope of finding. The city is
full of ancient relics, and Burton is on
foot exploring, day by day. I prefer
the living interests of this strange place,
and sometimes early in the morning I b^
take myself to the market-place an*
watch the Indians dress their stalls.
No matter what they sell, they de
corate their shops with fresh herbs and
flowers until they are sheltered under
a bower of verdure. They display
their fruit in open basket-work, lay
ing the pears and raisins below, and
covering them above with odorous
flowers. An artist might make a pretty
picture here, when the Indians arrive at
sunrise in their boats loaded with the
produce of their floating gardens.
Next week Burton, his friend, and I are
to set out for the mines of Moran and
Real del Monte. I should have pre
ferred to delay our journey a while longer
for reasons of my own, but Burton
presses, and feels we have already de
layed longer than enough.

MORAN, July 4, 1831.
I am sick of this place, but our busi
ness here is now 011 the verge of com
pletion, and in a few days we start on
our expedition to the mines of Guana-
mato. The director, Burton, and my-

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

self, are all of opinion that immense
advantages are to be gained by im
proving the working of the mines, which
is, at present, in a very defective con
dition. There is great mortality among
the Indians, who are the beasts of
burden of the mines ; they carry on
their backs loads of metal of from two
hundred and fifty to three hundred and
fifty pounds at a time, ascending and
descending thousands of steps, in files
which contain old men of seventy and
mere children. I have not been very
well here, having had some return of
old symptoms, but under proper treat
ment they dispersed ; however, I shall
be thankful to be on the move again.

PASCUARO, August 11, 1831.

Can any man evade his thoughts, im
palpable curses sitting on his heart,
mocking like fiends ? I can not evade
mine. All yesterday I was haunted by
a terrible anxiety and dread. At every
turn, at every moment, I expected to see
Honor Livingston appear before me,
but I did not see her. The day and
the night passed, and I was freed from
that great horror — how great I had not
realized, until its hour had gone and
left no trace. This morning I am my
self again ; my spirits revive ; I have
escaped my enemy, and have proved
that it was, indeed, but a subtle emana
tion of my own diseased body and mind.
But these thoughts, these troublesome
persistent thoughts, how combat them ?
Bnrton, very observant of me at all
times, was yesterday watchful as an in
quisitor ; he said he hoped I was not
going to have the frightful fever which
is prevailing here, but I know he meant
something else. I have not a doubt
now that Anne and all that confederacy
warned him before we set sail to beware
of me, for I had been mad ; that is the
cursed lie they set abroad. Mad 1 All
the world's mad, or on the way to it !

But if Honor had come back to me
yesterday, we might have gone and
have looked down together into hell,
through the ovens of Jorulla. The
missionaries cursed this frightful place
generations since ; and it is accursed,
if ever land was. Nothing more awful
than this desolate burning waste, which
the seas could not quench. When I
remember it, and all I underwent yes

terday, the confusion and horror return
upon me again, and my brain swerves
like the brain of a drunken man. I will
write no more — sufficient to record that
the appointed time came and went, and
Honor Livingston did not keep her
word with me.

NEW ORLEANS, February, 1832.
I left Burton still in Mexico, and
came here alone. His care and con-
siderateness were more than I could put
up with, and after two or three ineffec
tual remonstrances, we came to a violent
rupture, and I determined to throw up
my engagement, rather than carry it
out in conjunction with such a man.
There was no avoiding the quarrel.
Was I to be tutored day by day, and
the wine-bottle removed out of my
reach ? He dared to tell me that when
I was cool, clear — myself, in short —
there was no man my master in onr
profession ; but that when I had drunk
freely I was unmanageable as a lu
natic ! A lie, of course ; but unscru
pulous persecutors are difficult to cir
cumvent. Anne's malice pursues me
even here. When I was out yester
day, my footsteps were dogged pertina
ciously wherever I went, and perhaps
an account of my doings will precede
me home ; but if they do, I defy them
all to do their worst.

ASHENDELL, August 9, 1839.
This old bbok turned up to-day,
among some traps that have lain by
in London all the years that I have
spent, first in Spain and afterward in
Russia. What fool's-talk it is : but I
suppose it was true at the time. I
know I was in a wretched condition
while I was in Mexico and in the States,
but I have been sane enough and sound
enough ever since the illness I had at
Baltimore. To prove how little hold
on me my ancient horrors have retained,
I find myself at Ashendell in the very
season of the year when Honor Living
ston destroyed herself — to-morrow is
the anniversary of her death. So I
take my enemy by the throat, and crush
him ! These fantastical maladies will
not stand against a determined will. At
Moscow, at Cherson, at Archangel, the
tenth of August has come and gone,
unmarked. Honor failed of her threat

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

everywhere except at Lisbon. I saw
her there twice, just before we sailed.
I saw her, when we were off that coast
where we so nearly escaped wreck,
rising and falling upon the waves. I
saw her in London that day I appointed
to see Anne. But I know what it means :
it means that I must put myself in
Umpleby's hands for a few weeks, and
that the shadows will forthwith vanish.
Shadows they are, out of my own brain,
and they take the shape of Honor be
cause I have let her become a fixed idea
in my mind. Yet it is very strange that
the last time she appeared to me I heard
her speak. I fancied she said that it
was Almost time ; and then louder,
" I'll haunt you, James, until you come
to the Ashenfall, where I am going
now !" And with that she vanished.
Fancy plays strange tricks with us, and
makes cowards of us almost as cleverly
as conscience.

August 10.

I have had a very unpleasant impres
sion on me all day. I wish I had resist
ed Linchley's persuasions more steadily.
I ought never to have come down here
again. The excitement of its miserable
recollections is too much for me. The
man at the inn called me by my name
this morning, and said he recollected
me — looking up toward the church as
he spoke. Damn him ! All day I seem
to have been acting against my will.
What should possess me to go there
this afternoon ? Round about among
the graves, until I came to the grassy
hillock on the north side of the church,
where they buried Honor that night,
without a prayer. I sat down on the
low wall, and looked across to the hills
beyond the river, listening to the mo-
nstonous sing-song of the fall. I would
give all I possess to-day to be able to
tread back or to untread a score of the
years of my life It seems such a blank ;
of all I planned and schemed how little
have I accomplished ! Watching by
Honor's grave, I fell to thinking of her.
What had either of us done that we
should be so wretched ? Is it part and
parcel of the great injustice of life that
some must suffarso signally while others
escape ? The coarse grass is never cut
at the north side of the chu'rch, nettles
and brambles grow about the grave,
-lonor was mad, poor soul ; they might

have given her a prayer for rest, if they
were forbidden to believe she died in
hope. I prayed for her to-day — more
need, perhaps, to pray for myself — and
then there came a crazed whirl in my
brain, and I set off to find Linchley. As
I came down near the water, the fall
sounded very tumultuous ; it was sultry
hot, and I should have liked to turn
down by the river, but I said, " No, it
is the tenth of August ! If I am to
meet Honor Livingston to-day, I'll not
meet her by Ashenfall 1" So I came
home to our lodgings, to find that
Linchley had gone over to Warfe, and
had left a message that he should not
return until to-morrow. I have the
night before me alone ; it is not like an
English night at all ; it is like the nights
I remember at Cadiz, which always her
alded a tremendous storm. And I think
we shall have a storm here, too, before
the morning.

Those were the last words James
Lawrence ever wrote, Gentlemen. Fur
ther than this no man can speak of his
death ; it is plain to me that one of his
mad fits was coming on before he left
Lisbon ; that it grew and increased
until he came here ; and that here it
reached its climax, and urged him to
his death. I believe in the ghosts James
Lawrence saw, as I believe in the haunt
ing power of any great misdeed that
has driven a fellow-creature into deadly
sin.

When David Polreath had finished,
the chairman gave the teetotum such a
swift and sudden twirl, to be before
hand with any interruption, that it
twirled among all the glasses, and into
all corners of the table, and finally flew
off the table and lodged in Captain
Jorgan's waistcoat.

"A kind of a judgment!" said the
captain, taking it out. "What's to be
done now ? / know no story, except
Down Easters, and they didn't happen
to myself, or any one of my acquaint
ance, and you couldn't enjoy 'ein with
out going out of your minds first. And
perhaps the company ain't prepared to
do that ?"

The chairman interposed by rising
and declaring it to be his perroud
perrivilege to stop preliminary observa
tions.

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

" Wa'al," said the captain, " I defer
to the President — which a n't at all
what they do in my country, where they
lay into him, head, limbs, and body."
Here he slapped his leg. " But I beg
to ask a preliminary question. Colonel
Polreath has read from a diary. Might
I read from a pipe-light ?"

The chairman requested explanation.

"The- history of the pipe-light," said
the captain, "is just this: that it's
verses, and was made on the voyage
home by a passenger I brought over.
And he was a quiet crittur of a middle-
aged man, with a pleasant countenance,
And he wrote it on the head of a cask.
And he was a most etarnal time about
it tew. And he blotted it as if he had
wrote it in a continual squall of ink.
And then he took an indigestion, and I
physicked him, for want of a better
doctor. And then to show his liking
for me he copied.it out fair, and gave it
to me for a pipe-light. And it ain't
been lighted yet, and that's a fact."

" Let it be read," said the chairman.

"With thanks to Colonel Polrea.th
for setting the example," pursued the
captain, " and with apologies to the
Honorable A. Parvis and the whole of
the present company for this passenger's
having expressed his mind in verses —
which he may have done along of bein'
sea-sick, and he was very — the pipe-
light, unrolled, comes to this :

WE sit by the fire so wide and red,

With the dance of the young within,
Who have yet small learning of cold and

dread,

And of sorrow no more than of sin ;
Nor dream of a night on a sleepless bed
Of waves with their terrible wrecks o'er-
spread.

We sit round the hearth as red as gold,

And the legends beloved we tell,
How battles were won by the nobles bold,

Where hamlets of villains fell:
.And we praise our God, while we cut the

bread,

And share the wine round, for our heroes
dead.

And we talk of the Kings, those strong,

proud men,

Who ravaged, confessed, and died ;
And of churls who rabbled them oft and

again,
Perchance with a kindred pride —

Though the Kings built churches to pierce

the sky,
And the rabbling churls in the cross-road

lie.

Yet 'twist the despot and slave half-free

Old Truth may have message clear ;
Since the hard black yew, and the lithe

young tree,

Belong to an age — and a year,
And though distant in mignt and in leaf

they be,
In right of the woods they are near.

And old Truth's message, perchance, may

be :

" Believe in thy kind, whatever the degree.
Be it King on his throne, or serf on his

knee.
Wliile Our Lord showers light, in his

bounty free,
On the rock and the vale — on the sand

and the sea."

They are singing within, with their voices

dear,

To the tunes which are dear as well ;
And we sit and dream while the words we

hear,

Having tale of our own to tell —
Of a far midnight on the terrible sea,
Which comes back on the tune of their
blithe old glee.

As old as the hills, and as old as the sky —
As the King on his throne — as the serf

on his knee,
A song wherein rich can with poor

agree,
With its chorus to make them laugh or

cry —
Which the young are singing, with no

thought nigh,
Of a night on a terrible sea:

"I care for nobody ; no, not I,
Since nobody cares for me."

The storm had its will. There was wreck —
there was flight

O'er an ocean of Alps, through the pitch-
black night,

When a good ship sank, and a few got
free,

To cope in their boat with the terrible sea.

And when the day broke, there was
blood on the sea,

From the wild hot eye of the sun out-
shed,

For the heaven was a-flame as with fire
from Hell,

And a scorching calm on the waters fell,
As if ruin had won, and with fiendish glee.

Sailed forth in his galley to number the
dead.

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

And they rowed their boat o'er the terri
ble sea,

As mute as a crew made of ghosts might
be;

For the best in his heart had not manhood
to say,

That the land was five hundred miles
away.

A day and a week — There was bread for

one man ;

The water was dry. And on this, the
few

Who were rowing their boat o'er the terri
ble sea,

To murmur, to curse, and to crave began.
And how 'twas agreed on, no one knew,

But the feeble and famished and scorched
by the sun,

With his pitiless eye, drew lots to agree.

What their hideous morrow of meat must
be.

Oh then were the faces frightful to read,
Of ravening hope, and of cowardly pride
That lies to the last, its sharp terror to

hide ;
And a stillness as though 'twere some

game of the Dead,
While they waited the number their lot

to decide —

There were nine in that boat on the terri
ble sea,

And he who drew NINK was the victim to
be.

You may think what a ghastly shiver

there ran,
From mate to his mate, as the doom began.

Six — had a wife with a wild rose cheek ;

•Two — a brave boy, not a year yet old ;
EIGHT — his last sister, lame and weak,

Who quivered with palsy more than
with cold.

You may think what a breath the respited

drew,
And how wildly still sat the rest of the

crew;
How the voice as it called spoke hoarser

and slower ;
The number it next dared to speak was —

FOUR.

'Twas the rude black man, who had han
dled an oar

The best on that terrible sea of the few.
And u^ly and grim in the sunshine glare
Were his thick parched lips, and his

dull small eyes,

And the tangled fleece of his rusty hair —
Ere the next of the breathless the death-
lot drew,

His shout like a sword pierced the si
lence through.

Let the play end with your number Four.
What need to draw ? Live along you

few
Who have hopes to save and have wives to

cry

O'er the cradles of children free !
What matter if folk without home should

die,

And be eaten by land or sea?
" I care for nobody : no, not I,
Since nobody cares for me I"

And with that, a knife — and a heart struck

through —
And the warm red blood, and the cold

black clay,
And the famine withdrawn from among

the few,
By their horrible meal for another day I

So the eight, thus fed, came at last to land,
And the tale of their shipmate told,

As of water found in the burning sand,
Which braves not the thirsty, cold.

But the love of the listener, safe and free,'

Goes forth to that slave on that terrible
sea.

For, fancies from hearth and from home

will stray,
Though within are the dance and the

song;
And a grave tale told, if the tune be gay,

Says little to scare the young.
While they sing, with their voices clear as

can be,
Having called, once more, for the blithe

old glee —

" I care for nobody ; no, not I,
Since nobody cares for me."

But the careless tune, it saith to the old,
Who sit by the hearth as red as gold,
When they think of their tale of the ter
rible sea ;

" Believe in thy kind, whate'er the degree,
Be it King on his throne, or serf on hi*

knee,
While our Lord showers good from his

bounty free,

Over storm, over calm, over land, over
sea."

Mr. Parvis had so greatly disquieted
the minds of the Gentlemen King Ar
thurs for some minutes, by snoring with
strong symptoms of apoplexy — which,
in a mild form, was his normal state of
health — that it was now deemed expe
dient to wake him and entreat him to
allow himself to be escorted home.
Mr. Parvis's reply to this friendly sug
gestion could not be placed on record
without the aid of several dashes, and

MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

is therefore omitted. It was conceived
in a spirit of the profoundest irritation,
and executed with vehemence, con
tempt, scorn, and disgust. There was
nothing for it but to let the excellent
gentleman alone, and he fell, without
loss of time, into a defiant slumber.

The teetotum being twirled again, so
buzzed and bowed in the direction of
the young fisherman, that Captain Jor-
gan advised him to be bright, and pre
pare for the worst. But it started off
at a tangent, late in its career, and fell
before a well-looking bearded man (one
who made working-drawings for ma
chinery, the captain was informed by
his next neighbor), who promptly took
it up, like a challenger's glove.

" Oswald Penrewen !" said the chair
man.

" Here's TJnchris'en at last I" the
captain whispered Alfred Raybrock.
" Unchris'en goes ahead right smart ;
don't he ?»

He did, without one introductory
word.

Mine is my brother's Ghost Story. It
happened to my brother about thirty
years ago, while he was wandering,
sketch-book in hand, among the High
Alps, picking up subjects for an illus
trated work on Switzerland. Having
entered the Oberland by the Brunig
Pass, and filled his port-folio with what
he used to call " bits" from the neigh
borhood of Meyringen, he went over the
Great Scheideck to Grindlewald, where
he arrived one dusky September evening,
about three quarters of an hour after
sunset. There had been a fair that
day, and the place was crowded. In
the best inn there was not an inch of
space to spare — there were only two
inns at Grindlewald thirty years ago —
so my brother went to one at the end
of the covered bridge next the church,
and there, with some difficulty, obtained
the promise of a pile of rugs and a
mattress, in a room which was already
occupied by three other travelers.

The Adler was a primitive hostelry,
half farm, half inn, with great rambling
galleries outside, and a huge general
room, like a barn. At the upper end
of this room stood long stoves, like
metal counters, laden with steaming
pans, and glowing underneath like fur

naces. At the lower end, smoking,
supping, and chatting, were congre
gated some thirty or forty guests, chiefly
mountaineers, char-drivers, and guides.
Among these my brother took his seat,
and was served, like the rest, with a
bowl of soup, a platter of beef, a
flagon of country wine, and a loaf made
of Indian corn. Presently a huge St.
Bernard dog came and laid his nose
upon my brother's arm. In the mean
time he fell into conversation with two
Italian youths, bronzed and dark-eyed,
near whom he happened to be seated.
They were Florentines. Their names,
they told him, were Stefano and Battisto.
They had been traveling for some
months on commission, selling cameos,
mosaics, sulphur casts, and the like
pretty Italian trifles, and were now on
their way to Interlaken and Geneva.
Weary of the cold North, they longed,
like children, for the moment which
should take them back to their own
blue hills and gray-green olives ; to
their workshop on the Ponte Vecchio,
and their home down by the Arno.

It was quite a relief to my brother,
on going up to bed, to find that these
youths were to be two of his fellow-
lodgers. The third was already there,
and sound asleep, with his face to the
wall. They scarcely / looked at this
third. They were all tired, and all
anxious to rise at daybreak, having
agreed to walk together over the Wen-
gem Alp as far as Lauterbrunnen. So
my brother and the two youths ex
changed a brief good-night, and, before
many minutes, were all as far away in
the land of dreams as their unknown
companion.

My brother slept profoundly — so
profoundly that, being roused in the
morning by a clamor of merry voices,
he sat up dreamily in his rugs, and
wondered where he was.

"Good-day, Signer," cried Battisto.
" Here is a fellow-traveler going the
same way as ourselves."

" Christien Bnumann, native of Kan-
dersteg, musical-box maker by trade,
stands five feet eleven in his shoes, and
is at Monsieur's service to command,1'
said the sleeper of the night before.

He was a fine young fellow as one
would wish to see. Light, and strong,
and well-proportioned, with curling

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

brown hair, and bright, honest eyes
that seemed to dance at every word he
uttered.

" Good-morning," said my brother.
" You were asleep last night when we
came up."

"Asleep I I should think so, after
being all day in the fair, and walking
from Meyringen the evening before.
What a capital fair it was I"

"Capital, indeed," said Battisto.
" We sold cameos and mosaics yester
day for nearly fifty francs."

"Oh, yon sell cameos and mosaics,
yon two ! Show me your cameos, and
I will show you my musical boxes. I
have such pretty ones, with colored
views of Geneva and Chillon on the
lids, playing two, four, six, and even
eight tunes. Bah ! I will give you a
concert !"

And with this he nnstrapped his
pack, displayed his little boxes on the
table, and wound them np, one after
the other, to the delight of the Italians.

"I helped to make them myself,
every one," said he, proudly. "Is it
not pretty music ? I sometimes set
one of them when I go to bed at night,
and fall asleep listening to it. I am
sure, then, to have pleasant dreams !
But let us see your cameos. Perhaps
I may buy one for Marie, if they are
not too dear. Marie is my sweet-heart,
and we are to be married next week."

" Next week 1" exclaimed Stefano.
" That is very soon. Battisto has a
sweet-heart also, up at Impruneta ; but
they will have to wait a long time be
fore they can buy the ring."

Battisto blushed like a girl.

"Hush, brother !" said he. "Show
the cameos to Christien, and give your
tongue a holiday 1"

But Christieu was not so to be put
off.

"What is her name?" said he.
" Tush ! Battisto, you must tell me her
name ! Is she pretty ? Is she dark or
fair ? Do you often see her when you
are at home ? Is she very fond of you ?
Is she as fond of you as Marie is of me ?"

" Nay, how should I know that ?''
asked the soberer Battisto. " She
loves me, and I love her — that is all."

"And her name ?"

" Margherita."

"A charming name 1 And she is

herself as pretty as her name, I'll en
gage. Did you say she was fair ?"

" I said nothing about it one way or
the other," said Battisto, unlocking a
green box clamped with iron, and
taking out tray after tray of his pretty
wares. " There ! Those pictures all
inlaid in little bits are Roman mosaics
— the flowers on a black ground are
Florentine. The ground is of hard,
dark stone, and the flowers are made of
thin slices of jasper, onyx, cornelian,
and so forth. Those forget-me-nots,
for instance, are bits of turquoise, and
that poppy is cut from a piece of coral. "

"I like the Roman ones best," said
Christien. " What place is that with
all the arches ?"

" This is the Coliseum, and the one
next to it is St. Peter's. But we Flo
rentines care little for the Roman work.
It is not half so fine or so valuable as
ours. The Romans make their mosaics
of composition."

" Composition or no, I like the little
landscapes best," satd Christien. There
is a lovely one, with a pointed building, ,
and a tree, and mountains at the back.
How I should like that one for Mario !"

" You may have it for eight francs,*7
replied Battisto ; " we sold two of thorn
yesterday for ten each. It represents
the tomb of Caius Cestius, near Rome."

"A tomb I" echoed Christien, con
siderably dismayed. " Diable 1 That
would be a dismal present to one's
bride."

" She would never guess that it was
a tomb if you did not tell her," sug
gested Stefano.

Christien shook his head.

" That would be next door to de
ceiving her," said he.

" Nay," interposed my brother, " the
owner of that tomb has been dead these
eighteen or nineteen hundred years.
One almost forgets that he was ever
buried in it."

" Eighteen or nineteen hundred
years ? Then he was a heathen ?"

" Undoubtedly, if by that you mean
that he lived before Christ."

Christien's face lighted up imme
diately.

"Oh, that settles the question," said
he, pulling out his little canvas purse,
and paying his money down at once.
"A heathen's tomb is as good as no

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

tomb at all. I'll have it made into a
brooch for her, at Interlaken. Tell me,
Battisto, what shall you take home to
Italy for your Margherita ?''

Battisto laughed and chinked his
eight francs. " That depends on trade,"
said he; "if we make good profits be
tween this and Christmas I .may take
her a Swiss muslin from Berne ; but we
have already been away seven months,
and we have hardly made a hundred
francs over and above our expenses."

And with this the talk turned upon
general matters, the Florentines locked
away their treasures, Christien re-
strapped his pack, and my brother and
all went down together, and breakfasted
in the open air outside the inn.

It was a magnificent morning ; cloud
less and sunny, with a cool breeze that
rustled in the vine upon the porch, and
flecked the table with shifting shadows
of green leaves. All around and about
them stood the great mountains with
their blue-white glaciers bristling down
to the verge of the pastures, and the
pine-woods creeping darkly up their
sides. To the left, the Wetterhorn ;
to the right, the Eigher ; straight before
them, dazzling and imperishable, like
an obelisk of frosted silver, the Schreck-
horn, or Peak of Terror. Breakfast
over, they bade farewell to their hostess,
and, mountain-staff in -hand, took the
path to the Wengern Alp. Half- in
light, half in shadow, lay the quiet val
ley, dotted over with farms, and tra
versed by a torrent that rushed, milk-
white, from its prison in the glacier.
The three lads walked briskly in ad
vance, their voices chiming together
every now and then in chorus of laugh
ter. Somehow my brother felt sad.
He lingered behind, and, plucking a
little red flower from the bank, watched
it hurry away with the torrent, like a
life on the stream of time. Why was
his heart so heavy, and why were their
hearts so light ?

As the day went on my brother's
melancholy and the mirth of the young
men seemed to increase. Full of youth
and hope they talked of the joyous
future, and built up pleasant castles in
the air. Battisto, grown more com
municative, admitted that to marry
Margherita, and become a master nio-

saicist, would fulfill the dearest dream
of his life. Stefano, not being in love,
preferred to travel. Christien, who
seemed to be the most prosperous, de
clared that it was his darling ambition
to rent a farm in his native Kander
Valley, and lead the patriarchial life of
his fathers. As for the musical-box
trade, he said, one should live in Geneva,
to make it answer; and, for his part,
he loved the pine forests and the snow-
peaks better than all the towns in Eu
rope. Marie, too, had been born among
the mountains, and it would break her
heart if she thought she were to live in
Geneva all her life and never see the
Kander Thai again. Chatting thus the
morning wore on to noon, and the
party rested awhile in the shade of a
clump of gigantic firs festooned with
trailing banners of gray-green moss.

Here they ate their lunch, to the sil
very music of one of Christien's little
boxes, and by-and-by heard the sullen
echo of an avalanche far away on the
shoulder of the Jungfrau.

Then they went on again in the burn
ing afternoon, to heights where the
Alp-rose fails from the sterile steep, and
the brown lichen grows more and more
scantily among the stories. Here only
the bleached and barren skeletons of a
forest of dead pines varied the desolate
monotony ; and high on the summit of
the pass stood a little solitary inn, be
tween them and the sky.

At this inn they rested again, and
drank to the health of Christien and
his bride in a jng of country wine. He
was in uncontrollable spirits, and shook
hands with them all, over and over
again.

"By nightfall to-morrow," said he,
"I shall hold her once more in my
arms ! It is now nearly two years since
I came home to see her, at the end of
my apprenticeship. Now I am fore
man, with a salary of thirty francs a
week, and well able to marry."

" Thirty francs a week !" echoed Bat
tisto. " Corpo di Bacco 1 that is a little
fortune."

Christien's face beamed.

"Yes," said he, "we shall be very
happy; and by-and-by — who knows? —
we may end our days in the Kander
Thai, and bring up our children to sue-

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

ceed us. Ah ! If Marie knew that I
should be there to-morrow night how
delighted she would he !"

" How so, Christien ?" said my bro
ther. " Does she not expect you ?"

" Not a bit of it. She has no idea
that I can be there till the day after to
morrow — nor could I if I took the road
all round by Unterseen and Friitigen.
I mean to sleep to-night at Lauterbrun-
nen, and to-morrow morning shall strike
across the Tschlingel glacier to Kand-
ersteg. If I rise a little before day
break I shall be at home by sunset."

At this moment the path took a sud
den turn, and began to descend in sight
of an immense perspective of very dis
tant valleys. Christien flung his cap
into the air and uttered a'great shout.

" Look !" said he, stretching out his
arms as if to embrace all the dear fa
miliar scene : " Oh ! Look ! There are
the hills and woods of Interlaken ; and
here, below the precipices on which we
stand, lies Lauterbrunnen ! God be
praised, who has made our native land
so beautiful 1"

The Italians smiled at each other,
thinking their own Arno Valley far more
fair; but my brother's heart warmed to
the boy, and echoed his thanksgiving
in that spirit which accepts all beauty
as a birth-right and an inheritance.
And now their course lay across an im
mense plateau, all rich with corn-fields
and meadows, and studded with sub
stantial homesteads built of old brown
wood, with huge sheltering eaves, and
strings of Indian corn hanging like
golden ingots along the carven bal
conies. Blue whortleberries grew be
side the footway, and now and then
they came upon a wild gentian, or a
star-shaped immortelle. Then the path
became a mere zigzag on the face of the
precipice, and in less than half an hour
they reached the lowest level of the
valley. The glowing afternoon had not
yet faded from the uppermost pines
when they were all dining together in
the parlor of a little inn looking to the
Jungfrau. In the evening my brother
wrote letters, while the three lads strolled
about the village. At nine o'clock they
bade each other good-night, aud went
to their several rooms.

Weary as he was, my brother found
it impossible to sleep. The same un

accountable melancholy still possessed
him, and when at last he dropped into
an uneasy slumber, it was but to start
over and over again from frightful
dreams, faint with a nameless terror.
Toward morning he fell into a profound
sleep, and never woke until the day was
fast advancing toward noon. He then
found, to his regret, that Christien had
long since gone. He had risen before
daybreak, breakfasted by candle-light,
and started off in the gray dawn — " as
merry," said the host, "as a fiddler at
a fair."

Stefano and Battisto were still wait
ing to see my brother, being charged by
Christien with a friendly farewell mes
sage to him, and an invitation to the
wedding. They, too, were asked, and
meant to go ; so my brother agreed to
meet them at Interlaken on the follow
ing Tuesday, whence they might walk
to Kandersteg by easy stages, reaching
their destination on the Thursday morn
ing, in time to go to church with the
bridal party. My brother then bought
some of the little Florentine cameos,
wished the two boys every good fortune,
and watched them down the road till he
could see them no longer.

Left now to himself, he wandered out
with his sketch-book, and spent the day
in the upper valley; at sunset he dined
alone in his chamber, by the light of a
single lamp. This meal dispatched, he
drew nearer to the fire, took out a
pocket edition of Goethe's Essays on
Art, and promised himself some hours
of pleasant reading. (Ah, how well I
know that very book, in its faded cover,
and how often I have heard him describe
that lonely evening !) The night had by
this time set in cold and wet. The damp
logs spluttered on the hearth, and a
wailing wind swept down the valley,
bearing the rain in sudden gusts against
the panes. My brother soon found that
to read was impossible. His attention
wandered incessantly. He read the
same sentence over and over again, un
conscious of its meaning, and fell into
long trains of thought leading far into
the dim past.

Thus the hours went by, and at eleven
o'clock he heard the doors closing be
low, and the household retiring to rest.
He determined to yield no longer to
this dreaming apathy. He threw on

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

fresh logs, trimmed the lamp, and took
several turns about the room. Then he
opened the casement, and suffered the
rain to beat against his face, and the
wind to ruffle his hair, as it ruffled the
acacia leaves in the garden below.
Some minutes passed thus, and when,
at length, he closed the window and
came back into the room, his face and
hair and all the front of his shirt were
thoroughly saturated. To unstrap his
knapsack aud take out a dry shirt was,
1 of course, his first impulse — to drop the
garment, listen eagerly, and start to his
feet, breathless and bewildered, was the
next.

For, borne fitfully upon the outer
breeze, now sweeping past the window,
now dying in the distance, he heard
a well-remembered strain of melody,
subtle and silvery as the "sweet airs"
of Prospero's isle, and proceeding un
mistakably from the musical-box which
had, the day before, accompanied the
lunch under the fir-trees of the Wen-
gern Alp!

Had Christien come back, and was it
thus that he announced his return ? If
so, where was he? Under the window ?
Outside in the corridor ? Sheltering in
the porch, and waiting for admittance?
My brother threw open the casement
again, and called him by his name.

" Christien ! Is that you ?"

All without was intensely silent. He
could hear the last gust of wind and
rain moaning further and further away
upon its wild course down the valley,
and the pine-trees shivering, like living
things.

" Christien !" he said again, and his
own voice seemed to echo strangely on
his ear. " Speak ! Is it you ?"

Still no one answered. He leaned
out into the dark night, but could see
nothing — not even the outline of the
porch below. He began to think that
his imagination had deceived him, when
suddenly the strain burst forth again ;
this time, apparently in his own cham-
ber.

A's he turned, expecting to find
Christien at his elbow, the somids
broke off abruptly, and a sensation of
intensest cold seized him in every limb
— not the mere chill of nervous terror,
not the mere physical result of exposure
to wind and rain, but a deadly freezing

of every vein, a paralysis of every nerve,
an appalling consciousness that in a
few moments more the lungs must ceaso
to play, and the heart to beat ! Power
less to speak or stir, he closed his eyes,
and believed that he was dying.

This strange faintness lasted but a
few seconds. Gradually the vital
warmth returned, and, with it, strength
to close the window, and stagger to a
chair. As he did so, he found the
breast of his shirt all stiff and frozen,
and the rain clinging in solid icicles
upon his hair.

He looked at his watch. It had
stopped at twenty minutes before
twelve. He took his thermometer from
the chimney-piece, and found the mer
cury at sixty-eight. Heavenly powers I
How were these things possible in a
temperature of sixty-eight degrees, and
with a large fire blazing on the hearth ?

He poured out half a tumbler of
cognac, and drank it at a draught.
Going to bed was out of the question.
IJe felt that he dared not sleep — that
he scarcely dared to think. All he
could do was to change his linen, pile
on more logs, wrap himself in his blan
kets, and sit all night in an easy-chair
before the fire.

My brother had not long sat thus,
however, before the warmth, and pro
bably the nervous reaction, drew him
off to sleep. In the morning, he found
himself lying on the bed, without being
able to remember in the least how or
when he reached it.

It was again a glorious day. The
rain and wind were gone, and the Sil-
verhorn at the end of the valley lifted
its head into an unclouded sky. Look
ing out upon the sunshine, he almost
doubted the events of the night, and
but for the evidence of his watch, which
still pointed to twenty minutes before
twelve, would have been disposed to
treat the whole matter as a dream. As
it was, he attributed more than half
•his terrors to the promptings of an
over-active and over-wearied brain.
For ail this, he still felt depressed and
uneasy, and so very unwilling to pass
another night at Lauterbrunnen, that
he made up his mind to proceed that
morning to Interlaken. While he was
yet loitering over his - breakfast, and
considering whether he should walk the

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

seven miles of road, or hire a vehicle,
a char came rapidly up to the inn door,
and a young man jumped out.

" Why, Battisto !" exclaimed my
brother, in astonishment, as he came
into the room ; " what brings you here
to-day ? Where is Stefano ?" '

" I have left him at Interlaken, sig-
por," replied the Italian.

Something there was in his voice,
something in his face, both strange and
startling.

"What is the matter?" asked my
brother, breathlessly. " He is not ill ?
No accident has happened ?"

Battisto shook his head, glanced fur
tively up and down the passage, and
closed the door.

" Stefano is well, signer ; but — but
a circumstance has occurred — a circum
stance so strange ! — Signer, do you be
lieve in spirits ?"

"In spirits, Battisto?"

"Ay, signor; for if ever the spirit
of any man, dead or living, appealed to
human ears, the spirit of Ciiristieu
came to me last night, at twenty minutes
before twelve o'clock."

"At twenty minutes before twelve
o'clock !" repeated my brother.

" I was in bed, signor, and Stefano
was sleeping in the same room. I had
gone up quite warm, and had fallen
asleep, full of pleasant thoughts. By-
and-by, although I had plenty of bed
clothes, and a rug over me as well, I
woke, frozen with cold, and scarcely
able to breathe. I tried to call to Ste
fano ; but I had no power to utter the
slightest sound. I thought my last
moment was come. All at once I
heard ^ sound under the window — a
sound which I knew to be Christien's
musical box ; and it played as it played
when we lunched under the fir-trees,
except that it was more wild and
strange and melancholy, and most
solemn to hear — awful to hear ! Then,
signer, it grew fainter and fainter — and
then it seemed to float past upon the
wind, and die away. When it ceased,
my frozen blood grew warm again, and
I cried out to Stefano. When I told
him what had happened, he declared I
had been only dreaming. I made him
strike a light, that I might look at my
watch. It pointed to twenty minutes
before twelve, aud had stopped there ;

and — stranger still — Stefano's watch
had done the very same. Now tell me,
signor, do you believe that there is any
meaning in this, or do you think, as
Stefano persists in thinking, that it was
all a dream ?"

" What is your own conclusion, Bat
tisto ?"

" My conclusion, signor, is that some
harm has happened to poor Christien
on the glacier, and that his spirit came
to me last night."

" Battisto, he shall have help if liv
ing, or rescue for his poor corpse if
dead ; for I, too, believe that all is not
well."

And with this my brother told him
briefly what had occurred to himself in
the night ; dispatched messengers for
the three best guides in Lauterbrun-
nen ; and prepared ropes, ice-hatchets,
alpenstocks, and all such matters neces
sary for a glacier expedition. Hasten
as he would, however, it was nearly
mid-day before the party started.

Arriving in about half an hour at a
place called Stechelberg, they left the
char, in which they had traveled so
far, at a chalet, and ascended a
steep path in full view of the Briet-
horn glacier, which rose up to the left
like a battlemented wall of solid ice.
The way now lay for some time among
pastures and pine-forests. Then they
came to a little colony of chalets, called
Steinberg, where they filled their wa
ter-bottles, got their ropes in readiness,
and prepared for the Tschlingel gla
cier. A few minutes more, and they
were on the ice.

At this point the guides called a halt
and consulted together. One was for
striking across the lower glacier toward
the left, and reaching the upper glacier
by the rocks which bound it on the
south. The other two preferred the
north or right side ; and this my bro
ther finally took. The sun was now
pouring down with almost tropical in
tensity, and the surface of the ice,
which was broken into long, treacher
ous fissures, smooth as glass and blue
as the summer sky, was both difficult
and dangerous. Silently and cautiously
they went, tied together at intervals
of about three yards each : with two
guides in front, and the third bringing
up the rear. Turning presently to the

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

right, they found themselves at the foot
of a steep rock, some forty feet in
height, up which they must climb to
reach the upper glacier. The only
way in which Battisto or my brother
could hope to do this, was by the help
of a rope steadied from below and
above. Two of the guides accordingly
clambered up the face of the crag by
notches in the surface, and one remain
ed below. The rope was then let
down, and my brother prepared to go
first. As he planted his foot in the first
notch a smothered cry from Battisto
arrested him.

" Santa Maria I Signer I Look
yonder !"

My brother looked, and there, (he
ever afterward declared), as surely as
there is a heaven above us all, he saw
Christien Baumann standing in the full
sunlight not a hundred yards distant 1
Almost in the same moment that my
brother recognized him he was gone.
He neither faded, nor sank down, nor
moved away ; but was simply gone as
if he had never been. Pale as death,
Battisto fell upon his knees and covered
his face with his hands. My brother,
awe-stricken and speechless, leaned
against the rock, and felt that the
bbjcct of his journey was but too fatally
accomplished. 'As for the guides, they
could not conceive what had happened.

" Did you see nothing ?" asked my
brother and Battisto, both together.

But the men had seen nothing, and
the one who had remained below said,
" What should I see but the ice and the
sun ?"

To this my brother made no other
reply than by announcing his intention
to have a certain crevasse, from which
he had not once removed his eyes since
he saw the figure standing on the
brink, thoroughly explored before he
went a step further, whereupon the two
men came down from the top of the
crag, resumed the ropes, and followed
my. brother incredulously. At the nar
row end of the fissure he paused, and
drove his alpenstock firmly into the ice.
It was an unusually long crevasse — at
first a mere crack, but widening gradu
ally as it went, and reaching down to
unknown depths of dark, deep blue,
fringed with long, pendent icicles like
diamond stalactites. Before they had

followed the course of the crevasse for
more than ten minutes the youngest of
the guides uttered a hasty exclamation.

" I see something !" cried he. "Some
thing dark, wedged in the teeth of the
crevasse, a great way down 1"

They all saw it : a mere indistin
guishable mass, almost closed over by
the ice-walls at their feet. My brother
offered a hundred francs to the man
who would go down and bring it up.
They all hesitated.

" We don't^jnow what it is," said
one.

" Perhaps it's only a dead chamois,"
suggested another.

Their apathy enraged him.

" It is no chamois," he said, angrily.
" It is the body of Christien Banmann,
native of Kandersteg. And, by Hea
ven, if you are all too cowardly to
make the attempt, I will go down my
self!"

The youngest guide threw off his hat
and coat, tied a rope about his waist,
and took a hatchet in his hand.

"I will go, Monsieur," said he ; and
without another word suffered himself
to bo lowered in. My brother turned
away. A sickening anxiety came upon
him, and presently he heard the dull
echo of the hatchet far down in tbe
ice. Then there was a call for another
rope, and then — the men all drew aside
in silence, and my brother saw the
youngest guide standing once more
beside the chasm, flushed and trem
bling, with the body of Christreu lying
at his feet.

Poor Christien ! They made a rough
bier with their ropes and alpenstocks,
and carried him, with great difficulty,
back to Steinberg. There they got
additional help as far as Stechelberg,
where they laid him in the char, and so
brought him on to Lauterbrunnen.
The next day my brother made it his
sad business to precede the body to
Kandersteg, and prepare his friends for
its arrival. To this day, though all
these things happened thirty years ago,
he can not bear to recall Marie's de
spair, or all the mourning that he inno
cently brought upon that peaceful val
ley. Poor Marie has been dead this
many a year ; and when my brothel
last past through the Kander Thai on
his way to the Ghemuii, he saw her

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

grave, beside the grave of Christien
Baumann, in the village burial-ground.
— This is my brother's Ghost Story.

The chairman now announced that
the clock declared the teetotum spun
out, and that the meeting was dis
solved. Yet even then the young fisher
man could not refrain from once more
asking his question. This occasioned
the Gentlemen King Arthurs, as they
got on their hats and great-coats, evi
dently to regard him as a young fisher
man who was touched ra his head, and
Borne of them even cherished the idea
that the captain was his keeper.

As no man dared to awake the
mighty Parvis, it was resolved that a
heavy member of the society should fall
against him as it were by accident, arid
immediately withdraw to a safe distance.
The experiment was so happily accom
plished that Mr. Parvis started to his
feet on the best terms with himself, as
a light sleeper whose wits never left
him, and who could always be broad
awake on occasion. Quite an airy jo
cundity sat upon this respectable man
in consequence ; and he rallied the
briskest member of the fraternity on
being " a sleepy-head," with an amount
of humor previously supposed to be
quite incompatible with his responsible
circumstances in life.

Gradually the society departed into
the cold night, and the captain and his
young companion were left alone. The
captain had so refreshed himself by
shaking hands with every body to an
amazing extent that he was in no
hurry to go to bed.

" To-morrow morning," said the cap
tain, " we must find out the lawyer and
the clergyman here ; they are the people
to consult on our business. And I'll
be up and out early, and asking ques
tions of every body I see ; thereby pro
pagating at least one of the Institutions
of my native country."

As the captain was slapping his leg,
the landlord appeared with two small
candlesticks.

"Your room," said he, "is at the
top of the house. An excellent bed,
but you'll hear the wind."

" I've heerd it afore," replied the
captain. " Come and make a passage
with me, and you shall hear it."

" Its considered to blow here," said
the landlord.

" Weather gets its young strength
here," replied the captain; "goes into
training for the Atlantic Ocean. Yours
are little winds just beginning to feel
their way and crawl. Make a voyage
with me, and I'll show you a grown-up
one out on business. But you haven't
told my friend where he lies."

" Its the room at the head of the
stairs, before you take the second stair
case through the wall," returned the
landlord. " You can't mistake it. It's
a double-bedded room ; because there's
no other."

" The room where the sea-faring man
is ?" said the captain.

" The room where the sea-faring man
is."

" I hope he mayn't finish telling his
story in his sleep," remarked the cap
tain. " Shall / turn into the room
where the sea-faring man is, Alfred ?"

"No, Captain Jorgan, why should
you ? There would be little fear of his
waking me, even if he told his whole
story out."

" He's in the bed nearest the door,"
said the landlord. "I've been in to
look at him once, and he's sound
enough. Good-night, gentlemen."

The captain immediately shook hands
with the landlord in quite an enthusi
astic manner, and having performed
that national ceremony as if he had had
no opportunity of performing it for a
long time, accompanied his young friend
up stairs.

"Something tells me," said the cap
tain as they went, " that Miss Kitty
Tregarthen's marriage ain't put off for
long, and that we shall light on what
we want."

" I hope so. When, do you think ?"

" Wa'al, I couldn't just say when, but
soon. Here's your room," said the
captain, softly opening the door and
looking in; "and here's the berth of
the sea-faring man. I wonder what
like he is. He breathes deep ; don't
he ?"

" Sleeping like a child, to judge from
the sound," said the young fisherman.

"Dreaming of home maybe," re
turned the captain. " Can't see him.
Sleeps a deal more wholesomely than

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

Arson Parvis, but a'most as sound ;
don't he ? Good-night, fellow-traveler."

" Good-night, Captain Jorgan, and
many, many thanks !"

" I'll wait till I 'arn 'em, boy, afore I
take 'em," returned the captain, clap
ping htm cheerfully on the back.
" Pleasant dreams of — you know who!"

When the young fisherman had closed
the door, the captain waited a moment
or two, listening for any stir on the
part of the unknown sea-faring man.
But none being audible, the captain
pursued the way to his own chamber.

CHAPTER IT.

THE SEA-FARING MAN.

WHO was the Sea-faring Man ? And
what might he have to say for himself?
He answers those questions in his own
words :

I begin by mentioning what hap
pened on my journey northward, from
Falmouth in Cornwall, to Steepways in
Devonshire. I have no occasion to say
(being here) that it brought me last
night to Lanrean. I had business in
hand which was part very serious, and
part (as I hoped) very joyful — and this
business, you will please to remember,
was the cause of my journey.

After landing at Falmouth I traveled
on foot ; because of the expense of
riding, and because I had anxieties
heavy on my mind, and walking was
the best way I knew of to lighten them.
The first two days of my journey the
weather was fine and soft, the wind
being mostly light airs from south, and
south and by west. On the third day
I took a wrong turning, and had to
fetch a long circuit to get right again.
Toward evening, while I was still on
the road, the wind shifted ; and a sea-
fog came rolling in on the land. I
went on through, what I ask leave to
call, the white darkness ; keeping the
sound of the sea on ray left hand for a
guide, and feeling those anxieties of
mine before mentioned, pulling heavier
and heavier at my mind, as the fog
thickened and the wet trickled down
my face.

It was still early in the evening,

when I heard a dog bark, away in the
distance, on the right-hand side of me.
Following the sound as well as I could,
and shouting to the dog, from time to
time, to set him barking again, I
stumbled up at last against the back of
a house; and, hearing voices inside,
groped my way round to the door, and
knocked on it smartly with the flat of
my hand.

The door was opened by a slip-slop
young hussey in a torn gown ; and the
first inquiries I made of her discovered
to me that the house was an inn.

Before I could ask more questions the
landlord opened the parlor of the inn
and came out. A clamor of voices, and
a fine comforting smell of fire and grog
and tobacco came out, also, along with
him.

"The tap-room fire's out," says the
landlord. "You don't think you would
dry more comfortable, like, if you went
to bed ?" says he, looking hard at me.

"No," says I, looking hard at him,
" I don't."

Before more words were spoken a
jolly voice hailed us from inside the
parlor.

"What's the matter, landlord?" says
the jolly voice. " Who is it ?"

" A sea-faring man, by the looks of
him," says the landlord, turning round
from me, and speaking into the parlor.

" Let's have the sea-faring man in,"
says the voice. " Let's vote him free
of the Club, for this night only."

A lot of other voices thereupon said,
" Hear! hear!" in a solemn manner, as
if it was church service. After which
there was a hammering, as if it was a
trunk-maker's shop. After which the
landlord took me by the arm, gave me a
push into the parlor, and there I was,
free of the Club.

The change from the fog outside to
the warm room and the shining candles
so completely dazed me, that I stood
blinking at the company more like an
owl than a man. Upon which the com
pany again said, "Hear! hear!" Upon
which I returned for answer, " Hear !
hear!" — considering those words to
mean, in the Club's language, some
thing similar to " How-d'ye-do." The
landlord then took me to a round table
by the fire, where I got my supper, to
gether with the information that my

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

bedroom, when I wanted it, was number
four, up stairs.

I noticed before I fell to with my
knife and fork, that the room was full,
and that the chairman at the top of the
table was the man with the jolly voice,
and was seemingly amusing the company
by telling them a story. I paid more
attention to my supper than to what he
was saying ; and all I can now report
of it is, that his story-telling and my
eating and drinking both came to an
end together.

" Now," says the chairman, " I have
told my story to start you all. Who
comes next?" He took up a teetotum,
and gave it a spin on the table. When
it toppled over, it fell opposite me ;
upon which the chairman said, " It's
your turn next. Order ! order 1 I call
on the sea-faring man to tell the second
story !" He finished the words off with
a knock of his hammer ; and the Club
(having nothing else to say, as I sup
pose) tried back, and once again sang
out altogether, " Hear ! hear !"

" I hope you will please to let me
off," I said to the chairman, "for the
reason that I have got no story to tell."

"No story to tell !" says he. "A
sailor without a story ! Who ever heard
of such a thing ? Nobody 1"

" Nobody," says the Club, bursting
out altogether at last with a new word,
by way of a change.

I can't say I quite relished the chair
man's talking of me as if I was before
the mast. A man likes his true qua
lity to be known, when he is publicly
spoken to among a party of strangers.
I made my true quality known to the
chairman and company in these words :

" All men who follow the sea, gen
tlemen, are sailors," I said. " But
there's degrees aboard ship as well as
ashore. My rating, if you please, is
the rating of a second mate."

"Ay, ay, surely?" says the chairman.
" Where did you leave your ship ?"

" At the bottom of the sea," I made
answer — which was, I am sorry to say,
only too true.

" What 1" youVe been wrecked ?"
says he. "Tell us all about it. A
shipwreck story is just the sort of story
we like. Silence there all down the
table ! — silence for the second mate 1"

The Club, upon this, instead of keep

ing silence, broke out vehemently with
another new word, and said, " Chair!"
After which every man suddenly held
his peace, and looked at me.

I did a very foolish thing. Without
stopping to take counsel with myself, I
started off at score, and did just what
the chairman had bidden me. If they
had waited the whole night long for it,
I should never have told them the story
they wanted from me at first, having all
my life been a wretched bad hand at
such matters — for the reason, as I take
it, that a story is bound to be some
thing which is not true. But when I
found the company willing, on a sudden,
to put up with nothing better than the
account of my shipwreck (which is not
a story at all), the unexpected luck of
being let off with only telling the truth
about myself was too much of a temp
tation for me — so I up and told it.

I got on well enough with the storm,
and the striking of the vessel, and the
strange chance, afterward, which proved
to be the saving of my life — the assem
bly all listening (to my great surprise)
as if they had never heard any thing of
the sort before. But when the necessity
came next for going further tban this,
and for telling them what had happened
to me after the saving of my life — or,
to put it plainer, for telling them what
place I was cast away on, and what
company I was cast away in — the words
died straight off on my lips. For this
reason — namely — that those particulars
of my statement made up just that part
of it which I couldn't, and durstn't, let
out to strangers — no, not if every man
among them had offered me a hundred
pounds apiece, on the spot, to do it !

"Go on 1" says the chairman. " What
happened next ? How did you get ou
shore ?"

Feeling what a fool I had been to
run myself headlong into a scrape, for
want of thinking before I spoke, I now,
cast about discreetly in my mind for the
best means of finishing off-hand without
letting out a word to the company con
cerning those particulars before men
tioned. I was some little time before
seeing my way to this : keeping the
chairman and company, all the while,
waiting for an answer. The Club,
losing patience, in consequence, got
from staring hard at me, to drumming

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

with their feet, and then to calling out
lustily, " Go on 1 go on ! Chair I Or
der !" — and such like. In the midst
of this childish hubbub I saw my way
to what I considered to be rather a neat
finish — and got on my legs to ease them
all off with it handsomely.

"Hear! hear!" says the Club. —
" He's going on again at last."

" Gentlemen !" I made answer, " with
yonr permission I will now conclude by
wishing you all good-night 1" Saying
which words, I gave them a friendly
nod, to make things pleasant — and
walked straight to the door. It's
hardly to be believed — though never
theless quite true — that these curious
men all howled and groaned at me di
rectly, as if I had done them some
grievous injury. Thinking I would try
to pacify them with their own favorite
catch-word, I said, " Hear 1 hear !" as
civilly as might be, whereupon they all
returned for answer " Oh ! oh 1" I
never belonged to a Club of any kind
myself; and, after what I suw of that
Club, I don't care if I never do.

My bed-room, when I found my way
up to it, was large and airy enough, but
not over-clean. Tl.ere were two beds iu
it, not over-clean either. Both being
empty, I had my choice. One was
near the window, and one near the
door. I thought the bed near the door
looked a trifle the sweetest of the two,
and took it.

After falling asleep, it was the gray
of the morning before I woke. When
I had fairly opened my eyes and shook
up my memory into telling me where I
was, I made two discoveries. First, that
the room was a deal colder in the new
morning than it had been overnight.
Second, that the other bed near the
window had got some one sleeping in
it. Not that I could see the man from
wtere I lay ; but I heard his breathing*
plain enough. He must have come up
iuto the, room, of course, after I had
fallen asleep — and he had tumbled him
self quietly into bed without disturbing
me. There was nothing wonderful iu
that; and nothing wonderful in the
landlord letting the empty bed if he
could find a customer for it. I turned
and tried to go asleep again ; but I
vas out of sorts — ont of sorts so badly,
*iat even the breathing of the man in

the other bed fretted and worried me.
After tumbling and tossing for a quar
ter of an hour or more, I got up for a
change ; and walked softly in my
stockings to the window to look at the
morning.

The heavens were brightening into
daylight, and the mists were blowing
off, past the window, like puffs of
smoke. When I got even with the se
cond bed I stopped to look at the man
in it. He lay, sound asleep, turned to
ward the window ; and the end of the
counterpane was drawn up over the
lower half of his face. Something
struck me, on a sudden, in his hair and
his forehead ; and, though uot an in
quisitive man by nature, I stretched out
my hand to the end of the counter
pane, in spite of myself.

I uncovered his face softly ; and
there, in the morning light, I saw my
brother, Alfred Baybrock.

What I ought to have done, or what
other men might have done in my
place, I don't know. What I really
did, was to drop back a step — to steady
myself, with my hand, on the sill of the
window-— and to stand so, looking at
him. Three years ago I had said
good-by to my wife, to my little child,
to my old mother, and to brother Al
fred here, asleep under my eyes. For
all those three years no news from me
had reached them — and the underwrit
ers, as I knew, mu^t have long since
reported that the ship I sailed in was
lost, and that all hands on board had
perished. My heart was heavy when I
thought of my kindred at home, and
of the weary time they must have wait
ed and sorrowed before they gave me
up for dead. Twice I reached out my
hand to wake Alfred, and to ask him
about my wife and my child ; and twice
I drew it back again, in fear of what
might happen if he saw me, standing
by his bed-head in the gray morning,
like Hugh Raybrock risen up from the
grave.

I drew my hand back the second
time, and waited a minute. In that
minute he woke. I had not moved, or
spoken a word, or touched him — I had
only looked at him longingly. If such
things could be, I should say it
was my looking that woke him. Hia
eyes, when they opened nnder mine,

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

passed on a sudden from fast asleep to
broad awake. They first settled on my
face with a startled look — which passed
directly. He lifted himself on his el
bow, and opened his lips to speak, but
never said a word. His eyes strained
and strained into mine ; and his face
turned all over of a ghastly white.
"Alfred!" I said, "don't you know
me ?" There seemed to be a deadly
terror pent up in him, and I thought
my voice might set it free. I took fast
hold of him by the hands, and spoke
again. "Alfred!" I said —

Oh, sirs, where can a man like me
find words to tell all that was said and
all that was thought between us two
brothers ? Please to pardon my not
saying more of it than I say here. We
sat down together side by side. The
poor lad burst out crying — and got
vent that way. I kept my hold of his
hands, and waited a bit before I spoke
to him again. I think I was worst off
now of the two — no tears came to help
me — I haven't got my brother's quick
ness any way ; and my troubles have
roughened and hardened me outside.
But, God knows, I felt it keenly ; all
the more keenly, maybe, because I was
slow to show it.

After a little, I put the questions to
him which I had been longing to ask
from the time when I first saw his face
on the pillow. Had they all given me
up at home for dead (I asked) ? Yes ;
after long, long hoping, one by one
they had given me up — my wife (God
bless her!) last of all. I meant to ask
next if my wife was alive and well ; but,
try as I might, I could only say " Mar
garet ?" — and look hard in my brother's
face. He knew what I meant. Yes (he
said) she was living ; she was at home ;
she was in her widow's weeds — poor
soul ; her widow's weeds ! I got on
better with my next question about the
child. Was it born alive ? Yes. Boy or
girl ? Girl. And living now ; and much
grown? Living, surely, and grown —
poor little thing, what a question to
ask I — grown of course, in three years !
And mother ! Well, mother was a trifle
fallen away, and more silent within her
self than she used to be — fretting at
times ; fretting (like my wife) on nights
when the sea rose, and the windows
shook and shivered in the wind. There

upon my brother and I waited a bit
again — I with my questions, and he
with his answers — and while we waited,
I thanked God, inwardly, with all my
heart and soul, for bringing me back,
living, to wife and kindred, while wife
and kindred were living too.

My brother dried the tears off his
j and looked at me a little. Then
he turned aside suddenly, as if he re
membered something, and stole his
hand in a hurry under the pillow of his
bed. Nothing came out from below
the pillow but his black neck-handker
chief, which he now unfolded slowly,
looking at me all the while with some
thing strange in his face that I couldn't
make out.

"What are you doing?" I asked
him. " What are you looking at me
like that for ?"

Instead of making answer he took a
crumpled morsel of paper out of his
neck-handkerchief, opened it carefully,
and held it to the light to let me see
what it was. Lord in heaven ! — my
own writing — the morsel of paper I
had committed, long, long since, to the
mercy of the deep. Thousands and
thousands of miles away I had trusted
that Message to the waters — and here
it was now, in my brother's hands !
A chilly fear came over me at the see
ing it again. Scrap of paper as it
was, it looked to my eyes like the ghost
of my own past self, gone home before
me invisibly over the great wastes of
the sea.

My brother pointed down solemnly
to the writing.

" Hugh," he said, " were you in
your right mind when you wrote those
words ?"

" Tell me, first," I made answer,
" how and when the Message came to
you. I can't quiet myself fit to talk
till I know that."

He told me how the paper had come
to hand — also how his good friend, the
captain, having promised to help him,
was then under the same roof with our
two selves. But there he stopped. It
was not till later in the day that I
heard of what had happened (through
this dreadful doubt about the money)
in the matter of his sweet-heart and
his marriage.

The knowledge that the Message

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

had readied him by mortal means — on
the word of a seaman, I half doubted
it when I first set eyes oa the paper !•
eased me in my mind; and I now did
my best to quiet Alfred, in my turn.
I told him that I was in my right
senses, though sorely troubled, when
my hand had written those words.
Also, that where the writing was
rubbed out, I could tell him, for his
necessary guidance and mine, what
once stood in the empty places. Also,
that I knew no more what the real
truth might be than he did, till inquiry
was made, and the slander on father's
good name was dragged boldly into
daylight to show itself for what it was
worth. Lastly, that all the voyage
home there was one hope and one de
termination uppermost in my mind —
the hope that I might get safe to Eng
land, and find my wife and kindred
alive to take me back among them
again — the determination that I would
put the doubt about father's five hun
dred pound to the proof, if ever my feet
touched English land once more.

" Come out with me now, Alfred," I
said, after winding up as above, " and
let me tell you in the quiet of the
morning how that Message came to be
written and committed to the sea."

We went down stairs softly, and let
ourselves out without disturbing any
one. The sun was just rising when we
left the village and took our way slowly
over the cliffs. As soon as the sea be
gan to open on us I returned to that
true story of mine which I had left but
half told the night before — and this
time I went through with it to the end.

I shipped, as you may remember
(were my first words to Alfred), in a
second mate's berth, on board the Pe
ruvian, nine hundred tons' burden.
We carried an assorted cargo, and we
were bound, round the Horn, to Trux-
illo and Guayaquil, on the western
coast of South America. From this
last port — namely, Guayaquil — we were
to go back to Truxillo, and there to
take in another cargo for the return
voyage. Those were all the instruc
tions communicated to me when I
signed articles with the owners, in Lon
don city, three years ago.

After we had been, I think, a week

at sea, I heard from the first mate —
who had himself heard it from the cap
tain — that the supercargo we were tak
ing with us, on the outward voyage,
was to be left at Truxillo, and that an
other supercargo (also connected with
our firm, and latterly employed by them
as their foreign agent) was to ship with
us at that port for the*voyage home.
His name on the captain's instructions
was, Mr. Lawrence Clissold. None
of us had ever set eyes on him to our
knowledge, and none of us knew more
about him than what I have told you
here.

We had a wonderful voyage out —
especially round the Horn. I never
before saw such fair weather in that in
fernal latitude, and I never expect to
see the like again. We followed our
instructions to the letter ; discharging
our cargo in fine condition, and return
ing to Truxillo to load again as di
rected. At. this place I was so unfor
tunate as to be seized with the fever of
the country, which laid me on my back,
while we were in harbor ; and which
only let me return to my duty after we
had been ten days at sea, on the voyage
home again. For this reason, the first
morning when I was able to get on
deck was also the first time of my set
ting eyes on our new supercargo, Mr.
Lawrence Clissold.

I found him to be a long, lean, wiry
man, with some complaint in his eyes
which forced him to wear spectacles of
blue glass. His age appeared to be
fifty-six, or thereabouts ; but he might
well have been more. There was not
above a handful of gray hair, alto
gether, on his bald head — and, as for
the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes
and the sides of his mouth, if he could
have had a pound apiece in his pocket
for every o,ne of them, he might have
retired from business from that time
forth. Judging by certain signs in his
face, and by a suspicious morning-trem
ble in his hands, I set him down, in my
own mind (rightly enough, as it after
wards turned out), for a drinker. In
one word, I didn't like the looks of the
new supercargo — and, on the first day
when I got on deck, I found that he
had reasons of his own for paying me
back in my owu coin, and not liking
my looks, either.

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

" I've been asking the captain about
you/' were his first words to me in re
turn for my civilly wishing him good
morning. " Your name's Raybrock, I
hear. Are you any relation, to the late
Hugh Raybrock, of Barnstaple, Devon
shire ?"

"Rather a near relation," I made
answer. " I a^n the late Hugh Ray-
brock's eldest son."

There was no telling how his eyes
looked, because they were hidden by
his blue spectacles — but I saw him
wince at the mouth when I gave him
that reply.

" Your father ended by failing in
business, didn't he ?" was the next ques
tion the supercargo put to me.

" Who told you he failed ?» I asked,
sharply enough.

"Oh! I heard it," says Mr. Law
rence Clissold, both looking and speak
ing aft if he was glad to have heard it,
and he hoped it was true.

"Whoever told you my father failed
in business told you a lie," I said.
"His business fell off toward the last
years of his life — I don't deny it. But
every creditor he had was honestly paid
at his death, without so much as touch
ing the provision left for his widow and
children. Please to mention that next
time you hear it reported that my father
failed in business."

Mr. Clissold grinned to himself — and
I lost my temper,

" I'll tell you what," I said to him,
" I don't like your laughing to yourself
when I ask you to do justice to my
father's memory — and, what is more, I
didn't like the way you mentioned that
report of his failing in business, just
now. You looked as if you hoped it
was true."

"Perhaps I did," says Mr. Clissold,
coolly. "Shall I tell you why ? When
I was a young man I was unlucky
enough to owe your father some money.
He was a merciless creditor ; and he
threatened me with a prison if the debt
remained unpaid on the day when it was
due. I have never forgotten that cir
cumstance ; and I should certainly not
have been sorry if your father's creditors
had given him a lesson in forbearance,
by treating him as harshly as he once
treated me."

"My father had a right to ask for

his own," I broke out. " If you owed
him the money and didn't pay it — "

" I never told you I didn't pay it,"
says Mr. Clissold, as coolly as ever.

" Well, if you did pay it," I put in,
"then, you didn't go to prison — and
you have no cause of complaint now.
My father wronged nobody ; and I
won't believe he ever wronged you,
He was a just man in all his dealings ;
and whoever tells me to the contrary — !"

"That will do," says Mr. Glissold,
backing away to the cabin stairs.
"You seem to have not quite got over
your fever yet. I'll leave you to air
yourself in the sea-breeze, Mr. Second
Mate ; and I'll receive your excuses
when you are cool enough to make
them."

" It is a son's business to defend his
father's character," I answered ; " and,
cool or hot, I'll leave the ship sooner
than ask your pardon for doing my
duty 1"

" You will leave the ship," says the
supercargo, quietly going down into
the cabin. "You will leave at the
next port, if I have any interest »with
the captain."

That was how Mr. Clissold and I
scraped acquaintance on the first day
when we met together I And as we
began, so we went on to the end. But
though he persecuted me in almost
every other way, he did not anger me
again about father's affairs : he seemed
to have dropped talking of them at once
and forever. On my side I nevertheless
bore in mind what he had said to me,
and determined, if I got home safe, to
go to the lawyer at Barnstaple who
keeps father's old books and letters for
us, and see what information they might
give on the subject of Mr. Lawrence
Clissold. I, myself, had never heard
his name mentioned at home — father
(as you know, Alfred) being always
close about business-matters, and mother
never troubling him with idle questions
about his affairs. But it was likely
enough that he and Mr. Clissold might
have been concerned in money-matters,
in past years, and that Mr. Clissold
might have tried to cheat him, and
failed. I rather hoped it might prove to
be so — for the truth is, the supercargo
provoked me past all endurance, and I
hated him as heartily as he hated me.

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

All this while the ship was making
such a speedy voyage down the coast
that we began to think we were carry
ing back with us the fine weather we
had brought out. But on nearing Cape
Horn the signs and tokens appeared
which told us that our run of luck was
at an end. Down went the barometer,
lower and lower ; and up got the wind,
in the northerly quarter, higher and
higher. This happened toward night
fall — and at daybreak next day we
found ourselves forced to lay to. It
blew all that day and all that night ;
toward noon the next day it lulled a
little, and we made sail again. But at
sunset the heavens grew blacker than
ever, and the wind returned upon us
with double and treble fury. The Pe
ruvian was a fine, stout, roomy ship,
but the unhandiest vessel at laying-to I
ever sailed in. After taking tons of
water on board and losing our best
boat, we had nothing left for it but to
turn tail and scud for our lives. For
the next three days and nights we ran
before the wind. The gale moderated
more than once in that time, but there
was such a sea on that we durstn't heave
the ship to. From the beginning of
the gale none of us officers had a chance
of taking any observations. We only
knew that the wind was driving us as
hard as we could go in a southerly
direction, and that we were by this time
hundreds of miles out of the ordinary
course of ships in doubling the Cape.

On the third night — or rather, I
should say, early on the fourth morn
ing — I went below, dead beat, to get a
little rest, leaving the vessel in charge
of the captain and the first mate. The
night was then pitch-black — it was
raining, hailing, and sleeting, all at
once — and the Peruvian was wallowing
in the frightful seas, as if she meant to
roll the masts out of her. I tumbled
into bed the instant my wet oil-skins
were pff my back, and slept as only a
man can who lays himself down dead
beat.

I was woke — how long afterward I
don't know — by being pitched clean out
of my berth on to the cabin floor : and,
at the same moment I heard the crash
of the ship's timbers, forward, which
told me it was all over with us.

Though bruised and shaken by my

fall I was on deck directly. Before I
had taken two steps forward the Peru
vian forged ahead on the send of the
sea, swung round a little, and struck
heavily at the bows for the second time.
The shrouds of the foremast cracked
one after another, like pistol-shots, and
the mast went overboard. I next felt
our people go tearing past me, in the
black 'darkness, to the lee-side of the
vessel ; and I knew that in their last
extremity they were taking to the boats.
I say I felt them go past me, because
the roaring of the sea and the howling
of the wind deafened me, on deck, as
completely as the darkness blinded me.
I myself no more believed the boats
would live in the sea than I believed
the ship would hold together on the
reef — but as the rest were running the
risk, I made up my mind to run it with
them.

But before I followed the crew to
leeward I went below again .for a
minute — not to save money 'or clothes,
for, with death staring me in the face,
neither were of any account now — but
to get my little writing-case which
mother had given me at parting. A
curl of Margaret's hair was in the pocket
inside it, with all the letters she had
sent me when I had been away on other
voyages. If I saved 'any thing I was
resolved to save this — and if I died, I
would die with it about me.

My locker was jammed with the
wrenching of the ship, and had to be
broken open. I was, maybe, longer
over this job than I myself supposed.
At any rate, when I got on deck again
with my case in my breast, it was use
less calling, and useless groping about.
The largest of the two boats, when I
felt for it, was gone ; and every soul on
board was beyond a doubt gone with
her.

Before I had time to think I was
thrown off my feet by another sea
coming on board, and a great heave of
the vessel which drove her further over
the reef, and canted the after-part of
her up like the roof of a house. In
that position the stern stuck, wedged
fast into the rocks beneath, while the
fore-part of the ship was all to pieces
and down under water If the after-
part kept the place it was uovv jammed
in till daylight there might be a chance,

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

but if the sea wrenched it out from be
tween the rocks there was an end of me.
After straining iny eyes to discover if
there was land beyond the reef, and see
ing nothing but the flash of the breakers,
like white fire in the darkness, I crawled
below again to the shelter of the cabin
stairs and waited for death or day
light.

As the morning hours wore on the
weather moderated again, and the after-
part of the vessel, though shaken often,
was not shaken out of its place. A
little before dawn the winds and the
waves, though fierce enough still, al
lowed me at last to hear something be
sides themselves. What I did hear,
crouched up in my dark corner, was a
heavy thumping and grinding, every
now and then, against the side of the
ship to windward. Day broke soon
afterward, and when I climbed to the
deck I clawed my way up to windward
first to see what the noise was caused
by.

My first look over the bulwark showed
me that it was caused by the boat which
my unfortunate brother officers and the
crew had launched and gone away in
when the ship struck. The boat was
bottom upward, thumping against the
ship's side on the lift of the sea. I
wanted no second look at it to tell me
that every mother's son of them was
drowned.

The main arid mizen masts still
stood. I got into the mizen rigging
to look out next to leeward — and there,
in the blessed daylight, I saw a low,
green, rocky little island, lying away
beyond the reef, barely a mile distant
from the ship 1 My life began to look
of some small value to me again when I
saw land. I got higher up in the rig
ging to note how the current set, and
where there might be a passage through
the reef. The ship had driven over the
rocks through the worst of the surf, and
the sea between myself and the island,
though angry and broken in places, was
not too high for a lost man like me to
venture on — provided I could launch
the last and smallest boat still left in
the vessel. I noted carefully the like
liest-looking channel for trying the
experiment, and then got down on deck
again to see what I could do, first of
all, with the boat.

At the moment when my feet touched
the deck I heard a dull knocking and
banging just under them, in the region
of the cabin. When the sound first
reached my ears I got such a shock of
surprise that I could neither move or
speak. It had never yet crossed my
mind that a single soul was left in the
vessel besides myself — but now, there
was something in the knocking noise
which started the hope in me that I
was not alone. I shook myself up, and
got down below directly.

The noise came from inside one of
the sleeping berths, on the far side of
the main cabin ; the door of which was
jammed, no doubt, just as my locker
had been jammed, by the wrenching of
the ship. "Who's there?" 1 called
out. A faint muffled kind of voice
answered something through the air-
grating in the upper part of the door.
I got up on the overthrown cabin fur
niture ; and, looking in through the
trellis-work of the grating, found myself
face to face with the blue spectacles of
Mr. Lawrence Clissold, looking out !

God forgive me for thinking it — but
there was not a man in the vessel I
wouldn't sooner have found alive in her
than Mr. Clissold I Of all that ship's
company, we two, who were least friendly
together, were the only two saved.

I had a better chance of breaking out
the jammed door from the main cabin
than he had from the berth inside ; and
in less than five minutes he was set free.
I had smelled spirits already through
the air-grating — and now, when he and
I stood face to face, I saw what the
smell meant. There was an open case
of spirits by the bedside — two of the
bottles out of it were lying broken on
the floor — and Mr. -Ciissold was drunk.

"What's the matter with the ship ?"
says he, looking fierce, and speaking
thick.

"You shall see for yourself," says
I. With which words I took hold of
him, and pulled him after me up the
cabin stairs. I reckoned on the sight
that would meet him, when he first
looked over the deck, to sober his
drunken brains — and I reckoned right :
he fell on his knees, stock still and
speechless as if he was turned to stone.

I lashed him np safe to the cabin rail,
and left it to the air to bring him round.

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

He had, likely enough, been drinking in
the sleeping berth for days together —
for none of us, as I now remembered,
had seen him since the gale set in — and
even if he had had sense enough to try
to get out, or to call for help, when the
ship struck, he would not have made
himself heard in the noise and confusion
of that awful time. But for the lull in
the weather I should not have heard
him myself when he attempted to get
free in the morning. Enemy of mine
as he was, he had a pair of arms — and
he was worth untold gold, in my situa
tion, for that reason. With the help I
could make him give me, there was no
doubt .now about launching the boat.
In half an hour I had the means ready
for trying the experiment ; and Mr.
Clissold was sober enough to see that
his life depended on his doing what I
told him.

The sky looked angry still — there
was no opening anywhere — and the
clouds were slowly banking up again to
windward. The supercargo knew what
I meant when I pointed that way, and
worked with a will when I gave him the
word. I had previously stowed away in
the boat such stores of meat, biscuit,
and fresh water as I could readily lay
hands on ; together with a compass, a
lantern, a few candles, and some boxes
of matches in my pocket, to kindle light
and fire with. At the last moment I
thought of a gun and some powder and
shot. The powder and shot I found,
and an old flint pocket-pistol in the cap
tain's cabin — with which, for fear of
wasting precious time, I was forced to
be content. The pistol lay on the top
of the medicine-chest — and I took that
also, finding it handy, and not knowing
but what it might be of use. Having
made these preparations, we launched
the boat, down the steep of the deck,
into the water over the forward part of
the ship which was sunk. I took the
oars, ordering Mr. Clissold to sit still in
the stern-sheets, and pulled for the
island.

It was neck or nothing with us more
than once, before we were two hundred
jrards from the ship. Luckily the su
percargo was used to boats ; and mud
dled as he still was, he had sense enough
to sit quiet. We found our way into
the smooth channel which I had noted

from the mizzen-rigging — after which, it
was easy enough to get ashore.

We landed on a little sandy creek.
From the time of our leaving the ship
the supercargo had not spoken a word
to me, nor I to him. I now told him
to lend a hand in getting the stores out
of the boat, and in helping me to carry
them to the first sheltered place we
could find in shore on the island. He
shook himself up with a sulky look at
me, and did as I had bidden him. We
found a little dip or dell in the ground,
after gettiug up the low sides of the
island, which was sheltered to windward
— and here I left him to stow away the
stores while I walked further on to sur
vey the place.

According to the hasty judgment I
formed at the time, the island was not a
mile across, and not much more than three
miles round I noted nothing in the way
of food but a fe<V wild roots and vegeta
bles, growing in ragged patches amidst
the thick scrub which covered the place.
There was not a tree on it anywhere ;
nor any living creatures ; nor any signs
of fresh water that I could see. Stand
ing on the highest ground, I looked
about anxiously for other islands that
might be inhabited ; there were none
visible — at least none in the hazy state
of the heavens that morning. When I
fairly discovered what a desert the
place was ; when I remembered how
far it lay out of the track of ships ; and
when I thought of the small store of
provisions which we had brought with
us, the doubt lest we might only have
changed the chance of death by drown
ing for the chance of death by starva
tion was so strong in me that I deter
mined to go back to the boat, with the
desperate notion of making another trip
to the vessel for water and food. I say
desperate, because the clouds to wind
ward were banking up blacker and higher
every minute. The wind was freshen
ing already, and there was every sign of
the storm coming on again wilder and
fiercer than ever.

Mr. Clissold, when I passed him on
my way back to the beach, had got the
stores pretty tidy, covered with the tar
paulin which I had thrown over them in
the bottom of the boat. Just as I
looked down at him in the hollow, I
saw him take a bottle of spirits out of

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

the pocket of his pilot-coat. He must
have stowed the bottle away there, as I
suppose, while I was breaking open the
door of his berth. "You'll be drowned,
and I shall have double allowance to
live upon here," was all he said to me
when he heard I was going back to the
ship. " Yes ! and die, in your turn,
when you've got through it," says I,
going away to the boat. Its shocking to
think of now — but we couldn't be civil
to each other, even on the first day
when we were wrecked together !

Having previously stripped to my
trowsers, in case of accident, I now
pulled out. On getting from the chan
nel into the broken water again, I looked
over my shoulder to windward, and saw
that I was too late. It was coming ! —
the ship was hidden already in the hor
rible haze of it. I got the boat's head
round to pull back — and I did pull back,
just inside the opening in the reef which
made the mouth of the channel — when
the storm came down on me like death
and judgment. The boat filled in an
instant, and I was tossed head over
heels into the water. The sea, which
burst into raging surf upon the rock on
either side, rushed in one great roller
np the deep channel between them, and
took me with it. If the under-tow after
ward had lasted for half a minute, I
should have been carried into the white
water and lost. But a second roller
followed the first, almost on the instant,
and swept me right up on the beach. I
had just strength enough to dig my
arms and legs well into the wet sand ;
and though I was taken back with the
backward shift of it, I was not taken
into deep water again. Before the
third roller came I was out of its reach,
and was down in a sort of swoon on
the dry sand.

When I got back to the hollow, in
shore, where I had left my clothes un
der shelter with the stores, I found
Mr. Clissold snugly crouched up, in
the dryest place, with the tarpaulin to
cover him. " Oh !" says he, in a state of
great surprise, " you're not drowned ?"
" No," says I ; " you won't get your
double allowance after all." " How
much shall I get ?" says he, rousing up
and looking anxious. "Your fair half
share of what is here," I answered him.
"And how long will that last me?"

says he. " The food, if you have sense
enough to eke it out with what you
may find in this miserable place, barely
three weeks," says I; "and the water
(if you ever drink any) about a fort
night." At hearing that, he took the
bottle out of his pocket again, and put
it to his lips. " I'm cold to the bones,"
says I, frowning at him for a drop.
" And I'm warm to the marrow," says
he, chuckling, and handing me the bot
tle empty. I pitched it away at once
— or the temptation to break it over
his head might have been too much for
me — I pitched it away, and looked into
the medicine-chest to see if there was a
drop of peppermint, or any thing com
forting of that sort, inside. Only three
physic bottles were left in it, all three
being neatly tied over with oil-skin.
One of them held a strong white liquor,
smelling like hartshorn. The other
two were filled with stuff in powder,
having the names in printed gibberish
pasted outside. On looking a little
closer, I found, under some broken di
visions of the chest, a small flask
covered with wicker-work. " Ginger-
Brandy" was written with pen and ink
on the wicker-work, and the flask was
full 1 I think that blessed discovery
saved me from shivering myself to
pieces. After a pull at the flask which
made a new man of me, I put it away
in my inside breast-pocket ; Mr. Clis
sold watching me with greedy eyes, but
saying nothing.

All this while the rain was rushing,
the wind roaring, and the sea crashing,
as if Noah's Flood had come again.
I sat close against the supercargo, be
cause he was in the dryest place, and
pulled my fair share of the tarpaulin
away from him, whether he liked it or
not. He by no means liked it ; being
in that sort of half-drunken, half-sober
state (after finishing his bottle), in
which a man's temper is most easily up
set by trifles. The upset of his temper
showed itself in the way of small ag
gravations — of which I took no notice,
till he suddenly bethought himself of
angering me by going back -again to
that dispute about father, which had
bred ill-blood between us on the day
when we first saw each other. If he
had been a younger man, I am afraid I
should have stopped him by a punch

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

on the head. As it was, considering
his age and the shame of this quarrel
ing betwixt us when we were both cast
away together, I o.nly warned him that
I might punch his head if he went^n.
It did just as well — and I'm glad now
to think that it did.

We were huddled so close together
that when he coiled himself up to sleep
(with a growl), and when he did go to
sleep (with a grunt), he growled and
grunted into my ear. His rest, like
the rest of all the regular drunkards I
have ever met with, was broken. He
ground his teeth, and talked in his
sleep. Among the words he mumbled
to himself I heard, as plain as could be,
father's name. This vexed, but did
not surprise me, seeing that he had
been talking of father before he
dropped off. But when I made out
next, among his rautterings and mum
blings, the words " five hundred
pound," spoken over and over again,
with father's name, now before, now
after, now mixed in along with them, I
got curious, and listened for more. My
listening (and serve me right, you will
say) came to nothing : he certainly
talked on, bat I couldn't make out a
word more that he said.

When he woke up, I told him plainly
he had been talking in his sleep — and
mightily taken aback he looked when
he first heard it. " What about ?" says
he. I made answer, " My father, and
five hundred, pound ; and how do you
come to couple them together, I should
like to know ?" " I couldn't have cou
pled them," says he, in a great hurry ;
" what do I know about it ? I don't
believe a man like your father ever had
such a sum of money as that in all his
life." "Don't you?" says I, feeling
the aggravation of him, in spite of my
self ; " I can just tell you my father had
such a sum when he was no older a man
than 1 am — and saved it — and left it
for a provision, in his will, to my
mother,' who has got it now — and, I
say again, how came a stranger like
you to be talking of it in your sleep ?"
At hearing this, he went about on the
other tack directly. "Was that all
your father left after his debts were
paid ?" says he. "Are you very curi
ous to know ?" says I. He took no
aotice — he only persisted with his ques

tion. " Was it just five hundred pound,
no more and no less ?" says he. " Sup
pose it was," says I ; " what then ?''
" Oh nothing !" says he, and turns
sharp round from me and chuckles to
himself. "You're drunk!" says I.
"Yes," says he; "that's it — stick to
that — I'm drunk" — and he chuckles
again. Try as I might, and threaten
as I might, not another word on the
matter of the five hundred pound could
I get from him. I bore it well in
mind, though, for all that — it being one
of my slow ways not easily to forget
any thing that has once surprised me,
and not to give up returning to it over
and over again as time and occasion
may serve for the purpose.

The hours wore on, and the storm
raged on. We had our half rations of
food when hunger took us (I being much
the hungrier of the two); and slept, and
grumbled, and quarreled the weary time
out somehow. Toward dusk the wind
lessened, and when I got up out of the
hollow to look out there was a faint
watery break in the western heavens.
At times, through the watches of the
long night, the stars showed in patches
for a little while through the rents that
opened and closed by fits in the black
sky. When I fell asleep toward the
dawning the wind had fallen to a moan,
though the sea, slower to go down,
sounded as loud as ever. Prom what
I could make of the weather, the storm
had by that time as good as blown it
self out.

I had been wise enough (knowing
who was near me) to lay myself down,
whenever I slept, on the side of me
which was next to the flask of ginger-
brandy stowed away in my breast
pocket. When I woke at sunrise it was
the supercargo's hand that roused me
up, trying to steal my flask while 1 was
asleep. I rolled him over headlong
among the stores — out of which I had
the humanity to pull him again with my
own hands.

" I'll tell you what," says I, " if ns
two keep company any longer we shan't
get on smoothly together. You're the
oldest man ; and you stop here, where
we know there is shelter. We will di
vide the stores fairly, and I'll go and
shift for myself at the other end of the
island. Do you agree to that ?"

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

" Yes," says he ; " and the sooner the
better."

I left him for a minute, and went
away to look out on the reef that had
wrecked us. The splinters of the Pe
ruvian, scattered broadcast over the
beach, or tossing up and down darkly,
far out in the white surf, were all that
remained to tell of the ship. I don't
deny that my heart sank when I looked
at the place where she struck, and saw
nothing before me but sea and sky.

But what was the use of standing
and looking ? It was a deal better to
rouse myself by doing something. I
returned to Mr. Clissold — and then and
there divided the stores into two equal
parts, including every thing down to
the matches in my pocket. Of these
parts I gave him first choice. I also
left him the whole of the tarpaulin to
himself, keeping in my own possession
the medicine-chest and the pistol; which
last I loaded with powder and shot, in
case any sea-birds might fly within
reach. When the division was made,
and when I had moved my part out of
his way and out of his sight, I thought
it uncivil to bear malice any longer now,
that we had agreed to separate. We
were cast away on a desert island, and
we had death, as well as I could see,
within about three weeks' hail of us ;
but that was no reason for not making
things reasonably pleasant as long as
we could. I was some time (in conse
quence of my natural slowness where
matters of sea-faring duty don't happen
to be concerned) before I came to this
conclusion. When I did come to it, I
acted on it.

" Shake hands before parting," I said,
suiting the action to the word.

" No !" says he ; "I don't like you."

" Please yourself," says I; and so we
parted.

Turning my back on the west, which
was his territory according to agree
ment, I walked away toward the south
east, where the sides of the island rose
highest. Here I found a sort of half
rift, half cavern, in the rocky banks,
which looked as likely a place as any
other ; and to this refuge I moved my
share of the stores. I thatched it over
as well as I could with scrub, and
heaped up some loose stones at the
mouth of it. At home in England I

should have been ashamed to put my
dog in such a place ; but when a man
believes his days to be numbered he is
not over-particular about his lodgings,
ami 1 was not over-particular about
mine.

When my work was done the heavens
were fair, the sun was shining, and it
was long past noon. I went up again
to the high ground, to see what I could
make out in the new clearness of the
air. North, east, and west there was
nothing but sea and sky ; but south I
now saw land. It was high, and looked
to be a matter of seven or eight miles
off. Island or not, it must have been
of a good size for me to see it as I did.
Known or not known to manners, it was
certainly big enough to have living
creatures on it — animals or men, or
both. If I had not lost the boat in my
second attempt to reach the vessel we
might have easily got to it. But situ
ated as we were now, with no wood to
make a boat of but the scattered splint
ers from the ship, and with no tools to
use even that much, there might just as
well have been no land in sight at all,
so far as we were concerned. The poor
hope of a ship coming our road was
still the only hope left. To give us all
the little chance we might get that way,
I now looked about on the beach for the
longest morsel of a wrecked spar that I
could find, planted it on the high ground,
and rigged up to it the one shirt I had
on my back for a signal. .While coming
and going on this job, I noted with
great joy that rain water enough lay in
the hollows of the rocks above the sea-
line to save our small store of fresh
water for a week at least. Thinking it
only fair to the supercargo to let him
know what I had found out, I went to
his territories, after setting up the mor
sel of a spar, and discreetly shouted my
news down to him without showing my
self. " Keep to your own side 1" was
all the thanks I got for this piece of
civility. I went back to my own side
immediately, and crawled into my little
cavern, quite content to be alone. On
that first night, strange as it seems now,
I once or twice nearly caught myself
feeling happy at the thought of being
rid of Mr. Lawrence Clissold.

According to my calculations — which
were made by tying a fresh knot every

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

morning in a piece of marline — we two
men were just a week, each on his own
side of the island, without seeing or
communicating, any how, with one an
other. The first half of the week I
had enough to do with cudgeling my
brains for a means of helping ourselves
to keep my mind steady.

I thought first of picking up all the
longest bits of spars that had been cast
ashore, lashing them together with
ropes twisted out of the long grass on
the island, and trusting to raft-naviga
tion to get to that high land away in
the south. But when I looked among
the spars, there were not half a dozen
of them left whole enough for the pur
pose. And even if there had been
more, the short allowance of food would
not have given me time sufficient, or
strength sufficient, to gather the grass,
to twist it into ropes, and to lash a raft
together big enough and strong enough
for us two men. There was nothing to
be done but to give up this notion — and
I gave it up. The next chance I
thought of was to keep a fire burning
on the shore every night, with the wood
of the wreck, in case vessels at sea
might notice it on one side — or the
people of the high land in the south,
(if the distance was not too great)
might notice it on the other. There
was sense in this notion, and it could
be turned to account the moment the
wood was dry enough to burn. The
wood got dry enough before the week
was out. Whether it was the end of
the stormy season in those latitudes, or
whether it was only the shifting of the
wind to the west, I don't know — but
now, day after day, the heavens were
clear, and the sun shone scorching hot.
The scrub on the island (which was of
no great account) dried up — but the
fresh water in the hollows of the rocks
(which was on the other hand, a serious
business) dried up too. Troubles
seldom come alone ; and on the day
when I made this discovery I also found
out that I had calculated wrong about
the food. Eke it out as I might, with
scurvy grass and roots, there would not
be above eight days more of it left when
the first week was past — and as for the
fresh water, half a pint a day, unless
more rain fell, would leave me at the

end of my store, as nearly as I could
guess, about the same time.

This was a bad look-out — but I
don't think the prospect of it upset me
in my mind so much as the having
nothing to do. Except for the gather
ing of the wood, and the lighting of the
signal-fire every night, I had no work
at all toward the end of the week to
keep me steady. I checked myself in
thinking much about home, for fear of
losing heart, and not holding out to the
last, as became a man. For the same
reasons I likewise kept my nriud from
raising hopes of help in me which were
not likely to come true. What else
was there to think about ? Nothing
but the man on the other side of the
island — and be hanged to him I

I thought about those words I heard
him say in his sleep ; I thought about
how he was getting on by himself; how
he liked nothing but water to drink,
and little enough of that ; how he was
ekeing out his food ; whether he slept
much or not ; whether he saw the smoke
of my fire at night or not ; whether he
held up better or worse than I did ;
whether he would be glad to see me if
I went to him to make it up ; whether
he or I would die first ; whether if it
was me, he would do for me what I
would have done for him — namely, bury
him, with the last strength I had left.
All these things, and lots more, kept
coming and going in my mind, till I
could stand it no longer. On the
morning of the eight day I roused up
to go to his territories, feeling it would
do me good to see him and hear him,
even if we quarreled again the instant
we set eyes on each other.

I climbed up to the grassy ground —
and, when I got there, what should I
see but the supercargo himself coming
to my territories, and wandering up and
down in the scrub through not knowing
where to find them I

It almost knocked me over, when we
met, the man was changed so. He
looked eighty years old ; the little flesh
he had on his miserable face hung
baggy ; his blue spectacles had dropped
down on his nose, and his eyes showed
over them wild and red-rimmed ; his
lips were black ; his legs staggered
under him. He came up to me with

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

his eyes all of a glare, and put both his
hands on my breast, just over the pocket
in which I kept that flask of ginger-
brandy which he had tried to steal from
me.

•' Have you got any of it left ?" says
he, in a whisper.

" About two mouthfuls," says I.

" Give us one of them, for God's
sake," says he.

Giving him one of those mouthfuls
was just about equal to giving him a
day of my life. In the case of a man I
liked, I would not have thought twice
about giving it. In the case of Mr.
Clissold I did think twice. I would
have been a better Christian if I could —
but just then I couldn't.

He thought I was going to say No.
His eyes got cunning directly. He
reached his hands to my shoulders, and
whispered these words in my ear :

" I'll tell you what I know about the
five hundred pound if you'll give me a
drop."

I determined to give it to him, and
pulled out the flask. I took his hand,
and poured the drop into the hollow of
it, and held it for a moment.

"Tell me first, " I said, "and drink
afterward."

He looked all round him, as .if he
thought there were people on the island
to hear us. "Hush!" he said; "let's
whisper about it." The next question
and answer that passed between us was
louder than before on my side, and
softer than ever on his. This was the
question :

" What do you know about the five
hundred pound ?"

And this was the answer :

" It's Stolen Money /"

My hand dropped away from his as
if he had shot me. He instantly
fastened on the drop of liquor in the
hollow of his hand, like a hungry wild
beast on a bone, and then looked up for
more. Something in my face (God
knows what) seemed suddenly to
frighten him out of his life. Before I
could stir a step, or get a word out,
down he dropped on his knees, whining
and whimpering in the high grass at
my feet.

" Don't kill me !" says he ; " I'm dy
ing — I'll think of my poor soul. I'll
repent while there's time — " *

Beginning in that way, he maun
dered awfully, groveling down in the
grass ; asking me every other minute
for " a drop more, and a drop more ;"
and talking as if he thought we were
both in England. Out of his wander
ings, his beseechings for another drop,
and his miserable beggar's-petitions for
his "poor soul," I gathered together
these words — the same which I wrote
down on the morsel of paper, and of
which nine parts out of ten are now
rubbed off!

The first I made out — though not
the first he said — was that some one,
whom he spoke of as "the old man'"
was alive ; and " Lanrean" was the
place he lived in. I was to go there,
and ask, among the old men, for " Tre-
garthen — "

(At the mention by me of the name
of Tregarthen, my brother, to my great
surprise, stopped me with a start ;
made me say the name over more than
once ; and then, for the first time, told
me of the trouble about his sweet-heart
and his marriage. We waited a little
to talk that matter over, after which I
went on again with my story, in these
words :)

Well, as I made out from Clissold's
wanderings, I was to go to Lanrean,
to ask among the old men for Tregar
then, and to say to Tregarthen, " Clis-
sold was the man. Clissold bore no
malice : Clissold repented like a Chris
tian, for the sake of his poor soul."
No ! I was to say something else to
Tregarthen. I was to say, "Look
among the books ; look at the leaf you
know of, and see for yourself it's not
the right leaf to be there." No ! I
was to say something else to Tregar
then. I was to say, "The right leaf is
hidden, not burned. Clissold had
time for every thing else, but no time
to burn that leaf. Tregarthen came in
when he had got the candle lit to burn
it. There was just time to let it drop
from under his hand into the great
crack in the desk, and then he was or
dered abroad by the House, and there
was no chance of doing more." No!
I was to say none of these things to
Tregarthen. Only this, instead : "Look
in Clissold's desk — and, if you blame
any body, blame miser Raybrock for
driving him to it." And oh, another

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

drop — for the Lord's sake, give him
another drop 1

So he went on, over and over again,
till I found voice enough to speak and
stop him.

" Get up and go !" I said to the
miserable wretch. " Get back to your
own side of the island, or I may do
you a mischief, in spite of my own
self."

" Give me the other drop and I will,"
was all the answer I could get from
him.

I threw him the flask. He pounced
upon it with a howl. I turned my
back — for I could look at him no
longer — and climbed down again to my
cavern on the beach.

I sat down alone on the sand, and
tried to quiet myself fit to think about
what I had heard. That father could
ever have willfully done any thing unbe
coming his character as an honest man,
was what I wouldn't believe, in the first
place. And that the wretched brute
I had just parted from was in his right
senses, was what I wouldn't believe, in
the second place. What I had myself
seen of drinkers, at sea and ashore,
helped me to understand the condition
into which he had fallen. I knew that
when a man who has been a drunkard
for years is suddenly cut off his drink,
he drops to pieces like, body and mind,
for the want of it. I had also heard
ship-dobtors talk, by some name of
their own, of a drink-madness, which
we ignorant men call the Horrors.
And I made it out, easy enough, that I
had seen the supercargo in the first of
these conditions; and that if we both
lived long enough without help coming
to us, I might soon see him in the
second. But when I tried to get fur
ther, and settle how much of what I
had heard was wanderings and how
much truth, and what it meant, if any
of it was truth, my slowness got in my
way egain ; and where a quicker man
might have made up his mind in an
hour or two, I was all day, in sore dis
tress, making up mine. The upshot of
what I settled with myself was, in two
words, this : Having mother's writing-
case handy about me, I determined first
to set down, for my own self's reminder,
all that I had heard. Second, to clear
the matter up if ever I got back to

England alive ; and if wrong had been
done to that old man, or to any body
else, in father's name (without father's
knowledge), to make restoration for
his sake.

All that day I neither saw nor heard
more of the supercargo. I passed a
miserable night of it, after writing jny
memorandum, fighting with my loneli-,
ness and my own thoughts. The re
membrance of those words in father's
will, saying that the five hundred pound
was money which he had once run a
risk with, kept putting into my mind
suspicions I was ashamed of. When
daylight came, I almost felt as if I was
going to have the Horrors too, and got
up to walk them off, if possible, in the
morning air.

I kept on the northern side of the
island, walking backward and forward
for an hour or more. Then I returned
to my cavern : and the first thing I
saw, on getting near it, was other foot
steps than mine marked on the sand.
I suspected at once that the supercargo
had been lurking about watching me,
instead of going back to his own side ;
and that, in my absence, he had been
at his thieving tricks again.

The stores were what I looked at
first. The food he had not touched ;
but the water he had either drunk or
wasted — there was not half a pint of it
left. The medicine-chest was open,
and the bottle with the hartshorn was
gone. When I looked next for the
pistol, which I had loaded with powder
and shot for the chance of bird-shoot
ing that never came, the pistol was
gone too. After making this last dis
covery, there was but one thing to be
done — namely, to find out where he
was, and to take the pistol away from
him.

I set off to search first on the west
ern side. It was a beautiful, clear,
calm, sunshiny morning ; and as I
crossed the island, looking out on my
left hand and my right, I stopped on a
sudden, with my heart in my mouth, as
the saying is. Something caught my
eye, far out at sea, in the northwest. I
looked again — and there, as true as the
heavens above me, I saw a ship, with
the sunlight on her top-sails, hull down,
on the water-line in the offing !

All thought of the errand I was bent

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

on went out of my mind in an instant.
I ran as fast as my weak legs would
carry me to the northern beach ; gath
ered up the broken wood which was still
lying there plentifully, and, with the
help of the dry scrub, lit the largest fire
I had made yet. This was the only sig
nal it was in my power to make that
there were men on the island. The fire,
in the bright daylight, would never be
visible to the ship ; but the smoke curl
ing up from it in the clear sky might
be seen, if they had a look-out at the
mast-head.

While I was still feeding the fire, and
so rapt up in doing it that I had neither
eyes nor ears for any thing else, I heard
the supercargo's voice, on a sudden, at
my back. He had stolen on me along
the sand. When I faced him he was
swinging his arras about in the air, and
saying to himself, over and over again,
" I see the ship ! I see the ship !"

After a little he came close up to me.
By the look of him he had been drink
ing the hartshorn, and it had strung him
up a bit, body and mind, for the time.
He kept his right hand behind him, as
if he was hiding something. I sus
pected that "something" to be the
pistol I was in search of.

" Will the ship come here ?" says he.

" Y"es, if they see the smoke," says
I, keeping my eye on him.

He waited a bit, frowning suspi
ciously, and looking hard at me all the
time.

" What did I say to you yesterday?"
he asked.

"What I have got written down
here," I made answer, smacking my
hand over the writing-case in my breast
pocket ; " and what I mean to put to
the proof, if the ship sees us and we get
back to England."

He whipped his right hand round
from behind him like lightning, and
snapped the pistol at me. It missed
fire. I wrenched it from him in a mo
ment, and was just within one hair's-
breadth of knocking him on the head
with the butt-end afterward. I lifted
my hand — then thought better, and
dropped it again.

" No," says I, fixing ray eyes on him
steadily ; "I'll wait till the ship finds
is."

He slunk away from me ; and, as he

slunk, looked hard into the fire. He
stopped a minute so, thinking to him
self ; then he looked back at me again,,
with some mad mischief in him, that
twinkled through his blue spectacles,
and grinned on his dry, black lips.

" The ship shall never find you," he
said. With which words he turned him
self about toward his own side of the
island, and left me.

He only meant that saying to be a
threat — but, bird of ill-omen that he
was, it turned out as good as a pro
phecy ! All my hard work with the fire
proved work in vain ; all hope was
quenched in me long before the embers
I had set light to were burned out.
Whether the smoke was seen or not
from the vessel is more than I can tell.
I only know that she filled away on the
other tack, not ten minutes after the
supercargo left me. In less than an
hour's time the last glimpse of the
bright top-sails had vanished out of
view.

I went back to my cavern — which
was now likelier than ever to be my
grave as well. In that hot climate,
with all the moisture on the island dried
up, with not quite so much as a tumbler
ful of fresh water left, with my strength '
wasted by living on half-rations of food
— two days more, at most, would see me
out. It was hard enough for a man at
my age, with all that I had left at home
to make life precious, to die such a death
as was now before me. It was harder
still to have the sting of death sharp
ened — as I felt it then — by what had
just happened between the supercargo
and myself. There was no hope now
that the wanderings, the day before, had
more falsehood than truth in them. The
secret he had let out was plainly true
enough and serious enough to have
scared him into attempting my life,
rather than let me keep possession of
it, when there was a chance of the ship
rescuing us. That secret had father's
good name mixed up with it — and here
was I, instead of clearing the villainous
darkness from off of it, carrying it with
me, black as ever, into my grave.

It was out of the horror I felb at
doing that, and out of the yearning of ,
my heart toward you, Alfred, when I
thought of it, that the notion came to
comfort me, of writing the Message at

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

the top of the paper, and of committing
it in the bottle to the sea. Drowning1
men, they say, catch at straws — and the
straw of comfort I caught at was the
one chance in ten thousand that the
Message might float till it was picked
up, and that it might reach you. My
mind might, or might not, have been
failing me by this time — but it is true,
either way, that I did feel comforted
when I had emptied one of the two
bottles left in the medicine chest, had
put the paper inside, had tied the stop
per carefully over with the oil-skin, and
had laid the whole by in my pocket,
ready, when I felt tny time coming, to
drop into the sea. I was rid of the
secret, I thought to myself; and, if it
pleased God, I was rid of it, Alfred, to
you.

The day waned, and the sun set, all
cloudless and golden, in a dead calm.
There was not a ripple anywhere on
the long oily heaving of the sea. Be
fore night came I strengthened myself
with a better meal than usual as to food
— for where was the use of keeping meat
and biscuit when I had not water enough
to last along with them ? When the
stars came out and the moon rose I
gathered the wood together and lit the
signal-fire, according to custom, on the
beach outside my cavern. I had no
hope from it — but the fire was company
to me ; the looking into it quieted my
thoughts, and the crackling' of it was a
relief in the silence. I .don't know
why it was, but the breathless stillness
of that night had something awful in it,
and went near to frightening me.

The moon got high in the heavens,
and the light of her lay all iu a flood on
the sand before me, on the rocks that
jutted out from it, and on the calm sea
beyond. I was thinking of Margaret
— wondering if the • moon was shining
on our little bay at Steepways, and if
she was looking at it too — when I saw a
man's shadow steal over the white of
the sand. He was lurking near me
again ! In a minute he came into view.
The moonshine glinted on his blue spec
tacles, and glimmered on his bald head.
He stopped as he passed by the rocks
and looked abrut for a loose stone; he
found a large one, and came straight
with it on tiptoe up to the fire. I
showed myself to him on a sudden, in

the red of the flame, with the pistol in
my hand. He dropped the stone and
shrank back at the sight of it. When
he was close to the sea he stopped, and
screamed out at me, " The ship's coming !
The ship's coining ! The ship shall
never find you /" That notion of the
ship, and that other notion of killing
me before help came to us, seemed
never to have left him. When he
turned, and went back by the way he
had come, he was still shouting out
those same words. For a quarter of an
hour or more I heard him, till, the silence
swallowed up his ravings, and led me
back again to my thoughts of home.

Those thoughts kept with me till the
moon was on the wane. It was darker
now, and stiller than ever. I had not
fed the signal-fire for half an hour or
more, and had roused myself up, at the
mouth of the cavern, to do it, when I
saw the dying gleams of moonshine
over the sea on either side of me change
color and turn red. Black shadows, as
from low-flying clouds, swept after each
other over the deepening redness. The
air grew hot — a sound came nearer and
nearer, from above me and behind me,
like the rush of wind and the roar of
water, both together, and both far off.
I ran out on to the sand and looked
back. The island was on fire !

On fire at the point of it opposite to
me — on fire in one great sheet of flame
that stretched right across the island,
and bore down on me steadily before the
light westerly wind which was blowing
at the time. Only one hand could have
kindled that terrible flame — the hand, of
the lost wretch who had left me, with
the mad threat on his lips and the mur
derous notion of burning me out of my
refuge, working in his crazy brain. On
his side of the island (where the fire had
begun), the dry grass and scrub grew
all round the little hollow in the earth
which I had left to him for his place of
refuge. If he had had a thousand lives
to lose he would have lost that thousand
already !

Having nothing to feed on but the
dry scrub, the flame swept forward with
such a frightful swiftness that I had
barely time, after mastering my own
scattered senses, to turn back into the
cavern to get my last drink of water
and my last mouthful of food, before I

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

heard the fiery scorch crackling over the
thatched roof which my own hands had
raised. I ran across the beach to the
spur of rock which jutted out into the
sea, and there crouched down on the
furthest edge I could reach to. There
was nothing for the fire to lay hold of
between me and the top of the island
bank. I was far enough away to be out
of the lick of the flames, and Jow enough
down to get air under the sweep of the
smoke. You may well wonder why,
with death by starvation threatening me
close at hand, I should have schemed
and struggled as I did to save myself
from a quicker death by suffocation in
the smoke. I can only answer to that,
that I wonder too — but so it was.

The flames ate their way to the edge
of the bank, and lapped over it as if
they longed to lick me up. The heat
scorched nearer than I had thought, and
the smoke pom'ed lower and thicker. I
lay down sick and weak on the rock,
with my face close over the calm, cool
water. When I ventured to lift myself
up again, the top of the island was of a
ruby red, the smoke rose slowly in little
streams, and the air above was quiver
ing with the heat. While I looked at
it I felt a kind of surging and singing
in my head, and a deadly faintness and
coldness crept all over me. I took the
bottle that held the Message from my
pocket, and dropped it into the sea —
then crawled a little way back over the
rocks, and fell forward on them before
I could get as far as the sand. The
last I remember was trying to say my
prayers — losing the words — losing my
sight — losing the sense of where I was
—losing every thing.

The day was breaking again when I
was roused up by feeling rough hands
on me. Naked savages — some on the
rocks, some in the water, some in two
long canoes — were clamoring and
crowding about on all sides. They
bound me and took me off at once to
one of the canoes. The other kept
company — and both were paddled back
to that high land which I had seen in
the south. Death had passed me by
once more — and Captivity had come in
its place.

The story of my life among the sav
ages having no concern with the matter

now in hand, may be passed by herein
few words. They had seen the fire on
the island ; and paddling over to recon
noitre, had found me. Not one of them
had ever set eyes on a white man before.
I was taken away to be shown about
among them for a curiosity. When
they were tired of showing me, they
spared my life, finding my knowledge
and general handiness as a civilized
man useful to them in various ways. I
lost all count of time in my captivity —
and can only guess now that it lasted
more than one year and less than two.
I made two attempts to escape, each
time in a canoe, and was balked in both.
Nobody at home in England would ever,
as I believe, have seen me again if an
outward bound vessel had not touched
at the little desert island for fresh water.
Finding none there, she came on to the ter
ritory of the savages (which was an island
too). When they took me on board I
looked little better than a savage myself,
and could hardly talk my own language.
By the help of the kindness shown to
me I was right agam by the time we
spoke the first ship homeward bound.
To that vessel I was transferred ; and
in her I worked my passage back to
Falmouth.

CHAPTER V.

THE RESTITUTION.

CAPTAIN JORGAN, up and out be
times, had put the whole village of
Lanrean under an amicable cross-exami
nation, and was returning to the King
Arthur's Arms to breakfast, none the
wiser for his trouble, when he beheld
the young fisherman advancing to meet
him, accompanied by a stranger. A
glance at this stranger assured the cap
tain that he could be no other than the
Sea-faring Man ; and the captain was
about to hail him as a fellow-craftsman,
when the two stood still and silent be
fore the captain, and the captain stood
still, silent, and wondering before them.

"Why, what's this?" cried the cap
tain, when at last he broke the silence.
"You two are alike. You two are
much alike 1 What's this ?"

Not a word was answered on the

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

other side, until after the sea-faring
brother had got hold of the captain's
right hand, and the fisherman brother
had got hold of the captain's left hand ;
and if ever the captain had had his fill
of hand-shaking, from his birth, to that
hour, he had it then. And presently
up and spoke the two brothers, one at
a time, two at a time, two dozen at a
time for the bewilderment into which
they plunged the captain, until he
gradually had Hugh Raybrock's deliver
ance made clear to him, and also un
raveled the fact that the person referred
to in the half-obliterated paper was
Tregarthen himself.

"Formerly, dear Captain Jorgan,"
said Alfred, "of Lanrean, you recol
lect? Kitty and her father came to
live at Steepways after Hugh shipped
on his last voyage."

"Ay, ay!" cried the captain, fetch
ing a breath. " Now you have me in
tow. Then your brother here don't
know his sister-in-law that is to be so
much as by name ?"

" Never saw her ; never heard of
her !"

"Ay, ay, ay!" cried the captain.
"Why then we every one go back
together — paper, writer, and all — and
take Tregarthen into the secret we kept
from him ?"

" Surely," said Alfred, " we can't
help it now. We must go through
with our duty."

"Not a doubt," returned the captain.
" Give me an arm apiece, and let us set
this ship-shape."

, So walking up and down in the shrill
wind on the wild moor, while the
neglected breakfast cooled within, the
captain and the brothers settled their
course of action.

It was that they should all proceed
by the quickest means they could secure
to Barnstaple, and there look over the
father's books and papers in the law
yer's keeping : as Hugh had proposed
to himself to do if ever he reached
home. That, enlightened or unenlight-
eued, they should then return to Steep-
ways and go straight to Mr. Tregarthen,
and tell him all they knew, and see what
came of it, and act accordingly. Lastly,
that when they got there they should
enter the village with all precautions
against Hugh's being recognized by
5

any chance ; and that to the captain
should be consigned the task of prepar
ing his wife and mother for his resto
ration to this life.

" For you see," quoth Captain Jor
gan, touching the last head, " it requires
caution any way, great joys being as
dangerous as great griefs — if not more
dangerous, as being more uncommon
(and therefore less provided against) in
this round world of ours. And besides,
I should like to free my name with the
ladies, and take you home again at your
brightest and luckiest ; so don't let's
throw away a chance of success."

The captain was highly lauded by
the brothers for his kind interest and
foresight.

" And now stop !" said the captain,
coming to a stand-still, and looking
from one brother to the other, with
quite a new rigging of wrinkles about
each eye ; "you are of opinion," to the
elder, "that you are ra'ather slow ?"

" I assure you I am very slow," said
the honest Hugh.

"Wa'al," replied the captain, "I
assure you that to the best of my belief
I am ra'ather smart. Now, a slow man
ain't good at quick business, is he ?"

That was clear to both.

"You," said the captain, turning to
the younger brother, "are a little in
love ; ain't you ?"

" Not a little, Captain Jorgan."

" Much or little, you're sort preoccu
pied ; ain't you-?"

It was impossible to be denied.

" And a sort preoccupied man. ain't
good at quick business is he ?" said the
captain.

Equally clear on all sides.

"Now," said the captain, "I ain't in
love myself, and I've made many a
smart run across the ocean, and I
should like to carry on and go ahead
with this affair of yours and make a run
slick through it. Shall I try? Will
you hand it over to me ?"

They were both delighted to do so,,
and thanked him heartily.

"Good," said the captain, taking out
his watch. " This is half past eight
A.M., Friday morning. I'll jot that
down, and we'll compute how many
hours we've been out when we run into
your mother's post-office. There I The
entry's made, and now we go ahead." .

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

They went ahead so well that before
the Barnstaple lawyer's office was open
next morning the captain was sitting
whistling on the step of the door, wait-
;.ng for the clerk to come down the
street with his key and open it. But
Instead of the clerk there came the
Easter, with whom the captain frater
nized on the spot to an extent that
utterly confounded him.

As he personally knew both Hugh
and Alfred, there was no difficulty in
obtaining immediate access to such of
the father's papers as were in his keep
ing. These were chiefly old letters and
cash accounts : from which the captain,
with a shrewdness and dispatch that
left the lawyer far behind, established
with perfect clearness, by noon, the fol
lowing particulars :

That, one Lawrence Clissold had
borrowed of the deceased, at a time
when he was a thriving young trades
man in the town of Barnstaple, the sum
of n've hundred pounds. That, he had
borrowed it on the written statement
that it was 'to belaid out in furtherance
of a speculation which he expected
would raise him to independence ; he
being, at the time of writing that letter,
no more than a clerk in the house of
Dringworth Brothers, America Square,
London. That, the money was bor
rowed for a stipulated period ; but that
when the term was out the aforesaid
speculation failed, and Clissold was
without means of repayment. That,
hereupon, he had written to his creditor,
in no very persuasive terms, vaguely
requesting further time. That, the cre
ditor had refused this concession, de
claring that he could not afford delay.
That, Clissold then paid the debt, ac
companying the remittance of the mo
ney with an angry letter describing it
as having been advanced by a relative
to save him from ruin. That, in ac
knowledging the receipt, Raybrock had
cautioned Clissold to seek to borrow
money of him no more, as he would
never so risk money again.

Before the lawyer the captain said
never a word in reference to these dis
coveries. But when the papers had
been put back in their box, and he and
his two companions were well out of
the office, hia rig^t leg suffered for it,
and he said :

" So far this run's begun with a fair
wind and u prosperous; for don't you
see that all this agrees with that duti
ful trust in his father maintained by
the slow member of the Raybrock fa
mily ?"

Whether the brothers had seen it
before or no, they saw it now. Not
that the captain gave them much time
to contemplate the state of things at
their ease, for he instantly whipped
them into a chaise again, and bore them
off to Steepways. Although the after
noon was but just beginning to decline
when they reached it, and it was broad
daylight, still they had no difficulty, by
dint of muffling the returned sailor up,
and ascending the village rather than
descending it, in reaching Tregarthen's
cottage unobserved. Kitty was not
risible, and they surprised Tregarthen
sitting writing in the small bay-window
of his little room.

" Sir," said the captain, instantly
shaking hands with him, pen and all,
" I'm glad to see you, sir. How do
you do, sir ? I told you you'd think
better of me by-and-by, and I congra
tulate you on going to do it."

Here the captain's eye fell on Tom
Pettifer Ho, engaged in preparing some
cookery at the fire.

"That critter," said the captain,
smiting his leg, "is a born steward,
and never ought to have been in any
other way of life. Stop where you
are, Tom, and make yourself useful.
Now, Tregarthen, I'm going to try a
chair."

Accordingly, the captain drew one
close to him, and went on :

" This loving member of the Ray-
brock family you know, sir. This slow
member of the same family, you don't
know, sir. Wa'al, these two are bro
thers — fact! Hugh's come to life again,
and here he stands. Now, see here,
my friend 1 You don't want to be told
that he was cast away, but you do want
to be told (for there's a purpose in it)
that he was cast away with another
man. That man by name was Law
rence Clissold."

At the mention of this name Tre
garthen started and changed color.
" What's the matter ?" said the captain.

" He was a fellow-clerk of mine
thirty — five-and-thirty — years ago."

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

" True," said the captain, immedi
ately catching at the clue : " Dring-
worth Brothers, America Square, Lou-
don City."

The other started again, nodded, and
said, "That was the House."

"Now," pursued the captain, "be
tween those two men cast away there
arose a mystery concerning the round
sum of five hundred pound."

Again Tregarthen started, changing
color. Again the captain said, " What's
the matter ?"

As Tregarthen only answered, —
" Please to go on," the captain recount
ed, very tersely and plainly, the nature
of Clissold's wanderings on the barren
island, as he had condensed them in his
mind from the sea-faring man. Tregar
then became greatly agitated during this
recital, and at length exclaimed :

" Clissold was the man who ruined
me ! I have suspected it for many a
long year, and now I know it."

" And how," said the captain, draw
ing his chair still closer to Tregarthen,
and clapping his hand upon his shoul
der, " how may you know it ?"

" When we were fellow-clerks," re
plied Tregarthen, " in that London
House, it was one of my duties to enter
daily in a certain book an account of
the sums received that day by the firm,
and afterward paid into the banker's.
One memorable day — a Wednesday,
the black day of my life — among the
sums I so entered was one of five hun
dred pounds. "

" I begin to make it out," said the
captain. " Yes ?"

" It was one of Clissold's duties to
copy from this entry a memorandum of
the suras which the clerk employed to
go to the bankers paid in there. It
was my duty to hand the money to Clis
sold ; it was Clissold's to hand it to
the clerk, with that memorandum of his
writing. On that Wednesday I entered
a sura of five hundred pounds received.
I handed that sum, as I handed the
other sums in the day's entry, to Clis
sold. I was absolutely certain of it at
the time ; I have been absolutely certain
of it ever since. A sum of five hun
dred pounds was afterward found by
the House to have been that day want
ing from the Kag, from Clissold's memo
randum, and from the entries in my

book. "Clissold, being questioned,
stood upon his perfect clearness in the
matter, and emphatically declared that
he asked no better than to Ue tested by
' Tregarthen's book.' My book was
examined, and the entry of five hundred
pounds was not there."

" How not there," said the captain,
"when you made it yourself?"

Tregarthen continued :

" I was then questioned. Had I
made the entry? Certainly I had. The
House produced my book, and it was
not there. I could not deny my book ;
I could not deny my wriiing. I kue\v
there must be forgery by some one ; but
the writing was wonderfully like mine,
and I could impeach no one if the House
could not. I was required to pay the
money back. I did so ; and I left the
House, almost broken-hearted, rather
than remain there — even if I could have
done so — with a dark shadow of sus
picion always on me. I returned to,
my native place, Lanrean, and remained
there, clerk to a mine, until I was ap
pointed to my little post here."

" I well remember," said the captain,
" that I told you that if you had had no
experience of ill-judgments on deceiving
appearances, you were a lucky man.
You went hurt at that, and I see why.
I'm sorry."

" Thus it is," said Tregarthen. " Of
my own innocence I have of course been,
sure ; it has been at once rny comfort
and my trial. Of Clissold I have al
ways had suspicions almost amounting
to certainty ; but they have never been
confirmed until now. For my daugh
ter's sake and for my own I have carried
this subject in ray own heart, as the only
secret of my life, and have long believed
that it would die with me."

" Wa'al, my good sir," said the cap
tain, cordially, "the present question is,
and will be long, I hope, concerning
living, and not dying. Now, here are
our two honest friends, the loving Ray-
brock and the slow. Here they aland,
agreed on one point, on which I'd back
'em round the world, and right across it
from north to south, and then agaiu
from east to west, and through it, from
your deepest Cornish mine to China
It is, that they will never use this san>e
so-often-mentioned sum of money, and
that restitution of it must be made to

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

you. These two, the loving member
and the slow, for the sake of the right
and of their father's memory, will have
it ready for you to-morrow. Take it,
and ease their minds and mine, and end
a most unfort'nate transaction."

Tregarthen took the captain by the
hand, and gave his hand to each of the
young men, but positively and finally
answered No. He said, they trusted
to his word, and he was glad of it, and
at rest in his mind ; but there was no
proof, and the money must remain as it
was. All were very earnest over this :
and earnestness in men, when they are
right and true, is so impressive, that
Mr. Pettifer deserted his cookery and
looked on quite moved.

"And so," said the captain, "so we
come — as that lawyer-crittur over yon
der where we were this morning, might
— to mere proof ; do we ? We must
have it ; must we ? How ? From this
Clissold's wanderings, and from what
you say it ain't hard to make out that
there was a neat forgery of your writing
committed by the too smart Rowdy that
was grease and ashes when I made his
acquaintance, and a substitution of a
forged leaf in your book for a real and
true leaf torn out. Now, was that real
and true leaf then and there destroyed ?
No — for says he, in his drunken way, he
slipped it into a crack in his own desk,
because you came into the office before
there was time to burn it — and could
never get back to it arterwards. Wait
a bit. Where is that desk now ? Do
you consider it likely to be in America
Square, London City ?"

Tregarthen shook his head.

" The House has not, for years, trans
acted business in that place. I have
heard of it and read of it, as removed,
enlarged, every way altered. Things
alter so fast in these times."

" You think so," returned the cap
tain, with compassion ; "but you should
come over and see me afore you talk
about that. Wa'al, now. This desk,
this paper — this paper, this desk," said
the captain, ruminating and walking
about, and looking, in his uneasy ab
straction, into Mr. Pettifer's hat on a
table, among other things. "This desk,
this paper — this paper, this desk," the
captain continued, musing and roaming
about the room, " I'd give — "

However, he gare nothing, but took
up his steward's hat instead, and stood
looking into it, as if he had just come
into Church. After that he roamed
again, and again said, " This desk, be
longing to this House of Dringworth
Brothers, America Square, London
City—"

Mr. Pettifer still strangely moved,
and now more moved than before, cut
the captain off as he backed across the
room, and bespake him thus :

" Captain Jorgan, I have been wish
ful to engage your attention, but I
couldn't do it. I am unwilling to inter
rupt, Captain Jorgan, but I must do it.
/ know something about that house."

The captain stood stock-still, and
looked at him — with his (Mr. Pettifer's)
hat under his arm.

"You're aware," pursued his stew
ard, "that I was once in the broking
business, Captain Jorgan ?"

" I was aware," said the captain,
"that you had failed in that calling,
and in half the businesses going, Tom."

" Not quite so, Captain Jorgan ; but
I failed in the broking business. I was
partners with my brother,- sir. There
was a sale of old office furniture' at
Dringworth Brothers when the house
was moved from America Square, and
me and my 'brother made what we call
in the trade a Deal there, sir. And I'll
make bold to say, sir, that the only thing
I ever had from my brother, or from
any relation — for my relations have
mostly taken property from me instead
of giving me any — was an old desk we
bought at that same sale, with a crack
in it. My brother wouldn't have given
me even that, when we broke partner
ship, if it had been worth any thing."

" Where is that desk now ?" said the
captain.

" Well, Captain Jorgan," replied the
steward, " I couldn't say for certain
where it is now ; but when I saw it
last — which was last time we were out
ward bound — it was at a very nice
lady's at Wapping, along with a little
chest of mine which was detained for a
small matter of a bill owing."

The captain, instead of paying that
rapt attention to his steward which was
rendered by the other three persons
present, went to Church again, in re
spect of the steward's hat. And a

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

most especially agitated and memorable
face the captain produced from it, after
a short pause.

"Now, Tom," said the captain, "I
spoke to you, when we first came here,
respecting your constitutional weakness
on the subject of sun-stroke."

"You did, sir."

" Will my slow friend," said the cap
tain, " lend me his arm, or I shall sink
right back'ards into this blessed stew
ard's cookery ? Now, Tom," pursued
the captain, when the required assistance
was given, " on your oath as a steward,
didn't you take that desk to pieces to
make a better one of it, and put it
together fresh — or something of the
kind ?"

" On my oath I did, sir," replied the
steward.

" And by the blessing of Heaven, my
friends, one and all," cried the captain,
radiant with joy — " of the Heaven that
put it into this Tom Pettifer's head to
take so much care of his head against
the bright sun — he lined his hat with the
original leaf in Tregarthen's writing —
and here it is !"

With that the captain, to the utter
destruction of Mr. Pettifer's favorite
hat, produced the book-leaf, very much
worn, but still legible, and gave both
his legs such tremendous slaps that they
were heard far off in the bay, and never
accounted for.

" A quarter past five P.M.," said the
captain, pulling out his watch, "and
that's thirty-three hours and a quarter
in all, and a pritty run 1"

How they were all overpowered with
delight and triumph ; how the money
was restored, then and there, to Tre-
garthen ; how Tregarthen, then and
there, gave it all to his daughter ;
how the captain undertook to go to
Driugworth Brothers and re-establish
the reputation of their forgotten old
clerk ; how Kitty came in, and was
nearly torn to pieces, and the marriage
was reappointed, needs not to be told.
Nor how she and the young fisherman
went home to the post-office to prepare
the way for the captain's coming, by
declaring him to be the mightiest of
men who had made all their fortunes —
and then dutifully withdrew together,
in order that he might have the domestic
coast entirely to himself. How he

availed himself of it is all that remains
to teU.

Deeply delighted with his trust, and
putting his heart into it, he raised the
latch of the post-office parlor where
Mrs. Raybrock and the young widow
sat, and said :

" May I come in ?"

" Sure you may, Captain Jorgan !"
replied the old lady. " And good
reason you have to be free of the house,
though you have not been too well used
in it by some who ought to have known
better. I ask your pardon."

" No you don't, ma'am," said the
captain, " for I won't let you. Wa'al
to be sure !" By this time he had taken
a chair on the hearth between them.

" Never felt such an evil spirit in the
whole course of my life ! There ! I
tell you ! I could a'raost have cut my
own connection — Like the dealer in my
country, away West, who, when he had
let himself be outdone in a bargain,
said to himself, ' Now I tell you what !
I'll never speak to you again.' And
he never did, but joined a settlement of
oysters, and translated the multiplica
tion-table into their language. Which
is a fact that can be proved. If you doubt
it, mention it to any oyster you come
across, and see if he'll have the face to
contradict it."

He took the child from her mother's
lap and set it on his knee.

" Not a bit afraid of me now, you
see. Knows I am fond of small people.
I have a child, and she's a girl, and I
sing to her sometimes."

"What dp you sing?" asked Mar
garet.

" Not a long song, my dear.

Silas Jorgan
Played the organ.

That's about all, And sometimes I tell
her stories. Stories of sailors supposed
to be lost, and recovered after all hope
was abandoned." Here the captain
musingly went back to his song :

1 Silas Jorgan
Played the organ."

— repeating it with his eyes on the fire,
as he softly danced the child on his
knee. For he felt that Margaret had
stopped working.

A MESSAGE FROM THE SEA.

"Yes," said the captain, still looking
at the fire. "I make up stories and
tell 'ern to that child. Stories of ship
wreck on desert island, and long delay
in getting back to civilized lands. It
is to stories the like of that, mostly,
that

Silas Jordan
Plays the organ."

There was no light in the room but
the light of the fire ; for the shades of
night were on the village, and the stars
had begun to peep out of the sky one
by one, as the houses of the village
peeped out from among the foliage
when the night departed. The captain"
felt that Margaret's eyes were upon
him, and thought it discreetest to keep
his own eyes on the fire.

"Yes; I make 'em up," said the
captain. " I make up stories of bro
thers brought together by the good
providence of GOD. Of sons brought
back to mothers — husbands brought
back to wives — fathers raised from the
deep, for little children like herself."

Margaret's tonch was on his arm,
and he could not choose but look round
now. Next moment her hand moved
imploringly to his breast, and she was
on her knees before him — supporting
the mother, who was also kneeling.

"What's the matter?" said the cap
tain. " What's the matter ?

Silas Jorgan
Played the—"

Their looks and tears were too much
for him, and he could not finish the
song, short as it was.

" Mistress Margaret, you have borne
ill fortune well. Could you bear good
fortune equally well, if it was to come ?"

"I hope so. I thankfully and hum
bly and earnestly hope so 1"

"Wa'al, my dear," said the captain,
" p'raps it has come. He's — don't be
frightened — shall I say the word ?"

"Alive?"

"Yes!"

The thanks they fervently addressed
to Heaven were again too much for
the captain, who openly took out his
handkerchief and dried his eyes.

"He's no further off," resumed the
captain, "than my country. Indeed,

he's no further off than his own native
country. To tell you the truth, he'8
no further off than Falmouth. Indeed,
I doubt if he's quite so fur. Indeed,
if you was sure you could bear it nicely,
and I was to do no more than whistle
for him — "

The captain's trust was discharged.
A rush came,, and they were all to
gether again.

This was a fine opportunity for Torn
Pettifer to appear with a tumbler of
cold water, and he presently appeared
with it, and administered it to the la
dies : at the same time soothing them,
and composing their dresses, exactly as
if they had been passengers crossing
the Channel. The extent to which the
captain slapped his legs, when Mr.
Pettifer acquitted himself of this act of
stewardship, could have been tho
roughly appreciated by no one but
himself; inasmuch as he must have
slapped them black and blue, and they
must have smarted tremendously.

He couldn't stay for the wedding,
having a few appointments to keep at
the irreconcilable distance of about
four thousand miles. So next morning
all the village cheered him up to the
level ground above, and there he shook
hands with a complete Census of its
population, and invited the whole,
without exception, to come and stay
several months with him at Salem,
Mass., U. S. And there, as he stood
on the spot where he had seen that
little golden picture of love and part
ing, and from which he could that
morning contemplate another golden
picture with a vista of golden years in
it, little Kitty put her arms round his
neck, and kissed him on both his
bronzed cheeks, and laid her pretty
face upon his storm-beaten breast, in
sight of all — ashamed to have called
such a noble captain names. And
there the captain waved his hat over
his head three final times ; and there he
was last seen, going away accompanied
by Tom Pettifer Ho, and carrying his
hands in his pockets. And there, be
fore that ground was softened with the
fallen leaves of three more summers, a
rosy little boy took his first unsteady
run to a fair young mother's breast,
and the name of that infant fisherman
was Jorgan Raybrock.

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER,

ALLOW me to introduce myself — first,
negatively.

No landlord is my friend and brother,
no chambermaid loves me, no waiter
worships me, no boots admires and en
vies me. No round of beef or tongue
or bam is expressly cooked for me, no
pigeon-pie is especially made, for me, no
hotel-advertisement is personally ad
dressed to me, no hotel-room tapestried
with great coats and railway-wrappers is
set apart for me, no house-of public en
tertainment in the United Kingdom
greatly cares for my opinion of its brandy
or its sherry. When I go upon my
journeys, I am not usually rated at a low
figure in the bill ; when I come home
from my journeys, I never get any
commission. I know nothing about
prices, and should have no idea, if I
were put to it, how to wheedle a man
into ordering something he doesn't
want. As a town traveler, I an never
to be seen driving a vehicle externally
like a young and volatile pianoforte van,
and internally like an oven in which a
number of flat boxes are baking in lay
ers. As a country traveler, I am rarely
to be found in a gig, and am never to be
ericountered by a pleasure train, waiting
on the platform of a branch station,
quite a Druid in the midst of a light
Stonehenge of samples.

And yet — proceeding now, to intro
duce myself positively — I am both a
town traveler and a country traveler,
and am always on the road. Figura
tively speaking, I travel for the great
house of Human Interest Brothers, and
have rather a large connection in the
fancy goods way. Literally speaking,
I am always wandering here and there
from my rooms in Covent-garden, Lon
don — now about the city streets : now,
about the country by-roads — seeing

many little things and some great things,
which, because they interest me, I think
may interest others.

These are ray brief credentials as the
Uncommercial Traveler. Business is
business, and I start.

NEVER had I seen a year going out,
or going on, under quieter circumstances.
Eighteen hundred and fifty-nine had but
another day to live, and truly its end
was Peace on that sea-shore that morn
ing.

So settled and orderly was every thing
seaward, in the bright light of the sun
and under the transparent shadows of
the clouds, that it was hard to imagine
the bay otherwise, for years past or to
come, than it was that very day. The
tug-steamer lying a little off the shore,
the Lighter lying still nearer to the
shore, the boat alongside the Lighter,
the regularly turning windlass aboard
the Lighter, the methodical figures at
work, all slowly and regularly heaving
up and down with the breathing of the
sea, all seemed as much a part of the na
ture of the place as the tide itself. Thfc
tide was on the flow, and had been for
some two hours and a half; there was
a slight obstruction in the sea, within a
few yards of my feet ; as if the stump of
a tree, with earth enough about it to
keep it from lying horizontally on the
water, had slipped a little from the
land — and as 1 stood upon the beach
and observed it dimpling the light swell
that was coming in, I cast a stone over
it.

So orderly, so quiet, so regular — the
rising and falling of the tug-steamer, the
Lighter, and the boat — the turning of
the windlass — the coming in of the tide
— that I myself seemed, to my own
thinking, any thing but new to the spot

(75)

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

Yet, I had never seen it in my life, a
minute before, and had traversed two
hundred miles to get at it. That very
morning I had come bowling down, and
struggling up, hill-country roads ; looking
back at snowy summits ; meeting cour
teous peasants, well to do, driving fat
pigs and cattle to market ; noting the
neat and thrifty dwellings, with their un
usual quantity of clean white linen,
drying on the bushes ; having windy
weather, suggested by every cotter's lit
tle rick, with its thatch, straw-ridged and
extra straw-ridged into overlapping
compartments, like the back of a rhino
ceros. Had I not given a lift of four
teen miles to the Coast-Guardsman (kit
and all), who was coming to his spell of
duty, there, and had we not just now
parted company ? So it was ; but the
journey seemed to glide down into the
placid sea, with Other chafe and trouble,
and for the moment nothing was so calmly
and monotonously real underthe sunlight
as the gentle rising and falling of the water
with its freight, the regular turning of
the windlass aboard the Lighter, and the
slight obstruction so very near my feet.

0 reader, haply turning this page
by the fireside at home and hearing the
night wind rumble in the chimney, that
slight obstruction was the upper most
fragment of the wreck of the Royal
Charter, Australian trader and passenger
ship, homeward bound that struck here on
the terrible morning of the twenty-sixth
of last October, broke into three parts,
went down with her treasure of at least
five hundred human lives, and has never
siirred since !

From which point, or from which, she
drove ashore, stern foremost ; on which
side, or on which, she passed the little
Island in the bay, for ages henceforth to
be aground certain yards outside her ;
these are rendered bootless questions
by the darkness of that night and the
darkness of death. Here she went down.

Even as I stood on the beach, with
the words " Here she went down !" in
my ears, a diver in his grotesque dress,
dipped heavily over the side of the boat
alongside the Lighter, and dropped to
the bottom. On the shore by the water's
edge, was a rough tent, made of frag
ments of wreck, where other divers and
workmen sheltered themselves, aud where
they had kept Christmas-day with ruin

and roast beef, to the destruction of
their frail chimney. Cast up among the
stones and boulders of the beach, were
great spars of the lost vessel, and masses
of iron twisted by the fury of the sea
into the strangest forms. The timber
was already bleached and the iron rusted,
and even these objects did no violence
to the prevailing air the whole scene
wore, of having been exactly the same
for years and years.

Yet, only two short months had gone,
since a mau, living on the nearest hill
top overlooking the sea, being blown
out of bed at about daybreak by the
wind that had begun to strip his roof
off, and getting upon a ladder with his
nearest neighbor to construct some tem
porary device for keeping his house over
his head, saw, from the ladder's eleva
tion as he^looked down by chance to
ward the shore, some dark troubled
object close in with the land. And he
and the other, descending to the beach,
and finding the sea mercilessly beating
over a great broken ship, had clambered
up the stony ways like staircases with
out stairs, on which the wild village
hangs in little clusters, as fruit hangs
on boughs, and had given the alarm.
And so, over the hill-slopes, and past
the waterfall, and down the gullies where
the land drains off into the ocean, the
scattered quarrymen and fishermen in
habiting that part of Wales had come
running to the dismal sight — their cler
gyman among them. And as they stood
in the leaden morning, stricken with
pity, leaning hard against the wind,
their breath and vision often failing as
the sleet and spray rushed at them from
the ever forming and dissolving moun
tains of sea, and as the wool which was
a part of the vessel's cargo blew in with
the salt foam and remained upon the
land when the foam melted, they saw
the ship's life-boat put off from one of
the heaps of wreck; and first, there
were three men in her, and in a moment
she capsized, and there were but two ;
aud again, she was struck by a vast
mass of water, and there was but one ;
and again, she was thrown bottom up
ward, and that one, with his arm stuck
through the broken planks and waving
as if for the help that could never reach
him, went down into the deep.

It was the clergyman himself from

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

whom I heard this, while I stood on
the shore, looking in his kind wholesome
face as it turned to the spot where the
boat had been. The divers were down
then, and busy. They were " lifting "
to-day, the gold found yesterday — some
five-and-twenty thousand pounds. Of
three hundred and fifty thousand pounds
worth of gold, three hundred thousand
pounds worth, in round numbers, was
at that time recovered. The great bulk
of the remainder was surely and steadily
coming up. Some loss of sovereigns
there would be, of course ; indeed, at
first, sovereigns had drifted in with the
sand, and been scattered far and wide
over the beach, like sea-shells ; but most
other golden treasure would be found.
As it was brought up, it went aboard
the Tug steamer, where good account
was taken of it. So tremendous had
the force of the sea been when it broke
the ship, that it had beaten one great
ingot of gold, deep into a strong and
heavy piece of her solid iron-work : in
which, also, several loose sovereigns
that the ingot had swept in before it,
had been found, as firmly imbedded as
though the iron had been liquid when
they were forced there. It had been
remarked of such bodies come ashore,
too, as had been seen by scientific men,
that they had been stunned to death,
and not suffocated. Observation, both
of the internal change that had been
wrought in them, and of their external
expression, showed death to have been
thus merciful and easy. The report
was brought, while I was holding such
discourse on the beach, that no more
bodies had come ashore since last night.
It began to be very doubtful whether
many more would be thrown up until
the northeast winds of the early spring
set in. Moreover, a great number of
the passengers, and particularly the
second-class women-passengers, were
known to have been in the middle of
the ship when she parted, and thus the
collapsing wreck would have fallen upon
them after yawning open, and would
keep them down. A diver made known,
even then, that he had come upon the
body of a man, and had sought to re
lease it from a great superincumbent
weight ; but that, finding he could not
do so without mutilating the remains,
he had left it where it was.

It was the kind and wholesome face
I have made mention of as being then
beside me, that I had purposed to my
self to see, when I left home for Wales.
I had heard of that clergyman, as having
buried many scores of the shipwrecked
people ; of his having opened his house
and heart to their agonized friends ; of
his having used a most sweet and pa
tient diligence for weeks and weeks, in
the performance of the forlornest offices
that Man can render to his kind ; of his
having most tenderly and thoroughly
devoted himself to the dead, and to
those who were sorrowing for the dead.
I had said to myself, " In the Christmas
season of the year, I should like to see
that man !" And he had swung the
gate of his little garden in coming out
to meet me, not half an hour ago.

So cheerful of spirit, and guiltless
of affectation — as true practical Chris
tianity ever is ! — I read more of the New
Testament in the fresh frank face going
up the village beside me, in five min
utes, than I have read in anathematizing
discourses (albeit put to press with enor
mous flourishing of trumpets), in all my
life. I heard more of the Sacred Book
in the cordial voice that had nothing to
say about its owner, than in all the
would-be celestial pairs of bellows that
have ever blown conceit at me.

We climbed toward the little church,
at a cheery pace, among the loose stones,
the deep mud, the wet coarse grass, the
outlying water, and other obstructions
from which frost and snow had lately
thawed. It was a mistake (my friend
was glad to tell me, on the way) to sup
pose that the peasantry had shown any
superstitious avoidance of the drowned ;
on the whole, they had done very well,
and had assisted readily. Ten shillings
had been paid for the bringing of each
body up to the church, but the way was
steep, and a horse and a cart (in which
it was wrapped iu a sheet) were neces
sary, and three or four men, and, all
things considered, it was not a great
price. The people were none the richer
for the wreck, for it was the season of
the herring-shoal — and who could cast
nets for fish, and find dead men and
women in the draught ?

He had the church keys in his hand,
and opened the churchyard gate, and
opened the church door; and we went in.

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

It is a little church of great antiqui
ty ; there is reason to believe that some
church has occupied the spot, these
thousand years or more. The pulpit
was gone, and other things usually be
longing to the church were gone, owing
to its living congregation having de
serted it for the neighboring school
room, and yielded it up to the dead.
The very Commandments had been
shouldered out of their places in
the bringing in of the dead ; the
black wooden tables on which they
were painted, were askew, and on the
stone pavement below them, and on the
stone pavement all over the church,
were the marks and stains where the
drowned had been laid down. The
eye, with little or no aid from the ima
gination, could yet see how the bodies
had been turned, and where the head
had been and where the feet. Some
faded traces of the wreck of the Aus
tralian ship may be discernible on the
stone pavement of this little church,
hundreds of years hence, when the dig
ging for gold in Australia shall have
long and long ceased out of the land.

Forty-four shipwrecked men and wo
men lay here at one time, awaiting bu
rial. Here, with weeping and wailing
in every room of his house, my compa
nion worked alone for hours, solemnly
surrounded by eyes that could not see
him, and by lips that could not speak
to him, patiently examining the tattered
clothing, cutting off buttons, hair, marks
from linen, any thing that might lead
to subsequent identification, studying
faces, looking for a scar, a bent finger,
a crooked toe, comparing letters sent
to him with the ruin about him. "My
dearest brother had bright gray eyes
and a pleasant smile," one sister wrote.
0 poor sister I well for you to be far
from here, and keep that as your last
remembrance of him !

The ladies of the clergyman's family,
his wife and two sisters-in-law, came in
among the bodies often. It grew to
be the business of their lives to do so.
Any new arrival of a bereaved woman
would stimulate their pity to compare
the description brought, with the dread
realities. Sometimes, they would go
back, able to say, " I have found him,"
or, "I think she lies there." Perhaps
the mourner, unable to bear the sight

of all that lay in the church, would be
led in blindfold. Conducted to the spot
with many compassionate words, and
encouraged to look, she would say, with
a piercing cry "This is my boy !" and
drop insensible on the insensible figure.

He soon observed that in some cases
of women, the identification of person,
though complete, was quite at variance
with the marks upon the linen ; this
led him to notice that even the marks
upon the linen were sometimes incon
sistent with one another ; and thus he
came to understand that they had
dressed in great haste and agitation,
and that their clothes had become
mixed together. The identification of
men by their dress, was rendered ex
tremely difficult, in consequence of a
large proportion of them being dressed
alike — in clothes of one kind, that is to
say, supplied by slopsellers and outfit
ters, and not made by single garments,
but by hundreds. Many of the men
were bringing over parrots, and had re
ceipts upon them for the price of the
birds, others had bills of exchange in
their pockets, or in belts. Some of
these documents, carefully un wrinkled
and dried, were little less fresh in ap
pearance that day, than the present
page will be under ordinary circum
stances, after having been opened three
or four times.

In that lonely place, it had not been
easy to obtain even such common com
modities in towns, as ordinary disinfect
ants. Pitch had been burned in the
church, as the readiest thing at hand,
and the frying-pan in which it had bub
bled over a brazier of coals was still
there, with its ashes. Hard by the
Communion-Table, were some boots
that had been taken off the drowned
and preserved — a gold-digger's boot,
cut down the leg for its removal — a
trodden down man's ankle-boot with a
buff cloth top — and others — soaked and
sandy, weedy and salt.

From the church, we passed out into
the churchyard. Here, there lay, at
that time, one hundred and forty-five
bodies, that had come ashore from the
wreck. He had buried them, when not
identified, in graves containing four
each. He had numbered each body in
a register describing it, and had placed
a corresponding number oo each coffin,

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

and over each grave. Identified bodies
he had buried singly, in private graves,
in another part of the churchyard.
Several bodies had been exhumed from
the graves of four, as relatives had
come from a distance and seen his re
gister ; and, when recognized, these had
been reburied in private graves, so that
the mourners might erect separate head
stones over the remains. In all such
cases he had performed the funeral ser
vice a second time, and the ladies of his
house had attended. There had been
no offense in the poor ashes when they
were brought again to the light of day ;
the beneficent Earth had already ab
sorbed it. The drowned were buried
in their clothes. To supply the great
sudden demand for coffins, he had got
all the neighboring people handy at
tools, to work the livelong day, and
Sunday likewise. The coffins were
neatly formed ; — I had seen two, wait
ing for occupants, under the lee of the
ruined walls of a stone hut on the
beach, within call of the tent where the
Christmas Feast was held. Similarly,
one of the graves for four was lying
open and ready, here, in the church
yard. So much of the scanty space
was already devoted to the wrecked peo
ple, that the villagers had begun to ex
press uneasy doubts whether they them
selves could lie in their own ground,
with their forefathers and descendants,
by-and-by. The churchyard being but
a step from the clergyman's dwelling-
house, we crossed to the latter ; the
white surplice was hanging up near the
door, ready to be put on at any time,
for a funeral service.

The cheerful earnestness of this good
Christian minister was as consolatory,
as the circumstances out of which it
shone were sad. I never have seen
any thing more delightfully genuine
than the cairn dismissal by himself and
his household of all they had undergone,
as a simple duty that was quietly done
and ended. In speaking of it, they
spoke of it with great compassion for
the bereaved ; but laid no stress upon
their own hard share in those weary
weeks, except as it had attached many
people to them as friends, and elicited
many touching expressions of gratitude.
This clergyman's brother — himself the
clergyman of two adjoining parishes,

who had buried thirty-four of the bodies
in his own churchyard, and who had
done to them all that his brother had
done as to the larger number — must be
understood as included in the family.
He was there, with his neatly-arranged
papers, and made no more account of
his trouble than any body else did.
Down to yesterday's post outward, my
clergyman alone had written one thou
sand and seventy-five letters to relatives
and friends of the lost people. In the
absence of all self-assertion, it was only
through ray now and then delicately
putting a question as the occasion arose,
that I became informed of these things.
It was only when I had remarked again
and again, in the church, on the awful
nature of the scene of death he had
been required so closely to familiarize
himself with for the soothing of the
living, that he had casually said, with
out the least abatement of his cheerful
ness, "indeed, it had rendered him
unable for a time to eat or drink more
than a little coffee now and then, and a
piece of bread."

In this noble modesty, in this beauti
ful simplicity, in this serene avoidance
of the least attempt to "improve" an
occasion which might be supposed to
have sunk of its own weight into my
heart, I seemed to have happily come,
in a few steps, from the churchyard
with its open grave, which was the type
of Death, to the Christian dwelling side
by side with it, which was the type of
Resurrection. I never shall think of
the former, without the latter. The
two will always rest side by side in my
memory. If I had lost any one dear to
me in this unfortunate ship, if I made
a voyage from Australia to look at the
grave in the churchyard, I should go
away, thankful to GOD that that house
was so close to it, and that its shadow
by day and its domestic lights by night
fell upon the earth in which its master
had so tenderly laid my dear one's head.

The references that naturally arose
out of our conversation, to the descrip
tions sent down of shipwrecked persons,
and to the gratitude of relations and
friends, made me very anxious to see
some of those letters. I was presently
seated before a shipwreck of papers, all
bordered with black, and from them I
made the following few extracts.

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

A mother writes :

"REVEREND SIR. Amongst the many
who perished on your shore was num
bered my beloved son. I was only just
recovering from a severe illness, and
this fearful affliction has caused a
relapse, so that I am unable at present
to go to identify the remains of the
loved and lost. My darling son would
have been sixteen on Christmas-day
next. He was a most amiable and
obedient child, early taught the way of
salvation. We fondly hoped that as a
British seaman he might be an orna
ment to his profession, but, "it is well ;"
I feel assured my dear boy is now with
the redeemed. Oh, he did not wish to
go this last voyage ! On the fifteenth
of October, I received a letter from him
from Melbourne, date August twelfth ;
he wrote in high spirits, and in conclu
sion he says : " Pray for a fair breeze,
dear mamma, and I'll not forget to
whistle for it; and, God permitting, I
shall see you and all my little pets
again. Good-by, dear mother — good-
by, dearest parents. Good-by, dear
brother." Oh, it was indeed an eternal
farewell. I do not apologize for thus
writing you, for oh, my heart is very
sorrowful.

A husband writes :

MY DEAR KIND SIR. Will you kindly
inform me whether there are any initials
upon the ring and guard you have in
possession, found, as the Standard says,
last Tuesday ? Believe, me my dear
sir, when I say that I cannot express
my deep gratitude in words sufficiently
for your kindness to me on that fearful
and appalling day. Will you tell me
what I can do for you, and will you
write me a consoling letter to prevent
my mind from going astray ?

A widow writes :

Left in such a state as I am, my
friends and I thought it best that my
dear husband should be buried where
he lies, and, much as I should have
liked to have had it otherwise, I must
submit. I feel, from all I have heard
of you, that you will see it done decently
and in order. Little does it signify to
us, when the soul has departed, where
this poor body lies, but we who are left
behind would do all ve can to show
how we loved them. This is denied

me, but it is God's hand that afflicts us,
and I try to submit. Some day I may
be able to visit the spot, and see where
he lies, and erect a simple stone to his
memory. Oh ! it will be long, long ;>
before I forget that dreadful night. Is
there such a thing in the vicinity, or
any shop in Bangor, to which I could
send for a small picture of Moelfra or
Llanallgo Church, a spot now sacred
to me ?

Another widow writes :

I have received your letter this morn
ing, and do thank you most kindly for
the interest you have taken about my
dear husband, as well for the sentiments
yours contains, evincing the spirit of a
Christian who can sympathize for those
who, like myself, are broken down with
grief.

May God bless and sustain you, and
all in connection with you, in this great
trial. Time may roll on and bear all
its sons away, but your name as a dis
interested person will stand in history,
and as successive years pass, many a
widow will think of your noble conduct,
and the tears of gratitude flow down
many a cheek, the tribute of a thankful
heart, when other things are forgotten
for ever.

A father writes :

I am at a loss to find words to suffi
ciently express my gratitude to you for
your kindness to my son Richard upon
the melancholy occasion of his visit to
his dear brother's body, and also for
your ready attention in pronouncing
our beautiful burial service over my
poor unfortunate son's remains. God
grant that your prayers over him may
reach the Mercy Seat, and that his soul
may be received (through Christ's inter
cession) into heaven 1

His dear mother begs me to convey
to you her heartfelt thanks.

Those who were received at the
clergyman's house, write thus, after
leaving it :

DEAR AND NEVER-TO-BE-FORGOTTEN
FRIENDS. I arrived here yesterday
morning without accident, and am
about to proceed to my home by rail
way.

I am overpowered when I think of
you and your hospitable home. No
words could speak language suited to

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

myheart. Irefrain. God reward you with
the same measure you have meted with !

I enumerate no names, but embrace
you all.

MY BELOVED FRIENDS. This is the
first day that I have been able to leave
my bedroom since I returned, which
will explain the reason of my not writ
ing sooner.

If I could only have had my last
melancholy hope realized in recovering
the body of my beloved and lamented
son, I should have returned home some
what comforted, and I think I could
then have been comparatively resigned.

I fear now there is but little pros
pect, and I mourn as one without hope.

The only consolation to my distressed
mind is in my having been so feelingly
allowed by you to leave the matter in
your hands, by whom I well know that
every thing will be done that can be,
according to arrangements made before
I left the scene of the awful catastro
phe, both as to the identification of my
dear son, and also his interment.

I feel most anxious to hear whetner
any thing fresh has transpired since I
left you ; will you add another to the
many deep obligations I am under to
you by writing to me ? And, should
the body of my dear and unfortunate
son be identified, let me hear from you
immediately, and I will come again.

Words cannot express the gratitude
I feel I owe to you all for your benevo
lent aid, your kindness, and your sym
pathy.

MY DEARLY BELOVED FRIENDS. I

arrived in safety at my house yesterday,
and a night's rest has restored and
tranquilized me. I must again repeat,
that language has no words by which I
can express my sense of obligation to
you. You are enshrined in my heart
of hearts.

I have seen him ! and can now
realize my misfortune more than I have
hitherto been able to do. Oh, the bit-
ternes's of the cup I drink ! But I bow
submissive. God must have done
right. I do not want to feel less, but
to acquiesce more simply.

There were some Jewish passengers
on board the Royal Charter, and the
gratitude of the Jewish people is feel
ingly expressed in the following letter,

bearing date from "the Office of the
Chief Rabbi:"

REVEREND SIR. I cannot refrain
from expressing to you my heartfelt
thanks on behalf of those of my flock
whose relatives have unfortunately been
among those who perished at the late
wreck of the Royal Charter. You have,
indeed, like Boaz, "not left off your
kindness to the living and the dead."

You have not alone acted kindly to
wards the living by receiving them hos
pitably at your house, and energetically
assisting them in their mournful duty,
but also towards the dead, by exerting
yourself to have our co-religionists
buried in our ground, and according to
our rites. May our heavenly Father
reward you for your acts of humanity
and true philanthropy !

The " Old Hebrew congregation of
Liverpool" thus express themselves
through their secretary :

REVEREND SIR. The wardens of
this congregation have learned with
great pleasure that, in addition to those
indefatigable exertions, at the scene of
the late disaster to the Royal Charter,
which have received universal recogni
tion, you have very benevolently em
ployed your valuable efforts to assist
such members of our faith as have
sought the bodies of lost friends to give
them burial in our consecrated grounds,
with the observances and rites pre
scribed by the ordinances of our reli
gion.

The wardens desire me to take the
earliest available opportunity to offer
to you, on behalf of our community,
the expression of their warm acknow
ledgments and grateful thanks, and
their sincere wishes for your continued
welfare and prosperity.

A Jewish gentleman writes :

REVEREND AND DEAR SIR. I take
the opportunity of thanking you riglit
earnestly for the promptness you dis
played in answering my note with full
particulars concerning my much-la
mented brother, and I also herein beg
to express my sincere regard for the
willingness you displayed and for the
facility you afforded for getting the re
mains of my poor brother exhumed.
It has been to us a most sorrowful and
painful event, but when we meet with

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

such friends as yourself, it in a measure,
somehow or other, abates that mental
anguish, and makes the suffering so
much easier to he borne. Considering
the circumstances connected with my
poor brother's fate, it does, indeed, ap
pear a hard one. He had been away
in all seven years ; he returned four
years ago to see his family. He was
then engaged to a very amiable young
tady. He had been very successful
abroad, and was now returning to fulfill
his sacred vow ; he brought all his
property with him in gold, uninsured.
We heard from him when the ship
stopped at Queenstown, when he was in
the highest of hope, and in a few short
hours afterwards all was washed away.
Mournful in the deepest degree, but
too sacred for quotation here, were the
numerous references to those miniatures
of women worn round the necks of
rough men (and found there after
death), those locks of hair, those scraps
of letters, those mauy, many slight me
morials of hidden tenderness. One
man cast up by the sea bore about him,
printed on a perforated lace card, the
following singular (and unavailing)
charm :

A BLESSING.

May the blessing of God await thee.
May the sun of glory shine around thy
bed ; and may the gates of plenty,
honor, and happiness be ever open to
thee. May no Sorrow distress thy
days ; may no grief disturb thy nights.
May the pillow of peace kiss thy cheek,
and the pleasures of imagination at
tend thy dreams ; and when length of
years makes thee tired of earthly joys,
and the curtain of death gently closes
around thy last sleep Nof human exist
ence, may the Angel of God attend thy
bed, and take care that the expiring
lamp of life shall not receive one rude
blast to hasten ou its extinction.

A sailor had these devices on his
right arm. " Our Saviour on the
Cross, the forehead of the crucifix and
the vesture stained red ; on the lower
part of the arm, a man and woman ;
on one side of the Cross, the appear
ance of a half moon, with a face ; on
the other side, the sun ; on the top of
the Cross, the letters I.H.S. ; on the
left arm, a man and woman dancing,

with an effort to delineate the female's
dress ; under which, initials." Another
seaman " had, on the lower part of the
right arm, the device of a sailor and a
female; the man holding the Union
Jack with a streamer, the folds of which
waved over her head, and the end of it
was held in her hand. On the upper
part of the arm, a device of Our Lord
on the Cross, with stars surrounding
the head of the Cross, and one large
star on the side in Indian ink. On the
left arm, a flag, a true lover's knot, a
face, and initials." This tattooing was
found still plain, below the discolored
outer surface of a mutilated arm, when
such surface was carefully scraped away
with a knife. It is not improbable
that the perpetuation of this marking
custom among seamen, may be referred
back to their desire to be identified, if
drowned and flung ashore.

It was some time before I could sever
myself from the many interesting pa
pers on the table, and then I broke bread
and drank wine with the kind family be-
fofe I left them. As I had brought the
Coast-guard down, so I took the Post
man back, with his leathern wallet,
walking-stick, bugle, and terrier dog.
Many a heart-broken letter he had
brought to the Rectory House within
two months ; many a beuignantly pains
taking answer had he carried back.

As I rode along, I thought of the
many people, inhabitants of this mother
country, who would make pilgrimages
to the little churchyard in the years to
come ; I thought of the many people in
Australia, who would have an interest
in such a shipwreck, and would find
their way here when they visit the Old
World ; I thought of the writers of all
the wreck of letters I had left upon the
table ; and I resolved to place this little
record where it stands. Convocations,
Conferences, Diocesan Epistles, and the
like, will do a great deal for Reli
gion, I dare say, and Heaven send they
may ! but I doubt if they will ever do
their Master's service half so well, in all
the time they last, as the Heavens have
seen it done in this bleak spot upon the
rugged coast of Wales.

Had I lost the friend of my life, in the
wreck of the Royal Charter ; had I lost
my betrothed, the more than friend of
my life ; had I lost my maiden daughter,

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

had I lost my hopeful; boy, had I lost
my little child ; I would kiss the hands
that worked so busily and gently in the
church, and say, "None better could
have touched the form, though it had
lain at home." I could be sure of it, I
could be thankful for it ; I could be con
tent to leave the grave near the house
the good family pass in and out of every
day, undisturbed, in the little church
yard where so many are so strangely
brought together.

Without the name of the clergyman
to whom — I hope, not without carrying
comfort to some heart at some time — I
have referred, my reference would be as
nothing. He is the Reverend Stephen
Bloose Hughes, of Llanallgo, near Moel-
fra, Anglesey. His brother is the
Reverend Hugh Robert Hughes, of
Penrhos Alligwy.

MY day's no-business beckoning me
to the east end of London, I had turned
my face to that point of the metropoli
tan compass on leaving Covent-Garden,
and had got past the India House,
thinking, in my idle manner of Tippoo-
Sahib and Charles Lamb, and had got
past my little wooden midshipman, after
affectionately patting him on one leg of
his knee-shorts for old acquaintance sake,
and had got past Aldgate Pump, and
had got past the Saracen's Head (with
an ignominious rash of posting bills dis
figuring his swarthy countenance), and
had strolled up the empty yard of his
ancient neighbor the Black or Blue
Boar, or Bull, who departed this life
I don't know when, and whose coaches
are all gontr I don't know where,
and I had come out again into
the age of railways, and I had got
past WhitechapeV Church, and was —
rather inappropriately for an Uncom
mercial Traveler — in the Commercial
Road. Pleasantly wallowing in the
abundant mud of that thoroughfare,
and greatly enjoying the huge piles
of building belonging to the sugar re
finers, the little masts and vanes in
small back gardens in back streets, the
neighboring canals and docks, the India-
vans lumbering along their stone tram
way, and the pawnbroker's shops where
hard-up Mates had pawned so many
sextants and quadrants, that I should
have bought a few cheap if I had the

least notion how to use them, I at last
began to file off to the right, toward
WappJng.

Not that I intended to take boat at
Wapping Old Stairs, or that I was go
ing to look at that locality, because I
believe (for I don't) in the constancy
of the young woman who told her sea
going lover, to such a beautiful old tune,
that she had ever continued the same,
since she gave him the 'baccer-box
marked with his name ; I am afraid he
usually got the worst of those transac
tions, and was frightfully taken in. No,
I was going to Wapping, because an
Eastern police magistrate had said,
through the morning papers, that there
was no classification at the Wapping
workhouse for women, and that it was a
disgrace and a shame and divers other
hard names, and because I wished to
see how the fact really stood. For,
that Eastern police magistrates are not
always the wisest men of the East, may
be inferred from their course of proce
dure respecting the fancy-dressing and
pantomime-posturing at St. George's in
that quarter : which is usually, to dis
cuss the matter at issue, in a state of
mind betokening the weakest perplexity,
with all parties concerned and uncon
cerned, and, for a final expedient, to
consult the complainant as to what he
thinks ought to be done with the de
fendant, and take the defendant's opin
ion as to what he would recommend to
be done with himself.

Long before I reached Wapping I
gave myself up as having lost my way,
and, abandoning myself to the narrow
streets in a Turkish frame of mind, re
lied on predestination to bring me some
how or other to the place I wanted if
I were ever to get there. When I had
ceased for an hour or so to take any
trouble about the matter, I found my
self on a swing-bridge, looking down
at some dark locks in some dirty water.

Over against me, stood a creature re
motely in the likeness of a young man,
with a puffed sallow face, and a figure
all dirty and shiny and slimy, who may
have been the youngest sou of his filthy
old father, Thames, or the drowned
man about whom there was a placard on
the granite post like a large thimble,
that stood between us.

I asked this apparition what it called

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

the place ? Unto which, it replied,
with a ghastly grin and with a sound
like gurgling water in its throat :

"Mister Baker's trap."

As it is a point of great sensitiveness
with me on such occasions to be equal to
the intellectual pressure of the conversa
tion, I deeply considered the meaning
of this speech, while I eyed the appari
tion — then engaged in hugging and
sucking a horizontal iron bar at the
top of the locks. Inspiration suggested
to me that Mr. Baker was the acting
Coroner of that neighborhood.

"A common place for suicide," said I,
looking down at the locks.

" Sue ?" returned the ghost, with a
stare. "Yes I And Poll. Likeways
Emily. And Nancy. And Jane ;" he
sucked the iron between each name ;
" and all the bileing. Ketches off their
bonnets dr shorls, takes a run, and
headers down here, they does. Always
a headerin' down here, they is. Like
one o'clock."

"And at about that hour of the
morning, I .suppose ?"

"Ah!" said the apparition. "They
an't partickler. Two 'ull do for them.
Three. All times 'o night. O'ny mind
you I" Here the apparition rested its
profile on the bar, and gurgled in a sar
castic manner. "There must be somebody
cooiin'. They don't go a headerin' down
here, wen there an't no Bobby nor gen'ral
Cove, fur to hear the splash."

According to my interpretation of
these words, I was myself a General
Cove, or member of the miscellaneous
public. In which modest character, I
remarked :

" They are often taken out, are they,
and restored ?"

" I dunno about restored," said the
apparition, who, for some occult reason,
very much objected to that word ;
" they're carried into the werkiss and put
into a 'ot bath, and brought round. But
Idunno about restored, "said the appa
rition ; " blow that /" — and vanished.

As it had shown a desire to become
offensive, I was not sorry to find myself
alone, especially as the "werkiss" it had
indicated with a twist of its matted head,
was close at hand. So I left Mr. Ba
ker's terrible trap (baited with a scum
that was like the soapy rinsing of sooty
chimneys), and made bold to ring at

the workhouse gate, where I was wholly
unexpected and quite unknown.

A very bright and nimble little ma
tron, with a bunch of keys in her hand,
responded to my request to see the
House. I began to doubt whether the
police magistrate was quite right in
his facts, when I noticed her quick ac
tive little figure and her intelligent eyes.

The Traveler (the matron intimated)
should see the worst first. He was wel
come to see every thing. Such as it
was, there it all was.

This was the only preparation for our
entering " the Foul wards." They were
in an old building, squeezed away in a
corner of a paved yard, quite detached
from the more modern and spacious
main body of the workhouse. They
were in a building most monstrously be
hind the time — a mere series of garrets
or lofts, with every inconvenient and
objectionable circumstance in their con
struction, and only accessible by steep
and narrow staircases, infamously ill
adapted for the passage up-stairs of the
sick or down-stairs of the dead.

A-bed in these miserable rooms, here
on bedsteads, there (for a change, as I
understood it) on the floor, were women
in every stage of distress and disease.
None but those who have attentively
observed such scenes, can conceive the
extraordinary variety of expression still
latent under the general monotony and
uniformity of color, attitude, and con
dition. The form a little coiled up and
turned away, as though it had turned
its back on this world forever ; the un
interested face at once lead-colored and
yellow, looking passively upward from
the pillow ; the haggard mouth a little
dropped, the hand outside the coverlet,
so dull and indifferent, so light and yet
so heavy ; these were on every pallet ;
but, when I stopped beside a bed, and
said ever so slight a word to the figure
lying there, the ghost of the old char
acter came into the face, and made the
Foul ward as various as the fair world.
No one appeared to care to live, but no
one complained ; all who could speak,
said that as much was done for them as
could be done there, that the attendance
was kind and patient, that their suffer
ing was very heavy, but they had no
thing to ask for. The wretched rooms
were as clean and sweet as it is possible

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

for such rooms to be ; they would be
come a pest-house in a single week, if
they were ill-kept.

I accompanied the brisk matron up
another barbarous staircase, into a bet
ter kind of loffdevoted to the idiotic
and imbecile. There was at least Light
iu it, whereas the windows in the former
wards had been like sides of schoolboys
birdcages. There was a strong grating
over the fire here, and, holding a kind
of state on either side of the hearth,
separated by the breadth of this grating,
were two old ladies in a condition of
feeble dignity, which was surely the
very last and lowest reduction of self-
complacency, to be found in this won
derful humanity of ours. They were
evidently jealous of each other, and
passed their whole time (as some people
do, whose fires are not grated) in men
tally disparaging each other, and con
temptuously watching their neighbors.
One of these parodies on provincial
gentlewomen was extremely talkative,
and expressed a strong desire to attend
the service ou Sundays, from which she
represented herself to have derived the
greatest interest and consolation when
allowed that privilege. She gossiped
so well, and looked altogether so cheery
and harmless, that I began to think this
a case for the Eastern magistrate, until I
found that on the last occasion of her at
tending chapel, she had secreted a small
stick, and had caused some confusion in
the responses by suddenly producing it
and belaboring the congregation.

So, these two old ladies, separated
by the breadth of the grating — other
wise they would fly at one another's
caps — sat all day long, suspecting one
another, and contemplating a world of
fits. For every body else in the room
had fits, except the wardswoman : an
elderly, able-bodied pauperess, with a
large upper lip, and an air of repressing
and saving her strength, as she stood
with her hands folded before her, and
her eyes slowly rolling, biding her time
for catching or holding somebody. This
civil personage (in whom I regretted to
identify a reduced member of my hon
orable friend Mrs. Gamp's family) said,
"They has 'em continiwal, sir. They
drops without no more notice than if
they was coach-horses dropped from the
moon, sir. And when one drops, an

other drops, and sometimes there'll be
as many as four or five on 'em at once,
dear me, a rollin' and a tearin', bless
you ! — this young woman, now, has 'em
dreadful bad."

She turned up this young woman's
face with her hand as she said it. This
young woman was seated on the floor,
pondering, in the foreground of the
afflicted. There was nothing repellant,
either in her face or head. Many, ap
parently worse,' varieties of epilepsy and
hysteria were about her, but she was
said to be the worst there. When I
had spoken to her a little, she still sat
with her face turned up, pondering, and
a gleam of the mid-day sun shone in
upon her.

Whether this young woman, and the
rest of these so sorely troubled, as
they sit or lie pondering in their con
fused dull way, ever get mental glimpses
among the motes in the sunlight, of
healthy people and healthy things ?
Whether this young woman, brooding
like this in the summer season, ever
thinks that somewhere there are trees
and flowers, even mountains and the
great sea ? Whether, not to go so far,
this young woman ever has any dim
revelation of that young woman — that
young woman who is not here and never
will come here, who is courted, and
caressed, and loved, and has a husband,
and bears children, and lives in a home,
and who never knows what it is to have
this lashing and tearing coming upon
her ? And whether this young woman,
God help her, gives herself up then,
and drops like a coach-horse from the
moon ?

I hardly knew whether the voices of
infant children, penetrating into so
hopeless a place, made a sound that wajs
pleasant or painful to me. It was some
thing to be reminded that the weary
world was not all weary, and was ever
renewing itself; but, this young woman
was a child not long ago, and a child
not long hence might be such as she.
Howbeit, the active step and eye of the
vigilant matron conducted me past the
two provincial gentlewomen (whose dig
nity was ruffled by the children) and
into the adjacent nursery.

There were many babies here, and
more than one handsome young mother.
There were ugly young mothers also,

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

and sullen young mothers, and callous
young mothers. But, the babies had
not appropriated to themselves any bad
expression as yet, and might have been,
for any thing that appeared to the con
trary in their soft faces, Princes Impe
rial, and Princesses Royal. I had the
pleasure of giving a poetical commis
sion to the baker's man to make a cake
with all dispatch and toss it into the
oven for one red-headed young pauper
and myself, and felt much the better for
it. Without that refreshment, I doubt
if I should have been in a condition for
"the Refractories," toward whom my
quick little matron — for whose adapta
tion to her office I had by this time
conceived a genuine respect — drew me
next, and marshaled me the way that
I was going.

The Refractories were picking oak-
ura, in a small room giving on a yard.
They sat in line on a form, with their
backs to a window ; before them, a
table, and their work. The oldest
Refractory was, say twenty ; youngest
Refractory, say sixteen. I have never
yet ascertained, in the course of my
uncommercial travels, why a Refractory
habit should affect the tonsils and
uvula; but, I have always observed
that Refractories of both sexes and
every grade, between a Ragged School
and the Old Bailey, have one voice, in
which the tonsils and uvula gain a dis
eased ascendency.

" Five pound indeed ! I hain't a
going fur to pick five pound," said the
Chief of the Refractories, keeping time
to herself with her head and chin.
"More than enough to pick what we
picks now, in sitch a place as this, and
on wot we gets here !"

j(This was in acknowledgment of a
delicate intimation that the amount of
work was likely to be increased. It
certainly was not heavy then, for one
Refractory had already done her day's
task — -it was barely two o'clock — and
. was sitting behind it, with a head
exactly matching it.)

" A pretty Ouse this is, matron, ain't
it?" said Refractory Two, "where a
pleeseman's called in, if a gal says a
word !"

"And wen you're sent to prison for
npthink or less !" said the Chief, tug
ging at her oakum, as if it were the

matron's hair. "But any place is
better than this; that's one thing, and
be thankful !"

A laugh of Refractories led by
Oakum Head with folded arms — who
originated nothing, but who was in
command of the skirmishers outside the
conversation.

"If anyplace is better than this,"
.said my brisk guide, in the calmest
manner, " it is a pity you left a good
place when you had one."

" Ho, no, I didn't, matron," returned
the Chief with another pull at her oak
um, and a very expressive look at the
enemy's forehead. " Don't say that,
matron, 'cos it's lies."

Oakum Head brought up the skir
mishers again, skirmished, and retired.

"And 7 warn't a going," exclaimed
Refractory Two, " though I was in one
place for as long as four year — / warn't
a going fur to stop in a place that
warn't fit for me — there ! And where
the fam'ly warn't 'spectable characters —
there ! And where I fort'nately or
hunfort'nately found that the people
warn't what they pretended to make
theirselves out to be — there ! And
where it wasn't their faults, by chalks,
if I warn't made bad and ruinated —
Hah !"

During this speech, Oakum Head
had again made a diversion with the
skirmishers, and had again withdrawn.

The Uncommercial Traveler ventured
to remark that he supposed Chief Re
fractory and Number One, to be the
two young women who had been taken
before the magistrate ?

"Yesl" said the Chief, "we har !
and the wonder is, that apleeseman an't
'ad in now, and we took off agen. You
can't open your lips here, without a
pleeseman."

Number Two laughed (very u vularly) ,
and the skirmishers followed suit.

" I'm sure I'd be thankful," protested
the Chief, looking sideways at the Un
commercial, "if I could be got into a
place, or got abroad. I'm sick and
tired of this precious Ouse, I am, with
reason."

So would be, and so was, Number
Two. So would be, and so was,
Oakum Head. So would be, and so
were, Skirmishers.

The Uncommercial took the liberty

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVFLT!R.

of hinting that he hardly thought it
probable that any lady or gentleman in
want of a likely young domestic of re
tiring manners, would be tempted into
the engagement of either of the two
leading Refractories, on her own presen
tation of herself as per sample.

" It ain't no good being nothink else
here," said the Chief.

The Uncommercial thought it might
be worth trying.

" Oh no it ain't," said the Chief.

" Not a bit of good," said Number
Two.

" And I'm sure I'd be very thankful
to be got into a place, or got abroad,"
said the Chief.

" And so should I," said Nuwber
Two. " Truly thankful, I should."

Oakum Head then rose, and an
nounced as an entirely new idea, the
mention of which profound novelty
might be naturally expected to startle
her unprepared hearers, that she would
be very thankful to be got into a place,
pr got abroad. And, as if ehe had then
said, " Chorus, ladies !" all the Skir
mishers struck up to the same purpose.
We left them, thereupon, and began a
long, long walk among the women who
were simply old and infirm > but when
ever, in the course of this same walk, I
looked out of any high window that
commanded the yard, I saw Oakum
Head and all the other Refractories
looking out at their low window for
me, and never failing to catch me, the
moment I showed my head.

In ten minutes I had ceased to be
lieve in such fables of a golden time as
youth, the prime of life, or a hale old
age. In ten minutes all the lights of
womankind seemed to have been blown
out, and nothing in that way to be left
this vault to brag of, but the flickering
and expiring snuffs.

And what was very curious, was, that
these dim old women had one company
notion which was the fashion of the
place. Every old woman who became
aware of a visitor and was not in bed,
hobbled over a form into her accus
tomed seat, and became one of a line
of dim old women confronting another
line of dim old women across a narrow
table. There was no obligation what
ever upon them to range themselves in
this way ; it was their manner of " re

ceiving." As a mle, they made no at
tempt to talk to one another, or to look
at the visitor, or to look at any thing,
but sat silently working their mouths,
like a sort of poor old Cows. In some
of these wards, it \vns good to see a
few green plants ; in others, an isolated
Refractory adting as nurse, who did
well enough in that capacity, when
separated from her compeers ; every
one of these wards, day^oom, night
room, or both combined, was scrupu
lously clean and fresh. I have seen as
many such places as most travelers in
my line, and I never saw one such,
better kept.

Among the bedridden there was
great patience, great reliance on the
books under the pillow, great faith in
GOD. All cared for sympathy, but
none much cared to be encouraged
with hope of recovery ; on the whole,
I should say, it was considered rather a
distinction to have a complication of
disorders, and to be in a worse way
than the rest. From some of the win
dows the river could be seen with all
its life and movement ; the day was
bright, but I came upon no one who
was looking out.

In one large ward, sitting by the fire
in arm-chairs of distinction, like the
President and Vice of the good com
pany, were two old women, upward
of ninety years of age. The younger
of the two, just turned ninety, was
deaf, but not very, and could easily be
made to hear. In her early time she
had nursed a child, who was now an
other old woman, more infirm than her
self, inhabiting the very same chamber.
She perfectly understood this when the
matron told it, and, with sundry nods
and motions of her forefinger, pointed
out the woman in question. The elder
of this pair, ninety-three, seated before
an illustrated newspaper (but not read
ing it), was a bright-eyed old soul,
really not deaf, wonderfully preserved,
and amazingly conversational. She
had not long lost her husband, and had
been in that place little more than a
year. At Boston, in the State of Mas
sachusetts, this poor creature wonld
have been individually addressed,
would have been tended in her own
room, and would have had her life
gently assimilated to a comfortable life

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

out of doors. Would that be much to
do in England for a woman who has
kept herself out of a workhouse more
than ninety rough long years ? When
Britain first, at Heaven's command,
arose, with a great deal of allegorical
confusion, from out the azure main, did
her guardian angels positively forbid it
in the Charter which has been so much
be-sung ?

The object of my journey was ac
complished w*hen the nimble matron
had no more to show me. As I shook
hands with her at the gate, I told her
that I thought Justice had not used
her very well, and that the wise men
of the East were not infallible.

Now, I reasoned with myself, as I
made my journey home again, concern
ing those Foul wards. They ought
not to exist ; no person of common
decency and humanity can see them
and doubt it. But what is this Union
to do ? The necessary alteration would
cost several thousands of pounds ; it
has already to support three work
houses ; its inhabitants work hard for
their bare lives, and are already rated
for the relief of the Poor to the utmost
extent of reasonable endurance. One
poor parish in this very Union is rated
to the amount of FIVE AND SIXPENCE
in the pound, at the very same time
when the rich parish of Saint George's,
Hanover-square, is rated at about
SEVENPENCE in the pound, Paddington
at about FOUBPENCE, Saint James's,
Westminster, at about TENPENCE ! It
is ouly through the equalization of
Poor Rates that what is left undone in
this wise, can be done. Much more is
left undone, or is ill-done, than I have
space to suggest in these notes of a
single uncommercial journey ; but, the
wise men of the East, before they can
reasonably hold forth about it, must
look to the North and South and
West ; let them also, any morning be
fore taking the seat of Solomon, look
into the shops and dwellings all around
the Temple, and first ask themselves
"how much more can these poor peo
ple — many of whom keep themselves
with difficulty enough out of the work
house — bear ?"

I had yet other matter for reflection,
as I journeyed home, inasmuch as, before
I altogether departed from the neigh

borhood of Mr. Baker's trap, I had
knocked at the gate of the workhouse
of St. George's-in-the-East, and had
found it to be an establishment highly
creditable to those parts, and thoroughly
well administered by a most intelligent
master. I remarked in it, an instance
of the collateral harm that obstinate
vanity and folly can do. " This was the
Hall where those old paupers, male and
female, whom I had just seen, met for
the Church service, was it ?" — "Yes." —
" Did they sing the Psalms to any in
strument ?" — " They would like to, very
much ; they would have an extraordi
nary interest in doing so." " And
could none be got?" — "Well, a piano
could even have been got for nothing,

but these unfortunate dissensions "

Ah ! better, far better, my Christian
friend in the beautiful garment, to have
let the singing boys alone, and left the
multitude to sing for themselves 1 You
should know better than I, but I think
I have read that they did so, ouce upon
a time, and that " when they had sung
an hymn," Some one (not in a beauti
ful garment) went up into the Mount
of Olives.

It made my heart ache to think of
this miserable trifling, in the streets of
a city where every stone seemed to call
to me, as I walked along, " Turn this
way, man, and see what waits to be
done 1" So I decoyed myself into an
other train of thought to ease my heart.
But, I don't know that I did it, for I
was so full of paupers, that it was, after
all, only a change to a single pauper,
who took possession of my remem
brance instead of a thousand.

" I beg your pardon, sir," he had
said, in a confidential manner, on an
other occasion, taking me aside; "but
I have seen better days."

" I am very sorry to hear it."

" Sir, I have a complaint to make
against the master."

"I have no power here, I assure you.
And if I had "

"But allow me, sir, to mention it, as
between yourself and a man who has
seen better days, sir. The master and
myself are both masons, sir, and I make
him the sign continually ; but, because
I am in this unfortunate position, sir, he
won't give me the countersign 1"

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

As I shut the door of my lodging
behind me, and came out into the streets
at six on a drizzling Saturday evening
in the last past month of January, all
that neighborhood of Covent Garden,
looked very desolate. It is so essen
tially a neighborhood which has seen
better days, that bad weather affects it
sooner than another place which has
not come down in the world. In its
present reduced condition, it bears a
thaw almost worse than any place I
know. It--gets so dreadfully low-spi
rited when damp breaks forth. Those
wonderful houses about Drury-lane
Theatre, which in the palmy days of
theatres were prosperous and long-set
tled places of business, and which now
change hands every week, but never
change their character of being divided
and subdivided on the ground floor into
mouldy dens of shops where an orange
and half a dozen nuts, or a pomatum-
pot, one cake of fancy soap, and a
cigar-box, are offered for sale and never
sold, were most ruefully contemplated
that evening, by the statue of Shake
speare, with the rain-drops coursing
one another down its innocent nose.
Those inscrutable pigeon-hole offices,
with nothing in them (not so much as
an ink-stand) but a model of a theatre
before the curtain, where, in the Italian
Opera season, tickets at reduced prices
are kept on sale by nomadic gentlemen
in smeary hats too tall for them, whom
one occasionally seems to have seen on
race-courses, not wholly unconnected
with strips of cloth of various colors
and a rolling ball — those Bedouin es
tablishments, deserted by the tribe, and
tenantless except when sheltering in
one corner an irregular row of ginger-
beer-bottles which would have made
one shudder on such a night, but for
its being plain that they had nothing
in them, shrunk from the shrill cries of
the newsboysdown at their Exchange in
the kennel of Catherine-street, like guilty
things upon a fearful summons. At
the pipe-shop in Great Russell-street,
the Death's-head pipes were like a
theatrical memento mori, admonishing
beholders of the decline of the play
house as an Institution. I walked .up
Bow-street, disposed to be angry with
the shops there, that were letting out
theatrical secrets by exhibiting to work-

a-day humanity, the stuff of whicL dia
dems and robes of kings are made. I
noticed that some shops which had
once been in the dramatic line, and had
straggled out of it, were not getting on
prosperously — like some actors I have
known, who took to business and failed
to make it answer. In a word, those
streets looked so dull, and, considered
as theatrical streets, so broken and
bankrupt, that the FOUND DEAD on the
black-board at the police station might
have announced the decease of the
Drama, and the pools of water outside
the fire-engine maker's at the corner
of Long-acre might have been occa
sioned by his having brought out the
whole of his stock to play upon its last
smouldering ashes.

And yet, on such a night in so de
generate a time, the object of my jour
ney was theatrical. And yet, within
half an hour I was in an immense the
atre, capable of holding nearly five
thousand people.

What Theatre? Her Majesty's?
Far better. Royal Italian Opera? Far
better. Infinitely superior to the latter
for hearing in ; infinitely superior to
both, for seeing in. To every part of
this Theatre spacious fireproof ways of
ingress and egress. For every part of
it, convenient places of refreshment and
retiring rooms. Every thing to eat and
drink carefully supervised as to quality,
and sold at an appointed price ; respect
able female attendan ts ready for the com
monest women in the audience ; a gen
eral air of consideration, decorum, and
supervision, most commendable ; an un
questionably humanizing influence in all
the social arrangements of the place.

Surely a dear Theatre, then ? Be
cause there were in London (not very
long ago) Theatres with entrance-prices
up to half a guinea a head, whose ar
rangements were not half so civilized.
Surely, therefore, a dear Theatre ? Not
very dear. A gallery at threepence,
another gallery at fourpence, a pit at
sixpence, boxes and pit-stalls at a shil
ling, and six private boxes at half-a-
crown.

My uncommercial curiosity induced
me to go into every nook of this great
place, aud among every class of the au
dience assembled in it — amounting that
evening, as I calculated, to about two

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

thousand and odd hundreds. Magnifi
cently lighted by a firmament of spark
ling chandeliers, 4he building was ven
tilated to perfection. My sense of
smell, without being particularly deli
cate, has been so offended in some of
the commoner places of public resort,
that I have often been obliged to leave
them when I have made an uncom
mercial journey expressly to look
on. The air of this Theatre was fresh,
cool, and wholesome. To help toward
this end, very sensible precautions
had been used ingeniously combining
the experience of hospitals and railway
stations. Asphalt' pavements substi
tuted for wooden floors, honest bare
walls of glazed brick and tile — even
at the back of the boxes — for plaster
and paper, no benches stuffed, and no
carpeting or baize used : a cool mate
rial with a light glazed surface, being
the covering of the seats.

These various contrivances are as well
considered in the place in question as
if it were a Fever Hospital ; the result
is, that it is sweet and healthful. It
has been constructed' from the ground
to the roof, with a careful reference to
sight and sound in every corner ; the
result is, that its form is beautiful, and
that the appearance of the audience, as
seen from the proscenium — with every
face in it commanding the. stage, and the
whole so admirably raked and turned to
that centre, that a hand can scarcely
move in the great assemblage without
the movement being seen from thence —
is highly remarkable in its union of
vastness with compactness. The stage
itself, and all its appurtenances of ma
chinery, cellarage, height, and breadth,
are on a scale more like the Scala at
Milan, or the San Carlo at Naples, or
the Grand Opera at Paris, than any no
tion a stranger would be likely to form
of the Britannia Theatre at Hoxton, a
mile north of Saint Luke's Hospital in
the Old-street-road, London. The
Forty Thieves might be played here,
and every thief ride his real horse, and
the disguised captain bring in his oil jars
on a train of real camels, and nobody
be put out of the way. This really ex
traordinary place is the achievement of
one man's enterprise, and was erected
on the ruins of an inconvenient old
building, in less than five months, at a

round cost of five-and-twenty thousand
pounds. To dismiss this part of my
subject, and still to render to the pro
prietor the credit that is strictly his due,
I must add that his sense of the respon
sibility upon him to make the best of
his audience, and to do his best for
them, is a highly agreeable sign of these
times.

As the spectators at this theatre, for
a reason I will presently show, were the •
object of my journey, I entered on the
play of the night as one of the two
thousand and odd hundreds, by look
ing about me at my neighbors. We
were a motley assemblage of people,
and we had a good many boys and
young men among us ; we had also
many girls and young women. To re
present, however, that we did not include
a very great number, and a very fair pro
portion, of family groups, would be to
make a gross misstatemeut. Such
groups were to be seen in all parts of
the house; in the boxes and stalls par
ticularly, they were composed of per
sons of very decent appearance, who
had many children with them. Among
our dresses there were most kinds of
shabby and greasy wear, and much fus
tian and corduroy that was neither
sound nor fragrant. The caps of our
young men were mostly of a limp char
acter, and we who wore them, slouched,
high-shouldered, into our places with
our hands in our pockets, and occasion
ally twisted our cravats about our necks
like eels, and occasionally tied them
down our breasts like links of sausages,
and occasionally had a screw in our hair
over each cheek-bone with a slight
thief-flavor in it. Beside prowlers and
idlers, we were mechanics, dock-labor
ers, coster-mongers, petty tradesmen,
small clerks, milliners, stay-makers, shoe-
binders, slop workers, poor workers in a
hundred highways and by-ways. Many
of us — on the whole, the majority —
were not at all clean, and not at all
choice in our lives or conversation. But
we had all come together in a place
where our convenience was well con
sulted, and where we were well looked
after, to enjoy an evening's enter
tainment in common. We were not
g5irig to lose any part of what we had
paid for, through any body's caprice,
and as a community we had a character

THE UNCRMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

to lose. So we were closely attentive,
and kept excellent order, and let the
man or boy who did otherwise instantly
get out from this place, or we would put
him out with the greatest expedition.

We began at half-past six with a
pantomime — with a pantomime so long,
that before it was over I felt as if I had
been traveling for six weeks — going to
India, say, by the Overland Mail. The
Spirit of Liberty was the principal per
sonage in the Introduction, and the
Four quarters of the World came out
of the globe, glittering, and discoursed
with the Spirit, who sang charmingly.
We were delighted to understand that
there was no Liberty anywhere but
among ourselves, and we highly ap
plauded the agreeable fact. In an alle
gorical way, which did as well as any
other way, we and the Spirit of Liberty
got into a kingdom of Needles and
Pins, and found them at war with a
potentate who called in to his aid their
old arch-enemy Rust, and who would
have got the better of them if the Spirit
of Liberty had not in the nick of time
transformed the leaders into Clown,
Pantaloon, Harlequin, Columbine, Har-
lequina, and a whole family of Sprites,
consisting of a remarkably stout father
and three spineless sons. We all knew
what was coming, when the Spirit of
Liberty addressed the King with the
big face, and His Majesty backed to
the side-scenes and began untying him
self behind, with his big face all on one
side. Our excitement at that crisis was
great, and our delight unbounded.
After this era in our existence, we went
through all the incidents of a panto
mime ; it was not by any means a savage
pantomime in the way of burning or
boiling people, or throwing them out
of window, or cutting them up ; was
often very droll, was always liberally
got up, and cleverly presented. I
noticed that the people who kept the
shops, and who represented the passen
gers in the thoroughfares and so forth,
had no conventionality in them, but
were unusually like the real thing —
from which I infer that you may take
that audience in (if you wish to) con
cerning Knights and Ladies, Fairies,
Angels, or such like, but that they are
not to be done as to any thing in the
streets I noticed, also, that when two

young men, dressed in exact imitation
of the eel-and-sausage-cravated portion
of the audience, were chased by police
men, and finding themselves in danger
of being caught, dropped so suddenly
as to oblige the policemen to tumble
over them, there was great rejoicing
among the caps — as though it were a
delicate reference to something they had
heard of before.

The Pantomime was succeeded by a
Melo-Drama. Throughout the evening,
I was pleased to observe Virtue quite
as triumphant as she usually is out of
doors, and indeed I thought rather
more so. We all agreed (for the time)
that honesty was the best policy, and
we were as hard as iron upon Vice, and
we wouldn't hear of Villany getting on
in the world — no, not upon any con
sideration whatever.

Between the pieces, we almost all of
us went out and refreshed. Many of
us went the length of drinking beer at
the bar of the neighboring public-house,
some of us drank spirits, crowds of us
had sandwiches and ginger-beer at the
refreshment-bars established for us in
the Theatre. The sandwich — as sub
stantial as was consistent with porta
bility, and as cheap as possible — we
hailed as one of our greatest institu
tions. It forced its way among us at
all stages of the entertainment, and we
were always delighted to see it; its
adaptability to .the varying moods of
our nature was surprising ; we could ,
never weep so comfortably as when our
tears fell on our sandwich ; we could
never laugh so heartily as when we
choked with sandwich ; Virtue never
looked so beautiful or Vice so deformed
as when we paused, sandwich in hand,
to consider what would come of that
resolution of Wickedness in boots, to
sever Innocence in flowered chintz from
Honest Industry in striped stockings.
When the curtain fell for the night, we
still fell back upon sandwich, to help us
through the rain and mire, and home to
bed.

This, as I have mentioned, was Satur
day night. Being Saturday night, I
had accomplished but the half of my
uncommercial journey ; for, its object
was to compare the play on Saturday
evening, with the preaching in the same
Theatre on Sunday evening.

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

Therefore, at the same hour of half-
past six on the similarly damp and
muddy Sunday evening, I returned to
this Theatre. I drove up to the entrance
(fearful of being late, or I should have
come on foot), and found myself in a
large crowd of people who, T am happy
to state, were put into excellent spirits
by my arrival. Having nothing to
look at but the mud and the closed
doors, they looked at me, and highly
enjoyed the comic spectacle. My
modesty inducing me to draw off, some
hundreds of yards, into a dark corner,
they at once forgot me, and applied
themselves to their former occupation
of looking at the mud and looking in at
the closed doors : which being of grated
iron-work, allowed the lighted passage
within to be seen. They were chiefly
people of respectable appearance, odd
and impulsive as most crowds are, and
making a joke of being there as most
crowds do.

In the dark corner I might have sat
a long while, but that a very obliging
passer-by informed me that the Theatre
was already full, and that the people
whom I saw in the street were all shut
out for want of room. After that, I
lost no time in worming myself into the
building, and creeping to a place in a
Proscenium box that had been kept for
me.

There must have been full four thou
sand people present. Carefully esti
mating the pit alone, I could bring it
out as holding little less than fourteen
hundred. Every part of the house was
well filled, and I had not found it easy
to make my way along the back of the
boxes to where I sat. The chandeliers
in the ceiling were lighted ; there was
no light on the stage ; the orchestra
was empty. The green curtain was
down, and packed pretty closely on
chairs on the small space of stage
before it were some thirty gentlemen,
and two or three ladies. In the centre
of these, in a desk or pulpit covered
with red baize, was the presiding min
ister. The kind of rostrum he occupied,
will be very well understood, if I liken
it to a boarded-up fire-place turned
towards the audience, with a gentleman
in a black surtout standing in the stove
and leaning forward over the mantle-
piece.

A portion of Scripture was being
read when I went in. It was followed
by a discourse, to which the congrega-
gation listened with most exemplary
attention and uninterrupted silence and
decorum. My own attention compre
hended both the auditory and the
speaker, and shall turn to both in this
recalling of the scene, exactly as it did
at the time.

" A very difficult thing," I thought,
when the discourse began, " to speak
appropriately to so large an audience,
and to speak with tact. Without it,
better not to speak at all. Infinitely
better to read the New Testament well,
and to let that speak. In this congre
gation there is indubitably one pulse ;
but I doubt if any power short of
genius can touch it as one, and make it
answer as one,"

I could not possibly say to myself as
the discourse proceeded, that the min
ister was a good speaker. I could not
possibly say to myself that he expressed
an understanding of the general mind
and character of his audience. There
was a supposititious working-man intro
duced into the homily to make suppo
sititious objections to our Christian
religion and be reasoned down, who
was not only a very disagreeable person,
but remarkably unlike life — very much
more unlike it than any thing I had seen
in the pantomime. The native inde
pendence of character this artisan was
supposed to possess, was represented
by a suggestion of a dialect that I cer
tainly never heard in my uncommercial
travels, and with a coarse swing of voice
and manner any thing but agreeable to
his feelings I should conceive, consid
ered in the light of a portrait, and as
fur away from the fact as a Chinese
Tartar. There was a model pauper in
troduced in like manner, who appeared
to me to be the most intolerably arro
gant pauper ever relieved, and to show
himself in absolute want and dire ne
cessity of a course of Stone Yard. For,
how did this pauper testify to his having
received the gospel of humility ? A
gentleman met him in the workhouse,
and said (which I myself really thought
good-natured of him), "Ah, John? I
am sorry to see you here. I am sorry
to see you so poor." " Poor, sir I" re
plied that man, drawing himself up, "I

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

am the son of a Prince ! My father is
the King: of Kings. My father is the
Lord of Lords. My father is the ruler
of all the Princes of the Earth !" &c.
And this was what all the preacher's
fellow-sinners might come to, if they
would embrace this blessed book — which
I must say it did some violence to my
own feelings of reverence, to see held
out at arm's length at frequent intervals
and soundingly slapped, like a slow lot
at a sale. Now, could I help asking
myself the question, whether the me
chanic before me who must detect the
preacher as being wrong about the
visible manner of himself and the like
of himself, and about such a noisy lip-
server as that pauper, might not, most
unhappily for the usefulness of the oc
casion, doubt that preacher's being
right about things not visible to human
Beuses ?

Again. Is it necessary or advisable
to address such an audience continually,
as "fellow-sinners" ? Is it not enough
to be fellow-creatures, born yesterday,
suffering and striving to-day, dying to
morrow ? By our common humanity,
my brothers and sisters, by our common
capacities for pain and pleasure, by our
common laughter and our common tears,
by our common aspiration to reach some
thing better than ourselves, by our com
mon tendency to believe in something
good, and to invest whatever we love or
whatever we lose with some qualities
that are superior to our own failings
and weaknesses as we know them in our
own poor hearts — by these. Hear me !
— Surely, it is enough to be fellow-
creatures. Surely, it includes the other
designation and some touching mean
ings over and above.

Again. There was a personage in
troduced into the discourse (not an
absolute novelty, to the best of my re
membrance of my reading), who had
been personally known to the preacher,
and had been quite a Crichton in all the
ways of philosophy, But had been an
infidel. Many a time had the preacher
taiked with him on that subject, and
many a time had he failed to convince
that intelligent man. But he fell ill
and died, and before he died he recorded
his conversion — in words which the
preacher had taken down, my fellow-
sinners,' and would read to you from

this piece of paper. I must confess that
to me, as one of an uninstructed audi
ence, they did not appear particularly
edifying. I thought their tone ex
tremely selfish, and I thought they had
a spiritual vanity in them which was of
the before-mentioned refractory pauper's
family.

All slangs and twangs are objec
tionable everywhere, but the slang and
twang of the conventicle — as bad in its
way as that of the House of Commons,
and nothing worse can be said of it —
should be studiously avoided under such
circumstances as I describe. The avoid
ance was not complete on this occasion.
Nor was it quite agreeable to see the
preacher addressing his pet " points "
to his backers on the stage, as if appeal
ing to those disciples to shore him up,
and testify to the multitude that each
of those points was a clincher.

But, in respect of the large Chris
tianity of his general tone ; of his re
nunciation of all priestly authority ; of
his earnest and reiterated assurance to
the people that the commonest among
them could work out their own salva
tion if they would, by simply, lovingly,
and dutifully following Our Saviour,
and that they needed the mediation of
no erring man ; in these particulars,
this gentleman deserved all praise. No
thing could be better than the spirit, or
the plain emphatic words of his discourse
in these respects. And it was a most sig
nificant and encouraging circumstance,
that whenever he struck that chord, or
whenever he described any thing which
Christ himself had done, the array of
faces before him was very much more
earnest, and very much more expressive
of emotion, than at any other time.

And now, I am brought to the fact,
that the lowest part of the audience of
the previous night, was not there.
There is no doubt about it. There was
no such thing in that building, that
Sunday evening. I have been told
since, that the lowest part of the audi
ence of the Victoria" Theatre has been
attracted to its Sunday services. I have
been very glad to hear it, but on this
occasion of which I write, the lowest
part of the usual audience of the Bri
tannia Theatre, decidedly and unques
tionably stayed away. When I first
took my seat and looked at the house,

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

my surprise at the change in its occu
pants was as great as ray disappoint
ment. . To the most respectable class
of the previous evening, was added a
great number of respectable strangers
attracted by curiosity, and drafts from
the regular congregations of various
chapels. It was impossible to fail in
identifying the character of these last,
and they were very numerous. I came
out in a strong, slow tide of them set
ting from the boxes. Indeed, while the
discourse was in progress, the respect
able character of the auditory was so
manifest in their appearance, that when
the minister addressed a supposititious
" outcast," one really felt a little impa
tient of it, as a figure of speech not
justified by any thing the eye could dis
cover.

The time appointed for the conclusion
of the proceedings was eight o'clock.
The address haVing lasted until full that
time, and it being the custom to con
clude with a hymn, the preacher inti
mated in a few sensible words that the
clock had struck the hour, and that those
who desired to go before the hymn was
sung, could go now, without giving of
fense. No one stirred. The hymn was
then sung, in good time and tune and
unison, and its effect was very striking.
A comprehensive benevolent prayer dis
missed the throng, and in seven or eight
minutes there was nothing left in the
Theatre but a light cloud of dust.

That these Sunday meetings in
Theatres are good things, I do not
doubt. Nor do I doubt that they will
work lower and lower down in the so
cial scale, if those who preside over
them will be very careful on two heads :
firstly, not to disparage the places in
which they speak, or the intelligence
of their hearers ; secondly, not to set
themselves in antagonism to the natural
inborn desire of the mass of mankind to
recreate themselves and to be amused.

There is a third head, taking prece
dence of all others, to which my remarks
on the discourse I heard, have tended.
In the New Testament there is the
most beautiful and affecting history
conceivable by man, and there are the
terse models for all prayer and for all
preaching. As to the models, imitate
them, Sunday preachers — else why are
they there, consider ? As to the his

tory, tell it. Some people cannot read,
some people will not read, many people .
(this especially holds among the young
and ignorant) find it hard to pursue the
verse-form in which the book is pre
sented to them, and imagine that those
breaks imply gaps, and wan', of con
tinuity. Help them over that first
stumbling-block, by setting forth the
history in narrative, with no fear of ex
hausting it. You will never preach so
well, you will never move them so pro
foundly, you will never send them away
with half so much to think of. Which
is the better interest : Christ's choice
of twelve poor men to help in those
merciful wonders among the poor and
rejected ; or the pious bullying of u
whole Union-full of paupers ? What,
is your changed philosopher to wretched
me, peeping in at the door out of thy
mud of the streets and of my life, when
you have the widow's 'son to tell me
about, the ruler's daughter, the other
figure at the door when >the brother of
the two sisters was dead, and one of the
two ran to the mourner, crying, " The
Master is come, and calleth for thee" ?
Let the preacher who will thoroughly
forget himself and remember no indi
viduality but one, and no eloquence but
one, stand up before four thousand men
and women at the Britannia Theatre
any Sunday night, recounting that nai-
rative to them as fellow-creatures, au-i
he shall see a sight I

Is ttye sweet little cherub who sits
smiling aloft and keeps watch on the
life of Poor Jack; commissioned to take
charge of Mercantile Jack, as well as
Jack of the national navy ? If not,
who is ? What is the cherub about, t
and what are we all about, when Poor
Mercantile Jack is having his brains
slowly knocked out by pennyweights,
aboard the brig Beelzebub, or the barque
Bowie-knife — when he looks his last at
that infernal craft, with the first offi
cer's iron boot-heel in his remaining
eye, or with his dying body towed over
board in the ship's wake, while the
cruel wounds in it do " the multitudi
nous seas incarnadine"?

Is it unreasonable to entertain a be
lief that if, aboard the brig Beelzebub
or the barque Bowie-knife, the fir&t
officer did half the damage to cotton

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

that he does to men, there would pre
sently arise from both sides of the At
lantic so vociferous an invocation of
the sweet little cherub who sits calcu
lating aloft, keeping watch on the mar
kets that pay, that such vigilant cherub
would, with a winged sword, have that
gallant officer's organ of destructive-
ness out of his head in the space of a
flash of lightning ?

If it be unreasonable, then ain I the
most unreasonable of men, for I believe
it with all my soul.

This was my thought as I walked the
dock-quays at Liverpool, keeping watch
on poor Mercantile Jack. Alas for
me ! I have long outgrown the state
of sweet little cherub ; but there I was,
and there Mercantile Jack was, and
very busy he was, and very cold he
was : the snow yet lying in the frozen
furrows of the land, and the northeast
winds snipping off the tops of the little
waves in the Mersey, and rolling them
into hailstones to pelt him with. Mer
cantile Jack was hard at it, in the hard
weather, as he mostly is in all weathers,
poor Jack. He was girded to ships'
masts and funnels of steamers, like a
forester to a great oak, scraping and
painting; he was lying out on yards,
furling sails that tried to beat him off;
he was dimly discernible up in a world
of giant cobwebs, reefing and splicing;
he was faintly audible down in holds,
stowing and unshipping cargo ; he was
winding round and round at capstans
melodious, monotonous, and drunk ; he
was of a diabolical aspect, with coaling
for the Antipodes ; he was washing
decks barefoot, with the breast of his
red shirt open to the blast, though it
was sharper than the knife in his leath
ern girdle ; he was looking over bul
warks, all eyes and hair ; he was stand
ing by at the shoot of the Cunard
steamer, off to-morrow, as the stocks in
trade of several butchers, poulterers,
and fishmongers, poured down into the
ice-house ; he was coming aboard of
other vessels, with his kit in a tarpaulin
bag, attended by plunderers to the very
last moment of his shore-going exist
ence. As though his senses, when re
leased from the uproar of the elements,
were under obligaticn to be confused
by other turmoil, there was a rattling
of wheels, a clattering of hoofs, a clash

ing of iron, a jolting of cotton and
hides and casks and timber, an inces
sant deafening disturbance, on the
quays, that was the very madness of
sound. And as, in the midst of it, h«
stood swaying about, with his hair
blown all manner of wild ways, rather
crazedly taking leave of his plunderers,
all the rigging in the docks was shrill
in the wind, and every little steamer
coming and going across the Mersey
was sharp in its blowing off, and every
buoy in the river 'bobbed spitefully up
and down, as if there were a general
taunting chorus of " Come along, Mer
cantile Jack 1 Ill-lodged, ill-fed, ill-
used, hocussed, entrapped, anticipated,
cleaned out. Come along, Poor Mer
cantile Jack, and be tempest-tossed till
you are drowned !"

The uncommercial transaction which
had brought me and Jack together, was
this : — I had entered the Liverpool po
lice-force, that I might have a look at
the various unlawful traps which are
every night set for Jack. As my term
of service in that distinguished corps
was short, and my personal bias in the
capacity of one of its members has
ceased, no suspicion will attach to my
evidence that it is an admirable force.
Besides that it is composed, without
favor, of the best men that can be
picked, it is directed by an unusual in
telligence. Its organization against
Fires, I take to be much better than
the metropolitan system, and in all re
spects it tempers its remarkable vigi
lance with a still more remarkable dis
cretion.

Jack had knocked off work in the
docks some hours, and I bad taken, for
purposes of identification, a photograph
likeness of a thief in the portrait room
at our head police-office (on the whole,
he seemed rather complimented by the
proceeding), and I had been on police-
parade, and the small hand of the
clock was moving on to ten, when I
took up my lantern to follow Mr. Su
perintendent to the traps that were set
for Jack. In Mr. Superintendent I
saw, as any body might, a tall, well-
looking, well set-up man of a soldierly
bearing, with a cavalry air, a good
chest, and a resolute but not by any
means ungentle face. He carried in
his hand a plain black walking-stick of

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

hard wood ; and whenever and wher
ever, at any after-time of the night, he
struck it on the pavement with a ring
ing sound, it instantly produced a
whistle out of the darkness, and a po
liceman. To this remarkable stick, I
refer an air of mystery and magic which
pervaded the whole of my perquisition
among the traps that were set for
Jack.

We began by diving into the ob
scurest streets and lanes of the port.
Suddenly pausing in a flow of cheerful
discourse, before a dead wall, appa
rently some ten miles long, Mr. Super
intendent struck upon the ground, and
the wall opened and shot out, with mi
litary salute of hand to temple, two po
licemen — not in the least surprised
themselves, not in the least surprising
Mr. Superintendent.

'All right, Sharpeye ?"

'All right, sir."

' All right, Trampfoot ?"

' All right, sir."

' Is Quickear there ?"

' Hero am I, sir."

' Come with us."

'Yes sir."

So, Sharpeye went before, and Mr.
Superintendent and I went next, and
Trampfoot and Quickear marched as
rear-guard. Sharpeye, I soon had oc
casion to remark, had a skillful and
quite professional way of opening doors
— -touched latches delicately, as if they
were keys of musical instruments —
opened every door he touched, as if he
were perfectly confident that there was
stolen property behind it — instantly
insinuated himself to prevent its being
shut.

Sharpeye opened several doors of
traps that were set for Jack, but Jack
did not happen to be in any of them.
They were all such miserable places
that really, Jack, if I were you, I would
give them a wider berth. In every
trap, somebody was sitting over a fire,
waiting for Jack. Now, it was a
crouching old woman, like the picture
of the Norwood Gipsy in the old six
penny dream-books ; now, it was a
crimp of the male sex in a checked
shirt and without a coat, reading a
newspaper ; now, it was a man crimp
and a woman crimp, who always intro
duced themselves as united in holy ma

trimony ; now, it was Jack's delight,
his (un)lovely Nan ; but they were all
waiting for Jack, and were all fright
fully disappointed to see us.

" Who have you got up-stairs here ?"
says Sharpeye, generally. (In the
Move-on tone.)

" Nobody, surr ; sure not a blessed
sowl !" (Irish feminine reply.)

" What do you mean by nobody ?
Didn't I hear a woman's step go up
stairs when my hand was on the
latch ?"

" Ah ! sure thin you're rhight, surr, I
forgot her ! 'Tis on'y Betsy White,
surr. Ah! you know Betsy, surr.
Come down, Betsy, darlin', and say the
gintlemin."

Generally, Betsy looks over the ba
nisters (the steep staircase is in the
room) with a forcible expression in her
protesting face, of an intention to com
pensate herself for the present trial by
grinding Jack finer than usual when
he does come. Generally, Sharpeye
turns to Mr. Superintendent, and says,
as if the subjects of his remarks were
wax-work :

" One of the worst, sir, this house is.
This woman has been indicted three
times. This man's a regular bad one
likewise. His real name is Pegg.
Gives himself out as Waterhouse."

" Never had sitch a name as Pegg
near me back, thin, since I was in this
house, bee the good Lard!" says the
woman.

Generally, the man says nothing at
all, but becomes exceedingly round-
shouldered, and pretends to read his
paper with rapt attention. Generally,
Sharpeye directs our observation with
a look, to the prints and pictures that
are invariably numerous on the walls.
Always, Trampfoot and Quickear are
taking notice on the door-step. In de
fault of Sharpeye being acquainted
with the exact individuality of any gen
tleman encountered, one of these two
is sure to proclaim from the outer air,
like a gruff spectre, that Jackson is not
Jackson, but knows himself to be Fo-
gle ; and that Canlon is Walker's bro
ther, against whom there was not suffi
cient evidence ; or that the man who
says he never was at sea since he was
a boy, came ashore from a voyage last
Thursday, or sails to-morrow morning.

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

"And that is a bad class of man, you
see," says Mr. Superintendent, when
we got out into the dark again, " and
very difficult to deal with, who, wtfen
he has made this place too hot to hold
him, enters himself for a voyage as
steward or cook, and is oat of know
ledge for months, and then turns up
again worse than ever."

When we had gone into many such
houses, and had come out (always
leaving every body relapsing into wait
ing for Jack,) we started off to a sing
ing-house where Jack was expected to
muster strong.

The vocalization was taking place in
a long low room up-stairs ; at one end,
an orchestra of two performers, and a
small platform ; across the room, a
series of open pews for Jack, with an
aisle down the middle ; at the other
end, a larger pew than the rest entitled
SNUG, and reserved for mates and
similar good company. About the
room, some amazing coffee-colored
pictures varnished an inch deep, and
some stuffed creatures in cases ; dotted
among the audience, in Snug and out
of Snug, the " Professionals ;" among
them, of course, the celebrated comic
favorite Mr. Banjo Bones, looking
very hideous with his blackened face
and limp sugar-loaf hat ; beside him,
sipping rum and-water, Mrs. Banjo
Bones, in her natural colors — a little
heightened.

It was a Friday night, and Friday
night was considered not a good night
for Jack. At any rate, Jack did not
show in very great force even here,
though the house was one to which he
much resorts, and where a good deal of
money is taken. There was British
Jack, a little maudlin and sleepy, loll
ing over his emptied glass, as if he
were trying to read his fortune at the
bottom ; there was Loafing Jack at
the Stars and Stripes, rather an unpro
mising customer, with his long nose,
lank cheek, high cheek-bones, and no
thing soft about him but his cabbage-
leaf hat ; there was Spanish Jack, with
curls of black hair, rings in his ears,
and a knife not far from his hand, if you
got into trouble with him ; there were
Maltese Jack, and Jack of Sweden, and
Jack the Finn, looming through the
smoke of their pipes, and turning faces

that looked as if they were carved out of
dark wood, toward the young lady danc
ing the hornpipe, who found the platform
so exceedingly small for it that I had a
nervous expectation of seeing her, in
the backward steps, disappear througli
the window. Still, if all hands had
been got together, they would not have
more than half filled the room. Ob
serve, however, said Mr. Licensed Vie-
tualer, the host, that it was Friday
night, and, besides, it was getting on
for twelve, and Jack had gone aboard.
A sharp and watchful man, Mr. Li
censed Victualer the host, with tight
lips and a complete edition of Cocker's
arithmetic in each eye. Attended to
his business himself, he said. Always
on the spot. When he heard of talent,
trusted nobody's account of it, but went
off by rail to see it. If true talent, en
gaged it. Pounds a week for talent —
four pound — five pound. Banjo Bones
was undoubted talent. Hear this in
strument that was going to play — it was
real talent ! In truth it was very good ;
a kind of piano-accordeon, played by a
young girl of a delicate prettiness of
face, figure, and dress, that made the
audience look coarser. She sang to
the instrument, too ; first, a song about
village bells, and how they chimed ;
then a song about how I went to sea ;
winding up with an imitation of the
bagpipes, which Mercantile Jack
seemed to understand much the best.
A good girl, said Mr. Licensed Vic
tualer. Kept herself select. Sat in
Snug, not listening to the blandish
ments of mates. Lived with mother.
Father dead. Once, a merchant well
to do, but over-speculated himself. On
delicate inquiry as to salary paid for
item of talent under consideration, Mr.
Victualer's pounds dropped suddenly
to shillings — still it was a very comfort
able thing for a young person like that,
you know ; she only went on, six times
a night, and was only required to be
therefrom six at night to twelve. What
was more conclusive was, Mr. Victual
er's assurance that he " never allowed
any language, and never suffered any
disturbance." Sharpeye confirmed the
statement, and the order that prevailed
was the best proof of it that could have
been cited. So, I came to the conclu
sion that Poor Mercantile Jack might

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

do (as I am afraid he does) much worse
than trust himself to Mr. Victualer,
and pass his evenings here.

But we had not yet looked, Mr. Su
perintendent — said Trampfoot, receiv
ing us in the street again with military
salute — for dark Jack. True, Tramp-
foot. Ring the wonderful stick, rub the
wonderful lantern, and cause the spirits
of the stick and lantern to convey us to
the Darkies.

There was no disappointment in the
matter of Dark Jack ; he was produci
ble. The Genii set us down in the lit
tle first floor of a little public-house,
aud there in a stiflingly close atmo
sphere, were Dark Jack and Dark Jack's
Delight, his white unlovely Nan, sitting
against the wall all round the room.
More than that : Dark Jack's Delight
was the least unlovely Nan, both morally
and physically, that I saw that night.

As a fiddle and tambourine band
were sitting among the company,
Quickear suggested why not strike up ?
"Ah la'ads !" said a negro sitting by
the door, " gib the jebblem a darnse.
Tak' yah pardlers, jebblem, for 'urn
QUAD-rill."

This was the landlord, in a Greek
cap, and a dress half Greek and half ^
English. As master of the ceremonies,
he called all the figures, and occasion
ally addressed himself parenthetically —
after this manner. When he was very
loud, 1 use capitals.

" Now den ! Hoy 1 ONE. Right
and left. (Put a stearn on, gib 'urn
powder.) LA-dies' chail. BAL-loon
say. Lemonade ! Two. Ao-warnse
and go back (gib 'ell a breakdown,
shake it out o' yerselbs, keep a movil).
SwiNQ-corners, BAL-loon say, and
Lemonade ! (Hoy !) THREE. GENT
come for'ard with a lady and go back,
hoppersite come for'ard with a lady and
go back, ALL four come for'ard and do
what yer can. (Aeiohoy !) BAL-loon
say, and leetle lemonade (Dat hair
nigger by urn fireplace 'hind a' time,
shake it out o' yerselbs,.gib 'ell a break
down). Now den ! Hoy 1 FOUR I
Lemonade. BAL-loon say, aud swing.
FOUR ladies meet in 'um middle, FOUR
gents goes round 'um ladies, FOUR gents
passes out under 'um ladies' arms,
SWING — and Lemonade till 'a moosic
can't play no more 1 (Hoy, Hoy !)"

The male dancers were all blacks,
and one was an unusually powerful man
of six feet three or four. The sound of
theft1 flat feet on the floor was as unlike
the sound of white feet as their faces
were unlike white faces. They toed
and heeled, shuffled, double-shuffled,
double-double-shuffled, covered the
buckle, and beat the time out, rarely,
dancing with a great show of teeth, and
with a childish, good-humoured enjoy
ment that was very prepossessing.
They generally kept together, these poor
fellows, said Mr. Superintendent, be
cause they were at a disadvantage sin
gly, and liable to slights in the neigh
boring streets. But if I were Light
Jack, I should be very slow to inter
fere oppressively with Dark Jack, for,
whenever I have had to do with him I
have found him a simple and gentle fel
low. Bearing this in mind, I asked his
friendly permission to leave him resto
ration of beer, in wishing him good
night, and thus it fell out that the last
words I heard him say as I blundered
down the worn stairs, were, "Jebblein's
elth 1 Ladies drinks fust 1"

The night was now well on into the
morning, but, for miles and hours we
explored a strange world, where nobody
ever goes to bed, but every body is
eternally sitting up waiting for Jack.
This exploration was among a labyrinth
of dismal courts and blind alleys, called
Entries, kept in wonderful order by the
police, and in much better order than by
the corporation : the want of gaslight
in the most dangerous and infamous of
these places being quite unworthy of
so spirited a town. I need describe
but two or three of the houses in which
Jack was waited for, as specimens of
the rest. Many we attained by noisome
passages so profoundly dark that we
felt our way with our hands. Not one
of the whole number we visited, was
without its show of prints and orna
mental crockery ; the quantity of the
latter set forth on little shelves and in
little cases, in otherwise wretched rooms,
indicating that Mercantile Jack must
have an extraordinary fondness for
crockery, to necessitate so much of that
bait in his traps.

Among such garniture, in one front
parlor in the dead of the night, four
women were sitting by a fire. One of

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

them had a male child in her arms. On
a stool among them was a swarthy
youth with a guitar, who had evidently
stopped playing when our footsteps
were heard.

" Well ! how do you do ?" says»Mr.
Superintendent, looking about him.

" Pretty well, sir, and hope you gen
tlemen are going to treat us ladies, now
you have come to see us."

"Order there !" says Sharpeye.

" None of that 1" says Quickear.

Trarapfoot, outside is heard to con
fide to himself, "Megisson's lot this is.
And a bad 'un 1"

"Well!" says Mr. Superintendent,
laying his hand on the shoulder of the
swarthy youth, and who's this ?"

"Antonio, sir."

"And what does he do here ?"

" Come to give us a bit of music.
No harm in that, I suppose ?"

" A young foreign sailor ?"

"Yes. He's a Spaniard. You're a
Spaniard, ain't you, Antonio ?"

"Me Spanish."

" And he don't know a word you say,
not he, not if you was to talk to him
till doomsday." (Triumphantly, as if
it redounded to the credit of the house.)

" Will he play something ?"

" Oh, yes, if you like. Play some
thing, Antonio. You ain't ashamed to
play something ; are you ?"

The cracked guitar raises the feeblest
ghost of a tune, and three of the women
keep time to it with their heads, and
the fourth with the child. If Antonio
has bqpught any money in with him, I
ain afraid he will never take it out, and
it even strikes me that his jacket and
guitar may be in a bad way. But, the
look of the young man and the tinkling
of the instrument so change the place
in a moment to a leaf out of Don Quix
ote, that I wonder where his mule is
stabled, until he leaves off.

I am bound to acknowledge (as it
tends rather to my uncommercial con
fusion), that I occasioned a difficulty in
this establishment, by having taken the
child in my arms. For, on my offering
to restore it to a ferocious joker not
unstimulated by rum, who claimed to
be its mother, that unnatural parent
put her hands behind her, and declined
to accept it ; backing into the fire-place,
very shrilly declaring, regardless of

remonstrance from her friends, that she
knowed it to be Law, that whoever took
a child from its mother of his own will,
was bound to stick to it. The uncom
mercial sense of being in a rather ridi
culous position with the poor little child
beginning to be frightened, was relieved
by my worthy friend and fellow-con
stable, Trampfoot; who, laying hands
on the article as if it were a Bottle,
passed it on to the nearest woman, and
bade her " take hold of that." As we
came out, the Bottle was passed to the
ferocious joker, and they all sat dowil
as before, including Antonio and the
guitar. It was clear that there was no
such thing as a nightcap to this baby's
head, and that even he never went to
bed, but was always kept up — and
would grow up, kept up — waiting for
Jack.

Later still in the night, we came (by
the court " where the man was mur
dered," and by the other court across
the street, into which his body was
dragged) to another parlor in another
Entry, where several people were sitting
round a fire in just the same way. It
was a dirty and offensive place, with
some ragged clothes drying in it ; but
there was a high shelf over the eritrance-
€oor (to be out of the reach of maraud
ing hands, possibly), with two large
white loaves on it, and a great piece of
Cheshire cheese.

"Well!" says Mr. Superintendent,
with a comprehensive look all round.
" How do you do ?"

" Not much to boast of, sir." From
the courtesying woman of the house.
" This is my good man, sir."

" You are not registered as a common
Lodging House ?"

" No, sir."

Sharpeye (in the Move-on tune) puts
in the pertinent inquiry, " Then why
ain't you ?"

" Ain't got no one here, Mr. Sharp-
eye," rejoins the woman and my good
man together, " but our own family."

" How many are you in family ?"

The woman takes time to count, un
der pretense of coughing, and adds, as
one scant of breath, " Seven, sir."

But she has missed one, so Sharpeye,
who knows all about it, says :

" Here's a young man here makes
eight, who ain't of your family ?"

100

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

" No, Mr. Sharpeye, he's a weekly
lodger."

" What does he do for a living ?"

The young man here, takes the re
ply upon himself, and shortly answers,
"Ain't got nothing to do."

The young man here, is modestly
brooding behind a damp apron pendent
from a clothes-line. As I glance at him
I become — but I don't know why —
vaguely reminded of Woolwich, Chat
ham, Portsmouth, and Dover. When
we get out, my respected fellow-con
stable Sharpeye addressing Mr. Super
intendent, says :

" You noticed that young man, sir, in
at Darby's ?"

" Yes. What is he ?"

"Deserter, sir."

Mr. Sharpeye further intimates that
when we have done with his services, he
will step back and take that young man.
Which in course of time he does : feel
ing at perfect ease about finding him,
and knowing for a moral certainty that
nobody in that region will be gone to
bed.

Later still in the night, we came to
another parlor up a step or two from the
street, which was very cleanly, neatly,
even tastefully, kept, and in which, set
forth on a draped chest of drawers mask
ing the staircase, was such a profusion
of ornamental crockery, that it would
have furnished forth a handsome sale-
booth at a fair. It backed up a stout
old lady — HOGARTH drew her exact
likeness more than once — and a boy
who was carefully writing a copy in a
copy-book.

" Well, ma'am, how do you do ?"

Sweetly, she can assure the dear gen
tlemen, sweetly. Charmingly, charm
ingly. And overjoyed to see us.

" Why, this is a strange time for this
boy to be writing his copy. In the
middle of the night!"

" So it is, dear gentlemen, Heaven
bless your welcome faces and send ye
prosperous, but he has been to the Play
with a young friend for his diversion,
and he combinates his improvement
with entertainment by doing his school-
writhing afterwards, G-od be good to
ye!"

The copy admonished human nature
to subjugate the fire of every fierce de
sire. One might have thought it recom

mended stirring the fire, the old lady so
approved it. There she sat, rosily
beaming at the copy-book and the boy,
and invoking showers of blessings pn
our heads, when we left her in the middle
of ttoe night, waiting for Jack.

Later still in the night, we came to a
nauseous room with an earth floor, into
which the refuse scum of an alley
trickled. The stench of this habitation
was abominable ; the seeming poverty
of it, diseased and dire. Yet, here
again, was visitor or lodger — a man
sitting before the fire, like the rest of
them elsewhere, and apparently not dis
tasteful to the mistress's niece, who was
also before the fire. The mistress her
self had the misfortune of being in jail.

Three weird old women of transcend
ent ghastliness, were at needlework at a
table in this room. Says Trampfoot to
First Witch, " What are you making?"
Says she, " Money-bags."

" What are you making ?" retorts
Trampfoot, a little off his balance.

" Bags to hold your money," says the
witch, shaking her head, and setting her
teeth ; "you as has got it."

She holds up a common cash-bag, and
on the table is a heap of such bags.
Witch Two laughs at us. Witch Three
scowls at us. Witch sisterhood all,
stitch, stitch. First Witch has a red
circle round each eye. I fancy it like
the beginning of the development of a
perverted diabolical halo, and that when
it spreads all round her head, she will
die in the odor of devilry.

Trampfoot wishes to be informed
what First Witch has got behind the
table, down by the side of her, there ?
Witches Two and Three croak angrily,
" Show him the child 1"

She drags out a skinny little arm from
a brown dust-heap on the ground. Ad
jured not to disturb the child, she lets
it drop again. Thus we find at last that
there is one child in the world of Entries
who goes to bed — if this be bed.

Mr. Superintendent asks how long
are they going to work at those bags ?

How long ? First Witch repeats.
Going to have supper presently. See
the cups and saucers, and the plates.

Mr. Superintendent opines, it is
rather late for supper, surely.

" Late ? Ay 1 But we has to 'arn our
supper afore we eats it I" Both the

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

101

other witches repeat this after First
Witch, and take the Uncommercial
measurement with their eyes, as for a
charmed winding-sheet. Some grim
discourse ensues, referring to the mis
tress of the cave, who will be released
from jail to-morrow. Witches pro
nounce TranTpfoot " right there," when
he deems it a trying distance for the old
lady to walk ; she shall be fetched by
niece in a spring-cart.

As I took a parting look at First
Witch in turning away, the red marks
round her eyes seemed to have already
grown larger, and she hungrily and
thirstily looked out beyond me into the
dark doorway, to see if Jack were there.
For, Jack came even here, and the mis
tress had got into jail through deluding
Jack.

When I at last ended this night of
travel and g.ot-t-6 bed, I failed to keep
my mind on comfortable thoughts of
Seaman's Homes (not overdone with
strictness), and improved-dock regula
tions giving Jack greater benefit of fire
and candle aboard ship, through my
mind's wandering among the vermin I
had seen. Afterward the same vermin
ran all over my sleep. Evermore, when
on. a breezy day I see Poor Mercantile
Jack running into port with a fair wind
under all sail, I shall think of the un
sleeping host of devourers who never
go to bed, and are always in their set
traps waiting for him.

IN the late high winds I was blown
to a great many places — and indeed,
wind or no wind, I generally have ex
tensive transactions on hand in the arti
cle of Air — but I have not been blown
to any English place lately, and I very
seldom have been blown to any English
place in my life, where I could get any
thing good to eat and drink in five
minutes, or where, if I sought it, I was
received with a welcome.

This is a curious thing to consider.
But before (stimulated by my own ex
periences and the representations of
many fellow-travelers of every uncom
mercial and commercial degree) I con
sider it further, I must utter a passing
word of wonder concerning high winds.

I wonder why metropolitan gales al
ways blow so hard at Walworth. I
cannot imagine what Walvvorth has
7

done, to bring such windy punishment
upon itself, as I never fail to find re
corded in the newspapers when the
wind has blown at all hard. Brixton
seems to have something on its con
science ; Peckham suffers more than a
virtuous Peckham might be supposed
to deserve ; the howling neighborhood
of Deptford figures largely in the ac
counts of the ingenious gentlemen who
are out in every wind that blows, and
to whom it is an ill high wind that
blows no good ; but, there can hardly
be any Walvvorth left by this time. It
must surely be blown away. I have
read of more chimney-stacks and house-
copings coming down with terrific
smashes at Walworth, and of more sa
cred edifices being nearly (not quite)
blown out to sea from the same ac
cursed locality, than- I have read of
practiced thieves with the appearance
and manners of gentlemen — a popular
phenomenon which never existed on
earth out of fiction and a police report
Again : I wonder why people are al
ways blown into the Surrey Canal, and
into no other piece of water ? Why
do people get up early and go out in
groups, to be blown into the Surrey
Canal ? Do they say to one another,
" Welcome Death, so that we get into
the newspapers" ? Even that would
be an insufficient explanation, because
even then they might sometimes put
themselves in the way of being blown
into the Regent's Canal, instead of al
ways saddling Surrey for the field.
Some nameless policemen, too, is con
stantly, on the slightest provocation,
getting himself blown into this same
Surrey Canal. Will SIR RICHARD
MAYNE see to it, 'and restrain that
weak-minded and feeble-bodied consta
ble ?

To resume the consideration of the
curious question of Refreshment. I
am a Briton, and,, as such, I am aware
that I never will be a slave — and yet I
have a latent suspicion that there must
be some slavery of wrong custom in
this matter.

I travel by railroad. I start from
home at seven or eight in the morning,
after breakfasting hurriedly. What
with skimming over the open landscape,
what with mining in the damp bowels
of the earth, what with banging, boom-

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

ing, and shrieking the scores of miles
away, I am hungry when I arrive at
the " Refreshment" station where I am
expected. Please to observe, expected.
T have said, I am hungry ; perhaps I
might say, with greater point and force,
that I am to some extent exhausted,
and that I need — in the expressive
French sense of the word — to be re
stored. What is provided for my
restoration ? The apartment that is to
restore me, is a wind-trap, cunningly
set to inveigle all the draughts in that
country-side, and to communicate a
special intensity and velocity to them
as they rotate in two hurricanes : one,
about my wretched head : one, about
my wretched legs. The training of the
young ladies behind the counter who
are to restore me, has been from their
infancy directed to the assumption of a
defiant dramatic show that I am not
expected. It is in vain for me to re
present to them by my humble and
conciliatory manners, that I wish to be
liberal. It is in vain for me to repre
sent to myself, for the encouragement
of my sinking soul, that the young la
dies have a pecuniary interest in my
arrival. Neither my reason nor my
feelings can make head against the cold
glazed glare of eye with which I am
assured that I am not expected, and
not wanted. The solitary man among
the bottles would sometimes take pity
on me, if he dared, but he is power
less against the rights and mights of
Woman. (Of the page I make no ac
count, for he is a boy, and therefore
the natural enemy of Creation.) Chill
ing fast, in the deadly tornadoes to
which my upper and lower extremities
are exposed, and subdued by the moral
disadvantage at which I stand, I turn
my disconsolate eyes on the refresh
ments that are to restore me. I find
that I must either scald my throat by
insanely ladling into it, against time
and for no wager, brown hot water
stiffened with flour; or, I must make
myself flaky and sick with Ban bury
cake ; or, I must stuff into my delicate
organization, a currant pincushion
which I know will swell into immeasur
able dimensions when it has got there ;
or, I must extort from an iron-bound
quarry, with a fork, as if I were farm
ing an inhospitable soil, some glutinous

lumps of gristle and grease, called
pork-pie. While thus forlornly occu
pied, I find that the depressing banquet
on the 'table is, in every phase of its
profoundly unsatisfactory character, so
like the banquet at the meanest and
shabbiest of evening parties, that I be
gin to think I must 'hate " brought
down" to supper, the old lady un
known, blue with colol, who is setting
her teeth on edge with a cool orange,
at my elbow — that the pastrycook who
has compounded for the company on
the lowest terras per head, is a fraudu
lent bankrupt, redeeming his contract
with the stale stock from his window —
that, for some unexplained reason, the
family giving the party have become
my mortal foes, and have given it on
purpose to affront me. Or, I fancy
that I am " breaking up" again, at the
evening conversazione at school,
charged two-and-sixpence in the half-
year's bill ; or breaking down again at
that celebrated evening party given at
Mrs. Bogles's boarding-house when I
was a boarder there, on which occasion
Mrs. Bogles was taken in execution by
a branch of the legal profession who
got in as the harp, and was removed
(with the keys and subscribed capital)
to a place of durance, half an hour
prior to the commencement of the fes
tivities.

Take another case.

Mr. Grazinglands, of the Midland
Counties, came to London by railroad
one morning last week, accompanied
by the amiable and fascinating Mrs.
Grazinglands. Mr. G. is a gentleman
of a comfortable property, and had
a little business to transact at the
Bank of England, which required the
concurrence and signature of Mrs.
G. Their business disposed of, Mr.
and Mrs. Granzinglands viewed the
Royal Exchange, and the exterior of
St. Paul's Cathedral. The spirits of
Mrs. Grazinglands then gradually be
ginning to flag, Mr. Grazinglands (who
is the tenderest of husbands) remarked
with sympathy, " Arabella, my dear, I
fear you are faint." Mrs. Grazing-
latids replied, " Alexander, I am rather
faint ; but don't mind me, I shall be
better presently." Touched by the
feminine meekness of this answer, Mr.
Grazinglauds looked in at a pastry-

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

103

cook's window, hesitating as to the ex
pediency of lunching at that establish
ment. He beheld nothing to eat, but
butter in various forms, slightly charged
with jam, and languidly frizzling over
tepid water. Two ancient turtle-shells,
on which was inscribed the legend,
" SOUPS," decorated a glass partition
within, inclosing a stuffy alcove, from
which a ghastly mockery of a marriage-
breakfast spread on a rickety table,
warned the terrified traveler. An ob
long box of stale and broken pastry at
reduced prices, mounted on a stool, or
namented the doorway ; and two high
chairs that looked as if they were per
forming on stilts, embellished the coun
ter. Over the whole, a young lady
presided, whose gloomy haughtiness as
she surveyed the street, announced a
deep-seated grievance against society,
and an implacable determination to be
avenged. From a beetle-haunted kitch
en below this institution, fumes arose,
suggestive of a class of soup which
Mr. Grazinglands knew, from painful
experience, enfeebles the mind, distends
the stomach, forces itself into the com
plexion, and tries to ooze out at the
eyes. As he decided against entering,
and turned away, Mrs. Grazinglands,
becoming perceptibly weaker, repeated,
" I am rather faint, Alexander, but
don't mind me." Urged to new efforts
by these words of resignation, Mr*
Grazinglands looked in at a cold and
floury baker's shop, where utilitarian
buns unrelieved by a currant consorted
with hard biscuits, a stone filter of cold
water, a hard pale clock, and a hard
little old woman with flaxen hair, of an
undeveloped farinaceous aspect, as if
she had been fed upon seeds. He
might have entered even here, but for
the timely remembrance coming upon
him that Jairing's was but round the
corner.

Now, Jairing's being an hotel for
families and gentlemen, in high repute
among the midland counties, Mr. Graz
inglands plucked up a great spirit when
he told Mrs. Grazinglands she should
have a chop there. That lady, like
wise, felt that she was going to see
Life. Arriving on that gay and festive
scene, they found the second waiter, in
a flabby undress, cleaning the windows
of the empty coffee-room, and the first

waiter, denuded of his white tie, making
up his cruets behind the Post-office Di
rectory. The latter (who took them in
hand) was greatly put out by their pa
tronage, and showed his mind to be
troubled by a sense of the pressing ne
cessity of instantly smuggling Mrs.
Grazinglands into the obscurest corner
of the building. This slighted lady
(who is the pride of her division of the
county) was immediately com%yed, by
several dark passages, and up and down
several steps, into a penitential apart
ment at the back of the house, where
five invalided old plate-warmers leaned
up against one another under a dis
carded old melancholy sideboard, and
where the wintry leaves of all the
dining-tables in the house lay thick.
Also, a sofa, of incomprehensible form
regarded from any sofane point of
view, murmured " Bed ;" while an air of
mingled fluffiness and heeltaps, added,
"Second Waiter's." Secreted in this dis
mal hold, objects of a mysterious dis
trust and suspicion, Mr. Grazinglands
and his charming partner waited twenty
minutes for the smoke (for it mjver
came to a fire), twenty-five minutes for
the sherry, half an hour for the table
cloth, forty minutes for the knives and
forks, three-quarters of an hour for the
chops, and an hour for the potatoes.
On settling the little bill — which was
not much more than the day's pay of a
Lieutenant in the navy — Mr. Grazing
lands took heart to remonstrate against
the general quality and cost of his re
ception. To whom the waiter replied,
substantially, that Jairing's made it a
merit to have accepted him on any
terms ; " for," added the waiter (unmis
takably coughing at Mrs. Grazinglands,
the pride of her division of the county),
" when individuals is not staying in the
'Ouse, their favors is not as a rule
looked upon as making it worth Mr.
Jairing's while ; nor is it, indeed, a
style of business Mr. Jairing wishes."
Finally, Mr. and Mrs. Grazinglands
passed out of Jairing's hotel for Fami
lies and Gentlemen, in a state of the
greatest depression, scorned by the bar ;
and did not recover their self-respect
for several days.

Or take another case. Take your
own case.

You are going off by railway, from

104

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

any Terminus. You have twenty mi
nutes for dinner before you go. You
want yoar dinner, and, like Doctor
Johnson, sir, you like to dine. You
present to your mind, a picture of
the refreshment-table at that termi
nus. The conventional shabby even
ing party supper — accepted as the mo
del for all termini and all refreshment
stations, because it is the last repast
known t«f this state of existence of
which any human creature would par
take, but in the direst extremity — sick
ens your contemplation, and your
words are these : " I cannot dine on
stale sponge-cakes that turn to sand in
the mouth. I cannot dine on shining
brown patties, composed of unknown
animals within, and offering to my
view the device of an indigestible
star-fish in leaden pie-crust without.
I cannot dine on a sandwich that has
long been pining under an exhausted
receiver. I cannot dine on barley-
sugar. I cannot dine on Toffee." You
repair to the nearest hotel, and arrive,
agitatejd, in the coffee-room.

It is a most astonishing fact that the
waiter is very cold to you. Account
for it how you may, smooth it over how
you will, you cannot deny that he is
cold to you. He is not glad to see you,
he does not want you, he would much
rather you hadn't come. He opposes
to your flushed condition, an immov
able composure. As if this were not
enough, another waiter, born, as it
would seem, expressly to look at you
in this passage of your life, stands at a
little distance, with his napkin under
his arm and his hands folded, looking
at you wi^h all his might. You im
press on your waiter that you have ten
minutes for dinner, and he proposes
that you shall begin with a bit of fish
which will be ready in twenty. That
proposal declined, he suggests — as a
neat originality — "a weal or mutton
cutlet." You close with either cutlet,
any cutlet, any thing. He goes, lei
surely, behind a door, and calls down
some unseen shaft. A ventriloquial
dialogue ensues, tending finally to the
effect that weal only, is available on
the spur of the moment. You anx
iously call out " Veal then 1" Your
waiter, having settled that point, re
turns to array your table -cloth, with

a table napkin folded cocked-hat-wise,
(slowly, for something out of window
engages his eye), a white wine-glass, a
green wine-glass, a blue finger-glass, a
tumbler, and a powerful field battery
of fourteen castors with nothing in
them: or at all events — which is
enough for your purpose — with no
thing in them that will come out. All
this time, the other waiter looks at you
— with an air of mental comparison
and curiosity, now, as if it had oc
curred to him that you are rather like
his brother. Half your time gone, and
nothing come but the jug of ale and
the bread, you implore your waiter to
" see after that cutlet, waiter ; pray do."
He cannot go at once, for he is carry
ing in seventeen pounds of American
cheese for you to finish with, and a
small Landed Estate of celery and wa
tercress. The other waiter changes his
leg, and takes a new view of you —
doubtfully, now, as if he had rejected
the resemblance to his brother, and had
begun to think you more like his aunt
or his grandmother. Again you be
seech your waiter with pathetic indig
nation, to " see after that cutlet 1" He
steps out to see after it, and by-and-by,
when you are going away without it,
comes back with it. Even then, he
will not take the sham silver-cover off,
without a pause for a flourish, and a
look at the musty cutlet as if he were
surprised to see it — which cannot pos
sibly be the case, he must have seen it
so often before. A sort of fur has been
produced upon its surface by the cook's
art, and, in a sham silver vessel stag
gering on two feet instead of three, is
a cutaneous kind of sauce, of brown
pimples and pickled cucumber. You
order the bill, but your waiter cannot
bring your bill yet, because he is bring
ing, instead, three flinty-hearted pota
toes and two grim head of broccoli,
like the occasional ornaments on area
railings, badly boiled. You know that
you will never come to this pass, any
more than to the cheese and celery, and
you imperatively demand your bill ; but
it takes time to get, even when gone
for, because your waiter bas to commu
nicate with a lady who lives behind a
sash-window in a corner, and who ap
pears to have to refer to several Ledgers
before she can make it out — as if you

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

105

had been staying there a year. You
become distracted to get away, and the
other waiter, once more changing his
leg. still looks at you — but suspiciously,
now, as if you had begun to remind
him of the party who took the great
coats last winter. Your bill at last
brought and paid, at the rate of six
pence a mouthful, your waiter reproach
fully reminds you that "attendance is
not »charged for a single meal," and
you have to search in all your pockets
for sixpence more. He has a worse
opinion of you than ever, when you
have given it to him, and lets you out
into the street with the air of one say
ing to himself, as you cannot doubt he
is. " I hope we shall never see you
here again I"

Or, take any other of the numerous
traveling instances in which, with more
time at your disposal, you are, have
been, or may be, equally ill-served.
Take the old-established Bull's Head
with its old-established knife-boxes on
its old-established sideboards, its old-
established flue under its old-estab
lished four-post bedsteads in its old-
established airless rooms, its old-estab
lished frouziness up-stairs and down
stairs, its old-established cookerf, and
its old-established principles of plunder.
Count up your injuries, in its side-
dishes of ailing sweet breads in white
poultices, of apothecaries' powders in
rice for curry, of pale stewed bits of
calf ineffectually relying for an adventi
tious interest on forcemeat balls. You
have had experience of the old-estab
lished Bull's Head's stringy fowls, with
lower extremities like wooden legs,
sticking up out of the dish ; of its can-
nibalic boiled mutton, gushing horri
bly among its capers, when carved ; of
its little dishes of pastry — roofs of
spermaceti ointment, erected over half
an apple or four gooseberries. Well
for you if you have yet forgotten the
old-established Bull's Head's fruity
port : whose reputation was gained
solely by the old-established price the
Bull's Head put upon it, and by the
old-established air with which the Bull's
Head set the glasses and D'Oyleys on,
and held that Liquid Gout to th« three-
and-sixpenny wax-candle, as if its old-
established color hadn't come from the
dyer's.

Or lastly, take, to finish with, two
cases that we all know, every day.

We all know the new hotel near the
station, where it is always gusty, going
up the lane which is always muddy,
where we are sure to arrive at night,
and where we make the gas start aw
fully when we open the front door.
We all know the flooring of the pas
sages and staircases that is too new,
and the walls that are too new, and the
house that is haunted by the ghost of
mortar. We all know the doors that have
cracked, and the cracked shutters through
which we get a glimpse of the disconso
late moon. We all know the new people
who have come to keep the new hotel,
and who wish they had never come, and
who (inevitable result) wish we had
never come. We all know how much
too scant and smooth and bright the
new furniture is, and how it has never
settled down, and cannot fit itself into
right places, and will get into wrong
places. We all know how the gas, being
lighted, shows maps of damp upon the
walls. We all know how the ghost of
mortar passes into our sandwich, stirs
our negus, goes up to bed with us, as
cends the pale bedroom chimney, and
prevents the smoke from following. We
all know how a leg of our chair comes
off at breakfast in the morning, and
how the dejected waiter attributes the
accident to a general greenness pervad
ing the establishment, and informs us,
in reply to a local inquiry, that he is thank
ful to say he is an entire stranger in that
part of the country, and is going back to
his own connection on Saturday.

We all know, on the other hand, the
great station hotel belonging to the
company of proprietors, which has sud
denly sprung up in the back outskirts
of any place we like to name, and where
we look out of our palatial windows, at
little back yards and gardens, old sum
mer-houses, fowl-houses, pigeon-traps,
and pig-sties. We all know this hotel
in which we can get any thing we want,
after its kind, for money; but where no
body is glad to see us, or sorry to see us,
or minds (our bill paid) whether we come
or go, or how, or when, or why, or cares
about us. We all know this hotel, where
we have no individuality, but put our
selves into the general post, as it were, and
are sorted aud disposed of according to

106

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

our division. We all know that we
can get on very well indeed at such a
place, but still not perfecly well ; and
this may be, because the place is largely
wholesale, and there is a lingering per
sonal retail interest within us that
asks to be satisfied.

To sum up. My uncommercial tra
velling has not yet brought me to the
conclusion that we are close to perfec
tion in these matters. And just as I
do not believe that the end of the
world will ever be near at hand, so long
as any of the very tiresome and arro
gant people who constantly predict that
catastrophe are left in it, so, I shall
have small faith in the Hotel Millen
nium, while any of the uncomfortable
superstitions I have glanced at, remain
in existence.

I GOT into the traveling chariot — it
was of German make, roomy, heavy,
and unvarnished — I got into the travel
ing chariot, pulled up the steps after
me, shut myself in with a smart bang of
the door, and gave the word " Go on 1"

Immediately, all that W. and S. W.
division of London began to slide
away at a pace so lively that I was over
the river and past the Old Kent road,
and out on Blackheath, and even as
cending Shooter's Hill, before I had had
time to look about me in the carriage,
like a collected traveler.

I had two ample Imperials on the
roof, other fitted storage for luggage in
front, and other up behind ; I had a
net for books overhead, great pockets
to all the windows, a leathern pouch or
two hung up for odds and ends, and a
reading-lamp fixed in the back of the
chariot, in case I should be benighted.
I was amply provided in all respects,
•and had no idea where I was going
(which was delightful), except that I
was going abroad.

So smooth was the old high road, and
so fresh were the horses, and so fast
went I, that it was midway between
Gravesend and Rochester, and the
widening river was bearing the ships,
white-sailed or black-smoked, out to
sea, when I noticed by the wayside a
very queer small boy.

" Halloa 1" said I, to the very q' eer
small boy, " where do you live ?"

"At Chatham," says he.

" What do you do there ?" says I.

" I go to school," says he.

I took him up in a moment, and we
went on. Presently the very queer
small boy said, " This is Gadshill we are
coming to, where Falstaff went out to
rob those travelers, and ran away."

" You know something about Fal
staff, eh ?" said I.

"All about him," said the very queer
small boy. " I am old (I am nine),
and I read all sorts of books. But do
let us stop at the top of the hill, and
look at the house there, if you please !"

"You admire that house?" said I.

"Bless you, sir," said the very queer
small boy, " when I was not more than
half as old as nine, it used to be a treat
for me to be brought to look at it.
And now, I am nine, I come by myself
to look at it. And ever since I can
recollect, my father seeing me so fond
of it, has often said to me, 'If you were
to be very persevering and were to work
hard, you might some day come to live
in it.' Though that's impossible!"
said the very queer small boy, drawing
a low breath, and now staring at the
house out of window with all his
might.

I was rather amazed to be told this
by the very queer small boy ; for that
house happens to be my house, and I
have reason to believe that what he said
was true.

Well ! I made no halt there, and I
soon dropped the very queer small boy
and went on. Over the road where the
old Romans used to march, over the
road where the old Canterbury pilgrims
used to go, over the road where the
traveling trains of the old imperious
priests and princes used to jingle on
horseback between the continent and
this Island through the mud and water,
over the road where Shakespeare
hummed to himself, " Blow, blow, thou
winter wind," as he sat in the saddle at
the gate of the inn yard noticing the
carriers ; all among the cherry orchards,
apple orchards, corn-fields, and hop
gardens ; so went I, by Canterbury to
Dover. There, the sea was tumbling
in, with deep sounds, after dark, and
the revolving French light on Cape
Grinez was seen regularly bursting out
and becoming obscured, as if the head
of a gigantic light-keeper in an anxious

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

107

state of mind were interposed every
half minute, to look how it was burning.
Early in the morning I was on the
deck of the steam-packet, and we were
aiming at the bar in the usual intolerable
manner, and the bar was aiming at us in
the usual intolerable manner, and the
bar got by far the best of it, and we got
by far the worst — all in the usual in
tolerable manner.

But, when I was clear of the Custom
House on the other side, and when I
began to make the dnst fly on the thirsty
French roads, and when the twigsome
trees by the wayside (which, I suppose,
never will grow leafy, for they never
did) guarded here and there a dusty
soldier, or field laborer, baking on a
heap of broken stones, sound asleep in
a fiction of shade, I began to recover
my traveling spirits. Coming upon the
breaker of the broken stones, in a hard,
hot, shining hat, on which the sun played
at a distance as on a burning-glass, I
felt that now, indeed, I was in the dear
old France of my affections. I should
have known it, without the well-remem
bered bottle of rough ordinary wine,
the cold roast fowl, the loaf, and the
pinch of salt, on which I lunched with
unspeakable satisfaction, from one of the
stuffed pockets of the chariot.

I must have fallen asleep after lunch,
for when a bright face looked in at the
window, I started, and said :

" Good God, Louis, I dreamed you
were dead !"

My cheerfu^servant laughed, and an
swered :

"Me? Not at all, sir."

"How glad I am to wake ! What
are we doing, Louis ?"

"We go to take relay of horses.
Will you walk up the hill ?"

"Certainly."

Welcome the old French hill, with
the old French lunatic (not in the most
distant degree related to Sterne's Maria)
living in a thatched dog-kennel half way
np, and flying out with his crutch, and
his big head and extended nightcap, to
be beforehand with the old men and
women exhibiting crippled children, and
with the children exhibiting old men
and women, ugly and blind, who always
seemed by resurrectionary process to be
recalled out of the elements for the sud
den peopling of the solitude 1

" It is well," said I, scattering among
them what small coin I had ; " here
comes Louis, and I am quite roused
from my nap."

We journeyed on again, and I wel
comed every new assurance that France
stood where I had left it. There were
the posting-houses, with their archways,
dirty stable-yards, and clean post-mas
ters' wives, bright women of business,
looking on at the putting-to of the
horses ; there were the postillions count
ing what money they got, into their hats,
and never making enough of it; there
were the standard population of gray
horses of Flanders descent, invariably
biting one another when they got a
chance ; there were the fleecy sheep
skins, looped on over their uniforms by
the postillions, like bibbed aprons, when
it blew and rained ; there were their
jack-boots, and their cracking whips ;
there were the cathedrals that I got out
to see, as under some cruel bondage, in
no wise desiring to see them ; there
were the little towns that appeared to
have no reason for being towns, since
most of their houses were to let and
nobody could be induced to look at
them, except the people who couldn't
let them and had nothing else to do but
look at them all day. I lay a night
upon the road and enjoyed delectable
cookery of potatoes, and some other
sensible things, adoption of which at
home would inevitably be shown to be
fraught with ruin, somehow or other, to
that rickety national blessing, the Bri
tish farmer ; and at last I was rattled,
like a single pill in a box, over leagues
of stones, until — madly cracking, plung
ing, and flourishing two gray tails
about — I made my triumphal entry into
Paris.

At Paris I took an upper apartment
for a few days in one of the hotels of
the Rue de Rivoli : my front windows
looking into the garden of the Tuileries
(where the principal difference between
the nursemaids and the flowers seemed
to be that the former were locomotive,
and the latter not) : my back windows
looking at all the. other back windows
in the hotel, and deep down into a
paved yard, where my German chariot
had retired under a tight-fitting arch
way, to all appearance, for life, and
where bells rang all day without any-

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

body's minding them bnt certain cham
berlains with feather brooms and green
baize caps, who here and there leaned
out of some high window placidly look
ing down, and where neat waiters with
trays on their left shoulders passed and
repassed from morning to night.

Whenever I am at Paris, I am
dragged by invisible force into the
Morgue. I never want to go there,
bnt am always pulled there. One
.Christmas Day, when I would rather
have been anywhere else, I was at
tracted in, to see an old gray man lying
all alone on his cold bed, with a tap of
water turned on over his gray hair, and
running drip, drip, drip, down his
wretched face until it got to the corner
of his mouth, where it took a turn and
made him look sly. One New Year's
Morning (by the same token, the sun
was shining outside, and there was a
mountebank balancing a feather on his
nose, within a yard of the gate), I was
pulled in again, to look at a flaxen-
haired boy of eighteen with a heart
hanging on his breast — "From his mo
ther," was engraven on it — who had
come into the net across the river, with
a bullet-wound in his fair forehead and
his hands cut with a knife, but whence
or how was a blank mystery. This time
I was forced into the same dread place,
to see a large dark man whose disfigure
ment by water was, in a frightful manner,
comic, and whose expression was that
of a prize-fighter who had closed his
eyelids under a heavy blow, but was
going immediately to open them, shake
his head, and "come up smiling." Oh
what this large dark man cost me in
that bright city !

It was very hot weather, and he was
none the better for that, and I was
much the worse. Indeed, a very neat
and pleasant little woman with the key
of her lodging on her forefinger, who
had been showing him to her little girl
while she and the child ate sweetmeats,
observed monsieur looking poorly as we
came out together, and asked monsieur,
with her wondering little eyebrows
prettily raised, if there were any thing
the matter ? Faintly replying in the
negative, monsieur crossed the road to
a wine-shop, got some brandy, and
resolved to freshen himself with a dip in
the great floating bath on the river.

The bath was crowded in the usual
airy manner, by a male population in
striped drawers of various gay colors,
who walked up and down arm in arm,
drank coffee, smoked cigars, sat at little
tables, conversed politely with the dam
sels who dispensed the towels, and
every now and then pitched themselves
into the river head foremost, and came
out again to repeat this social routine.

I made haste to participate in the
water part of the entertainments, and
was in the full enjoyment of a delight
ful bath, when all in a moment I was
seized by an unreasonable idea that the
large dark body was floating straight
at me.

I was out of the river and dressing
instantly. In the shock I had taken
some water into my mouth, and it
turned me sick, for I fancied that the
contamination of the creature was in it.
I had got back to my cool darkened
room in the hotel, and was lying on a
sofa there, before I began to reason
with myself.

Of course, I knew perfectly well that
the large dark creature was stone dead,
and that I should no more come upon
him out of the place where I had seen
him dead, than I should come upon the
cathedral of Notre-Dame in an entirely
new situation. What troubled* me was
the picture of the creature ; and that
had so curiously and strongly painted
itself upon ray brain, that I could not
get rid of it until it was worn out.

I noticed the peculiarities of this
possession, while it was a real discom
fort to me. That very day, at dinner,
some morsel on my plate looked like a
piece of him, and I was glad to get up
and go out. Later in the evening, I
was walking along the Rue St. Honore",
when I saw a bill at a public room
there, announcing%small-sword exercise,
broad-sword exercise, wrestling, and
other such feats. I went in, and, some
of the sword play being very skillful, re
mained. A specimen of our own na
tional sport, the British Boaxe, was
announced to be given at the close of
the evening. In an evil hour, I deter
mined to wait for this Boaxe, as became
a Briton. It was a clumsy specimen
(executed by two English grooms out
of place;, but, one of the combatants,
receiving a straight right-hander with

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

the glove between his eyes, did exactly
what the large dark creature in the
Morgue had seemed going to do — and
finished me for that night.

There was a rather sickly smell (not
at all an unusual fragrance in Paris) in
the little anteroom of my apartment
at the hotel. The large dark creature
in the Morgue was by no direct expe
rience associated with my sense of
emell, because, when I came to the
knowledge of him, he lay behind a
wall of thick plate-glass, as good as a
wall of steel or marble for that matter.
Yet the whiff of the room never failed
to reproduce him. What was more
curious was the capriciousness with
which his portrait seemed to light itself
up in my mind, elsewhere ; I might
be walking in the Palais Royal, lazily
enjoying the shop windows, and might
be regaling myself with one of the
ready-made clothes shops that are set
ont there. My eyes, wandering over
impossible-waisted dressing-gowns and
luminous waistcoats, would fall upon
the master, or the shop-man, or even
the very dummy at the door, and would
suggest to me, " Something like him !"
— and instantly I was sickened again.

This would happen at the theatre, in
the same manner. Often, it would
happen in the street, when I certainly
was not looking for the likeness, and
when probably there was no likeness
there. It was not because the creature
was dead that I was so haunted, be
cause I know that I might have been
(and I know it because I have been)
equally attended by the image of a liv
ing aversion. This lasted about a week.
The picture did not fade by degrees, in
the sense that it became a whit less
forcible and distinct, but in the sense
that it obtruded itself less and less fre
quently. The experience may be worth
considering by some who have the care
of children. It would Be difficult to
overstate the intensity and accuracy of
an intelligent child's observation. At
that impressible time of life, it must
sometimes produce a fixed impression.
If the fixed impression be of an object
terrible to the chiid, it will be (for
want of reasoning upon) inseparable
from great fear. Force the child at
such a time, be Spartan with it, send it
into the dark against its will, leave it

in a lonely bedroom against its will,
and you had better murder it.

On a bright morning I rattled away
from Paris, in the German chariot, and
left the large dark creature behind me
for good. I ought to confess, though,
that I had been drawn back to the
Morgue, after he was put under ground,
to look at his clothes, and that I found
them frightfully like him — particularly
his boots. However, I rattled away
for Switzerland, looking forward and
not backward, and so we parted com-
pany.

Welcome again, the long long spell
of France, with the queer country inns,
full of vases of flowers, and clocks, in
the dull little towns, and with the little
population not at all dull on the little
Boulevard in the evening, under the
little trees ! Welcome Monsieur the
Cure walking alone in the early morn
ing a short way out of the town, read
ing that eternal Breviary of yours,
which surely might be almost read,
without book, by this time ? Welcome
Monsieur the Cure, later 5n the day,
jolting through the highway dust (as
if you had already ascended to the
cloudy region), in a very big-headed
cabriolet, with the dried mud of a dozen
winters on it. Welcome again Mon
sieur the Cure, as we exchange salu
tations : you, straightening your back
to look at the German chariot, while
picking in your little village garden a
vegetable or two for the day's soup ; I,
looking out of the German chariot
window in that delicious traveler's-
trance which knows no cares, no yester
days, no to-morrows, nothing but tho
passing objects and the passing scents
and sounds ! And so I came in due
course of delight, to Strasbourg, where
I passed a wet Sunday evening at a
window, while an idle trifle of a vaude
ville was played for me at the opposite
house.

How such a large house came to
have only three people living in it, was
its own affair. There were at least a
score of windows in its high roof alone ;
how many in its grotesque front, I soon
gave up counting. The owner was a
shopkeeper, by name Straudenheim ;
by trade — I couldn't make out what by
trade, for he had forborne to write tlu;t
up, and his shop was shut.

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

At first, as I looked at Strauden-
heim's through the steadily falling raiu,
I set him up in business in the goose-
liver line. But, inspection of Strau-
denheim, who became visible at a win
dow on the second floor, convinced me
that there was something more precious
than liver in the case. He wore a
black velvet skull-cap, and looked usu
rious and rich. A large-lipped, pear-
nosed old man, with white hair, and
keen eyes, though near-sighted. He
was writing at a desk, was Strauden-
heim, and ever and again left off writ
ing, put his pen in his mouth, and went
through actions with his right hand,
like a man steadying piles of cash.
Five-franc pieces, Straudenheim, or
golden Napoleons ? A jeweler, Strau
denheim, a dealer in money, a diamond
merchant, or what ?

Below Straudenheim, at a window
on the first floor, sat his housekeeper-
far from young, but of a comely pre
sence, suggestive of a well-matured foot
and ankle. She was cheerily dressed,
had a fan in her hand, and wore large
gold earrings and a large gold cross.
She would have been out holiday-mak
ing (as I settled it) but for the pesti
lent rain. Strasbourg had given up
holiday-making for that once, as a bad
job, because the rain was jerking in
gushes out of the old roof-spouts, and
running in a brook down the middle of
the street. The housekeeper, her arms
folded on her bosom and her fan tap
ping her chin, was bright and smiling
at her open window, but otherwise
Straudenheim's house front was very
dreary. The housekeeper's was the
only open window in it ; Straudenheim
kept himself close, though it was a sul
try evening when air is pleasant, and
though the rain had brought into the
town that vague refreshing smell of
grass which rain does bring in the sum
mer-time.

The dim appearance of a man at
Straudenheim's shoulder, inspired me
with a misgiving that somebody had
come to murder that flourishing mer
chant for the wealth with which I had
handsomely endowed him : the rather,
as it was an excited man, lean and long
of figure, and evidently stealthy of foot.
But, he conferred with Straudenheim
instead of doing him a mortal injury,

and then they both softly opened the
other window of that room — which was
immediately over the housekeeper's —
and tried to see her by looking down.
And my opinion of Straudenheim was
much lowered when I saw that eminent
citizen spit out of window, clearly with
the hope of spitting on the house
keeper.

The unconscious housekeeper fanned
herself, tossed her head, and laughed.
Tho'ugh unconscious of Straudenheim,
she was conscious of somebody else —
of me ? — there was nobody else.

After leaning so far out of window,
that I confidently expected to see their
heels tilt up, Straudenheim and the lean
man drew their heads in and shut tho
window. Presently, the house door se
cretly opened, and they slowly and
spitefully crept forth into the pouring
rain. They were coming over to me
(I thought) to demand satisfaction for
my looking at the housekeeper, when
they plunged into a recess in the archi
tecture under my window, and dragged
out the puniest of little soldiers begirt
with the most innocent of little swords.
The tall glazed head-dress of this war
rior, Straudenheim instantly knocked
off, and out of it fell two sugar-sticks,
and three or four large lumps, of sugar.

The warrior made no effort to re
cover his property or to pick up his
shako, but looked with an expression
of attention at Straudenheim when ho
kicked him five times, and also at the
lean man when he kicked him five
times, and again at Straudenheim when
he tore the breast of his (the warrior's)
little coat open, and shook all his tea
fingers in his face, as if they were ten
thousand. When these outrages had
been committed, Straudenheim and his
man went into the house again and
barred the door. A wonderful circum
stance was, that the housekeeper, who
saw it all (and who could have taken
six such warriors to her buxorn bosom
at once), only fanned herself, and
laughed as she had laughed before, and
Seemed to have no opinion about it,
one way or other.

But, the chief effect of the drama
was the remarkable vengeance taken by
the little warrior. Left alone in the
rain, he picked up his shako ; put it on,
all wet and dirty as it was ; retired into

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

Ill

a court, of which Straudenheira's house
formed the corner ; wheeled about ; and
bringing his two forefingers close to the
top of his nose, rubbed them over one
another, crosswise, it derision, defiance,
and contempt of Straudenheim. • Al
though Straudenheirn could not possi
bly be supposed to be conscious of this
strange proceeding, it so inflated and
comforted the little warrior's soul, that
twice he went away, and twice came back
into the court to repeat it, as though it
must goad his enemy to madness. Not
only that, but he afterward came back
with two other small warriors, and they
all three did it together. Not only that
— as I live to tell the tale ! — but just as
it was falling quite dark, the three came
back, bringing with them a huge,
bearded. Sapper, whom they moved, by
recital of the original wrong, to go
through the same performance, with
the same complete absence of all possi
ble knowledge of it on the part of
Straudenheira. And then they all went
away, arm in arm, singing.

I went away, too, in the German
chariot, at sunrise, and rattled on, day
after day, like one in a sweet dream ;
with so many clear little bells ou the
harness of the horses, that the nursery
rhyme about Banbury Cross and the
venerable lady who rode in state there,
was always in iny ears. And now I
came into the land of wooden houses,
innocent cakes, thin butter soup, and
spotless little inn bedrooms with a
family likeness to Dairies. And now
the Swiss marksmen were for ever rifle-
shooting at marks across gorges, so
exceedingly near my ear, that I felt
like a new Gesler in a Canton of Tells,
and went in highly-deserved danger of
my tyrannical.life. The prizes at these
shootings, were watches, smart hand
kerchiefs, hats, spoons, and (above all)
tea-trays ; and at these contests I came
upon a more than usually accomplished
and amiable countryman of my own,
who had shot himself deaf in whole
years of competition, and had won so
many tea- trays, that he went about the
country with his carriage full of them,
like a glorified Cheap Jack.

In the mountain country into which
I had now traveled, a yoke of oxen
were sometimes hooked on before the
post-horses, and I went lumbering up,

up, up, through mist and rain, with the
roar of falling water for change of
music. Of a sudden, mist and rain
would clear away, and I would come
down' into picturesque little towns with
gleaming spires and odd towers ; and
would stroll afoot into market-places in
steep winding streets, where a hundred
women in bodices, sold eggs and honey,
butter and fruit, and suckled their chil
dren as they sat by their clean baskets,
and had such enormous goitres (or
glandular swellings in the throat) that
it became a science to know where the
nurse ended and the child began. About
this time, I deserted my German chariot
for the back of a mule (in color and
consistency so very like a dusty old hair
trunk I once had at school, that I half
expected to see my initials in brass-
headed nails on his backbone), and went
up a thousand rugged ways, and looked
down at a thousand woods of fir and
pine, and would on the whole have pre
ferred my mule's keeping a little nearer
to the inside, and not usually traveling
with a hoof or two over the precipice,
though much consoled by explanation
that this was to be attributed to his
great sagacity, by reason of his carry
ing broad loads of wood at other times,
and not being clear but that I myself
belonged to that station of life, and re
quired as much room as they. He
brought me safely, in his own wise
way, among the passes of the Alps,
and here I enjoyed a dozen climates
a day; being now (like Don Quixote
on the back of the wooden horse) in
the region of wind, now in the re
gion of fire, and now in the region
of unmelting ice and snow. Here, I
passed over trembling domes of ice, be
neath which the cataract was roaring ;
and here was received under arches of
icicles, of unspeakable beauty ; and here
the sweet air was so bracing and so
light, that at halting-times I rolled in
the snow when I saw my mule do it,
thinking that he must know best. At
this part of the journey we would come,
at mid-day, into half an hour's thaw :
when the rough mountain inn would be
found on an island of deep mud in a sea
of snow, while the baiting strings of
mules, and the carts full of casks and
bale?, which had been in an Arctic con
dition a mile off, would steam again.

112

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

By such ways and means, 1. would come'
to the cluster of chalets where I had to
turn out of the track to see the water
fall ; and then, uttering a howl like a
young giant, on espying a traveler — in
other words, something to eat — coming
up the steep, the idiot lying on the wood
pile who sunned himself and nursed his
goitre, would rouse the woman-guide
within the hut, who would stream out
hastily, throwing her child over one of
her shoulders and her goitre over the
other, as she came along. I slept at
religious houses, and bleak refuges of
many kinds, on this journey, and by the
etove at night heard stories of travelers
who had perished within call, in wreaths
and drifts of snow. One night the
stove within, and the cold outside,
awakened childish associations long for
gotten, and I dreamed I was in Russia
.. — the identical serf out of a picture-
book I had, before I could read it for
myself — a*id that I was going to be
knouted by a noble personage in a fur
cap, boots, and earrings, who, I think,
must have come out of some melo
drama.

Commend me to the beautiful waters
among these mountains ! Though I
was not of their mind : they, being in-
veterately bent on getting down into
the level country, and I ardently de
siring to linger where I was. What
desperate leaps they took, what dark
abysses they plunged into, what rocks
they wore away, what echoes they in
voked ! In one part where I went, they
were pressed into the service of carry
ing wood down, to be burned next win
ter, as costly fuel, in Italy. But, their
fierce savage nature was not to be easily
constrained, and they fought with every
limb of the wood ; whirling it round
and round, stripping its bark away,
dashing it against pointed corners,
driving it out of the course, and roar
ing and flying at the peasants who
steered it back again from the bank
with long stout poles. Alas ! concur
rent streams of time and water carried
me down fast, and I came, on an ex
quisitely clear day, to the Lausanne
shore of the Lake of Geneva, where I
stood looking at the bright blue water,
the flushed white mountains opposite,
and the boats at my feet with their furled
Mediterranean sails, showing like enor

mous magnifications of this goose-quill
pen that is now in my hand.

The sky became overcast without
any notice; a wind very like the March
east wind of England, blew across me;
and 'a voice said, "How do you like it?
Will it do ?"

I had merely shut myself, for half a
minute, in a German traveling chariot
that stood for sale in the Carriage De
partment of the London Pantechnicon.
I had a commission to buy it, for a
friend who was going abroad ; and the
look and manner of the chariot, as I
tried the cushions and the springs,
-brought all these hints of traveling re
membrance before me.

" It will do very well," said I, rather
sorrowfully, as I got out at the other
door, and shut the carriage up.

I TRAVEL constantly, up and down a
certain line £>f railway that has a ter
minus in London. It is the railway for
a large military depot, and for other
large barracks. To the best of my
serious belief, I have never been on that
railway by daylight, without seeing
some handcuffed deserters in the train.

It is in the nature of things that such
an institution as our English army
should have many bad and troublesome
characters iu it. But, this is a reason
for, and not against, its being made as
acceptable as possible to well-disposed
men of decent behavior. Such men are
assuredly not tempted into the ranks,
by the beastly inversion of natural laws,
and the compulsion to live in worse than
swinish foulness. Accordingly, when
any such Circumlocutional embellish
ments of the soldiers condition have of
late been brought to notice, we civilians,
seated in outer darkness cheerfully medi
tating on an Income Tax, have con
sidered the matter as being our business,
and have shown a tendency to declare j
that we would rather not have it mis-
regulated, if such declaration may, with
out violence to the Church Catechism,
be hinted to those who are put in au
thority over us.

Any animated description of a mo
dern battle, any private soldier's letter
published in the newspapers, any page
of the records of the Victoria Cross,
will show that in the ranks of the army,
there exists under all disadvantages as

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

113

fine a sense of duty as is to be found in
any station on earth. Who doubts that
if we all did our duty as faithfully as
the soldier does his, this world would
be a better place ? There may be
greater difficulties in our way than in
the soldier's. Not disputed. But, let
us at least do our duty toward him.

I had got back again to that rich
port where so many snares are set for
Mercantile Jack, and I was walking up
a hill there, on a wild March morning.
My conversation with my official friend
Pangloss, by whom I was accidently
accompanied, took this direction as we
took the up-hill direction, because the
object of my uncommercial journey was
to see some discharged soldiers who
had recently come home from India.
There were men of HAVELOCK'S among
them ; there were men who had been in
many of the great battles of the great
Indian campaign, among them ; and I
was curious to note what our discharged
soldiers looked like, when they were
done with.

I was not the less interested (as I
mentioned to my official friend Pan-
gloss) because these men had claimed
to be discharged, when their right to
be discharged was not admitted. They
had behaved with unblemished fidelity
and bravery ; but a change of circum
stances had arisen^ which, as they con
sidered, put an end to their compact
and entitled them to enter on a new
one. Their demand had been blunder
ingly resisted by the authorities in In
dia ; but, it is to be presumed that the
men were not far wrong, inasmuch as
the bungle had ended in their being
sent home discharged, in pursuance of
orders from home. (There was an
immense waste of money, of course.)

Under these circumstances — thought I,
as I walked up the hill, on which I acci
dentally encountered my official friend
— under these circumstances of the men
having successfully opposed themselves
to the Pagoda Department of that
great Circumlocution Office, on which
the sun never sets and the light of rea
son never rises, the Pagoda Depart
ment will have been particularly careful
of the national honor. It will have
shown these men, in the scrupulous
good faith, not to say the generosity, of
its dealing with them, that great national

authorities can have no small retalia
tions and revenges. It will have made
every provision for their health on the
passage home, and will have landed
them, restored from their campaigning
fatigue by a sea-voyage, pure air, sound
food, and good medicines. And I
pleased myself with dwelling before
hand, on the great accounts of their
personal treatment which these men
would carry into their various towns
and villages, and on the increasing
popularity of the service that would in
sensibly follow. I almost began to
hope that the hitherto-never-failing
deserters on my railroad, would by-and-
by become a phenomenon.

In this agreeable frame of mind I
entered the workhouse of Liverpool—
For, the cultivation of Laurels in a
sandy soil, had brought the soldiers in
question to that abode of Glory.

Before going into their wards to
visit them, I inquired how they had
made their triumphant entry there ?
They had been brought through the
rain in carts, it seemed, from the land
ing-place to the gate, and had theu
been carried up stairs on the backs of
paupers. Their groans and pains du
ring the performance of this glorious
pageant, had been so distressing, as to
bring tears into the eyes of spectators
but too well accustomed to scenes of
suffering. They were so dreadfully
cold, that those who could get near the
fires were hard to be restrained from
thrusting their feet in among the blazing
coals. They were so horribly reduced,
that they were awful to look upon.
Racked with dysentery and blackened
with scurvy, one hundred and forty
wretched men had been revived with
brandy and laid in bed.

My official friend Pangloss is lineally
descended from a learned doctor of that
name, who was once tutor to Candide,
an ingenuous young gentleman of some
celebrity. In his personal character,
he is as humane and worthy a gentle
man as any I know ; in his official
capacity, he unfortunately preaches the
doctrines of his renowned ancestor, by
demonstrating on all occasions that we
live in the best of all possible official
worlds.

"In the name of Humanity," said I,
" how did the men fall into this deplor-

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able state ? Was the ship well found
in stores ?"

"I am not here to asseverate that I
know the fact, of my own knowledge,"
answered Pang-loss, " but I have grounds
for asserting that the stores were the
best of all possible stores."

A medical officer laid before us, a
handful of rotten biscuit, and a hand
ful of split peas. The biscuit was a
honey-combed heap of maggots, and
the excrement of maggots. The peas
were even harder than this filth. A
similar handful had been experimentally
boiled, six hours, and had shown no
signs of softening. These were the
stores on which the soldiers had been fed.

" The beef " I began, when Pan-
gloss cut me short.

" Was the best of all possible beef,"
said he.

But, behold, there was laid before us
certain evidence given at the kroner's
Inquest, holden on some o' i/oe men
(who had obstinately diea of their
treatment), and from that evidence it
appeared that the beef was the worst
of all possible beef!

" Then I lay my hand upon my heart,
and take my stand," said Pangloss,
" by the pork, which was the best of
all possible pork."

" But look at this food before our
eyes, if one may so misuse the word,"
said I. " Would any Inspector who
did his duty, pass such abomination ?"

"It ought not to have been passed,"
Pangloss admitted.

" Then the authorities out there "

I began, when Pangloss cut me short
again.

" There would certainly seem to have
been something wrong somewhere,"
said he ; " but I am prepared to prove
that the authorities out there, are the
best of all possible authorities."

I never heard of an impeached public
authority in my life, who was not the
best public authority in existence.

"We are told of these unfortunate
men being laid low by scurvy," said I.
" Since lime-juice has been regularly
stored and served out in our navy,
surely that disease, which used to de
vastate it, has almost disappeared.
Was there lime-juice aboard this trans
port ?"

My official friend was beginning, " The

best of all possible r when an in
convenient medical forefinger pointed
out another passage in the evidence,
from which it appeared that the lime-
juice had been bad too. Not to men
tion that the vinegar had been bad too,
the vegetables bad too, the cooking
accommodation insufficient (if there had
been any thing worth mentioning to
cook), the water supply exceedingly
inadequate, and the beer sour.

"Then, the men," said Pangloss, a
little irritated, " were the worst of all
possible men."

" In what respect ?" I asked.

" Oh ! Habitual drunkards," said
Pangloss.

But, again the same incorrigible
medical forefinger pointed out another
passage in the evidence, showing that
the dead men had been examined after
death, and that they, at least, could not
possibly have been habitual drunkards,
because the organs within them which
must have shown traces of that habit,
were perfectly sound.

"And besides," said the three doc
tor? present, one and all, "habitual
drunkards brought as low as these
men have been, could not recover under
care and food, as the great majority of
these men are recovering. They would
not have strength of constitution to
do it."

" Reckless and improvident dogs,
then," said Pangloss. " Always are —
nine times out of ten."

I turned to the master of the work
house, and asked him whether the men
bad any money ?

" Money ?" said he. " I have in my
iron safe, nearly four hundred pounds
of theirs ; the agents have nearly a
hundred pounds more ; and many of
them have left money in Indian banks
besides."

" Hah !" said I to myself, as we
went up-stairs, " this is not the best of
all possible stories, I doubt !"

We went into a large ward, contain
ing some twenty or five-and-twenty
beds. We went into several such
wards, one after another. I find it
very difficult to indicate what a shock
ing sight I saw in them, without fright
ening the reader from the perusal of
these lines, and defeating my object of
making it known.

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115

Oh the sunken eyes that turned to me
as I walked between the rows of beds,
or — worse still — that glazedly looked
at the white ce'iling, and saw nothing
and cared for nothing! Here, lay the
skeleton of a man, so lightly covered
with a thin unwholesome skin, that not
a bone in the anatomy was clothed, and
I could clasp the arm above the elbow,
in my finger and thumb. Here, lay a
man with the black scurvy eating his
legs away, his gums gone, and his teeth
all gaunt and bare. This bed was
empty, because gangrene had set in,
and the patient had died but yesterday.
That bed was a hopeless one, because
its occupant was sinking fast, and could
only be roused to turn the poor pinched
mask of face upon the pillow, with a
feeble moan. The awful thinness of
the fallen cheeks, the awful brightness
of the deep-set eyes, the lips of lead,
the hands of ivory, the recumbent hu
man image's lying in the shadow of
death with a kind of solemn twilight on
them, like the sixty who had died
aboard the ship and were lying at the
bottom of the sea, O Pangloss, GOD
forgive you !

In one bed, lay a man whose life had
been saved (as it was hoped) by deep
incisions in the feet and legs. While I
was speaking to hire, a nurse came up
to change the poultices which this ope
ration had rendered necessary, and I
had an instinctive feeling that it was
not well to turn away, merely to spare
myself. He was sorely wasted and
keenly susceptible, but the efforts he
made to subdue any expression of im
patience or suffering, were quite heroic.
It was easy to see, in the shrinking of
the figure, and the drawing of the bed
clothes over the head, how acute the
endurance was, and it made me shrink
too, as if / were in pain ; but, when the
new bandages were on, and the poor
feet were composed again, he made an
apology for himself (though he had not
uttered a word), and said plaintively,
" I am so tender and weak, you see,
sir !" Neither from him nor from any
one sufferer of the whole ghastly num
ber, did I hear a complaint. Of thank
fulness for present solicitude and care,
I heard much ; of complaint, not a
word.

I think I could have recognized in
the dismalest skeleton there, the ghost
of a soldier. Something of the old air
was still latent in the palest shadow of
life that I talked to. One emaciated
creature, in the strictest literality worn
to the bone, lay stretched on his back;
looking so like death that«I asked one
of the doctors if he were not dying, or
dead ? A few kind words from the
doctor, in his ear, and he opened his
eyes, and smiled — looked, in a moment,
as if he would have made a salute, if
he could. "We shall pull him through,
please God," said the Doctor. " Plase
God, surr, and thankye," said the pa
tient. " You are much better to-day ;
are you not ?" said the Doctor. "Plase
God, surr; 'tis the slape I want, surr;
'tis my breathin' makes the nights so
long." " He is a careful fellow this,
you must know," said the Doctor, cheer
fully ; "it was raining hard when they
put him in the open cart to bring him
here, and he had the presence of mind
to ask to have a sovereign taken out
of his pocket that he had there, and a
cab engaged. Probably it saved his
life." The patient rattled out the
skeleton of a laugh, and said, proud of
the story, " 'Deed, surr, an open cairt
was a comical means o' bringin' a dyin'
man here, and a clever way to kill
him." You might have sworn to him
for a soldier when he said it.

One thing had perplexed me very
much in going from bed to bed. A
very significant and cruel thing. I
could find no young man, but one. He
had attracted my notice, by having got
up and dressed himself in his soldier's
jacket and trowsers, with the intention
of sitting by th*e fire ; but he had found
himself too weak, and had crept back
to his bed and laid himself down on the
outside of it. I could have pronounced
him, alone, to be a young mau aged by
famine and sickness. As we were stand
ing by the Irish soldier's bed, I men
tioned my perplexity to the Doctor.
He took a board with an inscription on
it from the head of the Irishman's bed,
and asked me what age I supposed that
man to be ? I had observed him with
attention while talking to him, and an
swered, confidently, "Fifty." The doc
tor, with a pitying glance at the pa

116

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tient, who had dropped into a stupor
a'gain, put the board back, and said,
"Twenty-Four."

All the arrangements of the wards
were excellent. They could not have
been more humane, sympathizing, gen
tle, attentive, or wholesome. The
owners of thfe ship, too, had done all
they could, liberally. There were bright
fires in every room, and the conva
lescent men were sitting round them,
reading various papers and periodicals.
I took the liberty of inviting my official
friend Pangloss to look at those conva
lescent men, and to tell me whether
their faces and bearing were or were
n.ot, generally, the faces and bearing of
steady, respectable soldiers ? The mas
ter of the workhouse, overhearing me,
said that he had had a pretty large ex
perience of troops, and that better con
ducted men than these, he had never
had to do with. They were always (he
added) as we saw them. And of us
visitors (I add) they knew nothing
whatever, except that we were there.

It was audacious «in me, but I took
another liberty with Pangloss. Prefac
ing it with the observation that of course,
I knew beforehand that there was not the
faintest desire, anywhere, to hush up
any part of this dreadful business, and
that the Inquest was the fairest of all
possible Inquests, I besought four things
of Pangloss. Firstly, to observe that
the Inquest was not held in that place,
but at some distance off. Secondly, to
look round upon those helpless spectres
in their beds. Thirdly, to remember,
that the witnesses produced from among
them before that Inquest, could not have
been selected because they were the
men who had the most to tell it,
but because they happened to be in a
state admitting of their safe removal.
Fourthly, to say whether the Coroner
and Jury could have come there, to
those pillows, and taken a little evi
dence ? My official friend declined to
commit himself to a reply.

There was a sergeant, reading, in
one of the fireside groups ; as he was a
man of a very intelligent countenance,
and as I have a great respect for non
commissioned officers as a class, I sat
down on the nearest bed, to have some
talk with him. (It was the bed of one

of the grisliest of the poor skeletons,
and he died soon afterward.)

" I was glad to see, in the evidence
of an officer at the Inquest, sergeant
that he never saw men behave bettei
on board ship than these men."

"They did behave very well, sir."

" I was glad to see, too, that every
man had a hammock."

The sergeant gravely shook his head.
" There must be some mistake, sir. The
men of my own mess had no hammocks.
There were not hammocks enough on
board, and the men of the two next
messes laid hold of hammocks for them
selves as soon as they got on board, and
squeezed my men out, as I may say."

"Had the squeezed-out men none
then ?»

"None, sir. As men died, their
hammocks were used by other men, who
wanted hammocks ; but many men had
none at all."

"Then you don't agree with the
evidence on that point ?"

" Certainly not sir. A man can't,
when he knows to the contrary."

" Did any of the men sell their bed
ding for drink ?"

"There is some mistake on that
point too, sir. Men were under the
impression — I knew it for a fact at the
time — that it was not allowed to take
blankets or bedding on board, and so
men who had things of that sort came
to sell them purposely."

" Did any of the men sell their clothes
for drink ?"

"They did, sir." (I believe there
never was a more truthful witness than
the sergeant. He had no inclination to
make out a case.)

" Many ?"

" Some, sir" (considering the ques
tion). " Soldier-like. There had been
long marching in the rainy season, by
bad roads — no roads at all, in short —
and when they got to Calcutta, men
turned to and drank, before taking a
last look at it. Soldier-like."

" Do you see any men in this ward,
for example, who sold clothes for drink
at that time ?"

The sergeant's wan eye, happily just
beginning to rekindle with health,
traveled round the place and came
back to me. " Certainly, sir."

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

117

" The marching to Calcutta in the
rainy season must have been severe ?"

" It was very severe, sir."

" Yet, what with the rest and the sea
air, I should have thought that the men
(even the men who got drunk) would
have soon begun to recover on board
ship ?"

" So they might ; but the bad food
told upon them, and when we got into
a cold latitude, it began to tell more,
arid the men dropped."

" The sick had a general disinclina
tion for food, I am told, Sergeant ?"

" Have you seen the food, sir ?"

"Some of it."

^Have you seen the state of their
mouths, sir ?"

If the sergeant, who was a man of a
few orderly words, had spoken the
amount of a volume of this publication,
he could not have settled that question
better. I believe that the sick could
as soon have eaten the ship, as the
ship's provisions.

I took the additional liberty with my
friend Pangloss, when I had left the
sergeant with good wishes, of asking
Pangloss whether he had ever heard of
biscuit getting drunk and bartering its
nutritious qualities for putrefaction and
vermin : of peas becoming hardened in
liquor ; of hammocks drinking them
selves off the face of the earth ; of lime-
juice, vegetables, vinegar, cooking
accommodation, water supply, and beer,
all taking to drinking together and
going to ruin ? If not (I asked him),
what did he say in defense of the officers
condemned by the Coroner's Jury, who,
by signing the General Inspection re
port relative to the ship Great Tasma
nia chartered for these trdops, had
deliberately* asserted all that bad and
poisonous dunghill refuse, to be good
and wholesome food ? My official
friend replied that it was a remarkable
fact, that whereas some officers were
only positively good, and other officers
only comparatively better, those par
ticular officers were superlatively the
very best of all possible officers.

My hand and my heart fail me, in
writing my record of this journey. The
spectacle of the soldiers in the hospital-
beds of that Liverpool workhouse, was
so shocking and so shameful, that as an
8

Englishman I burn and blush to remem
ber it. It would have been simply
unbearable at the time, but for the con
sideration and pity with which they
were soothed in their sufferings.

No punishment that our inefficient
laws provide, is worthy of the name
when set against the guilt of this trans
action. But, if the memory of it die
out unavenged, and if it do not result
in the inexorable dismissal and disgrace
of those who are responsible for it,
their escape will be infamous to the
Government (no matter of what party)
that so neglects its duty, and infamous
to the nation that tamely suffers such
intolerable wrong to be done in its
name.

IP the confession that I have often
traveled from this Covent Garden
lodging of mine on Sundays, should
give offense to those who never travel
on Sundays, they Will be satisfied (I
hope) by my adding that the journeys
in question were made to churches.

Not that I have any curiosity to hear
powerful preachers. Time was, when I
was dragged by the hair of my head,
as one may say, to hear too many. On
summer evenings, when every flower,
and tree, and bird, might have better
addressed my soft young heart, I hare
in my day been caught in the palm of a
female hand by the crown, have been
violently scrubbed from the neck to the
roots of the hair as a purification for
the Temple, and have then been carried
off highly charged with saponaceous
electricity, to be steamed like a potato
in the unventilated breath of the power
ful Boanerges Boiler and his congre
gation, until what small mind I had
was quite steamed out of me. In
which pitiable plight I have ' been
hauled out of the place of meeting, at
the conclusion of the exercises, and
catechised respecting Boanerges Boiler,
his fifthly, his sixthly, and his seventhly,
until I have regarded that reverend
person in the light of a most dismal and
oppressive Charade. Time \*as, when
I was carried off to platform assem
blages at which no human child,
whether of wrath or grace, could pos
sibly keep its eyes open, and when I
felt the fatal sleep stealing, stealing-
over me, and when I gradually heard

118

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the orator in possession, spinning and
humming like a great top, until he
rolled, collapsed, and tumbled over,
and I discovered to my burning shame
and fear, that as to that last stage, it
was not he, but I. I have sat under
Boanerges when he has specifically
addressed himself to us — us, the infants
— and at this present writing I hear his
lumbering jocularity (which never
amused us, though we basely pretended
that it did), and I behold his big round
face, and I look up the inside of his
outstretched coat-sleeve as if it were a
telescope with the stopper on, and I
hate him with an unwholesome hatred
for two hours. Through such means
did it come to pass that I knew the
powerful preacher from beginning to
end, all over and all through, while I
was very young, and that I left him be
hind at au early period of life. Peace
be with him ! More peace than he
brought to me !

Mow, I have heard many preachers
since that time — not powerful ; merely
Christian, unaffected, and reverential —
and I have had many such preachers
on myx*oll of friends. But, it was not
to hear these, any more than the power
ful class, that I made my Sunday jour
neys. They were journeys of curiosity
to the numerous churches in the City
of London. It came into my head one
day, here had I been cultivating a
familiarity with all the churches of
Rome, and I knew nothing of the in-
sides of the old churches of London ?
This befell on a Sunday morning. I
began my expeditions that very same
day, and they lasted me a year.

I never wanted to know the names
of the churches to which I went, and
to this hour I am profoundly ignorant
in that particular of at least nine-tenths
of them. Indeed, saving that I know
the church of old GOWER'S tomb (he
lias i« .effigy with his head upon his
books) ,to be the church of Saint
Saviour!*, .Southwark, and the church
of MJLXON^S tomb to be the church
of Crip pit-gate, and the church on
Cora'biilil with the great golden keys
to b-e the church of Saint Peter, I doubt
if I .could pass .&. competitive exami
nation in any of ,th,e names. No ques
tion did JL.iiver ask <pf living creature
vc.lxuri;hes, and no

answer to any antiquarian question on
the subject that I ever put to books,
shall harass the reader's soul. A full
half of my pleasure in them, arose out
of their mystery ; mysterious I found
them ; mysterious they shall remain for
me.

Where shall I begin my round of
hidden and forgotten old churches in
the City of London ?

It is twenty minutes short of eleven
on a Sunday morning, when I stroll
down one of the many narrow hilly
streets in the City that tend due south
to the Thames. It is my first experi
ment, and I have come to the region of
Whittington in an omnibus, and we
have put down a fierce-eyed spare old
woman, whose slate-colored gown
smells of herbs, and who walked up
Aldersgate-street to some chapel where
she comforts herself with brimstone
doctrine, I warrant. We have also
put down a stouter and sweeter old
lady, with a pretty large prayer-book
in an unfolded pocket-handkerchief,
who got out at the corner of a court
near Stationers' Hall, and who I think
must go to church there, because she
is the widow of some deceased Old
Company's Beadle. The rest of our
freight were mere chance pleasure-seek
ers and rural walkers, and went on to
the Blackwall railway. So many bells
are ringing, when I stand undecided at
a street corner, that every sheep in the
ecclesiastical fold might be a bell
wether. The discordance is fearful
My state of indecision is referable to,
and about equally divisible among,
four great churche^, which are all with
in sight and sound, all within the space
of a few square yards. As I stand at
the street corner, I don't see as many
as four people at once going to church,
though I see as many as four churches
with their steeples clamoring for peo
ple. I choose my church, and go up
the flight of steps to the great entrance
in the tower. A mouldy tower within,
and like a neglected washhouse. A
rope comes through the beamed roof,
and a man in a corner pulls it and
clashes the bell ; a whity-brown man,
whose clothes were once black ; a man
with flue on him, and cobweb. He
stares at me, wondering how I come
there, and I stare at him, wondering

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

119

how he comes there. Through a screen
of wood and glass, I peep into the dim
church. About twenty people are dis
cernible, waiting to begin. Christening1
would seem to have faded out of this
church long ago, for the font has the
dust of desuetude thick upon it, and
its wooden cover (shaped like an old-
fashioned tureen cover) looks as if it
wouldn't come off upon requirement.
I perceive the altar to be rickety, and
the Commandments damp. Entering
after this survey, I jostle the clergyman,
who is entering too from a dark lane
behind a pew of state with curtains,
wher'e nobody sits. The pew is orna
mented with four blue wands, once
carried by four somebodys, I suppose,
before somebody else, but which there
is nobody now to hold or receive honor
from. I open the door of a family
pew, and shut myself in ; if I could
occupy twenty family pews at once, I
might have them. The clerk, a brisk
young man, (how does he come here ?)
glances at me knowingly, as who should
say, "You have done it now; yon must
stop." Organ plays. Organ-loft is in
a small gallery across the church; gal
lery congregation, two girls. I wonder
within myself what will happen when
we are required to sing.

There is a pale heap of books in the
corner of my pew, and while the organ,
which is hoarse and sleepy, plays in
such fashion that I can hear more of
the rusty working of the stops than of
any music, I look at the books, which
are mostly bound in faded baize and
stuff. They belonged, in 1754, to the
Dowgate family ; and who were they ?
Jane Comport must have married
Young Dowgate, and come into the
family that way ; Young Dowgate was
courting Jane Comport when he gave
her her prayer-book, and recorded the
presentation in the fly-leaf; if Jane
were fond of Young Dowgate, why did
she die and leave the book here ? Per
haps at the rickety altar, and before the
damp Commandments, she, Comport,
had taken him, Dowgate, in a flush of
youthful hope and joy, and perhaps it
had not turned out in the long run as
great a success as was expected ?

The opening of the service recals my
wandering thoughts. I then find, to
my astonishment, that I have been, and

1 still am, taking a strong kind of in
visible snuff, up my nose, into my eyes,
and down my throat. I wink, sneeze,
and cough. The clerk sneezes ; the
clergyman winks ; the unseen organist
sneezes and coughs, (and probably
winks); all our little party wink, sneeze,
and cough. The snuff seems to be made
of the decay of matting, wood, cloth,
stone, iron, earth, and something else.
Is the something else, the decay of dead
citizens in the vaults below? As sure
as Death it is ! Not only in the cold
damp February day, do we cough and
sneeze dead citizens all through the
service, but dead citizens have got into
the very bellows of the organ, and half
choked the same. We stamp our feet,
to warm them, and dead citizens arise
in heavy clouds. Dead citizens stick
upon the walls, and lie pulverized on the
sounding-board over the clergyman's
head, and, when a gust of air comes,
tumble down upon him.

In this first experience I was so
nauseated by too much snuff, made
of the Dowgate family, the Comport
branch, and other families and branches,
that I gave but little heed to our dull
manner of ambling through the service ;
to the brisk clerk's manner of encour
aging us to try a note or two at psalm
time; to the gallery-congregation's
manner of enjoying a shrill duet, with
out a notion of time or tune ; to the
whity-brown man's manner of shutting
the minister into the pulpit, and being
very particular with the lock of the door,
as if he were a dangerous animal. But,
I tried again next Sunday, and soon
accustomed myself to the dead citizens
when I found that I could not possibly
get on without them among the City
churches.

Another Sunday. After being again
rung for by conflicting bells, like a leg
of mutton or a laced hat a hundred
years ago, I make selection of a church
oddly put away in a corner among a
number of lanes — a smaller church than
the last, and an ugly : of about the
date of Queen Anne. As a congrega
tion we are fourteen strong: not count
ing an exhausted charity school in a
gallery, which has dwindled away to
four boys, and two girls. In the porch,
is a benefaction of loaves of breadj
which there would seem to be nobody

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left in the exhausted congregation to
claim, and which I saw an exhausted
beadle, long faded out of uniform, eating
with his eyes for self and family when I
passed in. There is also an exhausted
clerk in a brown wig, and two or three
exhausted doors and windows have been
bricked up, and the service books are
musty, and the pulpit cushions are
threadbare, and the whole of the church
furniture is in a very advanced stage of
exhaustion. We are three old women
(habitual), two young lovers (acci
dental), two tradesmen, one with a wife
and one alone, an aunt and nephew,
again two girls (these two girls dressed
out for church with every thing about
them limp that should be stiff, and vice
versa, are an invariable experience),
and three sniggering boys. The clergy
man is, perhaps, the chaplain of a civic
company ; he has the moist and vinous
look, and eke the bulbous boots, of one
acquainted with 'Twenty port, and
comet vintages.

We are so quiet in our dullness that
the three sniggering boys, who have got
away into a corner by the altar-railing,
give us a start, like crackers, whenever
they laugh. And this reminds me of
my own village church where, during
sermon-time on bright Sundays when
the birds are very musical indeed,
farmers' boys patter out over the stone
pavement, and the clerk steps out from
his desk after them, and is distinctly
heard in the summer repose to pursue
and punch them in the churchyard, and
is seen to return with a meditative coun
tenance, making believe that nothing of
the sort has happened. The aunt and
nephew in this City church are much
disturbed by the sniggering boys. The
nephew is himself a boy, and the snig-
gerers tempt him to secular thoughts of
marbles and string, by secretly offering
such commodities to his distant contem
plation. This young Saint Anthony
for a while resists, but presently becomes
a backslider, and in dumb show defies
the sniggerers to " heave " a marble or
two in his direction. Herein he is de
tected by the aunt (a rigorous reduced
gentlewoman who has the charge of
offices), arid I perceive that worthy
relative to poke him in the side, with
the corrugated hooked handle of an

ancient umbrella. The nephew revenges
himself for this, by holding his breath
and terrifying his kinswoman with the
dread belief that he has made up his
mind to burst. Regardless of whispers
and shakes, he swells and becomes dis
colored, and yet again swells and be
comes discolored, until the aunt can
bear it no longer, but leads him out,
with no visible neck, and with his eyes
going before him like a prawn's. This
causes the sniggerers to regard flight as
an eligible move, and I know which of
them will go out first, because of the
over-devout attention that he suddenly
concentrates on the clergyman. In a
little while, this hypocrite, with an
elaborate demonstration of hushing his
footsteps, and with a face generally ex
pressive of having until now forgotten
a religious appointment elsewhere, is
gone. Number two gets out in the same
way, but rather quicker. Number three
getting safely to the door, there turns
reckless, and banging it open, flies forth
with a Whoop ! that vibrates to the top
of the tower above us.

The clergyman, who is of a prandial
presence and a muffled voice, may be
scant of hearing as well as of breath,
but he only, glances up, as having an
idea that somebody has said Amen in a
wrong place, and continues his steady
jog-trot, like a farmer's wife going to
market. He does all he has to do, in
the same easy way, and gives us a con
cise sermon, still like the jog-trot of
the farmer's wife on a level road. Its
drowsy cadence soon lulls the three old
women asleep, and the unmarried trades-
man sits looking out at window, and the
married tradesman sits looking at his
wife's bonnet, and the lovers sit looking
at one another, so superlatively happy,
that I mind when I, turned of eighteen,
went with my Angelica to a City church
on account of a shower (by this special
coincidence that it was in Huggin-lane),
and when I said to my Angelica, " Let
the blessed event, Angelica, occur at no
altar but this !" and when my Angelica
consented that it should occur at no
other — which it certainly never did, for
it never occurred anywhere. And 0,
Angelica, what has become of you, this
present Sunday morning when I can't
attend to the sermon : and, more diffi-

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121

cult qmstion than that, what has be
come of Me as I was when I sat by your
side!

But we receive the signal to make
that unanimous dive which surely is a
little conventional — like the strange
rustlings and settlings and clearings of
throats and noses, which are never dis
pensed with, at certain points of the
Church service, and are never held to
be necessary under any other circum
stances. In a minute more it is all
over, and the organ expresses itself to
be as glad of it as it can be of any thing
in its rheumatic state, and in another
minute we are all of us out of the
church, and Whity-brown has locked it
up. Another minute or little more,
and, in the neighboring churchyard —
not the yard of that church, but of an
other — a churchyard like a great shabby
old mignonette-box, with two trees in
it and one tomb — I meet Whity-brown,
in his private capacity, fetching a pint
of beer for his dinner from the public-
house in the corner, where the keys of
the rotting fire-ladders are kept and
were never asked for, and where there
is a ragged, white-seamed, out-at-el-
bowed bagatelle-board on the first floor.

In one of these city churches, and
only in one, I found an individual who
might have been claimed as expressly
a City personage. I remember the
church, by the feature that the clergy
man couldn't get to his own desk with
out going through the clerk's, or
couldn't get to the pulpit without going
through the reading-desk — I forget
which, and it's no matter — and by the
presence of this personage among the
exceedingly sparse congregation. I
doubt if we were a dozen, and we had
no exhausted charity school to help us
out. The personage was dressed in
black of square cut, and was stricken in
years, and wore a black velvet cap and
cloth shoes. He was of a staid,
wealthy, and dissatisfied aspect. In his
hand, he conducted to church a myste
rious child : a child of the feminine
gender. The child had a beaver hat,
with a stiff drab plume that surely
never belonged to any bird of the air.
The child was further attired in a nan
keen frock and spencer, brown boxing-
gloves and a vail. It had a blemish, in
the nature of currant jelly, on its chin ;

and was a thirsty child. Insomuch
that the personage carried in his pocket
a green bottle, from which, when the
first psalm was given out, the child was
openly refreshed. At all other times
throughout the service it was motion
less, and stood on the seat of the large
pew, closely fitted into the corner, like a
rain-water pipe.

The personage never opened his book,
and never looked at the clergyman. He
never sat down either, but stood with his
arms leaning on the top of the pew, and
his forehead sometimes shaded with his
right hand, always looking at the church
door. It was a long church for a church
of its size, and he was at the upper end,
but he always looked at the door.
That he was an old bookkeeper, or an
old trader who had kept his own books,
and that he might be seen at the Bank
of England about Dividend times, no
doubt. That he had lived in the city
all his life and was disdainful of other
localities, no doubt. Why he looked
at the door, I never absolutely proved,
but it is my belief that he lived in ex
pectation of the time when the citizens
would come backfto live in the city,
and its ancient glories would be renewed.
He appeared to expect that this would
occur on a Sunday, and that the wan
derers would first appear in the deserted
churches, penitent and humbled. Hence,
he looked at the door which they
never darkened. Whose child the
child was, whether the child of a disin
herited daughter, or some parish orphan
whom the personage had adopted,
there was nothing to lead up to. It
never played, or skipped, or smiled.
Once, the idea occurred to me that it
was an automaton, and that the person
age had made it ; but following the
strange couple out one Sunday, I heard
the personage say to it, " Thirteen
thousand pounds;" to which it added,
in a weak human voice, " Seventeen and
fourpence." Four Sundays I followed
them out, and this is all I ever' heard
or saw them say. One Sunday, I fol
lowed them home. They lived behind
a pump, and the personage opened
their abode with an exceeding large
key. The one solitary inscription on
their house related to a fire-plug. The
house was partly undermined by a de
serted aud closed gateway j its wiu-

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dows were blind with dirt ; and it stood
with its face disconsolately turned to a
wall. Five great churches and two
small ones rang their Sunday bells be
tween this house and the church the
couple frequented, so they must have
had some special reason for going a
quarter of a mile to it. The last time
I sn\v them, was on this wise. I had
been to explore another church at a
distance, and happened to pass the
church they frequented, at about two
of the afternoon when that edifice was
closed. But a little side-door, which I
had never observed before, stood open,
and disclosed certain cellarous steps.
Methonght, ''They are airing the vaults
to-day," when the personage and the
child silently arrived at the steps, and
silently descended. Of course, I came to
the conclusion that the personage had at
last despaired of the looked-for return
of the penitent citizens, and that he and
the child went down to get themselves
bnried.

In the course of my pilgrimages I
came upon one obscure church which
had broken out in the melodramatic
style, and was got' up with vafious
.tawdry decorations, much after the man
ner of the extinct London Maypoles.
These attractions had induced several
young priests or deacons in black bibs
for waistcoats, and several young ladies
interested in that holy order (the pro
portion being, as I estimated, seventeen
young ladies to a deacon,) to come into
the City as a new and odd excitement.
It was wonderful to see how these young
people played out their little play in
the heart of the city, all among them
selves, without the deserted city's know
ing any thing about it. It was as if
you should take an empty counting-
house on a Sunday, and act one of the
old Mysteries there. They had im
pressed a small school (from what
neighborhood I don't know) to assist
in the performances, and it was pleasant
to notice frantic garlands of inscription
on the walls, especially addressing those
poor innocents in characters impossible
for them to decipher. There was a re
markably agreeable smell of pomatum
in this congregation.

But, in other cases, rot and mildew
and dead citizens formed the upper
most scent, while, infused into it in a

dreamy way not at all displeasing, was
the staple character of the neighbor
hood. In the churches about Mark-
lane, for example, there was a dry whiff
of wheat ; and I accidentally struck an
airy sample of barley out of an aged has
sock in one of them. From Rood-lane
to Tower street, and thereabouts, there
was often a subtle flavor of wine :
sometimes, of tea. One church near
Mincing lane smelt like a druggist's
drawer. Behind the Monument, the
service had a flavor of damaged oranges,
which, a little further down toward the
river, tempered into herrings, and
gradually toned into a cosmopolitan
blast of fish. In one church, the exact
counterpart of the church in the Rake's
Progress where the hero is being mar
ried to the horrible old lady, there was
no speciality of atmosphere, until the
organ shook a perfume of hides all over
us from some adjacent warehouse.

Be the-scent what it would, however,
there was no speciality in the people.
There were never enough of them to
represent any calling or neighborhood.
They had all gone elsewhere over-night,
and a few stragglers in the many
churches languished there inexpres
sively.

Among the uncommercial travels in
which I have engaged, this year of
Sunday travel occupies its own place,
apart from all the rest. Whether I
think of the church where the sails of
the oyster-boats in the river almost
flapped against the windows, or of the
church where the railroad made the
bells hum as the train rushed by above
the roof, I recall a curious experience.
On summer Sundays, in the gentle ram
or the bright sunshine — either, deepen
ing the idleness of the idle city — I have
sat, in that singular silence which be
longs to resting-places usually astir, in
scores of buildings at the heart of the
world's metropolis, unknown to far
greater numbers of people speaking the
English tongue, than the ancient edi
fices of the Eternal City, or tlie Pyra
mids of Egypt. The dark vestries and
registries into which I have peeped,
and the little hemmed-iu churchyards
that have echoed to my feet, have left
impressions on my memory as distinct
and quaint as any it has in that way
received. In all those dusty registers

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

123

that the worms are eating there is not a
line but made some hearts leap, or
some tears flow, in their day. Still anc
dry now, still and dry ! and the old
tree at the window with no room for it
branches, has seen them all out. So
with the tomb of the old Master of the
old Company, on which it drips. Hi
son restored it and died, his daugh
ter restored it and died, and then he
had been remembered long enough,
any the tree took possession of him,
and his name cracked out.

There are few more striking indica
tions of the changes of manners and
customs that two or three hundred
years have brought about, than these
deserted Churches. Many of them are
handsome and costly structures, several
of them were designed by WREN, many
of them arose from the ashes of the great
fire, others of them outlived the plague
and the fire too, to die a slow death in
these latter days. No one can be sure
of the coming time ; but it is not too
much to say of it that it has no sign in
its outsetting tides, of the reflux to
these churches of their congregations
and uses. They remain, like the tombs
of the old citizens who lie beneath them
and around them, Monuments of an
other age. They are worth a Sunday-
exploration now and then, for they yet
echo, not unharmoniously, to the time
when the city of London really was
London ; when the 'Prentices and
Trained Bands were of mark in the
state ; when even the Lord Mayor him
self was a Reality — not a Fiction con
ventionally be-puffed on one day in the
year by illustrious friends, who no less
conventionally laugh at him on the re
maining three hundred and sixty-four
days.

So much of my traveling is done on
foot, that if I cherished betting propen
sities, I should probably be found re
gistered in sporting newspapers, under
some such title as the Elastic Novice,
challenging all eleven-stone mankind to
competition in walking. My last spe
cial feat was turning out of bed at two,
after a hard day, pedestrian and other
wise, and walking thirty miles into the
country to breakfast. The road was so
lonely in the night, that I fell asleep to
the monotonous sound of my own feet,

doing their regular four miles an hour.
Mile after mile I walked, without the
slightest sense of exertion, dozing hea
vily and dreaming constantly. It was
only when I made a stumble like a
drunken man, or struck out into the
road to avoid a horseman close upon
me on the path — who had no existence
— that I came to myself and looked
about. The day broke mistily (it was
autumn time), and I could not disem
barrass myself of the idea that I had to
climb those heights and bunks of cloud,
and that there was an Alpine Convent
somewhere behind the sun, where I was
going to breakfast. This sleepy notion
was so much stronger than such sub
stantial objects as villages and hay
stacks, that, after the sun was up and
bright, and when I was sufficiently
awake to have a sense of pleasure iu
the prospect, I still occasionally caught
myself looking about for wooden arms
to point the right track up the moun
tain, and wondering there was no snow
yet. It is a curiosity of broken sleep,
that I made immense quantities of
verses on that pedestrian occasion, —
of course I never make any when I am
in my right senses, — and that I spoke
a certain language once pretty familiar
to me, but which I had nearly forgot
ten from disuse, with fluency. Of both
these phenomena I have such frequent
experience in the state between sleep
ing and waking, that I sometimes argue
with myself that I know I cannot be
awake, for, if I were, I should not be
half so ready. The readiness is not
imaginary, because I can often recall
long strings of the verses, and many
turns of the fluent speech, after I aui
broad awake.

My walking is of two kinds ; one
straight on end to a definite goal at a
round pace ; one, objectless, loitering,
and purely vagabond. In the latter
state, no gipsy ou earth is a greater va
gabond than myself; it is so natural to
me and strong with me, that I think

must be the descendant, at no great
distance, of some irreclaimable tramp.

One of the pleasantest things I have
.ately met with, in a vagabond course
of shy metropolitan neighborhoods and
small shops, is the fancy of a humble art-
st as exemplified iii two portraits repre
senting Mr. Thomas Sayers, of Great

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THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

Britain, and Mr. John Heenan, of the
United States of America. These il
lustrious men are highly colored, in
lighting trim, and fighting attitude.
To suggest the pastoral and meditative
nature of their peaceful calling, Mr.
Heenan is represented on emerald
sward, with primroses and other modest
flowers springing up at the heels of his
half- boots ; while Mr. Sayers is im
pelled to the administration of his fa
vorite blow, the Auctioneer, by the
silent eloquence of a village church.
The humble homes of England, with
their domestic virtues and honeysuckle
porches, urge both heroes to go in
and win ; and the lark and other sing
ing-birds are observable in the upper
air, ecstatically caroling their thanks
to Heaven for a fight. On the whole,
the associations entwined with the pu
gilistic art by this artist are much in
the manner of Izaak Walton.

But, it is with the lower animals of
back streets and by-ways that my pre
sent purpose rests. For human notes,
we may return to such neighborhoods
when leisure and inclination serve.

Nothing in shy neighborhoods per
plexes my mind more, than the bad
company birds keep. Foreign birds
often get into good society, but British
birds are inseparable from low associ
ates. There is a whole street of them
in Saint Giles's ; and I always find
them in poor and immoral neighbor
hoods, convenient to the public-house
and the pawnbroker's. They seem to
lead the people into drinking, and even
the man who makes their cages usually
gets into a chronic state of black 'eye.
Why is this ? Also, they will do things
for people in short-skirted velveteen
coats with bone buttons, or in sleeved
waistcoats arid fur caps, which they
cannot be persuaded by the respectable
orders of society to undertake. In a
dirty court in Spitalfields, once, I found
a goldfinch drawing his own water, and
drawing as much of it as if he were
in a consuming fever. That goldfinch
lived at a bird-shop, and offered in
writing, to barter himself against old
clothes, empty bottles, or even kitchen-
stuff. Surely a low thing and a de
praved taste in any finch ! I bought
that goldfinch for money. He was
sent home, and hung upon a nail over

against my table. He lived outside a
counterfeit dwelling-house, supposed
(as I argued) to be a dyer's ; otherwise
it would have been impossible to account
for his perch sticking out of the garret
window. From the time of his appear
ance in my room, either he left off being
thirsty — which was not in the bond — or
he could not make up his mind to hear
his little bucket drop back into his well
when he let it go ; a shock which in
the best of times had made him tremble.
He drew no water but by stealth and
under the cloak of night. After an
interval of futile and at length hopeless
expectation, the merchant who had
educated him was appealed to. The
merchant was a bow-legged character,
with a flat and cushiony nose, like the
last new strawberry. He wore a fur
cap, and shorts, and was of the vel
veteen race, velveteeny. He sent word
that he would "look round." He
looked round, appeared in the doorway
of the room, and slightly cocked up his
evil eye at the goldfinch. Instantly, a
raging thirst beset that bird ; when it
was appeased, he still drew several
unnecessary buckets of water ; and
finally, leaped ab"out his perch and
sharpened his bill, as if he had been to
the nearest wine-vaults and got drunk.
Donkeys again. I know shy neigh
borhoods where the Donkey goes in at
the street door, and appears to live up
stairs, for I have examined the back
yard from over the palings, and have
been unable to make him out. Gen
tility, Nobility, Royalty, would appeal
to that donkey in vain to do what he
does for a costermonger. Feed him
with oats at the highest price, put an
infant prince and princess in a pair of
panniers on his back, adjust his delicate
trappings to a nicety, take him to the
softest slopes at Windsor, and try what
pace you can get out of him. Then,
starve him, harness him any how to a
truck with a flat tray on it, and see him
bowl from Whitechapel to Bayswater.
There appears to be no particular pri
vate understanding between birds and
donkeys, in a state of nature ; but in
the shy neighborhood state you shall
see them always in the same hands, and
always developing their very best ener
gies for the very worst company. I
have known a donkey — by sight; we

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

125

were not on speaking terms — who lived,
over on the Surrey side of London-
bridge, among the fastnesses of Jacob's
Island and Dockhead. It was the
habit of that animal, when his services
were not in immediate requisition, to
go ont alone, idling. I have met him
a mile from his place of residence, loiter
ing about the streets ; and the expres
sion of his countenance at such times
was most degraded. He was attached
to the establishment of an elderly lady
who sold periwinkles, and he used to
stand on Saturday nights with a cartful
of those delicacies outside a gin-shop,
pricking up his ears when a customer
came to the cart, and too evidently
deriving satisfaction from the knowledge
that they got bad measure. His mis
tress was sometimes overtaken by
inebriety. The last time I ever saw
him (about five years ago) he was in
circumstances of difficulty, caused by
this failing. Having been left alone
with the cart of periwinkles, and for
gotten, he went off idling. He prowled
among his usual low haunts for some
time, gratifying his depraved taste, until,
not taking the cart into his calculations,
he endeavored to turn up a narrow
alley, and became greatly involved.
He was taken into custody by the police,
and, the Green Yard of the district
being near at hand, was backed into
that place of durance. At that crisis,
I encountered him ; the stubborn sense
he evinced of being — not to compromise
the expression — a blackguard, I never
saw exceeded in the human subject. A
flaring candle in a paper shade, stuck
in among his periwinkles, showed him,
with his ragged harness broken and his
cart extensively«hattered, twitching his
mouth and shaking his hanging head, a
picture of disgrace and obduracy. I
have seen boys being taken to station-
houses, who were as like him as his own
brother.

The dogs of shy neighborhoods, I
observe to avoid play, and to be con
scious of poverty. They avoid work
too, if they can, of course ; that is in
the nature of all animals. I have the
pleasure to know a dog in a back street
in the neighborhood of Walworth, who
has greatly distinguished himself in the
minor drama, and who takes his por
trait with him wlen he makes an

engagement, for the illustration of the
play-bill. His portrait (which is not
at all like him) represents him in the
act of dragging to the earth a recreant
Indian, who is supposed to have toma
hawked, or essayed to tomahawk 'a
British officer. The design is pure
poetry, for there is no such Indian in
the piece, and no such incident. He is
a dog of the Newfoundland breed, for
whose honesty I would be bail to any
amount ; but whose intellectual qualities
in association with dramatic fiction, I
cannot rate high. Indeed, he is too
honest for the profession he has entered.
Being at a town in Yorkshire last sum
mer, and seeing him posted in the bill
of the night, I attended the perform
ance. His first scene was eminently
successful ; but, as it occupied a second
in its representation (and five lines in
the bill), it scarcely afforded ground for
a cool and deliberate judgment of his
powers. He had merely to bark, run
on, and jump through an inn window
after a comic fugitive. The next scene
of importance to the fable was a little
marred in its interest by his over-
anxiety : forasmuch as while his master
(a belated soldier in a den of robbers
on a tempestuous night) was feelingly
lamenting the absence of his faithful
dog, and laying great stress on the fact
that he was thirty leagues away, the
faithful dog was barking furiously in the
prompter's box, and clearly choking
himself against his collar. But it was
in his greatest scene of all, that his
honesty got the better of him. He had
to enter a dense and trackless forest,
on the trail of the murderer, and there
to fly at the murderer when he found
him resting at the foot of a tree, with
his victim bound ready for slaughter.
It was a hot night, and he came into
the forest from an altogether unexpected
direction, in the sweetest temper, at a
very deliberate trot, not in the least
excited ; trotted to the foot-lights with
his tongue out; and there sat down,
panting, and amiably surveying the
audience, with his tail beating on the
boards, like a Dutch clock. Meanwhile
the murderer, impatient to receive his
doom, was audibly calling to him
" CO-O-OME here !" while the victim,
struggling with his bonds, assailed him
with the most injurious expressions. It

126

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

happened through these means, that
when he was in course of time per
suaded to trot up and rend the mur
derer limb from limb, he made it (for
dramatic purposes) a little too obvious
that he worked out that awful retribu
tion by licking butter off his blood
stained hands.

In a shy street behind Long-acre,
two honest dogs live, who perform in
Punch's shows. I may venture to say
that I am on terms of intimacy with
both, and that I never saw either guilty
of the falsehood of failing to look down
at the man inside the show, during the
whole performance. The difficulty
Other dogs have- in satisfying their
minds about these dogs, appears to be
never overcome by time. The same
dogs must encounter them over and
over again, as they trudge along in
their off-minutes behind the legs of the
show and beside the drum ; but all
dogs seem to suspect their frills and
jackets, and to sniff at them as if they
thought those articles of personal
adornment an eruption — a something
in the nature of mange, perhaps. From
this Covent Garden window of mine, I
noticed a country dog, only the other
day, who had come up to Covent Gar
den Market under a cart, and had
broken his cord, an end of which he
Still trailed along with him. He loitered
about the corners of the four streets
commanded by my window ; and bad
London dogs came up, and told him
lies that he didn't believe ; and worse
London dogs came up, and made pro
posals to him to go and steal in the
market, which his principles rejected ;
and the ways of the town confused him,
and he crept aside and lay down in a
doorway. He had scarcely got a wink
of sleep, when up comes Punch with
Toby. He was darting to Toby for
consolation and advice, when he saw
the frill, and stopped in the middle of
the street, appalled. The show was
pitched, Toby retired behind the dra
pery, the audience formed, the drum
and pipes struck up. My country dog
remained immovable, intently staring
at these strange appearances, until
Toby opened the drama by appearing
on his ledge, and to him entered Punch,
who put a tobacco-pipe into Toby's
mouth. At this spectacle, the country

.dog threw up his head, gave one terri
ble howl, and fled due west.

We talk of men keeping dogs, but
we might often talk more expressively
of dogs keeping men. I know a bull
dog in a shy corner of Hammersmith
who keeps a man. He keeps him up a
yard, and makes him go to public-
houses and lay wagers on him, and
obliges him to lean against posts and
look at him, and forces him to neglect
work for him, and keeps him under
rigid coercion. I once knew a fancy
terrier that kept a gentleman — a gen
tleman who had been brought up at
Oxford, too. The dog kept the gen
tleman entirely for his glorification, and
the gentleman never talked about any
thing but the terrier. This, however,
was not in a shy neighborhood, and is a
digression consequently.

There are a great many dogs in shy
neighborhoods, who keep boys. I have
my eye on a mongrel in Somers-tovvn
who keeps three boys. He feigns that
he can bring down sparrows, and un-
burrow rats (he can do neither), and
he takes the boys out on sporting pre
tenses into all sorts of suburban fieMs.
He has likewise made them believe that
he possesses some mysterious know
ledge of the art of fishing, and they
consider themselves to be incompletely
equipped for the Hampstead ponds,
with a pickle-jar and a wide-mouthed
bottle, unless he is with them and bark
ing tremendously. There is a dog re
siding in the Borough of Southwark,
who keeps a blind man. He may be
seen, most days, in Oxford-street, haul
ing the blind man away on expeditions
wholly uncontemplated by, and unintel
ligible to, the man : wholly of the dog's
conception and execution. Contrari
wise, when the man has projects, the
dog will sit down in a crowded tho
roughfare and meditate. I saw him
yesterday, wearing the money-tray like
an easy collar instead of offering it to
the public, taking the man against his
will, on the invitation of a disreputable
cur, apparently to visit a dog at Har
row — he was so intent on that direc
tion. The north wall of Burlingtort
House Gardens, between the Arcade
and the Albany, offers a shy spot for
appointments among blind men at
about two or three o'clock in- the after-

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

127

noon. They sit (very uncomfortable)
on a sloping board there, and compare
notes. Their dogs may always be ob
served at the same time, openly dis
paraging the men they keep, to one
another, and settling where they shall
respectively take their men when they
begin to move again. At a small
butcher's, in a shy neighborhood (there
is no reason for suppressing the name ;
it is by Notting-hill, and gives upon
the district called the Potteries), I
know a shaggy black and white dog
who keeps a drover. He is a dog of
an easy disposition, and too frequently
allows this drover to get drunk. On
these occasions, it is the dog's custom
to sit outside the public-house, keeping
his eye on a few sheep, and thinking.
I have seen him with six sheep, plainly
casting-up in his mind how many he
began with when he left the market,
and at what places he has left the rest.
I have seen him perplexed by not being
able to account to himself for certain
particular sheep. A light has gradu
ally broken on him, he has remembered
at what butcher's he left them, and in a
burst of grave satisfaction has caught a
fly off his nose, and shown himself
much relieved. If I could at any time
have doubted the fact that it was he
who kept the drover, and not the
drover who kept him, it would have
been abundantly proved by his way of
taking undivided charge of the six
sheep, when the drover came out be
smeared with red ochre and beer, and
gave him wrong directions, which he
calmly disuegarded. He has taken the
sheep entirely into his own hands, has
merely remarked with respectful firm
ness, "That instruction would place
them under an omnibus; you had bet
ter confine your attention to yourself —
you will want it all ;" and has driven
his charge away, with an intelligence
of ears and tail, and a knowledge of
business, that has left his lout of a man
very, very far behind.

As the dogs of shy neighborhoods
usually betray a slinking consciousness
of being in poor circumstances — for
the most part manifested in an aspect
of anxiety, an awkwardness in their
play, and a misgiving that somebody is
going to harness them to something, to
pick up a living — so the cats of shy

neighborhoods exhibit a strong ten
dency to relapse into barbarism. Not
only are they made selfishly ferocious
by ruminating on the surplus popula
tion around them, and on the densely
crowded state of all the avenues to cat's
meat ; not only is there a moral and
politico-economical haggardness in
them, traceable to these reflections; but
they evince a physical deterioration.
Their linen is not clean, and is wretch
edly got up ; their black turns rusty,
like old mourning ; they wear very in
different fnr ; and take to the shabbiest
cotton velvet, instead of silk velvet. I
am on terms of recognition with several
small streets of cats, about the Obelisk
in Saint George's Fields, and also in
the vicinity of Clerkenwell-green, and
also in the back settlements of Drury-
lane. In apyearance, they are very like
the women among whom they live.
They seem to turn out of their un
wholesome beds into the street, without
any preparation. They leave their
young families to stagger about the
gutters, unassisted, while they frouzily
quarrel and swear and scratch and spit,
at street corners. In particular, I re
mark that when they are about to in
crease their families (an event of fre
quent recurrence) the resemblance is
strongly expressed in a certain dusty
dowdiness, down-at-heel Belt-neglect,
and general giving up of things. I
cannot honestly report that I have ever
seen a feline matron of this class wash
ing her face when in an interesting
condition.

Not to prolong these notes of un
commercial travel among the lower
animals of shy neighborhoods, by dwell
ing at length upon the exasperated
moodiness of the tom-cats, and their
resemblance in many respects to a man
and a brother, I will come to a close
with a word on the fowls of the same
localities.

That any thing born of an egg and
invested with wings, should have got to
the pass that it hops contentedly down
a ladder into a cellar, and calls that
going home, is a circumstance so amaz
ing us to leave one nothing more in this
connection to wonder at. Otherwise I
might wonder at the completeness with
which these fowls have become separated
from all the birds of the air — have taken

123

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

to groveling in bricks and mortar and
mud — have forgotten all about live
trees, and * make roosting-places of
shop-boards, barrows, oyster-tubs, bulk
heads, and door-scrapers. I wonder at
nothing concerning them, and take them
as they are. I accept as products of
Nature and things of course, a reduced
Bantam family of my acquaintance in
the Hackney-road, who are incessantly
at the pawnbroker's. I cannot say that
they enjoy themselves, for they are of a
melancholy temperament; but what en
joyment they are capable of, they de
rive from crowding together in the
pawnbroker's side-entry. Here, they
are always to be found in a feeble flut
ter, as if they were newly come down
in the world, and were afraid of being
identified. I know a low fellow, origin
ally of a good family froni Dorking,
who takes his whole establishment of
wives, in single file, in at the door of
the Jug Department of a disorderly
tavern near the Haymarket, manosuvres
them among the company's legs, emerges
with them at the Bottle Entrance, and
so passes his life : seldom, in the season,
going to bed before two in the morning,
Over Waterloo-bridge, there is a shabby
old speckled couple (they belong to
the wooden French-bedstead, washing-
stand, and towel-horse-making trade),
who are always trying to get in at the
door of a chapel. Whether the old
lady, under a delusion reminding o/ie
of Mrs. Southcott, has an idea of en
trusting an egg to that particular deno
mination, or merely understands that
she has no business in the building, and
is consequently frantic to enter it, I
cannot determine ; but she is constantly
endeavoring to undermine the principal
door : while her partner, who is infirm
npon his legs, walks np and down, en
couraging her and defying the Universe.
But the family I have been best ac
quainted with, since the removal from
this trying sphere of a Chinese circle at
Brentford, reside in the densest part of
Betbnal-green. Their abstraction from
the objects among which they live, or
rather their conviction that those objects
have all come into existence in express
subservience to fowls, has so enchanted
me, that I have made them the subject
of many journeys at divers hours. After
careful observation of the two lords and

the ten ladies of whom this family con
sists, I have come to the conclusion that
their opinions are represented by the
leading lord and leading lady; the lat
ter, as I judge, an aged personage,
afflicted with a paucity of feather and
visibility of quill, that gives her the ap
pearance of a bundle of office pens.
When a railway goods-van that would
crush an elepjiant comes- round the cor
ner, tearing over these fowls, they
emerge unharmed from under the horses,
perfectly satisfied that the whole rush
was a passing property in the air, which
may have left something to eat behind
it. They look upon old shoes, wrecks
of kettles and saucepans, and fragments
of bonnets, as a kind of meteoric dis
charge, for fowls to peck at. Peg-tops
and hoops they account, I think, as a
sort of hail ; shuttlecocks, as rain, or
dew. Gaslight comes quite as natural
to them as any other light ; and I have
more than a suspicion that, in the minds
of the two lords, the early public-house
at the corner has superseded the sun.
I have established it as a certain fact,
that they always begin to crow when
the public-house shutters begin to be
taken down, and that they salute the
potboy, the instant he appears to per
form that duty, as if he were Phoebus
in person.

THE chance use of the word "Tramp"
in my last paper, brought that numerous
fraternity so vividly before my mind's
eye, that I had no sooner laid down my
pen than a compulsion was upon me to
take it up again, and make notes of the
Tramps whom I perceived on all the
summer roads in all directions.

Whenever a tramp sits down to rest
by the wayside, he sits with his legs in
a dry ditch ; and whenever he goes to
sleep (which is very often indeed), he
goes to sleep on his back. Yonder, by
the high road, glaring white in the
bright sunshine, lies, on the dusty bit
of turf under the bramble-bush that
fences the coppice from the highway,
the tramp of the order savage, fast
asleep. He lies on the broad of his
back, with his face turned up to the sky,
and one of his ragged arms loosely
thrown across his face. His bundle
(what can be the contents of that mys
terious bundle, to make it worth his

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

129

while to carry it about ?) is thrown
down beside him, and the waking wo
man with him sits with her leg's in the
ditch, and her back to the road. She
wears her bonnet rakishly perched on
the front of her head, to shade her face
from the sun in walking, and she ties
her skirts round her in conventionally
tight tramp-fashion with a sort of apron.
You can seldom catch sight of her, rest
ing thus, without seeing her in a de
spondently defiant manner doing some
thing to her hair or her bonnet, and
glancing at you between her fingers.
She does not often go to sleep herself
in the daytime, but will sit for any length
of time beside the man. And his slum
berous propensities would not seem to
be referable to the fatigue of carrying
the bundle, for she carries it much
oftener and further than he. When
they are afoot, you will mostly find him
slouching on ahead, in a gruff temper,
while she lags heavily behind with the
burden. He is given to personally cor
recting her, too — which phase of his
character develops itself oftenest, on
benches outside alehouse doors — and
she appears to become strongly attached
to him for these reasons : it may usually
be noticed that when the poor creature
has a bruised face, she is the most affec
tionate. He has no occupation what
ever, this order of tramp, and has no
object whatever in going anywhere. He
will sometimes call himself a brickmaker,
or a sawyer, but only when he takes an
imaginative flight. He generally repre
sents himself, in a vague way, as looking
out for a job of work ; but he never did
work, he never does, and he never never
will. It is a favorite fiction with him,
however (as if he were the most indus
trious character on earth), that you
never work ; and as he goes past your
garden and sees you looking at your
flowers, you will overhear him growl,
with a strong sense of contrast, " You
are a lucky hidle devil, you are !"

The slinking tramp is of the same
hopeless order, and has the same injured
conviction on him that you were born
to whatever you possess, and never did
any thing to get it ; but he is of a less
audacious disposition. He will stop
before your gate, and say to his female
companion with an air of constitutional
humility. and propitiation — to edify any

one who may be within hearing behind
a blind or a bush — "This is a sweet
spot, ain't it ? A lovelly spot ! And
I wonder if they'd give two poor foot
sore travelers like me and you, a drop
of fresh water out of such a pretty gen
teel crib ? We'd take it wery koind on
'em, wouldn't us ? Wery koind, upon
my word, us would !" He has a quick
sense of a dog in the vicinity, and will
extend his modestly-injured propitiation
to the dog chained up in your yard :
remarking, as he slinks at the yard
gate, " Ah ! You are a foine breed o'
dog, too, and you ain't kep fornothink!
I'd take it wery koind o' your master
if he'd elp a traveler and his woife as
envies no gentlefolk their good fortun,
wi' a bit o' your broken wittles. He'd
never know the want of it, nor more
would you. Don't bark like that, at
poor persons as never done you no arm ;
the poor is down-trodden and broke
enough without that ; 0 DON'T !" He
generally heaves a prodigious sigh in
moving away, and always looks up the
lane and down the lane, and up the road
and down the road, before going on.

Both of these orders of tramp are of a
very robust habit ; let the hard-working
laborer at whose cottage door they
prowl and beg, have the ague never so
badly, these tramps are sure to be iu
good health.

That is another kind of tramp, whom
you encounter this bright summer day —
say, on a road with the sea-breeze mak
ing its dust lively, and sails of ships in
the blue distance beyond the slope of
Down. As you walk enjoyingly on,
you descry in the perspective at the
bottom of a steep hill up which your
way lies, a figure that appears to be
sitting airily on a gate, whistling in a
cheerful and disengaged manner. As
you approach nearer to it, you observe
the figure to slide down from the gate,
to desist from whistling, to uncock its
hat, to become tender of foot, to de
press its head and elevate its shoulders,
and to present all the characteristics of
profound despondency. Arriving at the
bottom of the hill and coming close to
the figure, you observe it to be the
figure of a shabby young man. He is
moving painfully forward, in the direc
tion in which you are going, and his
mind is so preoccupied with his misfor-

130

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELED.

times that he is not aware of your ap
proach until you are close upon him at
the hill-foot. When he is aware of you,
you discover him to be a remarkably
well-behaved young man, and a remark
ably well-spoken young man. You know
him to be well-behaved, by his respect
ful manner of touching his hat ; you
know him to be well-spoken, by his
smooth manner of expressing himself.
He says in a flowing confidential voice,
and without punctuation, " I ask your
pardon sir but if you would excuse the
liberty of being so addressed upon the
public I way by one who is almost re
duced to rags though it as not always
been so and by no fault of his own but
through ill elth in his family and many
unmerited sufferings it would be a great
obligation sir to know the time." You
give the well-spoken young man, the
time. The well-spoken young man,
keeping well up with you, resumes : " I
am aware sir that it is a liberty to intrude
a further question on a gentleman walk
ing for his entertainment but might I
make so bold as ask the favor of the
way to Dover sir and about the dis
tance ?" You inform the well-spoken
young man that the way to Dover is
straight on, and the distance some eigh
teen miles. The well-spoken young
man becomes greatly agitated. "In
the coudition to which I am reduced,"
says he, " I could not ope to reach Do
ver before dark even if ray shoes were
in a state to take me there or my feet
were in a state to old out over the
flinty road and were not on the bare
ground of which any gentleman has the
means to satisfy himself by looking Sir
may I take the liberty of speaking to
you ?" As the well-spoken young man
keeps so well up with you that you can't
prevent his taking the liberty of speak
ing to you, he goes on, with fluency :
" Sir it is not begging that is nay inten
tion for I was brought up by the best
of mothers and begging is not my trade
I should not know sir how to follow it
as a trade if such were my shameful
wishes for the best of mothers long
taught otherwise and in the best of
omes though now reduced to take the
present liberty on the Iway Sir my bu
siness was the law-stationering and I
was favorably known to the Solicitor-
General the Attorney-General the ma

jority of the Judges and the ole of the
legal profession but through ill elth in
my family and the treachery of a friend
for whom I became security and he no
other than my own wife's brother the
brother of my own wife I was cast forth
with my tender partner and three young
children not to beg for I will sooner die
of deprivation but to make my way to
the seaport town of Dover where I have
a relative i in respect not only that will
assist me but that would trust me with
untold gold Sir in appier times and
hare this calamity fell upon me I made
for my amusement when I little thought
that I should ever need it excepting
for my air this" — here the well-spoken
young man puts his hand into his
breast — " this comb ! Sir I implore you
in the name of charity to purchase a
tortoise-shell comb which is a genuine
article at any price that your humanity
may put upon it and may the blessings
of a ouseless family awaiting with beat
ing arts the return of a husband and a
father from Dover upon the cold stone
seats of London Bridge ever attend you
Sir may I take the liberty of speaking
to you I implore you to buy this comb 1"
By this time, being a reasonably good
walker, you will have been too much for
the well-spoken young man, who will
stop short and express his disgust
and his want of breath, in a long
expectoration, as you leave him be-
tynd.

Toward the end of the same walk,
on the same bright summer-day, at the
corner of the next little town or village,
you may find another kind of tramp, em
bodied in the persons of a most exem
plary couple whose only improvidence
appears to have been, that they spent
the last of their little All on soap. They
are a man and woman, spotless to be
hold — John Anderson, with the frost
on his short smock-frock instead of his
"pow," attended by Mrs. Anderson.
John is over ostentatious of the frost
upon his raiment, and wears a curious
and, you would say, an almost unneces
sary demonstration of girdle of white
linen wound about his waist — a girdle,
snowy as Mrs. Anderson's apron. This
cleanliness was the expiring effort of
the respectable couple, and nothing then
remained to Mr. Anderson but to get
chalked upon his spade in snow-white

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

131

copy-book characters, HUNGRY ! and to
sit down here. Yes ; one thing more
remained to Mr. Anderson — his cha
racter ; Monarchs could not deprive
him of his hard-earned character. Ac
cordingly, as you come up with this
spectacle of virtue in distress, Mrs.
Anderson rises, and with a decent cour
tesy presents for your consideration a
certificate from a Doctor of Divinity,
the reverend the Vicar of Upper Dodg-
ington, who informs his Christian
friends and all whom it may concern
that the bearers, John Anderson and
lawful wife, are persons to whom you
cannot be too liberal. This benevolent
pastor omitted no work of his hands to
fit the good couple out, for with half an
eye you can recognize his autograph on
the spade.

Another class of tramp is a man, the
most valuable part of whose stock-iu-
trade is a highly perplexed demeanor.
He is got up like a countryman, and
you will often come upon the poor fel
low, while he is endeavoring to decipher
the inscription on a milestone — quite a
fruitless endeavor, for he cannot read.
He asks your pardon, he truly does (he
is very slow of speech, this tramp, and
he looks in a bewildered way all round
the prospect while he talks to you), but
all of us shold do as we wold be done
by, and he'll take it kind if you'll put a
power man in the right road for to jine
his eldest son as has broke his leg bad
in the masoning, and is in this heere
Orspit'l as is wrote down by Squire
Pouncerby's own hand as wold not tell
a lie fur no man. He then produces
from under his dark frock (being always
very slow and perplexed) a neat but
worn old leathern purse, from which he
takes a scrap of paper. On this scrap
of paper is written by Squire Pouncer-
by, of The Grove, " Please to direct
the Bearer, a poor but very worthy
man, to the Sussex County Hospftal,
near Brighton" — a matter of some dif
ficulty at the moment, seeing that the
request comes suddenly upon you in the
depths of Hertfordshire. The more
you endeavor to indicate where Brigh
ton is — when you have with the greatest
difficulty remembered — the less the de
voted father can be made to compre
hend, and the more obtusely he stares
at the prospect ; whereby, being reduced

to extremity, you recommend the faith
ful parent to begin by going to Saint
Albans, and present him with half-a-
crown. It does him good, no doubt, but
scarcely helps him forward, since you
find him lying drunk that same evening
in the wheelwright's sawpit under the
shed where the felled trees are, opposite
the sign of the Three Jolly Hedgers.

But the most vicious, by far, of all
the idle tramps, is the tramp who
pretends to have been a gentleman.
" Educated," he writes from the village
beer-shop in pale ink of a ferruginous
complexion ; " educated at Trin. Coll.
Cam. — nursed in the lap of afluence —
once in my small way the pattron of
the Muses," &c., &c., &c. — surely a
sympathetic mind will not withhold a
trifle, to help him on the marlet-town
where he thinks of giving a Lecture to
the fruges consumers nati, on things
in general ? This shameful creature
lolling about hedge tap-rooms in his
ragged clothes, now so far from being
black that they look as if they never
can have been black, is more selfish aud
insolent than even the savage tramp.
He would sponge on the poorest boy
for a farthing, and spurn him when he
had got it ; he would interpose — if he
could get any thing by it — between the
baby and the mother's breast. So much
lower than the company he keeps, for
his maudlin assumption of being higher,
this pitiless rascal blights the summer
road as he maunders on between the
luxuriant hedges : where, to my think
ing, even the wild convolvulus and rose
and sweetbrier, are the worse for his
going by, and need time to recover from
the taint of him in the air.

The young fellows who trudge along
barefoot, five or six together, their
boots slung over their shoulders, their
shabby bundles under their arms, their
sticks, newly cut from some road-side
wood, are not eminently prepossessing,
but are much less objectionable. There
is a tramp-fellowship among them.
They pick one another up at resting-
stations, and go on in companies. They
always go at a fast swing — though they
generally limp too — and there is invari
ably one of the company who has much
ado to keep up with the rest. They
generally talk about horses, and any
other means of locomotion than walk-

132

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

ing; or, one of the company relates
some iTcent experiences of the road —
which are always disputes and difficul
ties. As for example : " So as I'm a
standing at the pump in the market,
blest if there don't come up a beadle,
and he ses, 'Mustn't stand here,' he
ses. ' Why not ?' I ses. ' No beggars
allowed in this town,' he ses. 'Who's
a beggar ?' I ses. ' You are,' he ses.
' Who ever see me beg ? Did you ?' I
ses. 'Then you're a tramp,' he ses.
' I'd rather be that, than a Beadle,' I
ses." (The company express great ap
proval.) " ' Would you ?' he ses to rne.
'Yes, I would,' I ses to him. 'Well,'
he ses, 'anyhow, get out of this town.'
' Why, blow your little town !l I ses,
' who wants to be in it ? Wot does
your dirty little town mean by comin'
and stickin' itself in the road to any
where? Why don't you get a shovel
and a barrer, and clear your town out
o' people's way ?' " (The company
expressing the highest approval and
laughing aloud, they all go down the
hill.)

Then, there are the tramp handicraft
men. Are they not all over England,
in this Midsummer time ? Where does
the lark sing, the corn grow, the mill
turn, the river run, and they are not
among the lights and shadows, tinker
ing, chair-mending, umbrella-mending,
clock-mending, knife-grinding ? Surely,
a pleasant thing, if we were in that
condition of life, to grind our way
through Kent, Sussex, and Surrey.
For the first six weeks or so, we should
see the sparks we ground off, fiery
bright against a background of green
wheat and green leaves. A little later,
and the ripe harvest would pale our
sparks from red to yellow, until we got
the dark newly-turned land for a back
ground again, and they were red once
more. By that time we should have
ground onr way to the sea cliffs, and
the whirr of our wheel wonld be lost in
the breaking of the waves. Our next
variety in sparks would be derived from
contrast with the gorgeous medley of
colors in the autumn woods, and, by the
time we had ground our way round to
the heathy lands between Beigate and
Croydon, doing a prosperous stroke of
business all along, we should show like
a little firework in the light, frosty air,

and be the next best thing to the
blacksmith's forge. Very agreeable,
too, to go on a chair-mending tour.
What judges we should be of rushes,
and how knowingly, with a sheaf and a
bottomless chair at our back, we should
lounge on bridges, looking over at
osier-beds. Among all the innumerable
occupations that cannot possibly be
transacted without the assistance of
lookers-on, chair-mending may take a
station in the first rank. When we sat
down with our backs against the barn
or the public-house, and began to mend,
what a sense of popularity would grow
upon us. When all the children came to
look at us, and the tailor, and the gen
eral 'dealer, and the farmer who had
been giving a small order at the little
saddler's, amd the groom from the great
house, and the publican, and even the
two skittle-players (and here note that,
howsoever busy all the rest of village
human-kind may be, there will always
be two people with leisure to play at
skittles, wherever village skittles are),
what encouragement would be on us to
plait and weave ! No one looks at us
while we plait and weave these words.
Clock-mending again. Except for the
slight inconvenience of carrying a clock
under our arm, and the monotony of
making the bell go, whenever we came
to a human habitation, with a pleasant
privilege to give a voice to the dumb
cottage-clock, and set it talking to the
cottage family again. Likewise we fore
see great interest in going round by the
park plantations, under the overhang
ing boughs, (hares, rabbits, partridge?,
and pheasants, scudding like mad
across and across the checkered ground
before us,) and so over the park ladder,
and through the wood, until we came
to the Keeper's lodge. Then would
the Keeper be discoverable at his door,
in a deep nest of leaves, smoking his
pipe. Then, on our accosting him in
the way of our trade, would he call to
Mrs. Keeper, respecting "t'ould clock"
in the kitchen. Then would Mrs.
Keeper ask us into the lodge, and on
due examination we should offer to
make a good job of it for eighteen-
pence : which offer, being accepted,
would set us tinkling and clinking
among the chubby awe-struck little
Keepers for an hour and more. So

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

133

completely to the family's satisfaction
should we achieve our work, that the
Keeper would mention how that there
was something wrong with the bell of the
turret-stable clock up at the Hall, and
that if we thought good of going up to
the housekeeper on the chance of that
job too, why he would take us. Then
should we go, among the branching
oaks and the deep fern, by silent ways
of mystery known to the Keeper, see
ing the herd glancing here and there as
we went along, until we came to the old
Hall, solemn and grand. Under the
Terrace Flower Garden, and round by
the stables, would the Keeper take us
in, and as we passed we should observe
how spacious and stately the stables,
and how fine the painting of the
horses' names over their stalls, and how
solitary all : the family "being in Lon
don. Then, should we find ourselves
presented to the housekeeper, sitting, in
hushed state, at needlework, in a bay-
window looking out upon a mighty
grim red-brick quadrangle, guarded by
stone lions disrespectfully throwing
somersaults over the escutcheons of the
noble family. Then, our services ac
cepted and we insinuated with a candle
into the stable-turret, we should find it
to be a mere question of pendulum, but
one that would hold us until dark.
Then, should we fall to work, with a
general impression of Ghosts being
about, and of pictures in-doors that of
a certainty came out of their frames and
"walked," if the family would only
own it. Then, should we work and
work, until the day gradually turned to
dusk, and even until the dusk gradually
turned to dark. Our task at length
accomplished, we should be taken into
an enormous servants' hall, and there
regaled with beef and bread, and pow
erful ale. Then, paid freely, we should
be at liberty to go, and should be told
by a pointing helper to keep round
over yinder by the blasted ash, and so
straight through the woods, till we
should see the town-lights right afore
us. Then, feeling lonesome, should we
desire upon the whole, that the ash had
not been blasted, or that the helper had
had the manners not to mention it.
However, we should keep on, all right,
until suddenly the stable bell would
strike ten in the dolefullest way, quite
9

chilling onr blood, though we 1 ad so
lately taught him how to acquit him
self. Then, as we went on, should we
recall old stories, and dimly consider
what it would be most advisable to do,
in the event of a tall figure, all in white,
with saucer eyes, coming up and saying,
" I want you to come to a churchyard
and mend a church clock. Follow me !"
Then, would we make a burst to get
clear of the trees, and should soon find
ourselves in the open, with the town-
lights bright ahead of us. So should we
lie that night at the ancient sign of the
Crispin and Crispanus, and rise early in
the morning to be betimes on tramp
again.

" Bricklayers often tramp, in twos
and threes, lying by night at their
" lodges" which are scattered all over
the country. Bricklaying is another
of the occupations that can by no means
be transacted in rural parts, without
the assistance of spectators — of as many
as can be convened. In thinly-peopled
spots, I have known bricklayers on
tramp, coming up with bricklayers at
work, to be so sensible of the indispen-
sability of lookers-on, that they them
selves have set up in that capacity, and
have been unable to subside into the
acceptance of a proffered share in the
job, for two or three days together.
Sometimes, the "navvy," on tramp, with
an extra pair of half-boots over his
shoulder, a bag, a bottle, and a can,
will take a similar part in a job of ex
cavation, and will look at it without
engaging in it, until all his money is
gone. The current of my uncommer
cial pursuits caused me only last sum
mer to want a little body of workmen
for a certain spell of work in a plea
sant part of the country ; and I was
at one time honored with the attend
ance of as many as seven-and-twenty,
who were looking at six.

Who can be familiar with any rustic
highway in the summer-time, without
storing up knowledge of the many
tramps who go from one oasis of town
or village to another, to sell a stock in
trade, apparently not worth a shilling
when sold ? Shrimps are a favorite
commodity for this kind of speculation,
and so are cakes of a soft and spongy
character, coupled with Spanish nuts,
and brandy balls. The stock is carried

134

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

on the head in a basket, and, between
the head and the basket, are the trestles
on which the stock is displayed at trad
ing times. Fleet of foot, but a careworn
class of tramp this, mostly; with a
certain stiffness of neck, occasioned
by much anxious balancing of baskets ;
and also with a long Chinese sort of
eye, which an overweighted forehead
would seem to have squeezed into that
form.

On the hot dusty roads near seaport
towns and great rivers, behold the
tramping Soldier. And 'if you should
happen never to have asked yourself
whether his uniform is suited to his
work, perhaps the poor fellow's appear
ance as he comes distressefully toward
you, with his absurdly tight jacket un
buttoned, his neck-gear in his hand, and
his legs well chafed by his trowsers of
baize, may suggest the personal inquiry,
how you think you would like it.
Much better the tramping Sailor, al
though his cloth is somewhat too thick
for land service. But why the tramp
ing merchant-mate should put on a
black velvet waistcoat, for a chalky
country in the dog-days, is one of the
great secrets of nature that will never
be discovered.

I have rny eye upon a piece of Kent
ish road, bordered on either side by
a wood, and having on one hand, be
tween the road-dust and the trees, a
skirting patch of grass. Wild flowers
grow in abundance, on this spot, and it
lies high and airy, with the distant
river stealing steadily away to the
ocean, like a man's life. To gain the
milestone here, which the moss prim
roses, violets, blue-bells, and wild roses,
would soon render illegible but for
peering travelers pushing them aside
with their sticks, you must come' up a
steep hill, come which way you may.
So, all the tramps with carts or cara
vans — the Gipsy-tramp, the Show-
tramp, the Cheap Jack — find it impos
sible to resist the temptations of the
place, and all turn the horse loose when
they come to it, and boil the pot.
Bless the place, I love the ashes of the
vagabond fires that have scorched its
grass 1 What tramp children do I
see here, attired in a handful of rags,
making a gymnasium of the shafts of
the curt, making a feather-bed of the

flints and brambles, making a toy of
the hobbled old horse who is not much
more like a horse than any cheap toy
would be 1 Here, do I encounter the
cart of mats and brooms and baskets
— with all thoughts of business given to
the evening wind — with the stew made
and being served out — with Cheap
Jack and Dear Jill striking soft music
out of the plates that are rattled like
war-like symbols when put up for auc
tion at fairs and markets — their minds so
influenced, no doubt, by the melody of
the nightingales as they begin to sing
in the woods behind them, that if I
were to propose to deal, they would
sell me any thing at cost price. On this
hallowed ground, has it been my
happy privilege (let me whisper it), to
behold the White-haired Lady with the
pink eyes, eating meat-pie with the
Giant: while, by the hedge-side, on
the box of blankets which I knew con
tained the snakes, were set forth the
cups and saucers and the teapot. It
was on an evening in August, that I
chanced upon this ravishing spectacle,
and I noticed that, whereas the Giant
reclined half concealed beneath the
overhanging boughs and seemed in
different to Nature, the white hair
of the gracious Lady streamed free in
the breath of evening, and her pink
eyes found pleasure in the landscape.
I heard only a single sentence of her
uttering, yet it bespoke a talent for
modest repartee. The ill-mannered
Giant — accursed be his evil race ! —
had interrupted the Lady in some re
mark, and, as I passed that enchanted
corner of the wood, she gently re
proved him, with the words, " Now,
Cobby ;" Cobby ! so short a name ! —
"ain't one fool enough to talk at a
time ?"

Within appropriate distance of this
magic ground, though not so near it
as that the song trolled from tap or
bench at door, can invade its woodland
silence, is a little hostelry which no
man possessed of a penny was ever
known to pass in warm weather. Be
fore its entrance, are certain pleasant
trimmed limes : likewise, a cool well,
with so musical a bucket-handle that
its fall upon the bucket rim will make
a horse prick up its ears and, neigh
upon the droughty road half a mile off.

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

135

This is a house of great resort for hay
making tramps and harvest tramps, in-
sornuch that as they sit within, drinking
their mugs of beer, their relinquished
scythes and reaping-hooks glare. out of
the open windows, as if the whole es
tablishment were a family war-coach
of Ancient Britons. Later in the sea
son, the whole country-side, for miles
and miles, will swarm with hopping
tramps. They come in families, men,
women, and children, every family pro
vided with a bundle of bedding, an iron
pot, a number of babies, and too often
with some poor sick creature quite unfit
for the rough life, for whom they sup
pose the smell of the fresh hop to be a
sovereign remedy. Many of these hop
pers are Irish, but many come from
London. They crowd all the roads,
and camp under all the hedges and on
all the scraps of common-land, and live
among and upon the hops until they
are all picked, and the hop-gardens, so
beautiful through the summer, look as
if they had been laid waste by an in
vading army. Then, there is a vast
exodus of tramps out of the county ;
and if you ride or drive round any turn
of any road, at more than a foot pace,
you will be bewildered to find that you
.have charged into the bosom of fifty
families, and that there are splashing
up all around you, in the utmost prodi
gality of confusion, bundles of bedding,
babies, iron pots, and a good-humored
multitude of both sexes and all ages,
equally divided between perspiration
and intoxication.

IT lately happened that I found my
self rambling about the scenes among
which my earliest days were passed ;
scenes from which I departed when I
was a child, and which I did not revisit
until I was a man. This is no uncom
mon chance, but one that befalls some
of us any day ; perhaps it may not be
quite uninteresting to compare notes
with the- reader respecting au experi
ence so familar and a journey so un
commercial.

I will call my boyhood's home (and
I feel like a Tenor in an English Opera
when I mention it) Dullborough.. Most
of us come from Dullborough who
come from a country town.

As I left Dullborough in the days

when there were no railroads in the
land, I left it in a stage-coach. Through
all the years that have since passed,
have I ever lost the smell of the damp
straw in which I was packed — like
game — and forwarded, carriage paid,
to the Cross Keys, Wood-street,
Cheapside, London ? There was no
other inside passenger, and I consumed
rny sandwiches in solitude and dreari
ness, and it rained hard all the way,
and I thought life sloppier than I had
expected to find it.

With this tender remembrance upon
me, I was cavalierly shunted back into
Dullborough the other day, by train.
My ticket had been previously collected,
like my taxes, and my shining new
portmanteau had had a great plaster
stuck upon it, and I had been defied by
Act of Parliament to offer an objection
to any thing that was done to it, or
me, under a penalty of not less than
forty shillings, or more than five pounds,
compoundable for a term of imprison
ment. When I had sent my disfigured
property on to the hotel, I began to
look about me ; and the first discovery
I made, was, that the Station had swal
lowed up the playing-field.

It was gone. The two beautiful
hawthorn-trees, the hedge, the turf, and
all those buttercups and daisies, had
given place to the stoniest of jolting
roads ; while, beyond the station, an
ugly dark monster of a tunnel kept its
jaws open, as if it had swallowed them
and were ravenous for more destruc
tion. The coach that had carried me
away, was melodiously called Timpson's
Blue-Eyed Maid, and belonged to
Timpson, at the coach-office up-street ;
the locomotive engine that had brought
me back, was called severely No. 97,
and belonged to S. E. R., and was
spitting ashes and hot-water over the
blighted ground.

When I had been let out at the plat
form-door, like a prisoner whom his
turnkey grudgingly released, I looked
in again over the low wall, at the scene
of departed glories. Here, in the hay
making time, had I been delivered
from the dungeons of Seringapatam,
an immense pile (of haycock), by my
countrymen, the victorious British (boy
next door and his two cousins), and
had been recognized with ecstasy by

136

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

my afficianced one (Miss Green), who
bad come all the way from England
(second house in the terrace) to ransom
me, and marry me. Here had I first
heard in confidence, from one whose
father was greatly connected, being un
der Government, of the existence of a
terrible banditti, called "The Radi
cals," whose principles were, that the
Prince Regent wore stays, and that
nobody had a right to any salary, and
that the army and navy ought to be
put down — horrors at which I trembled
in my bed, after supplicating that the
Radicals might be speedily taken and
hanged. Here, too, had we, the small
boys of Boles's, had that cricket match
against the small boys of Coles's, when
Boles and Coles had actually met upon
the ground, and when, instead of in
stantly hitting out at one another with
the utmost fury, as we had all hoped
and expected, those sneaks had said
respectively, " I hope Mrs. Boles is
well," and "I hope Mrs. Coles and the
baby are doing charmingly." Could it
be that, after all this, and much more,
the Playing-field was a Station, and
No. 91 expectorated boiling-water and
red-hot cinders on it, and the whole be
longed, by Act of Parliament, to
S. E. R. ?

As it could be, and was, I left the
place with a heavy heart for a walk all
over the town. And first of Tirnp-
son's, up-street. When I departed
from Dullborough in the strawy arms
of Timpson's Blue-Eyed Maid, Timp
son's was a moderate-sized coach-office
(in fact, a little coach-office), with an
oval transparency in the window, which
looked beautiful by night, representing
one of Timpson's coaches in the act of
passing a milestone on the London
road with great velocity, completely full
inside and out, and all the passengers
dressed in the first style of fashion, aud
enjoying themselves tremendously. I
found no such place as Titnpson's now
— no such bricks and rafters, not to
mention the name — no such edifice on
the teeming earth. Pickford had come
and knocked Timpson's down. Pick-
ford had not only knocked Timpson's
down, but had knocked two or three
houses down on each side of Timpson's,
and then had knocked the whole into
one great establishment, with a pair of

big gates, in and out of which, his
(Pickford's) wagons are, in these days,
always rattling, with their drivers sit
ting up so high, that they look in at
the second floor windows of the old
fashioned houses in the High-street as
they shake the town. I have not the
honor of Pickford's acquaintance, but
I felt that he had done me an injury,
not to say committed an act of boy-
slaughter, in running over my child
hood in this rough manner ; and if ever
I meet Pickford driving one of his own
monsters, and smoking a pipe the while
(which is the custom of his men), he
shall know by the expression of my eye,
if it catches his, that there is something
wrong between us.

Moreover, I felt that Pickford had
no right to come rushing into Dull-
borough and deprive the town of a
public picture. He is not Napoleon
Bonaparte. When he took down the
transparent stage-coach, he ought to
have given the town a transparent van.
With a gloomy conviction that Pick-
ford is wholly utilitarian and unimagin
ative, I proceeded, on my way.

It is a mercy I have not a red and
green lamp and a night-bell at my door,
for in my very young days I was taken
to so many lyings-in that I wonder I
escaped becoming a professional martyr
to them in after-life. I suppose I had
a very sympathetic nurse, with a large
circle of married acquaintance. How
ever that was, as I continued my walk
through Dullborough, I found many
houses to be solely associated in my
mind with this particular interest. At
one little green-grocer's shop, down cer
tain steps, from the street, I remem
bered to have waited on a lady who
had had four children (I am afraid to
write five, though I fully believe it was
five) at a birth. This meritorious wo
man held quite a reception in her room
on the morning when I was introduced
there, and the sight of the house
brought vividly to my mind how the
four (five) deceased young people lay,
side by side, on a clean cloth, on a chest
of drawers : reminding me by a homely
association, which I suspect their com
plexion to have assisted, of pig's feet as
they are usually displayed at a neat
tripe shop. Hot caudle was handed
round on the occasion, and I further

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

137

remembered as I stood contemplating
the green-grocer's, that a subscription
was entered into among thet company,
which became extremely alarming to
my consciousness of having pocket-
money on my person. This fact being
known to my conductress, whoever she
was, I was earnestly exhorted to con
tribute, but resolutely declined : there
in disgusting the company, who gave
me to understand that I must dismiss
all expectations of going to Heaven.

How does it happen that when all
else is change wherever one goes, there
yet seem, in every place, to be some
few people who never alter ? As the
sight of the green-grocer's house re
called these trivial incidents of long ago,
the identical green-grocer appeared on
the steps, with his hands in his pock
ets, and leaning his shoulder against
the door-post, as my childish eyes had
seen him many a time ; indeed, there
was his old mark on the door-post yet,
as if his shadow had become a fixture
there. It was he himself; he might
formerly have been an old-looking
young man, or he might now be a young-
looking old man, but there he was. In
walking along the street, I had as yet
looked in vain for a familiar face, or
even a transmitted face ; here was the
very green-grocer who had been w%eigh-
ing and handling baskets on the morn
ing of the reception. As he brought
with him a dawning remembrance that
he had had no proprietary interest in
those babies, I crossed the road, and
accosted him on the subject. He was
not in the least excited or gratified or
in any way roused, by the accuracy of
my recollection, but said, Yes, summut
out of the common — he didn't remem
ber how many it was (as if half a dozen
babes either way made no difference) —
had happened to a Mrs. What's-her-
name, as once lodged there — but he
didn't call it to mind, particular. Net
tled by this phlegmatic conduct, I in
formed him that I had left the town
when I was a child. He slowly re
turned, quite unsoftened and not with
out a sarcastic kind of complacency,
Had I ? Ah ! And did I find it had
got on tolerable well without rne ?
Such is the difference (I thought, when
I had left him a few hundred yards be
hind, and was by so uiucu iu a better

temper) between going away from a
place and remaining in it. I had no
right, I reflected, to be angry with the
green-grocer for his want of interest. I
was nothing to him : whereas he was
the town, the cathedral, the bridge, the
river, my childhood, and a large slice
of my life, to me.

Of course the town had shrunk fear
fully, since I was a child there. I had
entertained the impression that the
High street was at least as wide as Re
gent strert, London, or the Italian
Boulevard at Paris. I found it little
better than a lane. There was a public
clock in it, which I had suppose to be
the finest clock in the world ; whereas
it now turned out to be as inexpressive,
moon-faced, and weak a clock as ever I
saw. It belonged to a Town Hall,
where I had seen an Indian (who I now
suppose wasn't an Indian) swallow a
sword (which I now suppose he didn't).
This edifice had appeared to me in those
days so glorious a structure, that I had
set it up in my mind as the model oil
which the Genie of the Lamp built the
palace for Aladdin. A mean little
brick heap, like a demented chapel,,
with a few yawning persons in leather
gaiters, and in the last extremity for
something to do, lounging at the door
with their hands in their pockets, and
calling themselves a Corn Exchange !

The Theatre was in existence, I
found, on asking the fishmonger, who
had a compact show of stock in his
window, consisting of a sole and a quart
of shrimps — and I resolved to comfort
my mind by going to look at it.
Richard the Third, in a very uncom
fortable cloak, had first appeared to me
there, and had made my heart leap with
terror by backing up against the stage-
box in which I was posted, while strug
gling for life against the virtuous
Richmond. It was within those walls
that I had learned, as from a page of
English history, how that wicked king
slept in war-time on a sofa much too
short for him, and how fearfully his con
science troubled his boots. There, too,
had I first seen the funny countryman,
but countryman of noble principles in a
flowered waistcoat, crunch up his little
hat and throw it on the ground and
pull off his coat, saying "Dom thee,
squire, coom on with thy fistes then I"

138

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

At which the lovely young woman who
kept company with him (and who went
out gleaning, in a narrow white muslin
apron with five beautiful bars of five
different colored ribbons across it)

^ was so frightened for his sake, that she
fainted away. Many wondrous secrets
of Nature had I come to the knowledge
of in that sanctuary : of which not the
least terrific were, that the witches in
Macbeth bore an awful resemblance to
the Thanes and other proper inhabi
tants of Scotland ; and that the good
King Duncan couldn't rest in his grave,
but was constantly coming out of it,
and calling himself somebody else. To
the Theatre, therefore, I repaired for
consolation. But I found very little,
for it was in a bad and a declining way.
A dealer in wine and bottled beer had
already squeezed his trade into the box-
office, and the theatrical money was
taken when it came — in a kind of meat-
safe in the passage. The dealer in
\vine and bottled beer must have insinu
ated himself under the stage too ; for
he announced that he had various de
scriptions of alcoholic drinks " in the

, wood," and there was no possible stow
age for the wood anywhere else. Evi
dently, he was by degrees eating the
establishment away to the core, and
would soon have sole possession of it.
It was To Let, and hopelessly so, for
its old purposes ; and there had been
no entertainment within its walls for a
long time, except a Panorama ; and
even that had been announced as
" pleasingly instructive," and I knew
too well the fatal meaning and the
leaden import of those terrible expres
sions. No, there was no comfort in the
theatre. It was mysteriously gone, like
my own youth. Unlike ray own youth,
it might becoming back some day ; but
there was little promise of it.

As the town was placarded with re
ferences to the Dullborough Mechanics'
Insutution, I thought I would go and
look at that establishment next. —
There had been no such thing in the
town, in my young day, and it occur
red to me that its extensive prosperity
might have brought adversity upon the
Drama. I found the Institution with
some difficulty, and should scarcely
have known that I had found it if I
had judged from its external appearance

only ; but this was attributable to its
never having been finished, and having
no front : consequently, it led a modest
and retired existence up a stable-yard.
It was — as I learned, on inquiry — a most
flourishing Institution, and of the high
est benefit to the town : two triumphs
which I was glad to understand were
not at all impaired by the seeming
drawbacks that no mechanics belonged
to it, and that it was steeped in debt
to the chimney-pots. It had a large
room, which was approached by an in
firm step-ladder : the builder having
declined to construct the intended stair
case, without a present payment in
cash, which Dullborough — though so
profoundly appreciative of the Institu
tion — seemed unaccountably bashful
about subscribing. The large room
had cost — or would, when paid for—
five hundred pounds ; and it had more
mortar in it and more echoes, than one
might have expected to get for the
money. It was fitted up with a plat
form, and the usual lecturing tools, in
cluding a large black-board of a me
nacing appearance. On referring to
lists of the courses of lectures that had
been given in this thriving Hall, I fan
cied I detected a shyness in admitting
that human nature when at leisure has
any desire whatever to be relieved and
diverted ; and a furtive sliding in of
any poor make-weight piece of amuse
ment, shamefacedly and edgewise. —
Thus, I observed that it was necessary
for the members to be knocked on the
head with Gas, Air, Water, Fo-od, the
Solar System, the Geological periods,
Criticism on Milton, the Steam-engine,
John Bunyan, and Arrow-Headed In
scriptions, before they might be tickled
by those unaccountble choristers, the
negro singers in the court costume of the
reign of George the Second. Likewise,
that they must be stunned by a weighty
inquiry whether there was internal evi
dence in SHAKESPEARE'S works, to
prove that his uncle by the mother's
side lived for some years at Stoke New-
ington, before they were brought-to by
a Miscellaneous Concert. But indeed
the masking of entertainment, and pre
tending it was something else — as peo
ple mask bedsteads when they are
obliged to have them in sitting-rooms,
and make believe that they are book-

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139

cases, sofas, chests of drawers, any thing
rather than bedsteads — was manifest
even in the pretense of dreariness that
the unfortunate entertainers themselves
felt obliged in decency to put forth
when they came here. One very agree
able professional singer who traveled
with two professional ladies, knew bet
ter than to introduce either of those
ladies to sing the ballad " Corain'
through the Rye" without prefacing it
himself, with some general remarks on
wheat and clover; and even then, he
dared not for his life call the song, a
song, but disguised it in the bill as an
"Illustration." In the library, also —
fitted with shelves for three thousand
books, and containing upward of one
hundred and seventy (presented copies
mostly) seething their edges in damp
plaster — there was such a painfully apo
logetic return of sixty-two offenders
who had read Travels, Popular Bio
graphy, and mere Fiction descriptive of
the aspirations of the hearts and souls
of mere human creatures like them-
Belves ; and such an elaborate parade
• of two bright examples who had had
down Euclid after the day's occupation
and confinement ; and three who had
had down Metaphysics after ditto ; and
one who had had down Theology after
ditto ; and four who had worried
Grammar, Political Economy, Botany,
and Logarithms all at once after ditto ;
that I suspected the boasted class to
be one man, who had been hired to do
it.

Emerging from the Mechanics' Insti
tution and continuing my walk about
the town, I still noticed everywhere the
prevalence, to an extraordinary degree,
of this custom of putting the natural
demand for amusement out of sight, as
some untidy housekeepers put dust, and
pretending that it was swept away.
And yet it was ministered to, in a dull
and abortive manner, by all who made
this feint. Looking in at what is called
in Dullborough " the serious booksel
ler's," where in my childhood, I had
studied the faces of numbers of gentle-
iiifii depicted in rostrums with a gas
light on each side of them, and casting
my eyes over the open pages of certain
printed discourses there, I found a vast
deal of aiming at jocosity and dramatic
effect, even in them — yes, verily, even

on the part of one very wrathful ex
pounder who bitterly anathematized a
poor little Circus. Similarly in the
reading provided for the young people
enrolled in the Lasso of Love, and
other excellent unions, I found the
writers generally under a distressing
sense that they must start (at all events)
like story-tellers, and delude the young
persons into the belief that they were
going to be interesting. As I looked
in at this window for twenty minutes
by the clock, I am in a position to offer
a friendly remonstrance — not bearing
on this particular point — to the de
signers and engravers of the pictures in
those publications. Have they consi
dered the awful consequences likely to
flow from their representations of Vir
tue ? Have they asked themselves the
question, whether the terrific prospect
of acquiring that fearful chubbiness of
head, unwieldiness of arm, feeble dislo
cation of leg, crispness of hair, and enor
mity of shirt-collar, which they repre
sent as inseparable from Goodness, may
not tend to confirm sensitive waverers,
in Evil ? A most impressive example
(if I had believed it) of what a Dust
man and a Sailor may come to, when
they mend their ways, was presented to
me in this same shop-window. When
they were leaning (they were intimate
friends) against a post, drunk and reck
less, with surpassingly bad hats on, and
their hair over their foreheads, they
were rather picturesque, and looked as
if they might be agreeable men if they
would not be beasts. But when they
had got over their bad propensities,
and when, as a consequence, their heads
had swelled alarmingly, their hair had
got so curly that it lifted their blown-
out cheeks up, their coat-cuffs were so
long that they never could do any work,
and their eyes were so wide open that
they never could do any sleep, they
presented a spectacle calculated to
plunge a timid nature into the depths
of Infamy.

But, the clock that had so degene
rated since I saw it last, admonished
me that I had stayed here long enough ;
and I resumed my walk again.

I had not gone fifty paces along the
street when I was suddenly brought up
by the sight of a man who got out of a
little phaeton at the doctor's door, and

140

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went into the doctor's house. Immedi
ately, the air was filled with the scent
of trodden grass, and the perspective
of years opened, and at the end of it
was a little likeness of this man keeping
a wicket, and I said, " God bless my
soul ! Joe Specks !"

Through many changes and much
work, I had preserved a tenderness for
the memory of Joe, forasmuch as we
had made the acquaintance of Roderick
Random together, and had believed
him to be no ruffian, but an ingenuous
and engaging hero. Scorning to ask
the bey left in the phaeton whether it
was really Joe, and scorning even to
read the brass plate on the door — so
sure was I — I rang the bell and in
formed the servant maid that a stranger
sought audience with Mr. Specks.
Into a room, half surgery, half study, I
was shown to await his coming, and I
found it, by a series of elaborate acci
dents, bestrewn with testimonies to Joe.
Portrait of Mr. Specks, bust of Mr.
Specks, silver cup from grateful patient
to Mr. Specks, presentation sermon
from local clergyman, dedication poem
from local poet, dinner-card from local
nobleman, tract on balance of power
from local refugee, inscribed Hommage
de Vauteur a Specks.

When my old school-fellow came in,
and I informed him with a smile that I
was not a patient, he seemed rather at
a loss to perceive any reason for smiling
in connection with that fact, and in
quired to what was he to attribute the
honor ? I asked him with another
smile, could he remember me at all ?
He had not (he said) that pleasure. I
was beginning to have but a poor
opinion of Mr. Specks, when he said,
reflectively, " And yet there's a some
thing, too." Upon that, I saw a boy
ish light in his eyes that looked well,
and I asked him if he could inform me,
as a stranger who desired to know and
had not the means of reference at hand,
what the name of the young lady was,
who married Mr. Random ? Upon
that, he said "Narcissa," and, after
staring for a moment, called me by my
name, shook me by the hand, and
melted into a roar of laughter. " Why,
of course you'll remember Lucy Green,"
he said, after we had talked a little.

" Of course," said I. "Whom do you
think she married ?" said he. " You ?"
I hazarded. "Me," said Specks, "and
you shall see her." So I saw her, and
she was fat, and if all the hay in the
world had been heaped upon her, it
could scarcely have altered her face
more than Time had altered it from my
remembrance of the face that had once
looked down upon me into the fragrant
dungeons of Seringapatam. But when
her youngest child came in after dinner
(for I dined with them, and we had no
other company than Specks, Junior,
Barrister-at-L&w, who went away as
soon as the cloth was removed, to look
after the young lady to whom he was
going to be married next week), I saw
again, in that little daughter, the little
face of the hayfield, unchanged, and it
quite touched my heart. We talked
immensely, Specks and Mrs. Specks,
and I, and we spoke of our old selves
as though our old selves were dead and
gone, and indeed, indeed they were —
dead and gone, as the playing-field that
had become a wilderness of rusty iron,
and the property of S. E. R.

Specks, however, illuminated Dull-
borough with the rays of interest that
I wanted and should otherwise have
missed in it, and linked its present to
its past, with a highly agreeable chain.
And in Speck's society I had new
occasion to observe what I had be
fore noticed in similar communications
among other men. All the school
fellows and others of old, whom I in
quired about, had either done super
latively well or superlatively ill — hud
either become uncertificated bankrupts,
or been felonious and got themselves
transported ; or had made great hits in
life, and done wonders. And this is
so commonly the case, that I never ctm
imagine what becomes of all the medi
ocre people of people's youth — espe
cially, considering that we find no lack
of the species in our maturity. But I
did not propound this difficulty to
Specks, for no pause in the conver
sation gave me an occasion. Nor
could I discover one single flaw in the
good doctor — when he reads this, he
will receive in a friendly spirit the
pleasantly meant record — except that
he had forgotten his Roderick Random,

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

141

and that he confounded Strap with Lieu
tenant Hatchway ; who never knew Ran
dom, howsoever intimate with Pickle.

When I went alone to the Railway
to catch my train at night (Specks had
meant to go with me, but was inoppor
tunely called out), I was in a more
charitable mood with Dullborough than
I had been all day ; and yet in my
heart I had loved it all day too. Ah !
who was I that I should quarrel with
the town for being changed to me,
when I myself had come back, so
changed, to it ? All my early readings
and early imaginations dated from this
place, and I took them away so full of
innocent construction and guileless be
lief, and I brought them back so worn
and torn, so much the wiser and so
much the worse !

SOME years ago, a temporary inabil
ity to sleep, referable to a distressing
impression, caused me to walk about
the streets all night, for a series of
several nights. The disorder might
have taken a long time to conquer, if it
had been faintly experimented on in
bed ; but it was soon defeated by the
brisk treatment of getting up directly
after lying down, and going out, and
coming home tired at sunrise.

In the course of those nights, I
finished my education in a fair amateur
experience of houselessness. My prin
cipal object being to get through the
night, the pursuit of it brought me into
sympathetic relations with people who
have no other object every night in the
year.

The mo^th was March, and the
weather damp, cloudy, and cold. The
gun not rising before half-past five, the
night perspective looked sufficiently
long at half-past twelve : which was
about my time for confronting it.

The restlessness of a great city, and
the way in which it tumbles and tosses
before it can get to sleep, formed one
of the first entertainments offered to
the contemplation of us houseless peo
ple. It lasted about two hours. We
lost a great deal of companionship
when the late public-houses turned
their lamps out, and when the potmen
thrust the last brawling drunkards into
the street ; but stray vehicles and stray
people going home were left us, after

that. If we were very lucky, a police
man's rattle sprang and a fray turned
up ; but, in general, surprisingly little
of this diversion was provided. Except
in the Haymarket, which is the worst
kept part of London, and about Kent-
street in the borough, and along a por
tion of the line of the Old Kent-road,
the peace was seldom violently broken.
But it was always the case that Lon
don, as if in imitation of individual
citizens belonging to it, had expiring
fits and starts of restlessness. After
all seemed quiet, if one cab rattled by,
half a dozen would surely follow ; and
Houselessness even observed that in
toxicated people appeared to be mag
netically attracted toward each other,
so that we knew when we saw one
drunken object staggering against the
shutters of a shop, that another drunken
object would probably stagger up be
fore five minutes were out, to fraternize
or fight with it. When we make a
divergence from the regular species of
drunkard, the thin-armed puff-faced
leaden-lipped gin-drinker, and encoun
tered a rarer specimen of a more decent
appearance, fifty to one but that spe
cimen was dressed in soiled mourning.
As the street experience in the night,
so the street experience in the day ;
the common folk who come unexpect
edly into a little property, come unex
pectedly into a deal of liquor.

At length these flickering sparks
would die away, worn out — the last
veritable sparks of waking life trailed
from some late pieman or hot potato
man — and London would sink to rest.
And then the yearning of the houseless
mind would be for any sign of company,
any lighted place, any movement, any
thing suggestive of any one being up —
nay, even so much as awake, for the
houseless eye looked out for lights in
windows.

Walking the streets under the patter
ing rain, Houselessness would walk
and walk and walk, seeing nothing but
the interminable tangle of streets, save
at a corner, here and there, two police
men in conversation, or the sergeant or
inspector looking after his men. Now
and then in the night — but rarely —
Houselessness would become aware of
a furtive head peering out of a doorway
a few yards before him. and, coming up

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with the head, would find a man stand
ing bolt upright to keep within the
doorway's shadow, and evidently intent
upon no particular service to society.
Tinder a kind of fascination, and in a
ghostly silence suitable to the time,
Houselessness and this gentleman would
eye one another from head to foot, and
so, without exchange of speech, part,
mutually suspicious. Drip, drip, drip,
from ledge and coping, splash from
pipes and water-spouts, and by-and-by
the houseless shadow would fall upon
the stones that pave the way to Water
loo-bridge; it being in the houseless
mind to have a halfpennyworth of
excuse for saying " Good-night" to the
toll-keeper, and catching a glimpse of
his fire. A good fire and a good great
coat and a good woolen neck-shawl,
were comfortable things to see in con
junction with the toll-keeper ; also his
brisk wakefulness was excellent com
pany when he rattled the change of
halfpence down upon that metal table
of his, like a man who defied the night,
with all its sorrowful thoughts, and
didn't care for the coming of dawn.
There was need of encouragement on
the threshold of the bridge, for the
bridge was dreary. The chopped up
murdered man, had not been lowered
with a rope/over the parapet when those
nights were ; he was alive, and slept
then quietly enough most likely, and
undisturbed by any dream of where he
was to come. But the river had an
awful look, the buildings on the banks
were muffled in black shrouds, and the
reflected lights seemed to originate
deep in the water, as if the spectres of
suicides were holding them to show
where they went down. The wild
moon and clouds were as restless as an
evil conscience in a tumbled bed, and
the very shadow of the immensity of
London seemed to lie oppressively upon
the river.

Between the bridge and the two
great theatres, there was but the dis
tance of a few hundred paces, so the
theatres came next. Grim and black
within, at night, those great dry Wells,
and lonesome to imagine, with the rows
of faces faded out, the lights extin
guished, and the seats all empty. One
would think that nothing in them knew
itself at such a time but Yorick's skull.

In one of my night walks, as the church
steeples were shaking the March wind
and rain with the strokes of Four, I
passed the outer boundary of one of
these great deserts, and entered it.
With a dim lantern in my hand, I
groped my well-known way to the stage
and looked over the orchestra — which
was like a great grave dug for a time
of pestilence — into the void beyond. A
dismal cavern of an immense aspect^
with the chandelier gone dead like
every thing else, and nothing visible
through mist and fog and space, but
tiers of winding-sheets. The ground
at my feet where, when last there, I had
seen the peasantry of Naples dancing
among the vines, reckless of the burning
mountain which threatened to over
whelm them, was now in possession of
a strong serpent of engine-hose, watch
fully lying in wait for the serpent Fire,
and ready to fly at it if it showed its
forked tongue. A ghost of a watch
man carrying a faint corpse-candle,
haunted the distant upper gallery and
flitted away. Retiring within the
proscenium, and holding my light
above my head toward the rolled-up
curtain — green no more, but black as
ebony — my sight lost itself in a gloomy
vault, showing faint indications in it of
a shipwreck of canvas and cordage.
Methought I felt much as a diver might,
at the bottom of the sea.

In those small hours when there was
no movement in the streets, it afforded
matter for reflection to take Newgate
in the way, and, touching its rough
stone, to think of the prisoners in their
sleep, and then to glance in at the lodge
over the spiked wicket, and see the fire
and light of the watching turnkeys, on
the white wall. Not an inappropriate
time either to linger by that wicked
little Debtor's Door — shutting tighter
than any other door one ever saw —
which has been Death's Door to so
many. In 'the days of the uttering of
forged one-pound notes by people
tempted up from the country, how
many hundreds of wretched creatures
of both sexes — many quite innocent —
swung out of a pitiless and inconsistent
world, with the tower of yonder Chris
tian church of Saint Sepulchre mon
strously before their eyes ! Is there
any haunting of the Bank Parlor by the

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

143

remorseful souls of old directors, in the
nights of these later days, I wonder, or
is it as quiet as this degenerate Acel
dama of an Old Bailey ?

To walk on to the Bank, lamenting
the good old times and bemoaning the
present evil period, would be an easy
next step, so I would take it, and would
make my houseless circuit of the Bank,
and give a thought to the treasure
within ; likewise to the guard of soldiers
passing the night there, and nodding
over the fire. Next I went to Billings
gate, in some hope of market-people,
but, it proving as yet too early, crossed
London-bridge and got down by the
water-side on the Surrey shore among the
buildings of the great brewery. There
was plenty going on at the brewery ; and
the reek, and the smell of grains, and
the rattling of the plump dray horses at
their mangers, were capital company.
Quite refreshed by having mingled with
this good society, I made a new start
with a new heart, setting the old King's
Bench prison before me for my next
object, and resolving, when I should
'jome to the wall, to think of poor
Horace Kinch, and the Dry Rot in men.

A very curious disease the Dry Rot
Ln men, and difficult to detect the
beginning of. It had carried Horace
Sinch inside the wall of the old King's
Bench prison, and it had carried him
cut with his feet foremost. He was a
ilikely man to look at, in the prime of
life, well to do, as clever as he needed
to be, and popular among many friends.
He was suitably married, and had
healthy and pretty children. But, like
some fair-looking houses or fair-looking
ships, he took the Dry Rot. The first
strong external revelation of the Dry
Rot in men, is a tendency to lurk and
lounge ; to be at street corners without
intelligible reason ; to be going any
where when met ; to be about many
places rather than at any ; to do nothing
tangible, but to have an intention of
performing a variety of intangible duties
to-morrow or the day after. When
tliis manifestation of the disease is
observed, the observer will usually con
nect it with a vague impression once
formed or received, that the patient
was living a little too hard. He will
scarcely have had leisure to turn it over
in. his mind and form the terrible sus

picion " Dry Rot," when he will notice
a change for the worse in the patient's
appearance : a certain slovenliness and
deterioration, which is not poverty, nor
dirt, nor intoxication, nor ill-health, but
simply Dry Rot. To this, succeeds a
smell as of strong waters, in the morn
ing; to that, a looseness respecting
money ; to that, a stronger smell as of
strong waters, at all times ; to that, a
looseness respecting every thing ; to
that, a trembling of the limbs, somno
lency, misery, and crumbling to pieces.
As it is in wood, so it is in men. Dry
Rot advances at a compound usury
quite incalculable. A plank is found
infected with it, and the whole structure
is devoted. Thus it had been with the
unhappy Horace Kinch, lately buried
by a small subscription. Those who
knew him had not nigh done saying,
" So well ofif, so comfortably established,
with such hope before him — and yet,
it is feared, with a slight touch of Dry
Rot !" when lo 1 the man was all Dry
Rot and dust.

From the dead wall associated on
those houseless nights with this too
common story, I chose next to wander
by Bethlehem Hospital ; partly because
it lay on my road round to Westmin
ster; partly, because I had a night-
fancy in my head which could be best
pursued within sight of its walls and
dome. And the fancy was this : Are
not the sane and insane equal at night
as the sane lie a dreaming ? Are not
all of us outside this hospital, who
dream, more or less in the condition of
those inside it, every night of our lives ?
Are we not nightly persuaded, as they
daily are, that we associate prep<5ster-
ously with kings and queens, emperors
find empresses, and notabilities of all
sorts ? Do we not nightly jumble
events and personages and times and
places, as these do daily ? Are we not
sometimes troubled by our own sleeping
inconsistencies, and do we not vexedly
try to account for them or excuse them,
just as these do sometimes in respect
of their waking delusions ? Said an
afflicted man to me, when I was last in
a hospital like this, "Sir, I can fre
quently fly." I was half ashamed to
reflect that so could I — by night. Said
a woman to me on the same occasion,
" Queeu Victoria frequently comes to

144

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dine with me, and her Majesty and I
dine off peaches and macaroni in our
night-gowns, and his Royal Highness
the Prince Consort does us the honor
to make a third on horseback in a Field-
Marshal's uniform." Could I refrain
from reddening with consciousness when
I remembered the amazing royal par
ties I myself had given (at night,) the
unaccountable viands I had put on ta
ble, and my extraordinary manner of
conducting myself on those distinguished
occasions ? I wonder that the great
master who knew every thing, when he
called Sleep the death of each day's
life, did not call Dreams the insanity of
each day's sanity.

By this time I had left the Hospital
behind me, and was again setting to
ward the river ; and in a short breath
ing space I was on Westminster-bridge,
regaling my houseless eyes with the ex
ternal walls of the British Parliament —
the perfection of a stupendous institu
tion, I know, and the admiration of all
surrounding nations and succeeding
ages, I do not doubt, but perhaps a
little the better now and then for being
pricked up to its work. Turning off
into Old Palace-yard, the Courts of
Law kept me company for a quarter of
an hour; hinting in low whispers what
numbers of people they were keeping
awake, and how intensely wretched and
horrible they were rendering the small
hours to unfortunate suitors. West
minster Abbey was fine gloomv society
for another quarter of an hour; sug
gesting a wonderful procession of its
dead among the dark arches and pillars,
each century more amazed by the cen-
tnry following it than by all the centu
ries going before. And indeed in those
houseless night walks — which even in
cluded cemeteries where watchmen we$t
round among the graves at stated times,
and moved the tell-tale handle of an
index which recorded that they had
touched it at such an hour — it was a
solemn consideration what enormous
hosts of dead belong to one old great
city, and how, if they were raised while
the living slept, there would not be the
space of a pin's point in all the streets
and ways for the living to come out
into. Not only that, but the vast ar
mies of dead would overflow the hills
and valleys beyond the city, and would

stretch away all round it, God knows
how far : seemingly, to the confines of
the earth.

When a church clock strikes, on
houseless ears in the dead of the night,
it may be at first mistaken for company
and hailed as such. But, as the spread
ing circles of vibration, which you may
perceive at such a time with great clear
ness, go opening out, forever and ever
afterward widening perhaps, as the
philosopher has suggested, in eternal
space, the mistake is rectified and the
sense of loneliness is profounder. Once
— it was after leaving the Abbey and
turning my face north — I came to the
great steps of Saint Martin's church as
the clock was striking Three. Sud
denly, a thing that in a moment more I
should have trodden upon without see
ing, rose up at my feet with a cry of
loneliness and houselessness, struck out
of it by the bell, the like of which I never
heard. We then stood face to face look
ing at one another, frightened by one
another. The creature was like a beetle-
browed hair-lipped youth of twenty, and
it had a loose bundle of rags on, which
it held together with one of its hands. It
shivered from head to foot, and its teeth
chattered, and as it stared at me — per
secutor, devil, ghost, whatever it thought
me — it made with its whining mouth as
if it were snapping at me, like a worried
dog. Intending to give this ugly object,
money, I put out my hand to stay it —
for it recoiled as it whined and snapped
— and laid my hand upon its shoulder.
Instantly, it twisted out of its garment,
like the young man in the New Testa
ment, and left me standing alone with
its rags in my hand.

Covent Garden Market, when it was
market morning, was wonderful com
pany. The great wagons of cabbages,
with growers' men and boys lying asleep
under them, and with sharp dogs from
market-garden neighborhoods looking
after the whole, were as good as a party.
But one of the worst night-sights I know
in London, is to be found in the chil
dren who prowl about this place ; who
sleep in the baskets, fight for the offal,
dart at any object they think they can
lay their thieving hands on, dive under
the carts and barrows, dodge the con
stables, and are perpetually making a
blunt pattering on the pavement of the

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

145

Piazza with the rain of their naked feet.
A painful and unnatural result comes of
the comparison one is forced to institute
between the growth of corruption as
displayed in the so much improved and
cared for fruits of the earth, and the
growth of corruption as displayed in
these all uncared for — except inasmuch
as ever-hunted — savages.

There was early coffee to be got
about Covent-garden Market, and that
was more company — warm company,
too, which was better. Toast of a very
substantial quality, was likewise pro
curable : though the towzled-headed
man who made it, in an inner chamber
within the coffee room, hadn't got his
coat on yet, and was so heavy with
sleep that in every interval of toast and
coffee he went off anew behind the par
tition into complicated cross-roads of
choke and snore, and lost his way di
rectly. Into one of these establishments
(among the earliest) near Bow-street,
there came, one morning as I sat over
my houseless cup, pondering where to
go next, a man in a high and long snuff-
colored coat, and shoes, and, to the best
of my belief, nothing else but, a hat, who
took out of his hat a large cold meat
pudding ; a meat pudding so large that
it was a very tight fit, and brought the
lining of the hat out with it. This mys
terious man was known by his pudding,
for, on bis entering, the man of sleep
brought him a pint of hot tea, a small
loaf, and a large knife and fork and
plate. Left to himself in his box, he
stood the pudding on the bare table,
and, instead of cutting it, stabbed it,
over-hand, with the knife, like a mortal
enemy ; then took the knife out, wiped
it on his sleeve, tore the pudding
asunder with his fingers, and ate it all
up. The remembrance of this man with
the pudding remains with me as the re
membrance of the most spectral person
my houselessness encountered. Twice
only was I in that establishment, and
twice I saw him stalk in — as I should
say, just out of bed, and presently going
back to bed, — take out his pudding, stab
his pudding, wipe the dagger, and eat
his pudding all up. He was a man
whose figure promised cadaverousness,
but who had an excessively red face,
though shaped like a horse's. On the
second occasion of my seeing him, he

said, huskily, to the man of sleep, "Am
I red to-night?" "You are," he un
compromisingly answered. " My mo
ther," said the spectre, "was a red-faced
woman that liked drink, and I looked
at her hard when she laid in her coffin,
and I took the complexion." Some
how, the pudding seemed an unwhole
some pudding after that, and I put my
self in its way no more.

When there was no market, or when
I wanted variety, a railway terminus
with the morning mails coming in, was
remunerative company. But like most
of the company to be had in this world,
it lasted only a very short time. The
station lamps would burst out ablaze,
the porters would emerge from places
of concealment, the cabs and trucks
would rattle to their places — the post-
office carts were already in theirs, — and,
finally, the bell would strike up, and the
train would come banging in. But
there w#re few passengers and little
lug-gage, and every thing scuttled away
with the greatest expedition. The lo
comotive post-offices, with their great
nets — as if they had been dragging the
country for bodies — would fly open as
to their doors, and would disgorge a
smell of lamp, an exhausted clerk, a
guard in a red coat, and their bags of
letters; the engine would blow and
heave and perspire, like an engine
wiping its forehead and saying what a
run it had had ; and within ten minutes
the lamps were out, and I was houseless
and alone again.

But now, there were driven cattle on
the high road near, wanting (as cattle
always do) to turn into the midst of
stone walls, and squeeze themselves
through six inches' width of iron rail
ing, and getting their heads down, also
as cattle always do, for tossing-purchase
at quite imaginary dogs, and giving
themselves and every devoted creature
associated with them a most extraor
dinary amount of unnecessary trouble.
Now, too, the conscious gas began to
grow pale with the knowledge that day
light was coming, and straggling work
people were already in the streets, and,
as waking life had become extinguished
with the last pieman's sparks, so it be
gan to be rekindled with the fires of the
tirst street corner breakfast-sellers. And
so by faster and faster degrees, until

146

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

the last decrees were very fast, the day
came, and I was tired and could sleep.
And it is not, as I used to think, going
home at such times, the least wonderful
thing in London, that in the real desert
region of the night the houseless wan
derer is alone there. I knew well
enough where to find Vice and Misfor
tune of all kinds, if I had chosen ; but
they were put out of sight, and my
houselessness had many miles upon miles
of streets in which it could, and did, have
its own solitary way.

HAVING occasion to transact some
business with a solicitor who occupies
a highly suicidal set of chambers in
Gray's Inn, I afterward took a turn in
the large square of that stronghold of
Melancholy, reviewing, with congenial
surroundings, my experiences of Cham
bers.

I began, as was natural, with the
Chambers I had just left. THfcy were
an upper set on a rotten staircase, with
a very mysterious bunk or bulkhead on
the landing outside them, of a rather
nautical and Screw Collier-like appear
ance than otherwise, and painted an
intense black. Many dusty years have
passed, since the appropriation of this
Davy Jones's locker to any purpose,
and during the whole period within the
memory of living man, it has been
hasped and padlocked. I cannot quite
satisfy my mind whether it was origin
ally meant for the reception of coals, or
bodies, or as a place of temporary se
curity for the plunder "looted" by
laundresses ; but I incline to the last
opinion. It is about breast-high, and
usuaily serves as a bulk for defendants
in reduced circumstances to lean against
and ponder at, when they come on the
hopeful errand of trying to make an
arrangement without money — under
which auspicious circumstances it mostly
happens that the legal gentleman they
want to see, is much engaged, and they
pervade the staircase for a considerable
period. Against this opposing bulk, in
the absurdest manner, the tomb-like
outer door of the solicitor's chambers
(which is also of an intense black)
stands in dark ambush, half open and
half shut, all day. The solicitor's
apartments are three in number; con
sisting of a slice, a cell, and a wedge.

The slice is assigned to the two clerks,
the cell is occupied by the principal,
and the wedge is devoted to stray papers,
old game baskets from the country, a
washing-stand, and a model of a patent
Ship's Caboose which was exhibited in
Chancery at the commencement of the
present century on an application for an
injunction to restrain infringement. At
about half-past nine on every week-day
morning, the younger of the two clerks
(who, I have reason to believe, lends
the fashion at Pentonville in the articles
of pipes and shirts) may be found knock
ing the dust out of his official door-key
on the bunk or locker before-mentioned ;
and so exceedingly subject to dust is his
key, and so very retentive of that su
perfluity, that in exceptional summer
weather when a ray of sunlight has
fallen on the locker in my presence, I
have noticed its inexpressive counte
nance to be deeply marked by a kind
of Bramah erysipelas or small-pox.

This set of chambers (as I have grad
ually discovered, when I have had rest
less occasion to make inquiries or leave
messages, after office hours) is under
the charge of a lady, in figure extremely
like an old family-umbrella, named
Sweeney : whose dwelling confronts a
dead wall in a court off Gray's Inn-
lane, and who is usually fetched into
the passage of that bower, when wanted,
from some neighboring home of industry
which has the curious property of im
parting an inflammatory appearance to
her visage. Mrs. Sweeney is one of the
race of professed laundresses, and is
the compiler of a remarkable manu
script volume, entitled "Mrs. Sweeney's
Book," from which much curious sta
tistical information may be gathered
respecting the high prices and small
uses of soda, soap, sand, firewood, and
other such articles. I have created a
legend in my mind — and consequently
I believe it with the utmost pertinacity
— that the late Mr. Sweeney was a ticket-
porter under the Honorable Society of
Gray's Inn, and that, in consideration
of his long and valuable services, Mrs.
Sweeney was appointed to her present
post. For, though devoid of personal
charms, I have observed this lady to
exercise a fascination over the elderly
ticket-porter mind (particularly under
the gateway, and in corners and entries),

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

147

which I can only refer to her being one I
of the fraternity, yet not competing with j
it. All that need be said concerning
this set of chambers, is said, when I j
have added that it is in a large double
house in Gray's Inn-square, very much
out of repair, and that the outer portal
is ornamented in a hideous manner with
certain stone remains, which have the
appearance of the dismembered bust,
torso, and limbs, of a petrified bencher.
Indeed, I look upon Gray's Inn gen
erally as one of the most depressing
institutions in brick and mortar, known
to the children of men. Can any thing
be more dreary than its arid Square,
Sahara Desert of the law, with the
ugly old tile-topped tenements, the dirty
windows, the bills To Let To Let, the
door-posts inscribed like gravestones,
the crazy gateway giving upon the filthy
Lane, the scowling iron-barred prison-
like passage into Yernlam-buildings,
the mouldy red-nosed ticket-porters"with
little coffin plates and why with aprons,
the dry hard atomy-like appearance of
the whole dust-heap ? When my un
commercial travels tend to this dismal
spot, my comfort is, its rickety state.
Imagination gloats over the fullness of
time, when the staircases shall have quite
tumbled down — they are daily wearing
into an ill-savored powder, but have not
quite tumbled down yet — when the last
old prolix bencher all of the olden time,
shall have been got out of an upper
window by means of a Fire-Ladder,
and carried off to the Holborn Union ;
when the last clerk shall have engrossed
the last parchment behind the last
splash on the last of the mud-stained
windows which, all through the miry
year, are pilloried out of recognition in
Gray's Inn-lane. Then shall a squalid
little trench, with rank grass and a pump
in it, lying between the coffee-house and
South-square, be wholly given up to
cats and rats, and not, as now, have its
empire divided between those animals
and a few briefless bipeds — surely called
to the Bar by the voices of deceiving
spirits, seeing that they are wanted
there by no mortal — who glance down
with eyes better glazed than their case
ments, from their dreary and lack-lustre
rooms. Then shall the way Nor7 West
ward, now lying under a short grim
colonnade where iu summer time pounce

flies from law-stationering windows into
the eyes of laymen, be choked with
rubbish and happily become impassable.
Then shall the gardens where turf,
trees, and gravel wear a legal livery of
black, run rank, and pilgrims go to
Gorhambury to see Bacon's effigy as he
sat, and not come here (which in truth
they seldom do) to see where he walked.
Then, in a word, shall the old-established
vender of periodicals sit alone in his
little crib of a shop behind the Holborn
Gate, like tfrat lumbering Marius among
the ruins of Carthage, who has sat
heavy on a thousand million of similes.
At one period of my nncomrnercial
career, I much frequented another set of
chambers in Gray's Inn-square. They
were what is familiarly called " a top
set," and all the eatables and drinkables
introduced into them acquired a flavor
of Cockloft. I have known an un-
open^d Strasbourg pate fresh from
Fortnum and Mason's, to draw in this
cockloft tone through its crockery dish,
and become penetrated with cockloft to
the core of its inmost truffle in three-
quarters of an hour. This, however,
was not the most curious feature of
those chambers ; that, consisted in the
profound conviction entertained by my
esteemed friend Parkle (their tenant)
that they were clean. Whether it was
an inborn hallucination, or whether it
was imparted to him by Mrs. Miggot
the laundress, I never could ascertain.
But I believe he would have gone to the
stake upon the question. Now, they
were so dirty that I could take off the
distiuctest impression of my figure on
any article of furniture by merely loung
ing upon it for a few moments ; and it
used to be a private amusement of mine
to print myself off — if I may use the ex
pression — all over the rooms. It was
the first large circulation I had. At
other times I have accidentally shaken
a window-curtain while in animated
conversation with Parkle, and strug
gling insects which were certainly red,
and were certainly not ladybirds, have
dropped on the back of my hand. Yet
Parkle lived in that top set years,
bound body and soul to the superstition,
that they were clean. He used to
say, when congratulated upon them,
" Well, they are not like chambers iu
one respect, you know j they are clean."

148

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

Concurrently, he had an idea which he
conld never explain, that Mrs. Miggot
was in some way connected with the
church. When he was in particularly
good spirits, he used to believe that a de
ceased uncle of her's had been a Dean ;
when he was poorly and low, he believed
that her brother had been a Curate. I
and Mrs. Miggot (she was a genteel
woman) were on confidential terms, but
I never knew her to commit herself to
any distinct assertion on the subject ;
she merely claimed a proprietorship in
the church by looking, when it was
mentioned, as if the reference awakened
the slumbering past, and were personal.
It may have been his amiable confidence
in Mrs. Miggot's better days that in
spired my friend with his delusion re
specting the chambers, but he never
wavered in his fidelity to it for a mo
ment, though he wallowed in dirt seven
years.

Two of the windows of these cham
bers looked down into the garden ; and
we have sat up there together, many a
summer evening, saying how pleasant
it was, and talking of many things.
To my intimacy with that top set, I am
indebted for three of my liveliest per
sonal impressions of the loneliness of
life in chambers. They shall follow
here, in order ; first, second, and third.

First. My Gray's Inn friend, on a
time, hurt one of his legs, and it be
came seriously inflamed. Not know
ing of his indisposition, I was on my
way to visit him as usual, one summer
evening, when I was much surprised by
meeting a lively leech in Field court,
Gray's Inn, seemingly on his way to
the West End of London. As the
leech was alone, and was of course un
able to explain his position, even if he
had been inclined to do so (which he
had not the appearance of being), I
passed him and went on. Turning the
corner of Gray's Inn-square, I was be
yond expression amazed by meeting
another leech-— also entirely alone, and
also proceeding in a westerly direction
though with less decision of purpose.
Ruminating on this extraordinary cir
cumstance and endeavoring to remember
whether I had ever read, in the Philo
sophical Transactions, or any work on
Natural History, of a migration of
Leeches, I ascended to the top set, past

the dreary series of closed outer doors
of offices and an empty set or two,
which intervened between that lofty
region and the surface. Entering my
friend's rooms, I found him stretched
upon his back, like Prometheus Bound,
with a perfectly demented ticket-porter
in attendance on him instead of the vul
ture : which helpless individual, who
was feeble and frightened, had (my
friend explained to me in great choler)
been endeavoring for some hours to
apply leeches to his leg, and as yet had
only got on two out of twenty. To
this unfortunate's distraction between a
damp cloth on which he had placed the
leeches to freshen them, and the wrath
ful adjurations of my friend to " Stick
'em on, sir !" I referred the phenome
non I had encountered : the rather as
two fine specimens were at that moment
going out at the door, while a general
insurrection of the rest was in progress
on the table. After a while our united
efforts prevailed, and when the leeches
came off and had recovered their spirits,
we carefully tied them up in a decanter.
But I never heard more of them than that
they were all gone next morning, and that
the out-of-door young man of Bickle
Bush and Bodger, on the ground floor,
had been bitten and blooded by some crea
ture not identified. They never " took"
on Mrs. Miggot, the laundress ; but I
have always preserved fresh, the belief
that she unconsciously carried several
about her, until they gradually found
openings in life.

Second. On the same staircase with
my friend Parkle, and on the same
floor, there lived a man of law, who
pursued his business elsewhere, and
used those chambers as his place of
residence. For three or four years,
Parkle, rather knew of him than .knew
him, but after that — for Englishmen —
short pause of consideration, they be
gan to speak. Parkle exchanged
words with him in his private character
only, and knew nothing of his mariners,
ways, or means. He was a man a good
deal about town, but always alone. We
used to remark to one another, that
although we often encountered him in
theatres, concert-rooms, and similar
public places, he was always alone.
Yet he was not a gloomy man, and was
of a decidedly conversational turn ; in-

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

149

somuch that he would sometimes of an
evening lounge with a cigar in his
mouth, half in, half out of Parkle's
rooms, and discuss the topics of the day
by the hour. He used to hint on these
occasions that he had four faults to find
with life : firstly that a man was always
winding up his watch; secondly, that
London was too small ; thirdly, that it
therefore wanted variety ; fourthly, that
there was too much dust in it. There
was so much dust in his own faded
chambers, certainly, that they reminded
me of a sepulchre, furnished in prophetic
anticipation of the present time, which
had newly been brought to light, after
having lain buried a few thousand
years. One dry, hot autumn evening at
twilight, this gentleman, being then
five years turned of fifty, looked in
upon Parkle in his usual lounging
way, with his cigar in his mouth as
usual, and said, " I am going out of
town." As he never went out of town,
Parkle said, " Oh indeed, at last ?"
" Yes, " says he, " at last. For what is a
man to do ? London is so small ! If
you go West, you come to Hounslow.
If you go East, you come to Bow. If
you go South, there's Brixton or Nor
wood. If you go North, you can't get
rid of Barnet. Then the monotony of
all the streets, streets, streets — and of
all the roads, roads, roads — and the
dust, dust, dust !" When he had said
this, he wished Parkle a good evening,
but came back again and said, with his
watch in his hand, " Oh, I really can
not go on winding up this watch over
and over again ; I wish you would take
care of it." So Parkle laughed, and
consented, and he went out of town.
He remained out of town so long, that
his letter-box became choked, and no
more letters could be got into it, and
they began to be left at the lodge and
to accumulate there. At last the head-
porter decided on a conference with
the steward to use his master's key and
look into the chambers, and give them
the benefit of a whiff of air. Then it
was found that he had hanged himself
to his bedstead, and had left this writ
ten memorandum : " I should prefer to
be cut down by my neighbor and
friend (if he will allow me to call him
so), Mr. Parkle." This was the end
10

of Parkle's occupancy of chambers, and
he went into lodgings immediately.

Third. While Parkle lived in Gray's
Inn, and I myself was uncommercially
preparing for the Bar — which is done,
as every body knows, by having a frayed
old gown put on in a pantry by an old
woman in a chronic state of Saint An
thony's fire and dropsy, and so decora
ted, bolting a bad dinner in a party of
four, whereof each individual mistrusts
the other three — I say, while these
things were, there was a certain elderly
gentleman who lived in a court of the
Temple, and was a great judge and lover
of port wine. Every day he dined at
his club and drank his bottle or two of
port wine, and every night came home
to the Temple and went to bed in his
lonely chambers. This had gone on
without variation, when one night he
had a fit on coming home, and fell and
cut his head deep, but partly recovered
and groped about in the dark to find
the door. When he was afterwards dis
covered, dead, it was clearly estab
lished by the marks of his hands about
the room that he must have done so.
Now, this chanced on the night of
Christmas Eve, and over him lived a
young fellow who had sisters and
young friends, and who gave them a
little party that night, in the course of
which they played at Blindman's Buff,
They played that game, for greater
sport, by the light of the fire only, and
once when they were all quietly nestling
and stealing about, and the blindman
was trying to pick out the prettiest sis
ter (for which I am far from blaming
him), somebody said, Hark ! The
man below must surely be playing
Blindman's Buff by himself to-night !
They listened and they heard sounds of
some one falling about and stumbling
against furniture, and they all laughed
at the conceit, and went on with their -
play more light-hearted and merry
than before. Thus those two so differ
ent games of life and death were played
out together, blindfold, in the two seta
of chambers.

These are the occurrences which,
coming to my knowledge, imbued me
long ago with a strong sense of the
loneliness of chambers. There was a
fantastic illustration to much the same

150

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

purpose, implicitly believed by a strange
sort of man, now dead, whom I knew
when I had not quite arrived at legal
years of discretion, though I was al
ready in the uncommercial line.

This was a man who, though not
more than thirty, had seen the world in
divers irreconcilable capacities — had
been an officer in a South American
regiment, among other odd things —
but had not achieved much in any way
of life, arid was constitutionally in debt,
and hiding. He occupied chambers
of the dreariest nature in Lyons Inn ;
his name, however, was not upon the
door, or door-post, but in lieu of it
stood the name of a friend who had
died in the chambers, and had given
him the furniture. The story arose out
of the furniture, and was to this effect :
Let the former holder of the chambers,
whose name was still upon the door and
door-post, be Mr. Testator.

Mr. Testator took a set of chambers
in Lyons Inn when he had but very
scant v furniture for his bedroom, and
none for his sitting-room. He had
lived suiue wintry months in this con
dition, and had found it very bare and
cold. One night past midnight, when
he sat writing and had still writing to
do that must be done before he went to
bed, he found himself out of coals. He
had coals down stairs, but had never
been to the cellar ; however, the cellar-
key was on his mantelshelf, and if he
went down and opened the cellar it
fitted, he might fairly assume the coals
in that cellar to be his. As to his laun
dress, she lived among the coal-wagons
arid Thames watermen — for there were
Thames watermen at that time — in
some unknown rat-hole by the river,
down lanes and alleys on the other side
of the Strand. As to any other person
to meet him or obstruct him, Lyons Inn
was dreaming, drunk, maudlin, moody,
betting, brooding over bill-discounting
or renewing : asleep or aw'ake, minding
its owju .affairs. Mr. Testator took his
coalsemtle in one hand, his candle and
key in the other, and descended to the
dismallest dens of Lyons Inn, where
the late .vehicles in the streets became
thunderous, and all the water-pipes in
the neighborhood seemed to have Mac-
beth's Aiuwn sticking in their throats,
aud to be trying to get it o it. After

groping here and there among low-
doors to 110 purpose, Mr. Testator at
length came to a door with a rusty
padlock, which his key fitted. Getting
the door open with much trouble, and
looking in, he found, no coals, but a
confused pile of furniture. Alarmed
by this intrusion on another man's
property, he locked the door again,
found his own cellar, filled his scuttle,
and returned up-stairs.

But the furniture he had seen ran on
castors across and across Mr. Testa
tor's mind incessantly, when, in the
chill hour of five in the morning he got
to bed. He particularly wanted a
table to write at, and a table expressly
made to be written at, had been the
piece of furniture in the foreground of
the heap. When the laundress emerged
from her burrow in the morning to
make his kettle boil, he artfully led up
to the subject of cellars and furniture;
but the two ideas had evidently no con
nection in her mind. When she left
him, and he sat at his breakfast, think
ing about the furniture, he recalled the
rusty state of the padlock, aud inferred
that the furniture must have been stored
in the cellars for a long time — was per
haps forgotten — owner dead, perhaps ?^
After thinking it over a few days, in
the course of which he could pump
nothing out of Lyons Inn about the
furniture, he became desperate, and re
solved to borrow that table. He did
so that night. He had not had the
table long, when he determined to bor
row an easy-chair ; he had not had that
long, when he made up his mind to
borrow a bookcase ; then a couch ; then
a carpet and rug. By that time, he
felt he was " in furniture stepped in so
far," as that it could be no worse to
borrow it all. Consequently he bor
rowed it all, and locked up the cellar
for good. He had always locked it,
after every visit. He had carried up
every separate article in the dead of the
night, and, at the best, had felt like a
Resurrection Man. Every article was
blue and furry when brought into his
rooms, and he had had, in a murderous
and wicked sort of way, to polish it up
while London slept.

Mr. Testator lived in his furnished
chambers two or three years, or more,
and gradually lulled himself into the

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

151

opinion that the furniture was his.
This was his convenient state of mind
when, late one night, a step came up
the stairs, and a hand passed over his
door feeling for his knocker, and then
one deep and solemn rap was rapped
that might have been a spring in Mr.
Testator's easy-chair to shoot him out
of it : so promptly was it attended with
that effect.

With a candle in his hand, Mr. Tes
tator went to the door, and found there
a very pale and very tall man ; a man
who stooped ; a man with very high
shoulders, a very narrow chest, and a
very red nose ; the shabby genteel man
was wrapped in a long threadbare black
coat, fastened up the front with more
pins than buttons, and under his arm
he squeezed an umbrella without a
handle, as if he was playing bagpipes.
He said, "I ask your pardon, sir, but

can you tell me " and stopped ; his

eye resting on some object within the
chambers.

" Can I tell you what ?" asked Mr.
Testator, noting this stoppage with
quick alarm.

" I ask your pardon," said the
stranger, "but — this is not the inquiry
I was going to make — DO I see in there
any small article of property belonging
to me 9"

Mr. Testator was beginning to stam
mer that he was not aware — when the
visitor slipped past him, into the cham
bers. There, in a goblin way that
froze Mr. Testator to the marrow, he
examined, first, the writing-table, and
said, " Mine ;" then, the easy-chair,
and said, " Mine ;" then, the bookcase,
and said, "Mine;" then turned up a
corner of the carpet, and said, " Mine ;"
in a word, inspected every item of fur
niture from the cellar, in succession,
and said, " Mine !" Toward the end
of this investigation, Mr. Testator per
ceived that he was sodden with liquor,
and that the liquor was gin. He was
not unsteady with gin, either in his
speech or carriage ; but he was stiff
with gin in both respects.

Mr. Testator was in a dreadful state,
for (according to his making out of the
story) the' possible consequences of
what he had done in recklessness and
hardihood flashed upon him in their
fullness for the first time. When they

had stood gazing at one another for a
little while, he tremulously began :

"Sir, I am conscious that the fullest
explanation, compensation, and restitu
tion, are your due. They shall be
yours. Allow me to entreat that with
out temper, without even natural irrita
tion on your part, we may have a lit
tle "

"Drop of something to drink,'' in
terposed the stranger. " I am agree
able."

Mr. Testator had intended to say,
"a little quiet conversation," but with
great relief of mind adopted the amend
ment. He produced a decanter of gin,
and was bustling about for hot water
and sugar, when he found that his visi
tor had already drunk half of the de
canter's contents. With hot water and
sugar the visitor drank the remainder
before he had been an hour in the
•chambers by the chimes of the church
of Saint Mary in the Strand, and dur
ing the process he frequently repeated
to himself, " Mine !"

The gin gone, the visitor rose and
said, with increased stiffness, " At what
hour of the morning, sir, will it be con
venient ?" Mr. Testator hazarded, " At
ten?" " Sir," said the visitor, " at ten,
to the moment, I shall be here." He
then contemplated Mr. Testator some
what at leisure, and said, " God bless
you 1 How is your wife ?" Mr. Tes
tator, who never had a wife, replied,
" Deeply anxious, poor soul, but other
wise well." The visitor thereupon,
turned and went away, and fell twice
in going down stairs. From that hour
he was never heard of. Whether, lie
was a ghost, or a spectral illusion, or a
drunken man who had no business there,
or the drunken rightful owner of the
furniture, who had that business there ;
whether he got safe home, or had no
home to get to ; whether he died of
liquor on the way, or lived in liquor ever
afterward; he never was heard of more.
This was the story received with tho
furniture, held to be as substantial, by
its second possessor in an upper set of
chambers in grim Lyons Inn.

It is to be remarked of chambers in
general, that they must have been built
for chambers, to have the right kind of
loneliness. You may make a great
dwelling-house very lonely by isolating

132

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

suites of rooms and calling them cham
bers, but you cannot make the true kind
of loneliness. In dwelling-houses there
have been family festivals; children
have grown in them, girls have bloomed
ii.to women in them, courtships and
marriages have taken place in them.
True chambers never were young, child
ish, maidenly ; never had dolls in them,
or rocking-horses, or christenings, or
betrothals, or little coffins. Let Gray's
Inn identify the child who first touched
hands and hearts with Robinson Crusoe,
in any one of its many "sets, "and that
child's little statue, in white marble,
sliall be at its service, at my cost and
charge, as a drinking fountain for the
spirit, to freshen its dry square. Let
Lincoln's produce from all its houses a
twentieth of the possession derivable
from any dwelling-house, or twentieth
of its age, of fair young brides who
married for love and hope, not settle
ments, and all the Vice-Chancellors
shall thenceforward be kept in nosegays
for nothing, on application at this of
fice. It is not denied that on the
terrace of the Adelphi, or in any of
the streets of that subterranean-stable-
haunted spot, or about Bedford-row, or
James-street of that ilk (a grewsome
place,) or anywhere among the neigh
borhoods that have done flowering and
have run to seed. You may find Cham
bers replete with the accommodations
of Solitude, Closeness, arid Darkness,
where you may be as low spirited as
in the genuine article, and might be as
easily murdered, with the placid repu
tation of having gone down to the sea
side. But the many waters of life did
run musical in those dry channels once ;
— among the Inns, never. The only
popular legend known in relation to
any one of the dull family of Inns, is a
dark Old Bailey whisper concerning
Clement's, and imparting how the black
creature who holds the sun dial there,
was a negro who slew his master and
built the dismal pile out of the contents
of his strong-box — for which offense
alone he ought to have been condemned
to live in it. But what populace would
waste a fancy upon such a place, or on
New Inn, Staple Inn, Barnard's Inn, or
any of the shabby crew ?

^The genuine laundress, too, is an in
stitution not to be had in its entirety

out of and away from the genuine
Chambers. Again, it is not denied that
you may be robbed elsewhere. Else
where you may have — for money — dis
honesty, drunkenness, dirt, laziness, and
profound incapacity. But the veritable
shining-red-faced, shameless laundress ;
the true Mrs. Sweeney, in figure, color,
texture, and smell, like the old damp
family umbrella ; the tiptop complicated
abomination of straggling heels and
hair, stockings, spirits, bonnet, limp
ness, looseness, and larceny, is only to
be drawn at the fountainhead. Mrs.
Sweeney is beyond the reach of indi
vidual art. It requires the united ef
forts of several men to insure that great
result, and it is only developed in per
fection under an Honorable Society in
an Inn of Court.

THERE are not many places that I
find it more agreeable to revisit when I
am in an idle mood, than some places
to which I have never been. For, my
acquaintance with those spots is of such
long standing, and has ripened into an
intimacy of so affectionate a nature,
that I take a particular interest in as
suring myself that they are unchanged.

I never jvas in Robinson Crusoe's
Island, yet I frequently return there.
The colony he established on it soon
faded away, and it is uninhabited by any
descendants of the grave and courteous
Spaniards, or of Will Atkins and the
other mutineers, and has relapsed into
its original condition. Not a twig of
its wicker houses remains, its goats
have long run wild again, its screaming
parrots would darken the sun with a
cloud of many flaming colors if a gun
were fired there, no face is ever reflected
in the waters of the little creek which
Friday swam across when pursued by
his two brother cannibals with sharp
ened stomachs. After comparing
notes w'ith other travelers who have
similarly visited the Island and con
scientiously inspected it, I have satisfied
myself that it contains no vestige of
Mr. Atkins's domesticity or theology,
though his track on the memorable
evening of his landing to set his captain
ashore, when he was decoyed about and
round about until it was dark, and his
boat was stove, and his strength and
spirits failed him, is yet plainly to be

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

153

traced. So is the hill-top on which
Robinson was struck dumb with joy
when the reinstated captain pointed to
the ship, riding within half a mile of
the shore, that was to bear him away,
in the nine-and-twentieth year of his
seclusion in that lonely place. So is
the sandy beach on which the memor
able footstep was impressed, and where
the savages hauled up their canoes when
they came ashore for those dreadful
public dinners, which led to a dancing
worse than speech-making. So is the
cave where the flaring eyes of the old
goat made such a goblin appearance in
the dark. So is the site of the hut
where Robinson lived with the dog and
the parrot and the cat, and where he
endured those first agonies of solitude,
which — strange to say — never involved
any ghostly fancies ; a circumstance so
very remarkable, that perhaps he left
out' something in writing his record ?
Round hundreds of such objects, hid
den in the dense tropical foliage, the
tropical sea breaks evermore ; and over
them the tropical sky, saving in the
short rainy season, shines bright and
cloudless.

Neither, was I ever belated among
wolves, on the borders of France and
Spain; nor, did I ever, when night was
closing in and the ground was covered
with snow, draw up my little company
among some felled trees which served
as a breastwork, and there fire a train
of gunpowder so dexterously that sud
denly we had three or four score blaz
ing wolves illuminating the darkness
around us. Nevertheless, I occasion
ally go back to that dismal region and
perform the feat again ; when indeed to
smell the singeing and the frying of the
wolves afire, and to see them setting one
another alight as they rush and tumble,
and to behold them rolling in the snow
vainly attempting to put themselves out,
and to hear their howlings taken up by
all the echoes as well as by all the un
seen wolves within the woods,makes me
tremble.

I was never in the robbers' cave,
where Gil Bias lived, but I often go
back there and find the trap-door just
as heavy to raise as it used to be, while
that wicked old disabled Black lies ever
lastingly cursing in bed. I was never
in Don Quixote's study where he read

his books of chivalry until he rose and
hacked at imaginary giants, and then
refreshed himself with great draughts ;
of water, yet you couldn't move a book
in it without my knowledge, or with my
consent, I was never, thank Heaven,
in company with the little old woman
who hobbled out of the chest and told
the merchant Abudah to go in search
of the Talisman of Oromanes, yet I
niake it my business to know that she
is well preserved and as intolerable as
ever. I was never at the school where
the boy Horatio Nelson got out of bed
to steal the pears : not because he
wanted any, but because every other
boy was afraid : yet I have several
times been back to this Academy, to
see him let down out of window with a
sheet. So with Damascus, and Bag
dad, and Brobdingnag, which has the
curious fate of being usually misspelt
when written, and Lilliput, and Laputa,
and the Nile, and Abyssinia, and the
Ganges, and the North Pole, and many
hundreds of places — I was never at
them, yet it is an affair of my life to
keep them intact, and I am always
going back to them.

But when I was in Dullborough one
day, revisiting the associations of my
childhood as recorded in previous pages
of these notes, my experience in this
wise was made quite inconsiderable and
of no account, by the quantity of places
and people — utterly impossible places
and people, but none the less alarm
ingly real — that I found I had been
introduced to by my nurse before I was
six years old, and used to be forced to
go back to at night without at all
wanting to go. If we all knew our own
minds (in a more enlarged sense than
the popular acceptation of that phrase),
I suspect we should find our nurses
responsible for most of the dark corners
we are forced to go back to, against
our wills.

The first diabolical character that
intruded himself on my peaceful youth
(as I called to mind that day at Dull-
borough), was a certain Captain Mur
derer. This wretch must have been an
offshoot of the Blue Beard family, but I
had no suspicion of the consanguinity
in those times. His warning name
would seem to have awakened no
general prejudice against him, for he

151

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

was admitted into the best society and
possessed immense wealth. Captain
Murderer's mission was matrimony, and
the gratification of a cannibal appetite
with tender brides. On his marriage
morning, he always caused both sides
of the way to church to be planted with
curious flowers ; and when his bride
said, " Dear Captain Murderer, I never
saw flowers like these before : what are
they called ?" he answered, " They are
called Garnish for house-lamb," and
laughed at his ferocious practical joke
in a horrid manner, disquieting the
minds of the noble bridal company,
with a very sharp show of teeth, then
displayed for the first time. He made
love in a coach and six, and married in
a coach and twelve, and all his horses
were milk-white horses with one red
spot on the back which he caused to be
hidden by the harness. For, the spot
luould come there, though every horse
was milk-white when Captain Murderer
bought him. And the spot was young
bride's blood. (To this terrific point
I am indebted for my first personal
experience of a shudder and cold beads
on the forehead.) When Captain Mur
derer had made an end of feasting and
revelry, and had dismissed the noble
guests, and was aloue with his wife on
the day month after their marriage, it
was his whimsical custom to produce a
golden, rolling-pin and a silver pie-
board. Now, there was this special
feature in the Captain's courtships, that
he always asked if the young lady could
make pie-crust ; and if she couldn't by
nature or education, she was taught.
Well. When the bride saw Captain
Murderer produce the golden rolling-
piu and silver pie-bohrd, she remem
bered this, and turned up her laced-silk
sleeves to make a pie. The Captain
brought out a silver pie-dish of immense
capacity, and the Captain brought out
flour and butter and eggs and all things
needful, except the inside of the pie ;
of materials for the staple of the pie
itself, the Captain brought out none.
Then said the lovely bride, " Dear Cap
tain Murderer, what pie is this to be ?"
He replied, "A meat pie." Then said
the lovely bride, "Dear Captain Mur
derer, I see no meat." The Captain
humorously retorted, " Look in the
glass." She looked in the glass, but

still she saw no meat, and then the
Captain roared with laughter, and,
suddenly frowning and drawing his
sword, bade her roll out the crust. So
she rolled out the crust, dropping large
tears upon it all the time because he
was so cross, and when she had lined
the dish with crust and had cut the
crust all ready to fit the top, the Cap
tain called out, " /see the meat in the
glass !" And the bride looked up at
the glass, just in time to see the Cap
tain cutting her head off; and he chop
ped her in pieces, and peppered her,
and salted her, and put her in the pie,
and sent it to the baker's, and ate it all,
and picked the bones.

Captain Murderer went on in this
way, prospering exceedingly, until he
came to choose a bride from two twin
sisters, and at first didn't know which to
choose. For though one was fair and
the other dark, they were both equally
beautiful. But the fair twin loved him,
and the dark twin hated him, so he
chose the fair one. The dark twin
would have prevented the marriage if
she could, but she couldn't ; however,
on the night before it, much suspecting
Captain Murderer, she stole out and
climbed his garden wall, and looked in
at his window through a chink in the
shutter, and saw him having his teeth
filed sharp. Next day she listened all
day, and heard him make his joke about
the house-lamb. And that day month,
he had the paste rolled out, and cut the
fair twin's head off, and chopped her in
pieces, and peppered her, and salted
her, and put her in the pie, and sent it
to the baker's, and ate it all, and picked
the bones.

Now, the dark twin had had her sus
picions much increased by the filing of
the Captain's teeth, and again by the
house-lamb joke. Putting all things
together when he gave out that her
sister was dead, she divined the truth,
and determined to be revenged. Sj
she went up to Captain Murderers .
house, and knocked^! the knocker and
pulled at the bell, and when the Cap
tain came to the door, said : " Dear
Captain Murderer, marry me next, for
I always loved you and was jealous of
my sister." The Captain took it as a
compliment, and made a polite answer,
and the marriage was quickly arranged.

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

155

On the night before it, the bride again
climbed to his window, and again saw
him having his teeth filed sharp. At
this sight, she laughed such a terrible
laugh, at the chink in the shutter, that
the Captain's blood curdled, and he
said : " I hope nothing has disagreed
with me !" At that she laughed again,
a still more terrible laugh, and the
shutter was opened and search made,
but she was nimbly gone and there was
no one. Next day they went to church
in the coach and twelve, and were mar
ried. And that day month, she rolled
the pie-crust out, and Captain Mur
derer cut her head off, and chopped her
in pieces, and peppered her, and salted
her, and put her in the pie, and sent it
to the baker's, and ate it all, and picked
the bones.

But before she began to roll out the
paste she had taken a deadly poison of
a most awful character, distilled from
toads' eyes and spiders' knees ; and
Captain Murderer had hardly picked
her last bone, when he began to swell,
and to turn blue, and to be all over
spots, and to scream. And he went
on swelling and turning bluer and being
more all over spots and screaming, until
he reached from floor to ceiling and
from wall to wall ; and then, at one
o'clock in the morning, he blew up
with a loud explosion. At the sound
of it, all the milk-white horses in the
stables broke their halters and went
mad, and then they galloped over every
body in Captain Murderer's house
(beginning with the family blacksmith
who had filed his teeth) until the whole
were dead, and then they galloped
away.

Hundreds of times did I hear this
legend of Captain Murderer, in my early
youth, and added hundreds of times was
there a mental compulsion upon me in
bed, to peep in at his window as the
dark twin peeped, and to revisit his
horrible house, and to look at him in
his blue and spotty and screaming stage,
as he reached from floor to ceiling and
from wall to wall. The young woman
who brought me acquainted with Cap
tain Murderer, had a fiendish enjoyment
of my terrors, and used to begin, I
remember — as a sort of introductory
overture— by clawing the air with both
hands,, and uttering a long low hollow

groan. So acutely did I PnfTor from
this ceremony in combination with this
infernal Captain, that I sometimes used
to plead I thought I was hardly strong
enough and old enough to hew tho
story again just yet. But she nevt-r
spared me one word of it, and indeed
commended the awful chalice to my
lips as the only preservntive known to
science against " The Black Cat" — a
weird and glaring-eyed supernatural
Tom, who was reputed to prowl about
the world by night, sucking the breath
of infancy, and who was endowed with
a special thirst (as I was given to under
stand) for mine.

This female bard — may she have been
repaid my debt of obligation to her in
the matter of nightmares and perspira
tions! — reappears in my memory as the
daughter of a shipwright. Her name
was Mercy, though she had none on
me. There was something of a ship
building flavor in the following story.
As it always recurs to me in a vague
association with calomel pills, I believe
it to have been reserved for dull nights
when I was low with medicine.

There was once a shipwright, and he
wrought in a Government Yard, and
his name was Chips. And his father's
name before him was Chips, and his
father's name before him was Chips,
and they were all Chipses. And Chips
the father had sold himself to the Devil
for an iron pot and a bushel of tenpenny
nails and a half a ton of copper and a
rat that could speak ; and Chips the
grandfather had sold himself to the
Devil for an iron pot and a bushel of
tenpenny nails and half a ton of copper
and a rat that could speak ; and Chips
the great-grandfather had disposed of
himself in the same direction on the
same terms ; and the bargain had run in
the family for a long long time. So one
day when young Chips was at work in
the Dock Slip all alone, down in the
dark hold of an old Seventy-four that
was hauled up for repairs, the Devil
presented himself and remarked :

" A Lemon has pips,
And a Yurd has ships,
And I'll have Chips !"'

(I don't know why, but this fact of the
Devil's expressing himself in rhyme was

156

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

peculiarly trying to me.) Chips looked
up when he heard the words, and there
he saw the Devil with saucer eyes that
squinted on a terrible great scale, and
that struck out sparks of blue fire con
tinually. And whenever he winked his
eyes, showers of blue sparks came out,
and his eye-lashes made a clattering
like flints and steels striking lights.
And hanging over one of his arms by the
handle was an iron pot, and under that
arm was a bushel of tenpenny nails,
and under his other arm was half a ton
of copper, and sitting on one of his
shoulders was a rat that could speak.
So the Devil said again :

"A Lemon has pips,
And a Yard has ships,
And I'll have Chips 1"

(The invariable effect of this alarm
ing tautology on the part of the Evil
Spirit was to deprive me of my senses
for some moments.) So Chips an
swered never a word, but went on with
his work. "What are you doing,
Chips ?" said the rat that could speak.
" I am putting in new planks where
you and your gang have eaten the old
ones away," said Chips. "But we'll
eat them too," said the rat that could
speak ; " and we'll let in the water,
and we'll drown the crew, and we'll eat
them too." Chips, being only a ship
wright, and not a Man-of-war's man,
said, " You are welcome to it." But he
couldn't keep his eyes off the half a
ton of copper, or the bushel of ten-
penny nails ; for nails and copper are a
shipwright's sweet-hearts, and ship
wrights will run away with them when
ever they can. So the Devil said, " I
6ee what you are looking at, Chips.
You had better strike the bargain.
You know the terms. Yonr father be
fore you was well acquainted with them,
and so were your grandfather and your
great-grandfather before him." Says
Chips, " I like the copper, and I like
the nails, and I don't mind the pot, but
I don't like the rat." Says the Devil,
fiercely, " You can't have the metal
without him — and he's a curiosity. I'm
going." Chips, afraid of losing the
half a ton of copper and the bushel of
nai/s, then said, " Give us hold !" So
he got the copper and the nails and

the pot and the rat that could speak,
and the Devil vanished.

Chips sold the copper, and he sold
the nails, and he would have sold the
pot; but whenever he offered it for
sale, the rat was in it, and the dealers
dropped it, and would have nothing to
say to the bargain. So Chips resolved
to kill the rat, and, being at work in
the Yard one day with a great kettle
of hot pitch on one side of him and the
iron pot with the rat in it on the other,
he turned the scalding pitch into the
pot, and filled it full. Then he kept
his eye upon it till it cooled and hard
ened, and then he let it stand for
twenty days, and then he heated the
pitch again and turned it back into the
kettle, and then he sank the pot in water
for twenty days more, and then he got
the smelters to put it in the furnace
for twenty days more, and then they
gave it him out, red hot, and looking
like red-hot glass instead of iron — yet
there was the rat iu it, just the same
as ever 1 And the moment it caught
his eye, it said with a jeer :

" A Lemon has pips,
And a Yard has ships,
And I'll have Chips !"

(For this Refrain I had waited since
its last appearance, with inexpressible
horror, which now culminated.) Chips
now felt certain in his own mind that
the rat would stick to him ; the rat, an
swering his thought, said, " I will —
like pitch 1"

Now, as the rat leaped out of the
pot when it had spoken, and made off,
Chips began to hope that it wouldn't
keep its word. But a terrible thing
happened next day. For, when dinner
time came and the Dock-bell rang to
strike work, he put his rule into the
long pocket at the side of his trowsers,
and there he found a rat — not that
rat, but another rat. And in his hat,
he found another ; and in his pocket-
handkerchief, another; and in the
sleeves of his coat, when he pulled it on
to go to dinner, two more. And from
that time he found himself so frightfully
intimate with all the rats in the Yard,
that they climbed up his legs when he
was at work, and sat on his tools while
he used them. And they could all

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157

speak to one another, and he under
stood what they said. And they got
into his lodging, and into his bed, and
into his teapot, and into his beer, and
into his boots. And he was going to
be married to a cornrchandler's daugh
ter ; and when he gave her a workbox
he had himself made for her, a rat
jumped out of it; and when he put
his arm round her waist, a rat clung
about her ; so the marriage was broken
off, though the banns were already twice
put up — which the parish clerk well
remembers, for, as he handed the book
to the clergyman for the second time
of asking, a large fat rat ran over the
leaf. (By this time a special cascade
of rats was rolling down my back, and
the whole of my small listening person
was overrun with them. At intervals
ever since, I have been morbidly afraid
of my own pocket, lest my exploring
hand should find a specimen or two of
those vermin in it.)

You may believe that all this was
very terrible to Chips ; but even all
this was not the worst. He knew be
sides, what the rats were doing, wher
ever they were. So sometimes he would
cry aloud, when he was at his club at
night, " Oh ! Keep the rats out of the
convicts' burying-ground ! Don't let
them do that!" Or, "There's one of
them at the cheese down stairs 1" Or,
"There's two of them smelling at the
baby in the garret 1" ' Or other things
of that sort. At last he was voted
rnad, and lost his work in the Yard,
and could get no other work. But King
George wanted men, so before very
long he got pressed for a sailor. And
so he was taken off in a boat ohe even
ing to his ship, lying at Spithead,
ready to sail. And so the first thing
he made out in her as he got near her,
was the figure-head of the old Seventy-
four, where he had seen the Devil. She
was called the Argonaut, and they
rowed right under the bowsprit where
the figure-head of the Argonaut, with
a sheepskin in his hand and a blue
gown on, was looking out to sea ; and
sitting staring on his forehead was the
rat who couid speak, and his exact
words were these : " Chips ahoy ! Old
boy ! We've pretty well eat them
too, and we'll drown the crew, and
will eat them too 1" (Here I always

became exceedingly faint, and would
have asked for water, but that I was
speechless.)

The ship was bound for the Indies ;
and if you don't know where that is,
you ought to and angels will never
love you. (Here I felt myself an out
cast from a future state.) The ship set
sail that very night, and she sailed, and
sailed, and sailed. Chips's feelings
were dreadful. Nothing ever equaled
his terrors. No wonder. At last, one
day he asked leave to speak to the Ad
miral. The Admiral giv' leave. Chips
went down on his knees in the Great
State Cabin. "Your Honor, unless
your Honor, without a moment's loss
of time makes sail for the nearest shore,
this is a doomed ship, and her name is
the coffin 1" "Young man, your words
are a madman's words." "Your
Honor, no ; they are nibbling us away,"
" They ?" " Your Honor, them dread
ful rats. Dust and hollowness where
solid oak ought to be ! Rats nibbling
a grave for every man on board 1 Oh!
Does your Honor love your Lady and
your pretty children ?" " Yes, my man,
to be sure." "Then, for God's sake
make for the nearest shore, for at this
present moment the rats are all stop
ping in their work, and are all -looking
straight toward you with bare teeth,
and are all saying to one another that
you shall never, never, never, never, see
your Lady and your children more."
" My poor fellow you are a case for the
doctor. Sentry, take care of this man 1"

So he was bled and he was blistered,
and he was this and that, for six whole
days and nights. So then he again
asked leave to speak to the Admiral.
The Admiral giv' leave. He went
down on his knees in the Great State
Cabin. " Now, Admiral, you must
die ! You took no warning ; you must
die 1 The rats are never wrong io
their calculations, and they make out
that they'll be through at twelve to
night. So, you must die ! — With me
and all the rest!" And so at twelve
o'clock there was a great leak reported
in the ship, and a torrent of water
rushed in and nothing could stop it,
and they all went down, every living
soul. And what the rats — being water-
rats — left of Chips, at last floated to
shore, aud sitting on him was an im-

153

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

mense overgrown rat, laughing, that
dived when the corpse touched the beach
and never came up. And there was a
deal of seaweed on the remains. And
if you get thirteen bits of seaweed, and
dry them and burn them in the fire,
they will go — off — like in these thirteen
words as plain as plain can be :

" A Lemon has pips,
And a Yard has ships,
And I've got Chips!"

The same female bard — descended,
possibly, from those terrible old Scalds
who seem to have existed for the ex
press purpose of addling the brains of
mankind when they begin to investigate
languages — made a standing pretense
which greatly assisted in forcing me
back to a number uf hideous places that
I would by all means have avoided.
This pretense was, that all her ghost
stories had occurred to her own rela
tions. Politeness toward a meritorious
family, therefore forbade my doubting
them, and they acquired an air of au
thentication that impaired my digestive
powers for life. There was a narrative
concerning an unearthly animal fore
boding death, which appeared in the
open street to a parlor-maid who "went
to fetch the beer " for supper : first (as
I now recall it) assuming the likeness of
a black dog, and gradually rising on its
hind-legs and swelling into the sem
blance of some quadruped greatly sur
passing a hippopotamus : which appa
rition — not because I deemed it in the
least improbable, but because I felt it
to be really too large to bear — I feebly
endeavored to explain away. But on
Mercy's retorting with wounded dignity
that the parlor-maid was her own sister-
in-law, I perceived there was no hope,
and resigned myself to this zoological
phenomenon as one of my many pur
suers. There was another narrative
describing the apparition of a young
woman who came out of a glass-case
and hauntied another young woman until
the other young woman questioned it
and elicited that its bones (Lord ! To
think of its being so particular about
its bones!) were buried under the glass-
case, whereas she required them to be
interred, with every Undertaking so
lemnity up to twenty-four pound ten, in

another particular place. This narra
tive I considered I had a personal
interest in disproving, because we had
glass-cases at home, and how, otherwise,
was I to be guaranteed from the intru
sion of young women requiring me to
bury them up to twenty-four pound ten,
when I had only twopence a week ? But
my remorseless nurse cut the ground
from under my tender feet, by inform
ing me that She was the other young
woman ; and I couldn't say " I don't
believe you;" it was not possible.

Such are a few of the uncommercial
journeys that I was forced to make,
against my will, when I was very young
and unreasoning. And really, as to
the latter part of them, it is not so very
long ago — now I come to think of it —
that I was asked to undertake them
once again, with a steady countenance.

BEING in a humor for complete soli
tude and uninterrupted meditation this
autumn, I have taken a lodging for six
weeks in the most unfrequented part of
England — in a word, in London.

The retreat into which I have with
drawn myself, is Bond street. From
this lonely spot I make pilgrimages into
the surrounding wilderness, and traverse
extensive tracts of the Great Desert.
The first 'solemn feeling of isolation
overcome, the first oppressive conscious
ness of profound retirement conquered,
I enjoy that sense of freedom, and feel
reviving within me that latent wildness
of the original savage which has been
(upon the whole somewhat frequently)
noticed by Travelers.

My lodgings are at a hatter's — my
own hatter's. After exhibiting no ar
ticles in his window for some weeks, but
sea-side wide-awakes, shooting-caps,
and a choice of rough waterproof head
gear for the moors and mountains, he
has pnt upon the heads of his family as
much of this stock as they could carry,
and has taken them off to tlie Isle of
Thanet. His young man alone remains
— and remains alone — in the shop. The
young man has let out the fire at which
the irons are heated, and, saving his
strong sense of duty, I see no reason
why he should take the shutters down.

Happily for himself and for his coun
try, the young man is a Volunteer;
most happily for himself, or I think he

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

159

would become the prey of a settled
melancholy. For, to live surrounded
by human hats, and alienated from
human heads to fit them on, is surely a
great endurance. But the young man,
sustained by practicing his exercise, and
by constantly furbishing up his regula
tion plume (it is unnecessary to observe
that, as a hatter, he is in a cock's-feather
corps), is resigned, and uncomplaining.
On a Saturday, when he closes early
and gets his knickerbockers on, he is
even cheerful. . I am gratefully partic
ular in this reference to him, because he
is my companion through many peace
ful hours. My Matter has a desk up
certain steps behind his counter, in
closed like the clerk's desk at Church.
1 shut myself into this place of seclusion,
after breakfast and meditate. At such
times, I observe the young man loading
an imaginary rifle with the greatest pre
cision, and maintaining a most galling
and destructive fire upon the national
enemy. I thank him publicly for his
companionship and his patriotism.

The simple character of my life, and
the calm nature of the scenes by which
I am surrounded, occasion me to rise
early. I go forth in my slippers, and
promenade the pavement. It is pas
toral t<J feel the freshness of the air in
the uninhabited town, and to appreciate
the shepherdess character of the few
rnilkwomen who purvey so little milk
that it would be worth nobody's while
to adulterate it, if any body were left
to undertake the task. On the crowded
sea-shore, the great demand for milk,
combined with the strong local tempta
tion of chalk, would betray itself in
the lowered quality of the article. In
Arcadian London, I derive it from the
cow.

The Arcadian simplicity of the me
tropolis altogether) and the primitive
ways into which it has fallen in this
autumnal Golden Age, make it entirely
new to me. Within a few hundred
' yards of my retreat, is the house of a
friend who maintains a most sumptuous
butler. I never, until yesterday, saw
that butler out of superfine black broad
cloth. Uiuil yesterday, I never saw
him off duty, never saw him (he is the
best of butlers) with the appearance of
having any mind for any thing but the
glory of his master and his master's

friends. Yesterday morning, walking
in my slippers near the house of which
he is the prop and ornament — a house
now a waste of shutters — I encountered
that butler, also in his slippers, and in
a shooting suit of one color, and in a
low-crowned straw hat, smoking an
early cigar. He felt that we had for
merly met i» another state of existence,
and that we were translated into a new
sphere. Wisely and well, he passed me
without recognition. Under his arm he
carried the morning paper, and shortly
afterward I saw him sitting on a rail in
the pleasant open landscape of Regent-
street, perusing it at his ease under the
ripening sun.

My landlord having taken his whole
establishment to be salted down, I am
waited on by an elderly woman laboring
under a chronic sniff, who, at the sha
dowy hour of half-past nine o'clock of
every evening, gives admittance at the
street door to a meagre and mouldy old
man whom I have never yet seen de
tached from a flat pint of beer in a
pewter pot. The meagre and mouldy
old man is her husband, and the pair
have a dejected consciousness that they
are not justified in appearing on the
surface of the earth. They come out
of some hole when London empties it
self, and go in again when it fills. I
saw them arrive on the evening when I
myself«took possession, and they arrived
with the flat pint of beer, and their bed
in a bundle. The old man is a weak
old man, and appeared to me to get the
bed down the kitchen stairs by tumbling
down with and upon it. They make
their bed in the lowest and remotest
corner of the Basement, and they smell
of bed, and have no possession but bed ;
unless it be (which I rather infer from
an under-current of flavor in them)
cheese. I know their name, through
the chance of having called the wife's
attention, at half-past nine on the second
evening of our acquaintance, to the cir
cumstance of there being some one at
the house door; when she apologetically
explained, "It's oa'y Mister Klern."
What becomes of Mr. Klem all day, or
when he goes out, or why, is a mystery
I cannot penetrate; but at half-past
nine he never fails to turn up on the
door-step with the * flat pint of beer.
And the pint of beer, flat as it is, is so

160

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

much more important than himself, that
it always seems to my fancy as if it had
found him driveling in the street and
had humanely brought him home. In
making his way below, Mr. Klem never
goes down the middle of the passage,
like another Christian, but shuffles
against the wull as if entreating me to
take notice that he is occupying as
little space as possible in the house ;
and whenever I come upon him face to
face, he backs from me in fascinated
confusion. The most extraordinary cir
cumstance I have traced in connection
with this aged couple, is, that there is a
Miss Klem, their daughter, apparently
ten years older than either of them, who
has also a bed and smells of it, and car
ries it about the earth at dusk and hides
it in deserted houses. I came into
this piece of knowledge through Mrs.
Klem's beseeching me to sanction the
sheltering of Miss Klem under that
roof for a single night, "between her
takin' care of the upper part of a 'ouse
in Pall Mall which the family of his
back, and another 'ouse in Serjameses-
Btreet, which the family of leaves towng
termorrer." I gave my gracious con
sent (having nothing that I know of to
do with it), and in the shadowy hours
Miss Klem became perceptible on the
door-step, wrestling with a bed in a
bundle. Where she made it up for the
night I cannot positively state,* but, I
think, in a sink. I know that with the
instinct of a reptile or an insect, she
stowed it and herself away in deep ob
scurity. In the Klem family, I have
noticed another remarkable gift of na
ture, and that is a power they possess
of converting every thing into flue.
Such broken victuals as they take by
stealth, appear (whatever the nature of
the viands) invariably to generate flue ;
and even the nightly pint of beer, in
stead of assimilating naturally, strikes
me as breaking out in that form, equally
on the shabby gown of Mrs. Klem, and
the threadbare coat of her husband.

Mrs. Klem has no idea of my name —
as to Mr. Klem, he^ias no idea of any
thing — and only knows me as her good
gentleman. Thus, if doubtful whether
I am in my room or qo, Mrs. Klem
taps at the door and says, " Is my good
gentleman here ?" Or, if a messenger
desiring to see me were consistent with

my solitude, she would show him in
with " Here is my good gentleman."
I find this to be a generic custom. For,
I meant to have observed before now,
that in its Arcadian time all my part
of London is indistinctly pervaded by
the Klera species. They creep about
with beds, and go to bed in miles of
deserted houses. They hold no com
panionship, except that sometimes, after
dark, two of them will emerge from op
posite houses, and meet in the middle
of the road as on neutral ground, or
will peep from adjoining houses over
an interposing barrier of area railings,
and compare a few reserved mistrustful
notes respecting their good ladies or
good gentlemen. This I have discov
ered in the course of various solitary
rambles I have taken northward from
my retirement, along the awful perspec
tives of Wimpole-street, Harley-street,
and similar frowning regions. Their
effect would be scarcely distinguishable
from that of the primeval forests, but for
the Klem stragglers ; these may be dimly
observed, when the heavy shadows fall,
flitting to and fro, putting up the door-
chain, taking in the pint of beer, low
ering like phantoms at the dark parlor
windows, or secretly consorting under
ground with the dust-bin and the water
cistern.

In the Burlington Arcade, I observe,
with peculiar pleasure, a primitive state
of manners to have superseded the bane
ful influence of ultra civilization. No
thing can surpass the innocence of the
ladies' shoe-shops, the artificial flower
repositories, and the head-dress depots.
They are in strange hands at this time
of year — hands of unaccustomed per
sons, who are imperfectly acquainted
with the prices of the goods, and con
template them with unsophisticated de
light and wonder. The children of these
virtuous people exchange familiarities in
the Arcade, and temper the asperity of
the two tall beadles. Their youthful
prattle blends in an unwonted manner /
with the harmonious shade of the scene,
and the general effect is, as of the voices
of birds in a grove. In this happy resto
ration of the golden time, it has been
my privilege even to see the bigger
beadle's wife. She brought him bis
dinner in a basin, and he ate it in his
arm-chair, and afterward fell asleep

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

161

like a satiated child. At Mr. True-
fitt's, the excellent hairdresser's, they
are learning French to beguile the
time ; and even the few solitaries left
on guard at Mr. Atkinson's, the per
fumer's round the corner (generally the
most inexorable gentlemen in London,
and the most scornful of three-and-six-
pence), condescend a little as they
drowsily bide or recall their turn for
chasing the ebbing Neptune on the rib
bed sea-sand. From Messrs. Hunt &
Roskell's, the jewelers, all things are
absent but the precious stones, and the
gold and silver, and the soldierly pen
sioner at the door with his decorated
breast. I might stand night and day
for a month to come, in Saville-row,
with my tongue out, yet not find a doc
tor to look at it for love or money.
The dentists' instruments are rusting in
their drawers, and their horrible cool
parlors, where people pretend to read
the Every-Day Book and not to be
afraid, are doing penance for their
grimness in white sheets. The light
weight of shrewd appearance, with one
eye always shut up, as if he were eating
a sharp gooseberry in all seasons, who
usually stands at the gateway of the
livery stables on very little legs under
a very large waistcoat, has gone to
Doncaster. Of such undesigning as
pect is his guileless Yard now, with its
gravel and scarlet beans, and the yellow
Break housed under a glass roof in a
corner, that I almost believe I could
not be taken in there, if I tried. In
the places of business of the great tai
lors, the cheval-glasses are dim and
dusty for lack of being looked into.
Ranges of brown paper coat and waist
coat bodies look as funereal as if they
were the hatchments of the customers
with whose names they are inscribed ; the
measuring tapes hang idle on the wall ;
the order-taker, left on the hopeless
chance of some one looking in, yawns
in the last extremity over the books of
patterns, as if he were trying to read
that entertaining library. The hotels
in Brook street have no one in them,
and the staffs of servants stare discon
solately for next season out of all the
window's. The very man who goes
about like an erect Turtle, between two
boards recommendatory of the Sixteen
Shilling Trowsers, is aware of himself

as a hollow mockery, and eats filberts
while he leans his hinder shell against
a wall.

Among these tranquilizing objects,
it is my delight to walk and meditate.
Soothed by the repose around me, I
wander insensibly to considerable dis
tances, and guide myself back by the
stars. Thus, I enjoy the contrast of a
few still partially inhabited and busy
spots where all the lights are not fled,
where all the garlands are not dead,
whence all but I have not departed.
Then, does it appear to me that in
this age three things are clamorously
required of Man in the miscellaneous
thoroughfares of the metropolis, Firstly,
that he have his boots cleaned. Se
condly, that he eat a penny ice. Third
ly, that he get himself photographed.
Then do I speculate, What have these
seam-worn artists been who stand at
the photograph doors in Greek caps,
sample in hand, and mysteriously salute
the public — the female public with a
pressing tenderness — to come in and be
" took" ? What did they do with their
greasy blandishments before the era of
cheap photography ? Of what class
were their previous victims, and how
victimized ? And how did they get,
and how did they pay for, that large
collection of likenesses, all purporting
to have been taken inside, with the
taking of none of which had that esta
blishment any more to do than with tho
taking of Delhi ?

But these are small oases, and I am
soon back again in metropolitan Arca
dia. It is my impression that much
of its serene and peaceful character is
attributable to the absence of customary
Talk. How do I know but there may r
be subtle influences in Talk, to vex the
souls of men who don't hear it ? How
do I know but that Talk, five, ten, or
twenty miles off, may get into the air
and disagree with me? If I get up,
vaguely troubled and wearied and sick
of my life in the session of Parliament,
who shall say that my noble friend, my
right reverend friend, my right honorable
friend, my honorable friend, my honor
able and learned friend, or my honor
able and gallant friend, may not be re
sponsible for that effect upon my
nervous system ? Too much Ozone in
the air, I am informed and fully believe,

162

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

. — though I have no idea what it is, —
would affect me in a remarkably dis
agreeable way ; why may not too much
Talk ? I don't see or hear the Ozone;
I don't see or hear the Talk. And
there is so much Talk : so much too
much ; such loud cry, and such scant
supply of wool ; such a deal of fleecing,
and so little fleece 1 Hence, in the Ar
cadian season, I find it a delicious tri
umph to walk down to deserted West
minster, and see the Courts shut up;
to walk a little further and see the Two
Houses shut up ; to stand in the Abbey
Yard, like the New Zealander of the
grand English History (concerning
which unfortunate man a rookery of
mare's nests is generally being disco
vered), and gloat upon the ruins of
Talk. Returning to my primitive soli
tude and lying down to sleep, my grate
ful heart expands with the conscious
ness that there is no adjourned Debate,
no ministerial explanation, nobody to
give notice of intention to ask the
noble Lord at the head of her Majes
ty's Government five-and-twenty boot
less questions in one, no term time
with legal argument, no Nisi Prius with
eloquent appeal to British Jury, that
the air will to-morrow, and to-morrow,
and tomorrow, remain untroubled
by this superabundant generating of
Talk. In a minor degree it is a deli
cious triumph to me to go into the club,
and see the carpets up, and the Bores
and the other dust dispersed to the four
winds. Again, New Zealander-like, I
stand on the cold hearth, and say in the
solitude, " Here 1 watched Bore A 1,
with voice always mysteriously low and
head always mysteriously drooped,
whispering political secrets into the
ears of Adam's confiding children.
Accursed be his memory forever and
a day!"

But I have all this time been coming
to the point, that the happy nature of
my retirement is most sweetly expressed
in its being the abode of Love. It is,
as it were, an inexpensive Agapemone :
nobody's speculation : every body's pro
fit. The one great result of the resump
tion of primitive habits, and (conver
tible terms) the not having much to do,
is, the abounding of Love.

The Klein species are incapable of
the softer emotions ; probably, iu that

low nomadic race, the softer emotions
have all degenerated into flue. But
with this exception, all the "sharers of
my retreat make love.
, I have mentioned Saville-row. We
all know the Doctor's servant. We all
know what a respectable man he is,
what a hard dry man, what a firm man,
what a confidential man ; how he lets
us into the waiting-room, like a man
who knows minutely what is the matter
with us, but fron! whom the rack should
not wring the secret. In the prosaic
"season," he has distinctly the appear
ance of a ma?i conscious of money in
the savings bank, and taking his stand
on his respectability with both feet.
At that time it is as impossible to asso
ciate him with relaxation, or any hu
man weakness, as it is to meet his eye
without feeling guilty of indisposition.
In the blest Arcadian time, how
changed ! I have seen him in a pep
per-and-salt jacket — jacket — and drab
trowsers, with his arm round the waist
of a bootmaker's housemaid, smiling in
open day. I have seen him at the
pump by the Albany, unsolicitedly
pumping for two fair young creatures,
whose figures as they bent over their
cans, were — if I may be allowed an
original expression — a model for the
sculptor. I have seen him trying the
piano in the doctor's drawing-room
with his forefinger, and have heard him
humming tunes in praise of lovely wo
man. I have seen him seated on a fire-
engine, and going (obviously in search
of excitement) to a fire. I saw him
one moonlight evening when the peace
and purity of our Arcadian west were
at their height, polk with the lovely
daughter of a cleaner of gloves, from
the door-steps of his own residence,
across Saville-row, round by Clifford-
street and Old Burlington-street, back
to Burlington-gardens. In this the
Golden Age revived, or Iron London ?
The Dentist's servant. Is that man
no mystery to us, no type of invisible
power ? The tremendous individual
knows (who else does ?) what is done
wiih the extracted teeth : he knows
what goes on in the little room where
something is always being washed or
filed ; he knows what warm spicy in
fusion is put into the comfortable
tumbler from which we rinse our

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

163

wounded mouth, with a gap in it that
feels a foot wide ; he knows whether
the thing we spit into is a fixture com
municating with the Thames, or could
be cleared away for a dance ; he sees
the horrible parlor when there are no
patients in it, and he could reveal, if
he would, what becomes of the Every
day Book then. The conviction of my
coward conscience when I see that man
in a professional light, is, that he knows
all the statistics of my teeth and gums,
my double teeth, my single teeth, my
stopped teeth, and my sound. In this
Arcadian rest, I am fearless of him as of a
harmless powerless creature in a Scotch
cap, who adores a young lady in a
voluminous crinoline, at a neighboring
billiard-room, and whose passion would
be uninfluenced if every one of her teeth
were false. They may be. He takes
them all on trust.

In secluded corners of the place of
my seclusion, there are little shops
withdrawn from public curiosity, and
never two together, where servants'
perquisites are bought. The cook may
dispose of grease at these modest and
convenient marts ; the butler, of bot
tles ; the valet and lady's maid, of
clothes ; most servants, indeed, of most
things they may happen to lay hold of.
I have been told that in sterner times
loving correspondence otherwise inter
dicted may be maintained by letter
through the agency of some of these
useful establishments. In the Arcadian
autumn, no such device is necessary.
Every body loves, and openly and blame
lessly loves. My landlord's young man
loves the whole of one side of the way
of Old Bond-street, and is beloved
several doors up New Bond-street be
sides. I never look out of window but
I see kissing of hands going on all
around me. It is the morning custom
to glide from shop to shop and ex
change tender sentiments ; it is the
evening custom for couples to stand
hand in hand at house doors, or roam,
linked in that flowery manner, through
the unpeopled streets. There is no
thing else to do but love; and what
there is to do, is done. .

In unison with this pursuit, a chaste
simplicity Obtains in the domestic habits
of Arcadia. Its few scattered people
dine early, live moderately, sup socially,

and sleep soundly. It is rumored that
the Beadles of the Arcade, from being
the mortal enemies of boys, have signed
with tears an address to Lord Shafts-
bury, and subscribed to a ragged school.
No wonder ! For they might turn
their heavy maces into crooks and tend
sheep in the Arcade, to the purling of
the water-carts as they give the thirsty
streets much more to drink than they
can carry.

A happy Golden Age, and a serene
tranquillity. Charming picture, but it
will fade. The iron age will return,
London will come back to town, if I
show my tongue then in Saville-rpw for
half a minute I shall be prescribed for,
the Doctor's man and the Dentist's
man will then pretend that these days
of unprofessional innocence never ex
isted. Where Mr. and Mrs. Klein
and their bed will be, at that time,
passes human knowledge ; but my hat
ter hermitage will then know them no
more, nor will it then know 140. The
desk at which I have written these
meditations will retributively assist at
the making out of my account, and the
wheels of gorgeous carriages and the
hoofs of high-stepping horses will crush
the silence out of Bond-street — will
grind Arcadia away, and give it to the
elements in granite powder.

THE rising of the Italian people from
under their unutterable wrongs, and the
tardy burst of day upon them after the
long long night of oppression that has
darkened their beautiful country, has
naturally caused my mind to dwell often
of late on my own small wanderings in
Italy. Connected with them, is a cu
rious little drama, in which the charac
ter I myself sustained was so very
subordinate, that I may relate its story
without any fear of being suspected of
self-display. It is strictly a true story.

I am newly arrived one summer
evening, in a certain small town on the
Mediterranean. I have had my dinner
at the inn, and I and the mosquitoes
are coming out into the streets together.
It is far from Naples ; but a bright
brown plump little woman-servant at
the inn, is a Neapolitan, and is so
vivaciously expert in pantomimic action,
that in the single moment of answering
my request to have a pair of shoes

164

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

cleaned which I left up-stairs, she plies
imaginary brushes, and goes completely
through the motions of polishing the
shoes up, and laying them at my feet.
I smile at the brisk little women in
perfect satisfaction with her briskness ;
and the brisk little woman, amiably
pleased with me because I am pleased
with her, claps her hands and laughs
delightfully. We are in the inn yard.
As the little woman's bright eyes spar
kle on the cigarette I am smoking, I
make bold to offer her one ; she accepts
it none the less merily, because I touch
a most charming little dimple in her
fat cheek, with its light paper end.
Glancing up at the many green lattices
to assure herself that the mistress is not
looking on, the little woman then puts
her two little dimpled arms a-kirabo,
and stands on tiptoe to light her cigar
ette at mine. "And now, dear little
sir," says she, puffing out smoke in a
most innocent and Cherubic manner,
" keep quite straight on, take the first
to the right, and probably you will see
him standing at his door."

I have a commission to "him," and
I have been inquiring about him. I
have carried the commission about
Italy, several months. Before I left
England, there came to me one night a
certain generous and gentle English
nobleman — he is dead in these days when
I relate the story, and exiles have lost
their best British friend, — with this re
quest : " Whenever you come to such a
town, will you seek out one Giovanni
Carlavero, who keeps a little wine-shop
there, mention my name to him sud
denly, and observe how it affects him ?"
I accepted the trust, and am on my way
to discharge it.

The sirocco has been blowing all
day, and it is a hot unwholesome even
ing with no cool sea-breeze. Mosqui
toes and fire-flies are lively enough, but
most other creatures are faint. The
coquettish airs of pretty young women
in the tiniest and wickedest of dolls'
straw hats, who lean out at opened lat
tice blinds, are almost the only airs
stirring. Very ugly and haggard -old
women with distaffs, and with a gray
tow upon them that looks as if they
were spinning out their own hair (I sup
pose they were once pretty, too, but it
is very difficult to believe so), sit on the

footway leaning against house walls.
Every body who has come for water to
the fountain, stays there, and seems in
capable of any such energetic idea as
going home. Vespers are over, though
not so long but that I can smell the
heavy resinous incense as I pass tho
church. No man seems to be at work,
save the coppersmith. In an Italian
town he is always at work, and always
thumping in the deadliest manner.

I keep straight on, and come iu due
time to the first on the right : a narrow
dull street, where I see a well-favored
man of good stature and military bear
ing, in a great cloak, standing at a door.
Drawing nearer to this threshold, I see
it is the threshold of a small wine-shop ;
and I can just make out, in the dim
light, the inscription that it is kept by
Giovanni Carlavero.

I touch my hat to the figure in the
cloak, and pass in, and draw a stool to
a little table. The lamp (just such
another as they dig out of Pompeii) is
lighted, but the place is empty. The
figure in the cloak has followed me in,
and stands before me.

" The master ?"

"At your service, sir."

" Please to give me a glass of the
wine of the country."

He turns to a little counter, to get *
it. As his striking face is pale, and his
action is evidently that of an enfeebled
man, I remark that I fear he has been
ill. It is not much, he courteously and
gravely answers, though bad while it
lasts : the fever.

As he sets the wine on the little
table, to his manifest surprise I lay my
hand on the back of his, look him in
the face, and say in a low voice : " I am
an Englishman, and you are acquainted
with a friend of mine. Do you recol
lect ?" and I mention the name of

my generous countryman.

Instantly, he utters a loud cry, bursts
into tears, and falls on his knees at my
feet, clasping my legs in both his arms
and bowing his head to the ground.

Some years ago, this man at my feet,
whose overfraught heart is heaving as
if it would burst from his breast, and
whose tears are wet upon the dress I
wear, was a galley-slave in the North
of Italy. ' He was a political offender,
having been concerned in the then last

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

165

rising, and was sentenced to imprison
ment for life. That he would have died
in his chains, is certain, but for the cir
cumstance that the Englishman hap
pened to visit his prison.

It was one of the vile old prisons of
Italy, and a part of it was below the
waters of the harbor. The place of his
confinement was an arched underground
and under-water gallery, with a grill-
gate at the entrance, through which it
received such light and air as it got.
Its condition was insufferably foul, and
a stranger could hardly breathe in it,
or see in it with the aid of a torch. At
the upper end of this dungeon, and con
sequently in the worst position, as
being the furthest removed from light
and air, the Englishman first beheld
him, sitting on an iron bedstead to
which he was chained by a heavy chain.
His countenance impressed the English
man as having nothing in common
with the faces of the malefactors with
whom he was associated, and he talked
with him, and learned how he came to
be there.

When the Englishman emerged from
the dreadful den into the light of day,
he asked his conductor, the governor
of the jail, why Giovanni Carlavero
was put into the worst place ?

" Because he is particularly recom
mended," was the stringent answer.

" Recommended, that is to say, for
death ?»

"Excuse me; particularly recom
mended," was again the answer.

" He has a bad tumor in his neck,
no doubt occasioned by the hardship
of his miserable life. If it continues
to be neglected, and he remains where
he is, it will kill him."

" Excuse me, I can do nothing. He
is particularly recommended."

The Englishman was staying in that
town, and he went to his home there;
but the figure of this man chained to
the bedstead made it no home, and de
stroyed his rest and peace. He was an
Englishman of an extraordinarily tender
heart, and he could not bear the picture.
He went back to the prison gate: went
back again and again, and talked to the
man and cheered him. He used his ut
most influence to get the man unchained
from the bedstead, were it only for ever
11

so short a time in the day, and permit
ted to come to the grate. It took a
long time, but the Englishman's station,
personal character, and steadiness of
purpose, wore out opposition so far,
and that grace was at last accorded.
Through the bars, when he could thus
get light upon the tumor, the English
man lanced it, and it did well, and
healed. His strong interest in the pri
soner had grlatly increased by this time,
and he formed the desperate resolution
that he would exert his utmost self-
devotion and use his utmost efforts, to
get Carlavero pardoned.

If the prisoner had been a brigand
and a murderer, if he had committed
every non-political crime in the New
gate Calendar and out of it, nothing
would have been easier than for a man
of any court or priestly influence to ob
tain his release. As it was, nothing
could have been more difficult. Italian
authorities, and English authorities who
had interest with them, alike assured the
Englishman that his object was hope
less. He met with nothing but evasion,
refusal, and ridicule. His political pri
soner became a joke in the place. It
was especially observable that English
Circumlocution, and English Society
on its travels, were as humorous on the
subject as Circumlocution and Society
may be on any subject without loss of
caste. But, the Englishman possessed
(and proved it well in his life) a courage
very uncommon among us : he had not
the least fear of being considered a bore,
in a good humane cause. So he went on
persistently trying, and trying, and try
ing, to get Giovanni Carlavero out.
That prisoner had been rigorously re-
chained, after the tumor operation,
and it was not likely that his miserable
life could last very long.

One day, when all the town knew
about the Englishman and his political
prisoner, there came to the Englishman,
a certain sprightly Italian Advocate of
whom he had some knowledge ; and he
made this strange proposal : " Give me
a hundred pounds to obtain Carlavero's
release. I think I can get him a par
don, with that money. But I cannot
tell you what I am going to do with the
money, nor must you ever ask me the
question if I succeed, nor must you

166

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

ever ask me for an account of the mo
ney if I fail." The Englishman decided
to hazard the hundred pounds. He
did so, arid heard not another word of
the matter. For half a year and more,
the Advocate made no sign, and never
once " took on" in any way, to have
the subject on his mind. The English
man was then obliged to change his
residence to another and more famous
town in the North of Italy. He parted
from the poor prisoner with a sorrow
ful heart, as from a doomed man for
whom there was no release but Death.

The Englishman lived i^ his new
place of abode another half-year or more,
and had no tidings of the wretched pri
soner. At length, one day, he received
from the Advocate a cool, concise, mys
terious note, to this effect. "If you
still wish to bestow that benefit upon
the man in whom you were once inter
ested, send me fifty pounds more, and I
think it can be insured." Now, the
Englishman had long settled in his
mind that the Advocate was a heartless
sharper, who had preyed upon his cre
dulity and his interest in an unfortunate
sufferer. So, he sat down and wrote a
dry answer, giving the Advocate to un
derstand that he was wiser now than he
had been formerly, and that no more
money was extractable from his pocket.

He lived outside the city gates, some
mile or two from the post-office, and
was accustomed to walk into the city
with his letters and post them himself.
On a lovely spring day, when the sky
was exquisitely blue, and the sea Di
vinely beautiful, he took his usual walk,
carrying this letter to the Advocate in
his pocket. As he went along, his
gentle heart was much moved by the
loveliness of the prospect, and by the
thought of the slowly-dying prisoner
chained to the bedstead, for whom the
universe had no delights. As he drew
nearer and nearer to the city where he
was to post the letter, he became very
uneasy in his mind. He debated with
himself, was it remotely possible, after
all, that this sum of fifty pounds could
restore the fellow-creature whom he
pitied so much, and for whom he had
striven so hard, to liberty ? He was
not a conventionally rich Englishman —
very far from that — but he had a spare

fifty pounds at the banker's. He re
solved to risk it. Without doubt, GOD
has recompensed him for the resolution.

He went to the banker's, and got a
bill for the amount, and inclosed it in a
letter to the Advocate that I wish I
could have seen. He simply told the
Advocate that he was quite a poor man,
and that he was sensible it might be a
great weakness in him to part with so
much money on the faith of so vague a
communication ; but that there it was,
and that he prayed the Advocate to
make a good use of it. If he. did other
wise no good could ever come of it, and
it would lie heavy on his soul one day.

Within a week, the Englishman was
sitting at his breakfast, when he heard
some suppressed sounds of agitation on
the staircase, and Giovanni Carlavero
leaped into his room and fell upon his
breast, a free man !

Conscious of having wronged the
Advocate in his own thoughts, the
Englishman wrote him an earnest and
grateful letter, avowing the fact, and
entreating him to confide by what
means and through what agency he had
succeeded so well. The Advocate re
turned for answer through the post.

" There are many thing, as yon know,
iu this Italy of ours, that are safest and
best not even spoken of — far less writ
ten of. We may meet some day, and
then I may tell you what you want to
know ; not here, and now." But, the
two never did meet again. The Advo
cate was dead when the Englishman
gave me my trust ; and how the man
had been set free, remained as great a
mystery to tht Englishman, and to the
man himself, as it was to me.

But, I knew this : — here was the man,
this sultry night, on his knees at my
•feet, bee-ruse I was the Englishman's
friend ; here were his tears upon rny
dress; here were his sobs choking his
utterance ; here were his kisses on my
hands, because they had touched the
hands that had worked out his release.
He had no need to tell me it would be
happiness to him to die for his benefac
tor ; I doubt if I ever saw real, sterling,
fervent gratitude of soul, before or
since.

He was much watched and suspected,
he said, and had had enough to do to

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

167

Iceep himself out of trouble. This, and
his not having prospered in his worldly
affairs, had led to his having failed in
his usual communications to the Eng
lishman for — as I now remember the
period — some two or three years. But,
his prospects were brighter, and his
wife who had been very ill had recovered,
and his fever had left him, and he had
bought, a little vineyard, and would I
carry to his benefactor the first of its
wine ? Ay, that I would (I told him
with enthusiasm), and not a drop, of it
should be spilled or lost !

He had cautiously closed the door
before speaking of himself, and had
talked with such excess of emotion, and
in a provincial Italian so difficult to un
derstand, that I had more than once
been obliged to stop him, and beg him
to have compassion on me and be
slower and calmer. By degrees he be
came so, and tranquilly walked back
with me to the hotel. There, I sat
down before I went to bed and wrote a
faithful account of him to the English
man : which I concluded by saying that
Iwould bring the wine home, against any
difficulties, every drop.

Early next morning when I came out
at the hotel door to pursue my journey,
I found my friend waiting with one of
those immense bottles in which the
Italian peasants store their wine — a
bottle holding some half-dozen gallons
— bound round with basket-work for
greater safety on the journey. I see
him now, in the bright sunlight, tears
of gratitude in his eyes, proudly invit
ing my attention to this corpulent bot
tle. (At the street corner hard by,
two high-flavored, able-bodied monks —
pretending to talk together, but keep
ing their four evil eyes upon us.)

How the bottle had been got there,
did not appear ; but the difficulty of
getting it in^o the ramshackle vetturiuo
carriage in which I was departing, was
so grout, and it took up so much room
when it was got in, that I elected to
sit outside. The last I saw of Giovanni
Carlavero was his running through the
town by the side of the jingling
wheels, clasping my hand as I stretched
it down from the box, charging me
with a thousand last loving and dutiful
messages to his dear patron, and finally

looking in at the bottle as it reposed
inside, with an admiration of its honor
able way of traveling that was beyond
measure delightful.

And now, what disquiet of mind this
dearly-beloved and highly-treasnrt '1
Bottle began to cost me, no man knows.
It was my precious charge through a
long tour, and, for hundreds of mile*,
I never had it off my mind by day ur
by night. Over bad roads — and they
were many — I clung to it with affec
tionate desperation. Up mountains, I
looked in at it and saw it helplessly
tilting over on its back, with terror.
At innumerable inn doors when the
weather was bad, I was obliged to be
put into my vehicle before the Bottle
could be got in, and was obliged to
have the Bottle lifted out before human
aid could come near me. The Imp of
the same name, except that his associa
tions were all evil and these associa
tions were all good, would have been a,
less troublesome traveling companion.
I might have served Mr. Cruikshankas
a subject for a new illustration of the
miseries of the Bottle. The National
Temperance Society might have made
a powerful Tract of me.

The suspicions that attached to this
innocent Bottle, greatly aggravated my
difficulties. It was like the apple-pie
in the child's book. Parma pouted at
it, Modena mocked it, Tuscany tackled
it, Naples nibbled it, Rome refused it,
Austria accused it, Soldiers suspected it,
Jesuits jobbed it. I composed a neat
Oration, developing my inoffensive inten
tions in connection with this Bottle,
and delivered it in an infinity of guard
houses, at a multitude of town gHU->,
and on every draw-bridge, angle, and
rampart, of a complete system of forti
fications. Fifty times a day, I got
down to harangue an infuriated soldi
ery about the Bottle. Through the
filthy degradation of the abject and
vile Roman states, I had as much diffi
culty in working my way with the Bot
tle, as if it had bottled up a complete
system of heretical theology. In the
Neapolitan country, where every body
was a spy, a soldier, a priest or a laxa-
rone, the shameless beggars of all four
denominations incessantly pounced ou
the Bottle and made it a pretext for

163

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

extorting money from me. Quires —
quires do I say ? Reams — of forms il
legibly printed on whity-brown paper
were filled up about the Bottle, and it
was the subject of more stamping and
sanding than I had ever seen before.
In consequence of which haze of sand,
perhaps, it was always irregular, and
always latent with dismal penalties of
going back, or not going forward,
which were only to be abated by the
silver crossing of a base hand, poked
shirtless out of a ragged uniform
sleeve. Under all discouragements,
however, I stuck to my Bottle, and
held firm to my resolution that every
drop of its contents should reach the
Bottle's destination.

The latter refinement cost me a sepa
rate heap of troubles on its own sepa-
ate account. What corkscrews did I
see the military power bring out against
that Bottle : what gimlets, spikes, divin
ing rods, gauges, and unknown tests and
instruments 1 At some places they per
sisted in declaring that the wine must
not be passed, without being opened
and tasted ; I, pleading to the contrary,
used then to argue the question seated
on the Bottle lest they should open it
in spite of me. In the southern parts
of Italy, more violent shrieking, face-
making, and gesticulating, greater ve
hemence of speech and countenance and
action, went on about that Bottle than
would attend fifty murders in a north
ern latitude. It raised important func
tionaries out of their beds, in the dead
of night. I have known half a dozen
military lanterns to disperse themselves
at all points of a great sleeping Piazza,
each lantern summoning some official
creature to get up, put on his cocked-
hat instantly, and come and stop the
Bottle. It was characteristic that
while this innocent Bottle had such im
mense difficulty in getting from little
town to town, Signer Mazzini and the
fiery cross were traversing Italy from
end to end.

Still, I stuck to my Bottle, like any
fine old English gentleman all of the
olden time. The more the Bottle was
interfered with, the stauricher I became
(if possible) in my first determination
that ray countryman should have it de
livered to him intact, as the man whom

he had so nobly restored to life and lib
erty had delivered it to me. If ever I
have been obstinated in my days — and
I may have been, say, once or twice — I
was obstinate about the Bottle. But I
made it a rule always to keep a pocket
full of small coin at its service, and
never to be out of temper in its cause.
Thus I and the Bottle made our way.
Once, we had a break-down ; rather a
bad break-down, on a steep high place
with the sea below us, on a tempestuous
evening when it blew great guns. We
were driving four wild horses abreast,
Southern fashion, and there was some
little difficulty in stopping them. I was
outside, and not thrown off; but no
words can describe my feelings when I
saw the Bottle — traveling inside, as
usual — burst the door open, and roll
obesely out into the road. A blessed
Bottle with a charmed existence, he
took no hurt, and we repaired damage,
and went on triumphant.

A thousand representations were
made to me that the Bottle must be left
at this place, or that, and called for
again. I never yielded to one of them,
and never parted from the Bottle, on
any pretense, consideration, threat, or
entreaty. I had no faith in any official
receipt for the Bottle, and nothing
would induce me to accept one. These
unmanageable politics at last brought
me and the Bottle, still triumphant, to
Genoa. There, I took a tender and re
luctant leave of him for a few weeks,
and consigned him to a trusty English
captain, to be conveyed to the Port of
London by sea.

While the Bottle was on his voyage
to England, I read the Shipping Intelli
gence as anxiously as if I had been an
underwriter. There was some stormy
weather after I myself had got to Eng-
tand by way of Switzerland and France,
and my mind greatly misgave me that
the Bottle might be wrecked. At last
to my great joy, I received notice of his
safe arrival, and immediately went down
to Saint Katharine's Docks, and found
him in a state of honorable captivity in
the Custom House.

The wine was mere vinegar when I
set it down before the generous Eng
lishman — probably it had been some
thing like vinegar when I took it up

I, .

from

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELER.

169

Giovannif Carlavero — but not a! And the last time I saw him in this

drop of it was spilled or gone. Arid
the Englishman told me, with much
emotion in his face and voice, that he
had never tasted wine that seemed to
him so sweet and sound. And long
afterward, the_ Bottle graced his table.

world that misses him, he took me aside
in a crowd, to say, with his amiable
smile : "We were talking of you only
to-day at dinner, and I wished yon had
been there, for I had some claret up in
Carlavero's Bottle."

THE END.

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TOM CROSBIE

AND

HIS FRIENDS.

OLD HDUSES AND MYSTERIES.

There is a certain quartier of the good
city of Dublin, which, being the abode of
poverty and wretchedness in all their most
hideous forms, and being in many other
respects the most unfavored portion of
the metropolis, rejoices in the appropriate
and high-sounding title of "the Liberty."
Not that poverty and wretchedness were
the original causes of procuring so envi
able a distinction for this delightful neigh
borhood, but it was given as a descriptive
name in consequence of certain little pri
vileges and immunities formerly bestowed
upon, and still enjoyed by, its fortunate
population.

But the classic purlieus of "the Lib
erty" are not without their associations;
there are still amongst those who have not
"shuffled off this mortal coil," many indi
viduals, the green spots in whose memo
ries are filled with hallowed recollections
of the ancient glories of this modern terra
incognita — men who will sing you, in
wailing recitative, mournful legends of
by-gone greatness, and rehearse, with
tears in their eyes, the elegies of silk-
weavers who have died worth a plum.
Alas! however fruitful "the Liberty"
may now be in other respects, there are
but few plums to be gathered in its de
serted gardens.

There are still, in the least-neglected
fctreets, many respectable people, in their

way, who tind it available for the pur
poses of their business, and even some
wealthy tradesmen reside there occasion
ally; but the greater portion of the in
habitants are the outcasts of society — the
very refuse of the lowest vice — the child
ren of debauchery, and robbery, and pros
titution. There, may be seen the ripened
fruits of early depravity — boys and girls
scarce past the age of childhood, bearing
upon their bloated features, and wan and
wasted forms, the hideous stamps of
drunkenness and disease; there, may be
heard the loud, unnatural laugh, the
forced and discordant mirth of hopeless
misery, mingling in fearful concert with
the wild blasphemies and horrid oaths of
those more hardened in their wickedness.
There, are the squalid homes of the pick
pocket and the wandering beggar, the
filthy dens of the more daring robber,
and the wretched dwellings of many an
honest family, driven by bitter poverty to
seek a shelter amongst those to whom
honesty is a by-word and a jest. Such,
for the most part, is the population of the
larger portion of "the Liberty."

In one of the dark alleys — the darkest
where all are dark — of this gloomy re
gion, stood, and I believe still stands, a
large, old, solitary house. I say solitary,
because, although there were other hab
itations, this one stood apart, enclosed
within a wall, through which a small
wicket gave admission ; and because there
was attached to it a wild legend of mur
der, which caused the people in its vicin-

TOM CROSBIE

ity to regard it with feelings of awe and
superstition.

From the period of the murder, until
about a year previous to the opening of
my story, no tenant could be found for
the dwelling; but there it stood, frown-
in<r and solitary, within the decaying wall,
a desolate and forsaken ruin. At length
its mouldy chambers gave shelter to an
other inmate; but still mystery was at
tached to it, and conjecture and surmise
once more were busy in the neighbor
hood. If the conduct and secret habits
of its former occupants were strange,
those of its present inhabitant were
stranger still; for he dwelt alone, and
not even the casual appearance of a vis
itor offered an object for curiosity to spec
ulate upon. None entered the darkened
doorway, or, if they did, they had done
so without being seen.

Of the solitary tenant himself, there
were various reports, and, as usual,
scarcely any two agreeing. Some said
he was an old man, doubled with age,
and squalid in his appearance — some that
he was middle aged, dark, stern, and fe
rocious — some that he was young, fair,
and handsome — others insisted that he
had a wooden leg, and dressed like a
sailor — while one young lady, of roman
tic imagination and vivid fancy, declared
that "at the witching hour of night," she
had seen him glide quietly through the
•wall that enclosed his dwelling ; that
upon that particular occasion, he wore
the full costume of a Highland chieftain,
and that a breeze having slightly dis
turbed the arrangement of his "kilt,"
she had distinctly perceived a tail of good
ly proportions, which, waving for a mo
ment with a graceful motion, was again
hidden by his dress!

It is but right to observe that among
the younger portion of the female popu
lation in the neighborhood, especially
those addicted to subscribing at circula
ting libraries, this last story was received
as being by far the most probable, and,
consequently, in that fair conclave it was
forthwith decided that the old house in

Alley had become a royal residence,

and that its present resident was no less
a personage than his Satanic Majesty !

With the masculine gender, however,
the conclusion was somewhat different,
and one faithless skeptic (an old bachelor,
of course) even went so far as to express
an opinion that the young lady's version

of the story was a ! (The exact

expression he made use of is not calcu
lated for repetition to "ears polite," but
it conveyed, in the strongest possible
terms, a conviction that the fair roman-
cist's tale was a mere allegory, and had
about as much foundation in truth as the
tail of the Highlander himself.) How
ever, we shall, perhaps, be able to dis
cover, before very long, which of these
reports, if any, were correct But for
the present, we must leave conjecture in
"the Liberty," and seek some compen
sation for our patience in the realities o/
the castle yard.

CHAPTER II.
ST. PATRICK'S DAY — THE CASTLE YARD.

It was St. Patrick's day, some few
years ago — no matter how many; the
morning was cold, frosty, and foggy, and
the sun was making many praiseworthy
but futile efforts to emulate in some de
gree the cheerfulness of a motley crowd
which, in accordance with annual custom,
had assembled in the castle yard. It
was, in truth, a motley crowd, and one
which could scarce find an equal in any
other capital in Europe. Sweeps, shop
boys, soldiers, tinkers, tailors, tax-gath
erers, actors, aldermen, artists, clerks, col
legians, counter-jumpers, hatters, haber
dashers, hotel keepers, mendicants, milli
ners, medical students, police, pickpockets,
and "painted ladies," jailers, jackeens,
and Dr. Jardine; a hundred principal
joints of Mr. O'Connell's tail, and a
thousand other blackguards of every de
scription — a corn doctor inclusive ! De
cent people of both sexes mingled together
in one strange jumble with every possible
variation of ragamuffinism. There were,
as a matter of course, mothers with infants

AND HIS FRIENDS.

in their arms ; and those about to become
mothers, with their infants not in their
arms ; young ladies with no infants at all,
and old ones who thanked heaven they
never had any infants. There were elderly
gentlemen protesting that the times were
not as they used to be, and that they
remembered when poor men could afford
to wear a decent coat "on a Sunday, or
a St. Pathrick's day, any how;" and
young gentlemen, who looked as if their
memories, when they grew old, could not
furnish them with such pleasing retro
spections.

Somewhat apart from the mass, two
young men stood conversing. The one,
an officer of the Dragoons, had ad
vanced a shoH distance from his troop,
and stood in an attitude of graceful ease,
one hand passed carelessly through his
horse's bridle, the other leaning upon his
sword. He was very young — scarcely
twenty — but his figure, though slight, was
muscular and manly. ,His hair was light
brown, and although" "as yet his cheek
was a stranger to a whisker, a short,
downy moustache, soft and silky, shaded
his upper lip; his eyes were blue, soft
and expressive; his nose straight and
delicate, and, altogether, there was some
thing of almost feminine beauty in his
face.

His companion was of a different mould.
In age perhaps four or five years the se
nior of the young soldier, it would be dif
ficult to find one his equal in personal
advantages. He was a fine, dashing-
looking fellow, with coal black hair and
whiskers, displaying, when he laughed, a
set of teeth beautifully white and even ;
but in repose, there was something in the
compressed and firmly chiseled lip that
spoke of sternness and resolution. At
times, too, there was a recklessness in
his looks, but it was softened by the ex
pression of his dark grey eyes — bright,
laughing, intellectual-looking, shaded with
long bbck lashes ; withal, an air of
thoughtfulness would sometimes pass
across his features, but seldom, very sel
dom, would it remain, save when he was
alone. His dress was a civilian's — a plain
mourning suit, but there was something
in the carriage of his head, and his free

and erect bearing, which plainly told that
if not now, he had been once, a soldier.
Ay ! there was the secret of his thought-
fulness — he had been once a soldier !

These two had been amused spectators
of a struggle for a piece of shamrock,
and its result; but now that it was over,
they turned away, and the eldest, point
ing to a set of ragamuffins who were
perched in every variety of attitude upon
the pillars and arch-way of the entrance
gate, amusing themselves with every de
scription of joke, verbal and practical, on
all who came within their reach; and
addressing his companion, said ; " A mer
ry set of poor devils those, Calder."

"They seem to be merry enough," said
the young officer; "but their looks are a
sad caricature upon their merriment — I
can make nothing of your countrymen,
Rochefort."

"I dare say not," said the other, laugh
ing ; " there is only one who can, and he
can do it to the tune of eight or nine
thousand a year."

" An' a mighty purty tune it is," said
a voice close behind them.

They both turned in astonishment, and
beheld the hero of the shamrock standing
gazing at the soldiers, with no other ex
pression in his face than one of the most
intense stupidity.

"Well, my lad," said Rochefort, "so
you have been listening, have you?"

"It is me yer honor's spakin' to?"
said the youth — if youth he was — look
ing up in Rochefort's face, with an air of
surprise. "Why, then, sure enough I'm
lis'enin'."

"Well, that's tolerably cool at all
events — and how dare you come here to
listen, sirrah ? "

" Why, then, in troth, it is cool, plase
yer honor — but in regard o' lis'enin' to
the music, where 's the h*arum ? "

As he said this, Rochefort looked full
in his face, but the most perfect innocence
was marked on every feature ; and turn
ing round to his companion, he said:
"That fellow, Calder, is either a con
founded rogue, or a fool — the former I
strongly suspect — I am certain his remark
was upon our conversation."

At this instant, the splendid band of

TOM CROSBIE

the 28th regiment struck up "God save
the King," and Calder, springing hastily
to his saddle, returned to his troop. A
tremendous cheer from the entire crowd
induced Rochefort to look up towards the
spot where eveiy eye seemed turned;
and he there beheld, for the first time,
the cause of all this commotion.

In an open window over the colonnade,
smiling and bowing at a tremendous rate,
stood a gentleman, who looked as if his
nourishment, from the time he was born,
had been confined exclusively to saffron
caV-°.s.

Then commenced the fun in right ear
nest. Hats, caps, and even shoes, flew
through the air, scattering in many places
lively tokens of the people's joy. Young
gentlemen inserted two fingers between
their teeth, thereby forming a very de-
Ughtful musical instrument, upon which
they performed, in a most thrilling man
ner, sundry bars of popular airs, adding
considerably to the melody of the same
by elaborate variations, occasionally ac
companied by vocal representations of
dogs in extreme agony, and masculine
cats serenading' their " ladye loves." Men
shouted — women screamed — children
squalled — and his Excellency displayed
his utter contempt for that antiquated
proverb which says, "You shouldn't
show your teeth where you can 't bite."

Rochefort, having suffered the greater
part of the crowd to leave the yard be
fore him, was just passing through the
gate, when he felt the skirt of his coat
slightly pulled, and turning round, in the
expectation of discovering a pickpocket,
he beheld the hero of the shamrock
standing with his left hand raised to his
hat, and with the right holding a piece of
lath pointed downwards, in correct imita
tion of the salute he had seen the officers
perform a few minutes before.

Rochefort, whatever was passing in his
mind at the moment, could not refrain
from laughing at the strange figure before
him, but he soon ceased as the boy ad
dressed him with —

"It's a mighty quare world, masther
Garald Rochefort."

"Hallo, my good fellow — now what
the devil are you?"

"Faix, then, it isn1t aisy to tell; some
times I'm one thing, an' sometimes an
other, an' more times nothin' at all."

"But who are you, and how do you
know my name ? "

"That's two questi'ns, and it isn't pos
sible for any one, barrin' a mimber of
Parliament, to answer more nor one at a
time."

"Ob, confound your tongue — what's
.jrour name?"

"If my tongue was confounded, I
couldn't tell you."

" Well, well, my good fellow, what do
you want with me 1 "

" There now ; I ax you is it raisonable
to think that I can tell you all them things
at oncet — is it now ? "

Rochefort was becoming impatient, and
felt very much inclined to try the effect
of a horse-whip in procuring an answer,
but he curbed his anger and determined
to make one more effort.

" If you do n't tell me what you want,
you had better be off about your busi
ness — I can't stand here all day."

"Why thin, sorra ha'p'orth at all I
want, sir," answered the fellow— "it's to
give you a thrifle I come."

Much as Rochefort was beginning to
feel annoyed, he could not kelp laughing
at the idea of his strange looking com
panion's "giving him a thrifle;" but the
boy continued: "Thim may laugh that
wins — myself does n't see any great things
to laugh at — there's a thrifle for you, sir
— may be it '11 do you good — p'r'aps it
might — who knows ? "

So saying he handed Rochefort a small
billet, somewhat sullied from close contact
with sundry buttons, bits of tobacco, old
ballads, pieces of twine, &c., with which
it had for some time lain in degradftig
companionship, in a capacious pocket at
tached to the person of the worthy
bearer.

As Rochefort broke the seal and threw
his eyes hurriedly over the contents, a
crimson flush passed across his features,
and crushing the letter in his hand, he
turned quickly upon his heel, merely say
ing, "I will be there."

The strange looking messenger gazed
after him for a moment, and then as he

AND HIS FRIENDS.

quietly walked away, repeated: "You'll
be there ! Be my sowl, I '11 go bail you
will — or if you don't — why then the
divle's a witch, an' my name isn't Dinny
Connor, that's all."

CHAPTER III.

MORE MYSTERIES.

It was ten o'clock on the night suc
ceeding that of St Patrick's day, when a
tall figure, wrapt from head to foot in a
large horseman's cloak, took his way from
the royal barracks, across an old bridge
over the Liffey, and walked rapidly
through many filthy and narrow streets,
until he found himself in the gloomiest
alley of the Liberty ; it was that in which
stood the old ruined house.

As he passed along, the rain poured in
torrents, hissing and splashing as it fell
from the blackened roofs and broken
spouts of the wretched houses, or drop
ping, with dismal and monotonous sound,
upon the neglected -pavement. Half-na
ked women, endeavoring to shield with
their only garment, from the inclemency
of the night, the pale and sickly infants
they carried at their bosoms, cowered
close to the walls, vainly seeking shelter
as they crept along. Wretched looking
men — with hats pressed down upon their
haggard brows, and arms folded across
their breasts, as if to impart some degree
of warmth in the stead of garments
which were not there, and idly seeking
to put speed into the limbs which disease
and want had paralyzed — crawled through
the streets, the living spirits of crime, and
famine, and destitution. Children, too —
poor, sorrowful-looking little beings, with
scarce a trait of childhood, except their
years — passed along, bearing to their
wretched homes some miserable article
of provision — a few potatoes, a morsel of
stale bread, pieces of broken meat, a her
ring on a broken saucer, a little butter
rolled in dirty paper, a small yellow can
dle, perhaps to nicker away through the

long, dreary night, beside the wretched
bedplace of the dying or the dead. Such
things as these, the poor little creatures
carried to their homes — some of them
the fruits of crime and robbery — some,
perhaps, the reward of a long day of toil
and beggary.

The stranger paused opposite the little
wicket, and looking about him for a mo
ment, as if fearing that he should be
seen, gave a hasty knock, and passed on
a few yards; then, drawing his cloak
closely around his person, he stopped and
stood within the shadow of the wall.
Scarcely had he done so when a low
whistle apprised him that his summons
had been answered; again stepping for
ward, he cast a rapid glance down the
dark and silent alley, and in another mo
ment had entered the open doorway, and
found himself within the grass-grown
court of the lonely house. The wicket
was closed behind him, and he was alone.

For a single instant he stood irresolute,
and then, springing forward, with a firm
tread ascended a flight of stone steps that
lay before him, in the yawning crevices
of which rank weeds and grass flourished
in wild luxuriance. The hall door creaked
upon its rusty hinges, and opened just
sufficiently to admit him; but still not a
human being had appeared ; however, he
entered without further hesitation, and
walked forward through a long gloomy
passage. Having knocked loudly at the
doors of the rooms on the ground floor,
and finding that none of them were occu
pied, he proceeded to ascend the stair
case, by the feeble light of a small lamp
which burned dimly at the bottom.

Upon the first landing, a door stood
partly open, at which he had scarcely
knocked, when a soft musical voice de
sired him to enter. The room in which
he now found himself was large and lofty,
but the walls and ceiling were damp, and
covered with a green slimy mould ; the
spacious fire-place was dark and empty,
though the night, besides being wet, was
piercing cold, and the only light in the
apartment flickered from the neglected
wick of a solitary candle.

Furniture there was scarcely any — a
heavy chest of drawers of blackened oak.

TOM CROSBIE

with massive handles of discolored brass,
stood against a wall — an old leathern arm
chair, thickly studded with copper nails,
was fixed beside a large clumsy table of
common deal; and another chair half
covered with the remains of some rich
brocade, was placed nearly opposite, as
if in expectation of a visitor.

At the table — upon which were spread
a small iron box, several bundles of pa
pers, an ink-stand, and a pair of pistols —
stood a man of striking appearance. He
was very tall, although bent considerably,
and seemingly feeble, from age or from
infirmities; long locks of iron grey hair
fell around his head and shoulders, and
partly concealed his face, the lower fea
tures of which were entirely hidden by a
huge unshorn beard, that descended far
down upon his breast But the bold,
expansive forehead, and flashing eyes,
bore few traces of the hand of time ; and
the skin, where it could be seen, though
dark and sallow, was smooth and unwrin-
kled. A long, shapeless morning gown
concealed his figure, and his arms were
folded across his breast

" I have waited your coming," he said,
addressing the stranger, in the same soft
voice which had bid him enter, at the
same time saluting him with a cold and
distant bow.

His visitor returned the salutation,
coldly aud distantly as it had been given,
while he answered haughtily: "Ten
o'clock was the time appointed — that
hour has scarce passed — I think 1 have
been punctual."

"Yes," said the old man, "ten minutes
make but little difference ; and yet half,
nay, a tenth part of that time may suffice
a man to do a deed which will hang like
a bitter curse upon his whole future life
— within that little space the entire cur
rent of existence may flow into another
channel — the wife may become a widow
— the child an orphan — kingdoms change
their rulers — riches their possessors — ay!
or woman become false, and man a mur
derer ! Is 't not so ? "

While he spoke his looks were fixed
intently upon the face of his companion,
and his large eyes flashed beneath their

heavy brows as he perceived the effect
of his words. The stranger still kept
his cloak folded closely about him so as
to conceal his features, but even beneath
it his powerful frame trembled visibly as
he listened.

"I would speak with you upon a dif
ferent subject," he said; "I — I know not
what you mean."

"It matters not," said the old man,
briefly ; " what may be your pleasure ? "

"You already know my errand."

"Ay, I had forgotten; you require
money."

"I do."

"How much?"

"A thousand pounds."

"Humph! it is a large sum; who told
you to apply to me ? "

"One who is himself your debtor; he
told me I should find you willing to ad
vance the sum."

" His name ? "

" Captain Robert Harley."

" Oh ! and so because I have been fool
enough to lend my money to him, he
sends others to rob me of my gold."

" Sir," exclaimed the stranger, haught
ily, " you forget your position. Think
you your hoarded wealth gives you a
right to insult those who are driven to
seek your assistance? I came not here
to bandy useless words; can I have the
money ? "

The old man smiled.

" You are hasty, young gentleman,"
he said ; " you have not yet spoken of
security — how am I to be repaid ? "

His visitor seemed somewhat unpre
pared for this very natural question, and
hesitated some time before he answered :
" For the money, it may be long before
I can return it, but the interest shall be
punctually paid; and as to security, I
have little more than personal to offer."

" Oh ! and pray may I ask you if you
are really serious in seeking so large a
loan, upon such terms as these ? "

" If I were not, sir," said the stranger,
sharply, " the application would scarcely
have been made. As I conclude it has
been made in vain, I shall trespass no
further upon your time, and so " —

AND HIS FRIENDS.

" Stay, stay," interrupted the old man,
"you are over hasty, Mr. Roche fort,
and," —

The stranger started.

"Rochefort! " he repeated; "how knew
you my name ? when I wrote to you
about this money, I merely signed the
noto with an initial, and yet I now remem
ber the answer the boy brought me yes
terday, bore my name upon the cover;
how is this, sir?"

Again the old man smiled, as he said :
"No matter, few are strangers to me.
But the money ! You have not, I know,
the means of repaying the tenth part of
the sum, and yet, upon one condition, you
shall have it."

Rochefori's face lighted up in a mo
ment, and he anxiously demanded, " What
is the condition ? "

"You want this money for a purpose
to which I am no stranger. Your mother
is in debt" —

Rochefort sprang from his chair in
astonishment

"You see," continued the old man, "I
am acquainted with more of your secrets
than you gave me credit for. Do not
interrupt me — your mother is in debt;
her reckless, dishonorable extravagance
has caused it, and if, within a few days,
one at least of her creditors be not satis
fied, she will be disgraced forever; is not
this the truth ? "

Rochefort had sunk back in his chair,
pale and trembling, as he listened to such
facts coming from the lips of a perfect
stranger. It was all too true. The old
man, from whatever source his informa
tion was derived, had evidently discovered
what he had thought a secret; and his
face flushed with shame, to think that his
mother should have left it in the power
of any one, much less a common usurer,
to speak of her or her conduct in such a
manner. However, let his feelings upon
the subject be what they might, he could
not deny the truth of what Che old man
advanced, and therefore, instead of return
ing any answer, he remained silent

"You- do not answer," said his com
panion, at length, "you want this money
to save your mother from disgrace — stay,

you need not speak — I know that such
is the fact; I know more, that when you
were in distress, she refused you the
assistance which might have saved you
from — but no matter; remain calm an
other moment; you want the money, and,
as I have said before, upon one condition
you shall have it."

Rochefort sat almost stupefied while the
old man was speaking; he could not for
a moment imagine how one whom he
had never seen before, never even heard
of until the last few days — could have
acquired the information which he cer
tainly possessed, relative not only to his
mother's affairs, but also, judging from
one or two expressions which he had let
fall, to his own. There were circumstan
ces connected with his past life — circum
stances, too, of a nature most painful —
with which that strange old man seemed
perfectly acquainted ; and he therefore sat
and listened, with feelings for which he
could not account, and suffered his com
panion's language and remarks to remain
unquestioned, as if he dare not demand
an explanation, although in the effort to
control himself he had a hard struggle
with his pride.

He felt a sort of painful presentiment
that he was in the presence of one who
was in some way destined to exercise an
influence over his future life ; but to what
end, or by what means, he could form no
conjecture. Still, the feeling was there,
and would not be banished.

That an usurer, whose success in accu
mulating money depended in a consider
able degree upon his knowledge in the
pecuniary affairs of those who might at
some time seek his assistance, should by
some private means have learned his
mother's difficulties, did not seem so very
surprising; but that he should have
become master of his secrets, and have
been aware of transactions concerning
him, and events in his life which had hap
pened years before, and in another country,
did appear not only strange, but altogether
unaccountable.

His anxiety, however, to learn the con
dition upon which the loan should be
granted, for the moment overcame every

TOM CROSBIE

other feeling, and he begged of the old
man to come at once to an explanation
upon the subject.

But the first words of the usurer threw
him entirely off his guard, and his aston
ishment could no longer be concealed,
when the old man, looking him straight
in the face, said slowly, and in his soft,
quiet tone, "You are going to be mar
ried ! "

"Ha!" exclaimed Rochefort, "it is
utterly impossible you should have known
that. But what means, sir, have you" —

" Nay, nay," said the usurer, quietly
smiling, "you need not be so much alarm
ed; greater secrets than this have some
times come within my knowledge. Is
the idea of marriage so very startling to
you?"

Rochefort could return no answer. By
what means, short of magic, this secret,
above all others, could be known to the
old usurer, he could not, by any possibil
ity, conceive. But two days before it had
actually been a secret to himself, for until
within that brief time the idea of marriage,
except as a vista in his dreams for the
future, had never entered his head.

Circumstances, however, had since
occurred, which had brought forward the
prospect of an immediate union (as we
shall presently see) with a very beautiful
girl, (whom we are dying to introduce,)
and at that very moment, as the old man
had said, he was actually under an en
gagement of marriage. Though this was
certainly the case, yet, owing to a little
mystery in the transaction, it seemed
utterly impossible that any one, except
the parties themselves, could have been
aware of it; and, therefore, all Roche-
fort's efforts to conceal his agitation were
vain and idle; and rising from his chair with
a movement towards departure, he said :

" The means, sir, by which matters of
such importance to my family and myself
have come to your knowledge, I am
utterly at a loss to conjecture. What
interest my private affairs can possess for
you, I cannot possibly imagine; but, as
your object appears to be to question me
upon subjects which can in no way con
cern you, instead of confining yourself to
.the business upon which I came, I must

say that you have -presumed somewhat
too far, and I shall, therefore, leave you
at leisure to pursue your interesting
researches into the history of the next
person whose folly or misforture may
drive him to seek your assistance."

So saying, he turned on his heel, and
was leaving the apartment, when the
usurer stepped forward and laid liis hand
upon his arm.

" Young man," he said, in an entirely
different voice from that in which he had
previously spoken — " you should ere
this have learned to curb the impetuosity
of your temper. You were once taught
a lesson to this effect, which seems to
have made but little impression upon you ;
nay, hear me. You came here to-night
to seek a sum of money to save your
mother from disgrace — hear me, I say,
or if you will persist, then go, and let her
die and rot within a prison."

He spoke the last words with deep and
bitter emphasis, as he turned away and
resumed his chair. But he had touched
the proper chord, and Rochefort's proud
spirit quailed as he thought of his mother,
a prisoner in a common jail, and that his
hasty temper had, perhaps, deprived him.
of the means to save her.

While thoughts of this description
were passing in his mind, he was sud
denly aroused by the old man, who, once
more resuming his soft, quiet tone, ad
dressed him.

" It seems strange to you, Mr. Roche-
fort, that I should be aware of circum
stances relative to you and your affairs,
which you had deemed unknown to any
but those persons immediately concerned.
You have not now to learn that, few things
in this world can be kept secret; there
fore, let your wonder cease at any thing
I have yet spoken. I am now, however,
about to prove to you that my knowledge
of your affairs is not confined to the past,
nor even to the present, but extends also
to the future. You doubt it ? be it so,
you shall have the proof — the marriage
which you contemplate will never take
place ! "

"By heavens, old man!" exclaimed
Rochefort, springing to his feet, " you are
presuming too much upon my patience.

AND HIS FRIENDS.

What your motives may be, in prying
into the private transactions of my life, I
have before said I cannot conjecture ; but
that you should endeavor to impose upon
my belief, by pretending an insight into
the future, exceeds anything you have
already said or done. I tell you, usurer,
or whatever you are, that no earthly
power shall prevent the marriage of which
you speak, and I warn you to mention
the subject no more."

" Oh, as you please," said the old man,
with his quiet smile, " then our confer
ence is ended. You will, no doubt, find
some other person sensible enough to lend
you a thousand pounds with the prospect
of never being paid, and your mother
will thus be saved from the threatened
danger. I say, sir, our conference is
ended."

So saying, the usurer rose from his
seat and was passing from the room,
when Rochefort, in his turn, detained him,
and begged him to stay until the matter
could in some way be arranged.

" It is useless," answered the old man,
" to prolong our interview, unless you
keep your temper within proper bounds;
he who seeks to borrow should assume a
milder tone."

" You have said," returned Rochefort,
" that upon one condition I should have
the sum I seek — I again ask what that
condition is."

The old man paused for a moment, and
then, looking intently upon Rochefort's
face, he said slowly and distinctly : " The
condition is simply this — that from this
day forward, you resign every claim to

the hand of I need not speak the

name ; if you are content " —

" Content ! " cried Rochefort in a voice
which made even the usurer start —
" content, to yield all I love on earth —
to give up every hope of happiness — to
bring endless misery upon myself, and to
break the heart that has confided in me.
By heaven ! old man, such jests as this
are not to be calmly borne."

" I jest not," returned the usurer,
coldly ; " I have but told you the condi
tion — it is for you to consider whether
o* not you will agree to it"

" Never, never ! " cried Rochefort, as

he stamped his foot passionately upon the
floor — " not for the wealth of Europe —
not if I was forced, like a common slave,
to work for my daily bread, and that
millions were offered me as the reward.
I tell you, old man, if you are serious in
this demand, there is some hidden vil-
lany that I cannot solve ; but it shall be
discovered, and, mark me, one like you
could have no interest in breaking off this
marriage — there must be some damned
plot in the transaction ; but, old and fee
ble as you are, if by your means I am
robbed of my happiness, no power on
earth " —

" Make no rash vows, young man ! "
said the usurer, solemnly ; " one life has
already fallen a sacrifice to your revenge ;
I tell you that upon no other condition
shall you have the money, and I tell you
more, that whether you yield to it or not,
the marriage on which you have set your
heart shall never take place! If you
agree, the money shall be yours ; if not,
within a fortnight your mother will be in
a prison — a felon — and circumstances
will become known to the world which
will disgrace both you and her forever.
Now, sir, make up your mind."

Rochefort stood with his teeth clenched,
and his face ashy pale, while he listened
to the dreadful alternative. He knew
well that what the usurer had said about
his mother's disgrace was sure to happen,
unless the money could be procured ; and
the struggle between his love for a pure
and guileless girl, and what he deemed
his duty to a parent, though an unworthy
one, was long and powerful. Many
times he was on the point of rushing
from the room and leaving his mother to
her fate, but then came the picture of her
who had borne him in pain and sorrow,
a prisoner, in a common jail, and more
than that, branded and disgraced for a
crime little short of robbery — for she had
appropriated to her own use the little for
tune of an orphan ward, and unless the
money was forthcoming in a few days,
the transaction could no longer be con
cealed. He thought of this, and though
she for whom he was called upon to make
this sacrifice, had deserted him in his
utmost need — though she had left him,

TOM CROSBIE

guideless and in poverty, to seek bis way
through the wide world, while she her
self rioted in wanton extravagance — still
she was his mother, the author of his
being, and he determined, even though
his own heart should receive its death
blow in the struggle, to save her from
destruction.

"Oh, God! "he cried, as he pressed
his clenched hands upon his burning fore
head, " see the misery which has been
brought upon me in a few short hours —
my hopes dashed to ruin, my happiness
destroyed, my plighted faith broken, and
all, all, through the cursed infatuation of

my own no matter, she is still my

mother. Old man, or devil, whatever
you are, if I can find no other means of
procuring the sum I want, within a week,
I will agree to your condition, though it
rob me of my happiness forever."

" I am content," answered the old man ;
" this night week then, at the same hour,
I shall await you. Here, boy, open the
door for this gentleman."

Rochefort paused not to say another
word, but walking rapidly from the room,
heard the door shut behind him, as he
rushed down the narrow staircase into
the hall. There, a somewhat curious
figure stood, lamp in hand, awaiting him.
He was passing on, however, heedless of
the presence of any one, when a voice
which he thought familiar, addressed him,
with :

" Your sarvint, masther Garald —
it 's a mighty nate little cabin we' re in —
a very pleasant place entirely, only the
rats is n:t over partic'lar in the regard o'
food — a bite out of a body's nose, no'w" —

" You here, my good fellow ! " inter
rupted Rochefort, who had been staring
at the speaker all this time, to make sure
that it was really the hero of the sham
rock who stood before him, and surprised
in no slight degree when he became sat
isfied that it certainly was no less a per
son than that worthy individual — "you
here? "

" Why thin, be /my faix, you may say
that ; 't is here I am, sure enough, an'
here I won't be longer than I can help it,
you may depind, for I 'd just as soon keep
my nose on my face while I have it, an'

its mighty likely if I 'd stop a while longer,
the rats 'ud lave me but a small share
of it."

" How long have you been here ? "
asked Rochefort.

" About three minnits, sir, for you see
I was takin' a doze beyant in the room
there."

" But I mean how long have you been
in the house ? "

" May be an hour or two, more or less ;
I was out walkin' this evenin' " —

" Confound your stupidity ! How long
are you living here ? "

" Musha then, masther Garald, I 'm not
livirf here at all ; it 's dyin' I am. sir,
dyin' be inches, bekase you see the rats" —

" D — n the rats ! " exclaimed Roche-
fort, losing all patience.

" Oh ! amin, sir, with all the veins of
my heart," answered the fellow, as if he
really thought the anathema had been
leveled at the vermin for the annoyance
they caused him. " That 's the very
thing I say myself, every minnit in the
day — bad loock may attind the same var
mint ! sorra bit of a nose " —

" I wish they 'd take your tongue, too,
as well as your nose, you stupid rascal —
will you answer me — do you sleep here ? "

" Sleep ? " cried the youth — " sleep is
it? Now I only ax yourself, masther
Garald, could you sleep, with fifty couple
of rats dancing counthry dances over you
on the bed — 1 only ax you that ? "

It 's perfectly useless, thought Roche-
fort, to expect an answer from this stupid
scoundrel, and yet he seems to know
something of me, and might, perhaps,
solve this riddle, if I could induce him to
tell me what he does know.

" See, my good fellow, whatever your
name is " —

" Denny, sir, Denny Connor, that 's the
name that 's on me."

" Well, then, Denny Connor, as you
call yourself, why do you remain here if
you dislike the place so much ? "

" For the best raison in life then, sir,
bekase I 've no where else to go, an' it's
onloocky to throw out dirty wather until
a body can get clane."

" Are you willing to leave this place if
you could find a more comfortable one ? "

AND HIS FRIENDS.

"Ow, wow! Is a duck willin' to swim,
I wondher — I dunna would a dog ate
mate ! Be my soul, when the rats ate a
fc\v more suppers off o' me it's a light
load my bones' ud have to carry any
how. Am I willin'! faix that's not so
bad ! "

" Do you know any one to give you a
character ? "

"A carackther is it? may be I haven't
one in my pocket this present minnit —
mockins I haven't — only wait a bit —
whisht now!"

And Mr. Connor proceeded to overhaul
the contents of what he was pleased to
term his pocket, removing one by one the
heterogeneous collection of odds and ends
which it contained; indulging, the while,
in a sort of soliloquy as he drew forth each
article, and laid it carefully on the lower
step of the stairs at his feet.

"That's a dudheen; it's gettin' bit-
therer every day, an' no wondher for it,
many a bitther thought wint through it
wid the smoke. There's one, two, three,
four — four buttons; thim's off my livery ;
musha but my grandeur's lavin' me fast.
What's this? aisy a bit till I think; that
I may never if it isn't the paper the ould
methody gave me, wid the picthur of a
black kneelin' down, at the top of it — it's
a poor divle of a slave I'm tould, axin'
'Am n't I your brother?' Not yourself,
be me soul, says I, the Connors was
always mighty clane people, an' it's a
while since you washed your face I'm
thinkin' — lie there now. There's the
duplicate of masther Tom's old wais'coat
— fourpince, the divle a farthin' more
they 'd give. That 's a bad sixpenny ; it 's
like a raal frind, it '11 stick to you through
thick and thin, an' no fear of its ever
bein' changed. A bit of tobakky; be-
gorra I 'm richer nor I thought — tobakky
is an Ingian weed that grows up in the
mornin' — lie there beside the pipe for a
minnit, I'll be talkin' to you bymby.
Arrah the curse of Crummel on you for
one paper, where the mischief are you at
all at all? You'll be the last thing I'll
come to, I '11 go bail ; more haste the worst
speed, always — whisht, here it is at last —
there's the laste taste in life of grase on
the outside of it, but look at it, misther

Rochefort — may be that isn't somethin'
like a carackther."

So saying, he held forward a folded
paper, which from its general appearance
might have acted with considerable pro
priety the part of principal ingredient in
the manufacture of strong soup, but
wliich, as a mere manuscript, possessed
but few claims to admiration, either on
the score of elegance or perfume. Roche-
fort took it tenderly between his gloved
fingers, and with some difficulty having
succeeded in unfolding it, discovered its
contents to be as follows :

"Be it known to all whom it may con
cern, that the .bearer — if the same be
Dennis ConHor — is the greatest rascal
from this to himself; and that I'll back
him — giving the long odds — to do more
mischief, tell more lies, and drink more
whisky in a day, than any other man,
woman, or child, at present extant. If
any gentleman should feel inclined to
take up my bet, just let him inquire at
Mrs. Taylor's boarding-house, in Denzille
street, for one TOM CROSBIE."

When Rochefort had read this precious
"carackther," which Mr. Dennis Connor
had so boldly produced, he could not
resist a hearty laugh. It was quite evi
dent the worthy individual had been
imposed on, and actually believed the
paper he had so carefully preserved, to*
contain a most flattering description of
himself and his various qualifications; but
nothing could equal his astonishment
when he was informed of its real con
tents. At first he thought it was a joke,
but finding at length that "masther Gar-
aid," as he called him, was perfectly in
earnest, his face assumed the most ludi
crous expression, half anger, half disap
pointment, as he exclaimed: "The divle
doubt you for that same thrick, masther
Tom Crosbie; sure if I wasn't a fool, I
might aisy know that's the way you'd
sarve me — if I was your mother 't would
be all the same — you'll have your bit of
fun, no matther who pays the piper; but
only wait! if I don't be even wid you
for the same turn, it's a quare thing ! "

"Well, Dennis, I'll see about this to-

TOM CROSBIE

morrow," said Rochefort, who well knew
what sort of gentleman Mr. Tom Crosbie
was ; " the devil is not always as black as
he's painted, and perhaps 1 can do some
thing for you. Now open the door; I
suppose your master up stairs has been
listening to every word."

Dennis looked in Rochefort's face with
an inquiring glance, but not seeing any
thing there betokening suspicion, he
shrugged his shoulders, and contented
himself with muttering in an under tone,
while he unbarred the fastening of the
door: "Lis'nin' indeed! He'd want
good long ears to hear us from where he
is by this time, I'm thinkin'."

Rochefort did not appear to notice this
speech, but the door being /now opened,
stepped across the threshold, and fol
lowed Dennis, who went before to undo
the bolts of the little wicket.

" Good night, Masther Garald," said he,
as the latter found himself once more
outside the wall — "good night, sir, and
when you come again, may be" —

" What do you know about my coming
again ? " asked Rochefort, sharply — "have
you been listening, too?"

"Walls have ears," answered Dennis,
slyly, "and so have /, Masther Garald —
good night, sir ! " And the wicket was
closed.

That boy knows more than he pretends,
said Rochefort to himself, but I'll discover
it all before many hours. And wrapping
his cloak closely around him, he walked
rapidly away, his footsteps alone waken
ing the echoes as he passed along through
the silent and deserted streets.

CHAPTER IV.

A FATHER AND DAUGHTER MY HEROINE.

My story now leads me to a very dif
ferent scene.

In a handsome drawing-room of a
house in Mount street, on the succeeding
morning, an old gentleman stood with his
back to a cheerful fire, his coat tails

drawn forward and carefully tucked un
der each arm, after the fashion so much
in favor with old gentlemen in general.

The apartment was tastefully and even
elegantly furnished, but without any of
those ridiculous nic-nacs which give to a
modern drawing-room more the appear
ance of a bazaar, or an auctioneer's show
room, than anything else. A few valua
ble bronzes and cabinet pictures, Italian
marbles, tables of beautiful mosaic, a
curiously designed time-piece in buhl, and
some of Benvenuto Cellini's matchless
chasings; these, with a few valuable
books, and some miscellaneous objects of
vertu, were arranged here and there, and
bespoke at Hhe same time the owner's
taste, and his means of gratifying it.

Mr. Stephen Franks, the master of all
these choice specimens of the arts, was
what the world is pleased to denominate
an oddity ; that is, or at least was in his
case, a man who presumed to entertain
opinions of his own, and had the courage
to express and to uphold them.

He had a child, "one fair daughter, and
no more," and she was, indeed, the light
of the old man's life. I cannot describe
her to you, dear reader, for as well might
I endeavor to paint a picture from the
"fleeting shadow of some happy dream,"
as to catch the ever-changing' expression
of her beauty. If I could but for a mo
ment transfer to my pen the powers of
the daguerreotype, the likeness might be
taken, but as I cannot, I must try a new
system of portrait painting which (upon
the what's-in-a-name principle) I shall call
— the "analogical."

I beg of you then to conjure before
you the image of that fair being who is
to each of you the standard of perfection.

That, I think, is the best, as well as the
most novel way, to give an idea of a
heroine, for let an unfortunate author
spend hour after hour in the details of
the beauty he wishes to impress upon his
readers ; let him torture his poor brain,
and hunt in every hole and corner of his
imagination, for the most beautiful meta
phors and the choicest figures; let him
satisfy himself that his creation is the
loveliest and most perfect ; and when he
has arrived at this gratifying conclusion,

AND HIS FRIENDS.

he may just fold up his sheet of foolscap
— into a chapeau for his fool's head if he
likes — or if not, he may consign it to the
nearest flame, for no reader ever yet
formed a correct idea from such descrip
tion. Each thinks of the form which is
to him the brightest, and forthwith assim
ilates it with the picture ; or if the fancy
has not yet fixed upon an object, each
creates some ideal beauty for himself, but
in either case, no more like the poor
author's portrait "than I to Hercules."

Such, then, being the case, I shall
attempt no detailed description of Jessie
Franks, and shall merely-, say that she
was a lovely, artless, happy-hearted being,
as ever nature formed to cheer the life of
man. Over her widowed father her
influence was boundless; she humored
him in all his eccentricities, assisted him
in his charity, regulated his tastes, smiled
with him when he was happy, or wept
•with him when he was sad; teased or
coaxed him into the indulgence of her
every whim, and in short, was his pride
and his happiness, his darling child, his
adviser, and his companion. And she
loved him with all the warmth of her
nature, with the pious affection of a daugh
ter; she knew she was his all in life, that
in her every hope of his life was centered,
and while she blessed heaven for having
given her such a father, she kept an anx
ious guard over every action and every
feeling, lest she should be guilty of even
a thought which could give him pain.
Her character I must suffer to develope
itself as I proceed, but of her father's, an
illustration may, perhaps, serve to convey
a better idea than could be gathered from
any mere description of mine.

I believe we left Mr. Franks standing
in his drawing-room with his back to the
fire, and his coat tails tucked under his
arms. In this position he stood for some
time, indulging, as was frequently his
wont, in a fit of abstraction, from which
he would occasionally break out into un
intelligible mutterings; but he was at
length disturbed from his reverie, by the
entrance of a servant, who presented to
him a clumsy looking letter, upon which
the wafer had scarcely dried, and the out
side of which bore visible marks and

tokens of having been recently defiled by
contact with some not particularly snowy
fingers. Mr. Franks took the savory
epistle from the silver salver, upon the
brightness of whose polished surface it
left an oblong space considerably dimned
and sullied, and having twisted and
turned it in every possible direction, and
puzzled himself for five minutes, to dis
cover what one glance at the inside would
have told him, he laid it on a small table
beside him, while he carefully wiped the
glasses of his tortoiseshell spectacles, and
arranged them in a satisfactory position
on his nose.

"The messenger is waiting for an
answer, sir," said the servant, as he was
leaving the room.

"Very well, sir," answered his master,
"let him wait. I suppose you don't ex
pect me to give an answer until I have
read the letter."

The man, who knew his master's man
ner, retired without saying a word, and
Mr. Franks having seated himself in an
arm chair, proceeded to open the not
remarkably neat missive, the contents of
which, as far as could be distinguished,
with his parenthetical remarks thereon,
appeared somewhat like the following:

"Four Courts, Marsh alsea,

19th March, 18 —

"Honored sir, (honored fiddlestick ! — beg
ging letter, that's certain.)
"Being in the deepest distress (humph!
I thought so) and having heard of your
benevolent Disposition (d — d humbug!) I
am induced to make this appeal (bare
faced rascal!) I am a prisoner here
(serve you right!) for a debt I should
never have incurred had it not been to
serve a friend, (mighty likely story) who
has since deserted me in my trouble,
(scoundrel !) and left me liable for a large
sum which I have no means of paying.
The consequence is, that I have lost the
situation upon which I depended for the
support of my wife and family, (wife
and children, eh? poor fel — , rascal, I
mean) and unless I can find some means
of obtaining relief, they will be thrown
helpless upon the world. (Do n't believe
a word of it — all humbug.) My creditor is

1(5

TOM CROSBIE

most relentless, and will take no settle
ment, (heartless villain!) and my poor
wife is almost heart-broken (God help her
— but it's all a lie.) It is entirely by her
supplication that I am induced to seek
that assistance from a stranger, which for
myself alone I would never ask (generous
fellow — pooh! lying impostor.) We are
reduced to the lowest state of poverty,
and she and my poor children are almost
starving (good (tod — can this be true?)
If I could but effect my release, I would
struggle through every hardship until I
could pay the debt; but here, I can make
no effort, and the creditor who imprisoned
me has not only brought destruction on
my family, (the brute !) but has also de
prived me of satisfying his claim. (Devil
mend him — the biter bit.) I have, then,
ventured to appeal to you, (humph ! might
as well have let it alone) in the hope that
your kindness will lead you to assist my
wife and children at least, even though
you may consider my folly has brought
them to this condition. (Poor fellow
— confound these spectacles! I can't
see through them.) If you can pardon
;his intrusion, and will grant me the aid
I seek, you will have the grateful bless
ings of a man, who is at this moment
without a friend on earth to apply to in
his distress." (Eh! that looks bad — all
a humbug — won't give a farthing.)

Here he laid aside the letter and re
moved his spectacles, but it was no won
der he could not see through them, for a
big tear stood trembling in each eye. He
then gave the bell-rope a tremendous
pull, and in an instant the same. servant
who had first appeared, attended the
summons.

"Here, Dawson," said the old gentle
man, "tell whoever brought this letter, to-
be off about his business."

The man was retiring.

"Come back this instant, sir, how dare
you run away before you have got your
message ? "

" I beg your pardon, sir," said Dawson,
" I thought you told me to send the boy
away."

"Don't tell me what you thought, sir
— let the boy wait, do you hear? and

desire Miss Franks' maid to send her mis
tress here directly."

The man bowed and left the room, and
in a few minutes afterwards, Jessie's sou-
brette made her appearance at the door.

"Please, sir," said she, dropping a
curtsey, "Miss Jessie can't come down
just now — she's dressing, sir."

"Dressing! and how dare you bring
me such a message? Go, tell her to
come here instantly, — dressing, indeed ! "

Away went the girl, as if she was
frightened out of her wits, but if Mr.
Franks had not been too busy thinking of
something else at the moment, he might
have heard her indulging in a hearty
laugh as she tripped up stairs to the apart
ments of her young mistress. In a short
time she again appeared, Mr. Franks
meanwhile having rung the bell at least
half a dozen times.

"Miss Jessie says she'll be down in a
moment, sir; she's dressing as quickly as
possible."

" Be off, ma'am ! " exclaimed the irasci
ble old gentleman, stamping his foot upon
the carpet; "and here, Dawson, do you
go up stairs and tell Miss Franks, if she
does not come down this instant, I'll have
her carried down by a couple of footmen !
— they may roll her up in a blanket if
she's not dressed!"

"Thank you, papa!'' cried Jessie her
self, running into the room at this very
moment, " do n't you think I should look
uncommonly well 'tossed up in a blanket
seventy times as high as the moon ? ' ':

She kissed the old gentleman on the
forehead as she spoke, and his anger was
forthwith appeased.

As soon as they were alone, he resum
ed his favorite position at the fire, and
Jessie, drawing a chair near him, inquired
why she had been so hastily summoned.

Mr. Franks pointed to the open letter
on the table.

"Read that," said he, "and tell me
what you think of it."

Jessie took it up, and as her eyes ran
hastily over its contents, they became
filled with tears, and her hands trembled
with agitation.

"Oh, papa!" she said, when she had
read it through, " what dreadful misery ! "

AND HIS FRIENDS.

"Ail a humbug, miss," answered the,
old gentleman, frowning, in a vain en
deavor to look wicked: "the fellov, I'm
certain, is some impostor ! "

"Indeed, sir," said Jessie, beseechingly,
"I'm sure he is no such thing."

"That's right, ma'am, perfectly right,
always contradict your father; it's only
what every dutiful child should do ; but 2

say

he is!"

" Well, papa, of course you know best,
but I think the letter is all true, and
surely you will not refuse your assist
ance?"'

"Won't I, Miss Impudence? You
shall see that I'll not give the fellow a
sixpence — not a penny — not" —

"Oh ! papa, what a fib !"

I know there are many amiable young
ladies who may think this somewhat un-
dutiful ; but, perhaps, Jessie may have
had just as correct ideas upon the subject
as any amongst them, notwithstanding.
However, she had a point to carry, and
she chose this way of setting about it.

"Fib!" cried Mr. Franks, "fib! Be
off to your room this instant, miss — don't
let me see your face for a month. Upon
my word and honor I'd box your ears
for one pin! Why don't you leave my
sight when I desire you ? Be off, or I '11
—I'll—I'll"—

"Have you quite done, pa?" she said,
so coaxingly, and with such a sly look in
the old gentleman's face, that he could
not resist a smile; whereupon, she threw
her arms round his neck, and kissed him,
saying: "There now, not another word!
You look so ugly when you're cross —
and besides, you know you are dying with
impatience to relieve those poor people."

"Why, you saucebox, I told you I
wouldn't give a farthing."

"But I know*you will, sir; I'll give you
another kiss if you do, and I'll sing your
favorite song to-night, and I'll — oh, I'll
do a thousand things, is it a bargain, sir ? "
And she held her lips within a tempting
distance of his face, but when he offered
to kiss her, she drew back her head play
fully, repeating, "Is it a bargain?"

The delighted father pressed her to his
bosom, and while he divided the dark,

kissed her fondly, and said : "There, that's
the way you always make a fool of your
old father — run away now, and put on
your bonnet."

And lightly the tiny feet of the joyous
girl pressed the carpet as she passed
from the room; for well she knew she
was about to go forth with her beloved
father, to do a deed of charity, and to
relieve the wants of those who were des
olate and in distress.

I will here avail myself of the oppor
tunity, to tell some of my fair readers —
little as they may be inclined to believe
me — that there are some amongst them^
who find quite as much pleasure, though
perhaps not so much amusement, in
lightening the sorrows of their fellow
beings, as in the purchase of a new bon
net, or in rambling from shop to shop,
rummaging among ribbons, and tossing
about trimmings and tabinet.

In less than half an hour, Jessie wai
seated beside her father in his ca rriage,
proceeding on their benevolent journey,
which we must for a time leave them to
pursue; and, meanwhile, if any of my
readers will do me the favor to accompany
me in a visit which, with Gerald Roche-
fort, I am about to make, I shall be most
happy to have the pleasure of presenting
to them, that worthy member of society
— Mr. Tom Crosbie.

CHAPTER V.

TOM CROSBIE.

Thomas Crosbie, Esquire, (as he was
styled at the head of his tradesmen's
bills, on their first presentation; or, ac
cording to the same documents, when it
was discovered that the amounts thereof
were non est, or rather non sum inventus
— Mr. Thomas Crosbie) was an individ
ual of that particular class of gentlemen
who, with no ostensible means of exist
ence, always contrive to live better, drest

glossy hair, on her beautiful forehead, I better, and altogether keep up a better
2

TOM CROSBIE

appearance, than many who in reality
possess a comfortable independence. He
had been once — at least he said so, and I
suppose he had the best right to know —
a lieutenant in the navy; but whether,
in making this statement, he compounded
with his conscience by any little mental
reservation, I cannot take upon myself
to say.

At the boarding-house where for the
present he had fixed his "local habita
tion," he was to the various inhabitants
an object of little less admiration than is
the Grand Lama to the enlightened pop
ulation of Thibet; not exactly in the
same degree, indeed, for there was no
great tendency to worship him, but still
he was looked upon with a species of
veneration, for while some admired him
for his social qualities and good fellow
ship, others feared him for his satire and
his partiality to practical jokes.

Such, then, was the position of affairs
at the boarding-house, when Rochefort
betook himself to its door to seek an
interview with Mr. Tom Crosbie. The
outside of the house presented a very
respectable appearance, and Gerald, hav
ing ascended half a dozen well whitened
steps, performed a rapid assault upon the
unoffending knocker, whose only fault,
as far as could be discovered, was the
resemblance which it bore to special
pleaders and Methodist preachers, in hav
ing a brazen face. His summons was
quickly answered by a pretty, smart-look
ing house maid, who, with a cunning
endeavor to conceal a sweeping brush
and a dust pan behind her back, replied
with a smile to his inquiry of "Mr. Cros
bie at home ? "

" I 'm not sure, sir — walk into the par
lor, and I '11 see." And off went the girl,
speedily returning to beg that he would
follow her.

After the usual salutations, Rochefort
inquired, "Do you know anything of a
boy named Connor ? "

"Do I, is it? my old valet de cham,

eh ? — Dinny the cute, I should think I do;
but why do you ask ? "

"Why I have some, idea of hiring him
— is he honest?"

" Honest as the sun — full of mischief
as an egg's full of meat — tell lies as fast
as a canvassing member, and cunning as
a pet fox ! "

"A very flattering character, certainly,
but can he do anything?"

"Anything! everything, by the Lord
Harry ! curl hair like a Frenchman, carry
messages like a telegraph, dance a pas de
zephyr like Fanny Ellsler, sing like a
nightingale, cook like Ude, ride like an
Arab, box like Dan Donnelly, make mis
chief like an old maid, and drink like the
devil!"

"There, there, that's quite enough.
If you say he is honest and can take care
of a horse, I'll run my chance for the
rest. Are you going out to-day?"

"Let me see — Wednesday — billiards
with Murphy — duet with Lizza Ross —
write sonnet in Kate Smith's album — sew
buttons on waistcoat — hunt Nabby about
the house — shave Miss Burke's poodle —
ditto my own chin — dress for dinner —
dine at six. No, Gerald — busy to-day —
can't stir."

" Well, then, I must say good bye."

"Not you, indeed — caught you now,
keep you — must dine here — no excuse —
don't say a word — bad dinner — worse
wine, but rare sport — come down stairs."

But Rochefort had other things to think
of, and he therefore declined the invita
tion. Tom, however, was inexorable, and
would n't be put off; he coolly walked to
the door, locked it, and put the key in
his pocket. In vain Gerald remonstra
ted; in vain he pleaded other engage
ments, pressing business; there he was,
a prisoner, and there Tom Crosbie kept
him until he had given his promise to
return at six o'clock to dinner. Until
which time we shall leave him, and
betake ourselves to where our presence,
just at present, is more urgently required.

AND HIS FRIENDS.

CHAPTER VI.
A DEBTOR'S PRISON.

After a drive of about a quarter of an
hour, the carriage, containing Jessie
Franks and her father, arrived at the end
of the lane through which it is necessary
to pass before you reach the entrance to
the Four Courts Marshalsea prison ; and
as the approach is too narrow to admit of
the passage of any vehicle, they were
obliged to alight and walk a short dis
tance before they came to th^e narrow
door which gives admission to the building.
Jessie had always been the companion of
her father in his visits of charity wherever
the object was a female, and though she
was now going to a place where every
thing was strange to hei, and where she
should witness scenes at which most fine
ladies would shudder, she never hesitated
for a moment, nor ever dreamed that in
the gay circles where she often mixed,
she would be looked upon with coldness
and contempt by at least a moiety of her
sex, should her visit to a debtor's prison
become known.

Letting her veil fall down, so as to con
ceal her features, and drawing her large
shawl more closely round her person, she
followed her father into the narrow
"hatch" of the prison.

Standing before a large fire, smoking
and laughing, were three or four impu
dent looking men, one of whom, his civil
ity being called forth by a silver talisman,
informed Mr. Franks that the person
whom he sought was located in the Pau
per Building, and even, with an extreme
stretch of kindness, volunteered himself
as a guide to the spot

Following the man, and leaning upon
her father's arm, Jessie stepped quickly
across the crowded yard; indignant, for
the first time in her life, at the imperti
nent glances directed at her in every
direction, and offended at the insolent
remarks which her appearance in such a
place called forth from the aristocratic
and truly gentlemanly beings who were
congregated about the spot

Having cros&ed both yards, the turnkey

entered a door at the right hand corner
of the lower one, and led the way up a
long flight of stone steps, until he arrived
on the upper lobby. Here, not consider
ing it at all necessary to give a prelimi
nary knock at the door of a pauper's
room, he lifted the latch, and without any
ceremony whatever, flung it open, and in
a stentorian voice cried : " Is Millar here 1
people wants him : " and being answered
in the affirmative, he considered the fur
ther services unnecessary; wherefore,
having ushered his visitors into the dis
mal room, he withdrew, banging the door
after him, and returned to his enviable
post at the hatch.

The apartment in which Mr. Franks
and Jessie now found themselves was
truly a most wretched one. No less than
six iron bedsteads were ranged round the
walls, (and there is, generally speaking, a
tenant, at least, for each of them.) At
the present moment there were five un
fortunate prisoners cribbed up in that
miserable den, and some of them with
wives and children, all living together.

But apart from these, in the furthest
corner of the room, and seeming almost
like a being of another race, sat a young
man, nursing an infant of two years old
upon his knee, and now and then with his
disengaged hand fondly pressing to his
side a pale, delicate, but still remarkably
pretty woman, who stood leaning over
him. A fine boy, about a year older than
the infant, stood at his mother's side, and
looked up with his soft blue eyes into her
face, lisping every moment in his imper
fect accents, as a tear rolled along her
cheek — "Don't cry, mamma; Charlie
good boy."

As Jessie and her father entered, a
crimson flush passed across the features
of the young man, but after a moment,
tenderly laying the sleeping baby in the
arms of his wife, he rose and bowed
respectfully. There was no mistaking
that those were the persons whom they
had come to relieve, and while Mr. Franks
drew the young man aside, Jessie ad
vanced to whisper words of comfort to
the poor care-worn wife.

And it was an affecting scene when
after a short time that wife, restored to

TOM C ROSBIE

the happiness which had been so long a
stranger, bowed her head upon the shoul
der of her benefactress and wept tears
of joy and gratitude ; and when the hus
band, with feelings that could find no
tongue, pressed the hand of the good old
man in silence, and looked the thanks he
could not utter; and when Jessie, to hide
her own emotions, stooped over the
smiling boy, and kissed him, and tried to
laugh through her tears ; and when her
father put on his spectacles fifty times in
as many seconds, and d — d the cold that
made his eyes water, though the room
was like a furnace — and when at length
he declared it was time to give up that
confounded nonsense and go home; and
the husband and wife together blessed
him and his child — it was such a scene
as is but rarely witnessed within the walls
of a debtor's prison.

One short half hour had changed the
sorrow of that young couple into rejoic
ing; and at the expiration of that time,
their benefactors took their leave, little
thinking that the good they had done
that day would be, ere long, returned to
them a hundred fold.

Early on the morning of the next day,
the happy husband and father obtained
his liberty, and with his wife ami children
removed from the scene of their late
troubles to a comfortable lodging, which
the kindness of Mr. Franks had provided
for them.

CHAPTER VII. .

THK BOARDING-HOUSB AND ITS INHABI
TANTS.

Six o' clock had come, and, punctual to
his appointment, Gerald Rochefort had
come along with it He was shown up
to the snme drawing-room which had been
the scene of Mr. Tom Crosbie's morning-
enter tainmenfe, and there he found that

gentleman, as usual, the center of a /jroup
of listeners. The party which was now
assembled could boast of some five or six
individuals more than had appeared on
the occasion of Gerald's early visit, who
had been at that time pursuing their vari
ous avocations in sundry counting-houses,
and other description of offices in the city.

The entire number now collected
amounted to thirteen individuals, seven
males and six females, most of whom
were not worth a second thought

But one young lady was indeed a love
ly creature — a joyous, laughing spirit,
dispensing mirth and gladness around
her where she moved, and having no
earthly care nor thought beyond the mor
row. She had scarcely yet arrived at
sweet sixteen, but a well-formed figure
and perfect carriage gave her the appear
ance of being somewhat older. She was
a brunette — as all mad-cap girls should
be — and over her beautifully turned neck
and shoulders, thick masses of luxuriant
hair waved and curled wildly and un-
trammeled. Her ripe lips parted above
teeth of surpassing ..whiteness, and gave
to her face that saucy expression which
is so bewitching in a beautiful girl ; her
nose, in character with the cast of hei
features, was slightly retrousse, and her
eyes were of that description — so bril
liantly dazzling, that one would never
think of looking to find what color they
were. In short, it would be difficult, In
deed, to find so beautiful a being as Lizzy
Ross.

In all kinds of Mischief Tom Crosbie
and she were kindred spirits; they were
continually setting their heads together
in machinations and evil designs against
the peace and comfort of the various in
habitants of the boarding-house.

To each individual of the group Gerald
Rochefort was duly presented by Mr.
Crosbie.

The less that is said about the dinner '
the better, for of course every one knows
the usual description of that meal at a
boarding-house.

AND HIS FRIENDS.

CHAPTER VIII.

A DEATH BED.

That same night, and when the cold
March wind whistled mournfully through
the streets, driving before it a thick sleet
in the faces of such as were abroad, and
piercing to the very heart of many a
homeless wanderer — a young and slightly
clad female, holding a small parcel care
fully beneath her shawl, timidly entered
one of the fashionable shops in Grafton
street.

The business of the day had long since
closed, and one or two young men were
busy restoring to their places the scat
tered articles which remained about the
counters. Pieces of rich satin and gor
geous velvets, which had failed to satisfy
the fastidious tastes of some city belles,
lay here and there, confusedly ; and while
the eye of that young girl fell upon them,
she thought with a sigh, that the cost of
any one amongst them would have made
her almost happy.

With trembling steps, advancing up
the shop, she inquired in a low voice, of
one of the men, if he would purchase
some articles of ladies' work, which she
unfolded from her little parcel. The man
looked impudently up in her face for a
moment, but there was something there,
an expression of so much care and sor
row, that made him turn away his eyes
in shame, and even to answer her kindly
and respectfully.

"If you had come earlier," he said,
"you might have sold them; but the j
proprietor is not here now, and I could
not venture to take them in his absence."

A look of painful disappointment passed
across the poor girl's face, and silently
folding up the things once more, she was
about to leave the shop, when the young-
man, struck with pity at the sight of her
distress, said gently, "If it would be an
object for you to sell them to-night — "

"Oh! it would indeed," said the girl
quickly, while she looked anxiously in his
face.

" Then I will take them at my own
risk," he answered; and putting the

things aside in a drawer, he paid her the
few shillings she had demanded as their
price; when, with a few hurried words
of thanks, she left the shop, and swiftly
as her strength would allow her, retraced
her w;iy along the streets.

With her thin shawl drawn tightly
across her bosom, and struggling at every
step against the bitter gusts that came
eddying round the corners, she pursued
her steps along the slippery flags — now
pushed aside by the rude jostling of some
burly porter — now shrinking timidly from
the impertinent gaze of an old, prowling
libertine. Here stood a wretched ballad
singer, sending forth sounds of unnatural
mirth, that seemed a very mockery of
misery, while three or four starving and
half-naked children clung shivering around
her, endeavoring, by a closer contact, to
bring back warmth to their frozen limbs.
There, as she passed some open doorway,
her eye fell upon a group of wretched
girls, whose gaudy attire but ill protected
their shrinking forms from the piercing
cold, and whose forced laughter sounded
discordantly on the ear, seeming like fear
ful echoes from the ruins of broken hearts.

But though wretched objects met her
sight at every step, they passed unheed
ed ; for her thoughts were busy with the
scene which might await her return to
her own poor home, and she moved un
consciously on, as though she were the
only living thing abroad. Once only she
stopped, and that was to purchase with
the greater part of her little earnings, a
bottle of wine, and such light food as she
thought might tempt the appetite of an
invalid. Then again she hurried on, and
at last, weak and fatigued with her exer
tions, she reached the door of a house in
one of the poorest streets at the north
side of the city.

Here she paused a moment, and seemed
to listen anxiously before she knocked, as
though expecting to hear some sounds
within, which might tell her if aught had
happened in her absence. But all was
still, and the silence was unbroken save
by the loud beating of her own heart as
she stood there attentive and motionless.
The lower part of the house was hid
in darkness, and seemed to be untenanted,

TOM CROSBIE

but a faint light glimmered through
the half-closed shutters of an upper win
dow, and threw a flickering and sickly
gleam upon the street below.

She knocked, and again her heart beat
loudly as she awaited the opening of the
door. A careful step was at length heard
in the passage, and a bolt was noiselessly
withdrawn. An old woman, holding a
lighted candle in her hand, then appeared,
and before the girl could ask a question,
said, with an air of anxious kindness —
"He's better, Miss, thanks be to God!
he's in a fine sleep now."

It was worth a million spoken prayers,
that one look of deep gratitude to heav
en, which caaae upon the pale features of
the young girl, when she heard the
words; and stepping lightly across the
threshold, she passed silently through the
narrow hall, and ascended the stairs on
tip-toe.

The door of a room stood partly open,
and once more, before she entered it, she
paused and listened breathlessly. Low
moans, as though of one in a troubled
sleep, fell now and then upon her ear,
and once her own name, spoken fondly,
though in a broken voice, reached her.

"I am here, father," she said, softly,
entering the room ; but when she reached
the bedside, she found that the sleeper
had not awakened.

It was a small room, poorly and scan
tily furnished, and seeming filled with
gloomy shadows, as a solitary candle,
which had burned low in its socket, cast
its dim and fitful light upon the 'walls —
a sad memento, in a sick man's* chamber,
of a brief existence !

With the exception of the bed upon
which the sleeper lay, there was scarcely
any other furniture. An old arm-chair
was placed beside the fire-place, and op
posite it a kind of small lounge, which
was the only resting-place of that delicate
girl. A little work-table was placed be
fore it, on which lay some unfinished ar
ticles of ladies' dress, and a broken vase
containing a few faded flowers. A larger
table stood in the middle of the room,
and scattered upon it lay several bundles
of law papers, with their accustomed
bindings of red tape. In one corner, a '

wash-stand was covered over with a clean
white cloth ; and in another stood a little
cupboard, with a small array of simple
delf. There was no carpet, except a nar
row strip along the bed-side; and, alto
gether, there could scarcely have been a
more comfortless apartment, were it not
that the neatness of even its meanest de
tails told plainly of a woman's presence.

And now the girl, whose young life was
wasting away in such a spot, and whose
gentle spirit and untiring love lent a
charm even to that desolate apartment,
having carefully laid aside the nourish
ment which her exertions had procured
without even tasting the slightest portion,
though for over twelve hours her fast had
been unbroken — removed the damp shawl
and bonnet which had been her only
shelter from the inclemency of the night,
and pressing her lips softly on the burning
forehead of her sleeping father, sat down
at the little table, and resumed her work.

She was scarcely seventeen, but the
nature of her life for the last two years
had left traces of care upon her features,
and given to her face an expression of
settled sorrow, that made her look much
older. Yet her features were of that
character, that though the freshness of
youth had left them, it had not deprived
them of their beauty. They were not of
that ever-changing expression which
seems the outward sign of a happy heart,
but which sorrow ever robs of its attrac
tion; but the pensive-looking eyes, and
high, marble forehead, with its simple
braids of rich, dark hair, wore the calm
repose of the Madonna, and gave her
that appearance of touching interest,
which is so inseparable from loveliness ha
its hour of grief

Hour after hour, the dreary night
passed on, and still she plied her needle
with wearied fingers, but with untiring
zeal; pausing now and then, and turning
with an eager glance towards the bed,
when the sick man chanced to move in
his uneasy sleep.

The wind was hushed, the night had
become deadly calm, and not a sound dis
turbed the gloomy silence of the cham
ber, save the monotonous ticking of a small
clock, that seemed to fall on her ear with

AND HIS FRIENDS.

amelancholy foreboding, as, unconsciously,
it told the passing time. It was a sad
ecene, that pale, delicate-looking girl,
toiling through the lonely night, unrepin-
ingly, and without a murmur, for the sup
port of a dying father.

God's blessing upon her task ! While
others of her sex were mingling amongst
the bvisy scenes of life, flitting with happy
hearts through the light measures of the
merry dance, or pressing careless heads
upon their pillows, little dreaming of the
sorrows of the poor needle-worker; she
sat there in that lonely chamber, holding
communion with her own sad thoughts,
and toiled on, with a burning brow and
an aching heart, to procure the simple
sustenance of the morrow. And as her
work went on, memory, with its shadowy
host of bygone joys and disappointed
hopes, came stealing upon her — and her
thoughts flew back to childhood. One
by one, like the incidents of a dream,
long forgotten scenes, and "old, familiar
faces," passed across her mind, and were
remembered; but alas! the reality was
gone forever, and the smile which for a
moment played upon her features was
quickly followed by a tear.

Still the hours crept slowly on, and
still her toil continued ; but still she mur
mured not. Her face was paler, and her
hand trembled, but she knew that upon
her was their sole dependence; and
though her drooping eye and throbbing
temples spoke plainly of fatigue, still her
work went on. And yet, though hund
reds such as her, with spirits as gentle,
and hearts as pure, waste away their best
hours of life in such pursuits, they find
no pity from the world ; but, because
bitter poverty compels them to receive
from the hands of the .more fortunate,
the means of procuring their daily bread,
they meet with scorn from their own sex
and contempt from ours. Sucn is the
justice of the world; but still there are
many kindly hearts that, could they but
contemplate the pious love and untiring
spirit that uphold 'the poor needle-worker
in her midnight toil, would echo back the
prayer — God's blessing upon her task!

It was midnight; and as the distant
chimes of the city clocks fell sadly upon j

her ear, the trembling fingers of the girl
still plied her busy needle. But her eye
was dim, and her short, quick breathing
and parched lips told silently of her ex
haustion. For above an hour no sound
had escaped the sleeper, and she was
about to lay aside her work, when the
curtain of the bed was moved slowly
back, and a broken voice called her by
her name.

"Mary!"

" I am here, dear father," she said
gladly, and rising from her seat, she ap
proached the bed.

" Kiss me, Mary."

She stooped, and pressed her lips upon
his forehead.

"Father, you are better now? You
have had a long sleep."

A shudder passed over the face of the
invalid, and pressing his hand across his
eyes, he said slowly: "it was a fearful
— dream!"

" You must be weak, father, — I have
brought you some wine."

"Wine! God bless you, Mary! Give
it to me — give it to me — it was a fearful
dream ! " And again the sick man shud
dered.

Mary drew her little store from the
cupboard, and pouring some wine into a
cup, held it to her father's lips. He
drank it eagerly. And then, tightly
holding her hand, he looked up wildly in
her face and repeated : " Mary, it was a
fearful dream ! "

"But, father, you are better, now?"
said the poor girl, anxiously.

"Better! Yes, yes, I'll be better to
morrow, Marv, or — worse!" And his
frame trembled convulsively.

"Oh! father," said Mary, while she
pressed her hand on the burning forehead
of the sick man, "do not speak so fear
fully!"

"Tell me, child," said her father, after
a moment's pause, "what makes us
dream ? "

" I cannot tell," said Mary ; " dreams
are mere illusions of the brain, when
reason has lost its powers in sleep."

" Strange — strange," muttered her
father to himself, "I saw her to-night, as
plainly as when she lived, and" —

TOM CROSB1E

"Saw who? father."

"And she beckoned me to follow her,"
continued the sick man, unconsciously,
"into a beautiful garden, where groups
of happy children played amongst the
flowers, and heavenly music seemed float
ing through the air; she smiled the same
sweet smile,. and looked as fondly upon
me as she did in life" —

"Father, who?"

"But when I put forth my hand to
follow her, the ground opened at my feet,
and a deep, dark, yawning gulf, with a
stream of living fire, boiling and hissing
and roaring at the bottom, stood between
us. Still she beckoned me to follow;
but a thousand arms grasped me, and
hurled me into the abyss — and amidst
the agony of flames, and tortures, burn
ing, burning into my very soul — her voice
eried in my ears, 'Murderer! murderer!'"

"Oh, God! father!— who?"

"Your mother, Mary; aye, it was a
fearful dream."

And the sick man sunk back exhausted
on his pillow.

Poor Mary stood beside the bed, watch
ing with tearful eyes the changes passing
over the ghastly features of her father,
but her heart was too full to speak. At
length he opened his eyes again, and in a
calmer voice addressed her.

" Mary, how long have I been asleep ? "

Four or five hours, she told him.

"Hours, Mary," he said, with a painful
smile, " are but short portions of eternity.
My next sleep will be — -forever!'1'1

"Father," said Mary, while the tears
flowed down her cheeks, "do not speak
to me in this way, or my heart will break."

" God help you ! child," said her father,
drawing her close to him, and kissing her
fondly; "I have broken it long ago; and
your mother's loo — I broke them both —
tell me, Mary, am I not a murderer?"

"No, father, no," sobbed Mary, kneel
ing down beside him.

"Your mother called me so," said her
father, with a shudder.

"But it was only a dream."

"A dream! yes, yes, a dream — a fear
ful — a horrid dream."

And again he fell back exhausted.

He now fell into an unquiet doze for a

few moments, and when he again awak
ened, asked eagerly for some more wine.
But Mary was afraid to give it to him,
lest in his weak state it might be danger
ous, and she therefore endeavored to coax
him to take some little nourishment be
fore it. He would not touch the food,
however; and as he suffered from a
burning thirst, she at length mixed a little
of the wine in a cup of water, and gave
it to him. After he had drank it, he
seemed greatly refreshed, and motioning
Mary to bring her chair, and sit beside
the bed, he took her hand in his, and
said:

"Mary, this is the last night I have to
live, and before many hours are over, you
will be alone in the world. Hush, Mary,
and do not w'eep. There are some things
I must tell you, while I have strength
remaining — some things which are lying
heavy on my soul. I have been a villain,
Mary, a cold, heartless, unfeeling villain!
and I leave you now unprotected in the
world — homeless, friendless, and a beg
gar."

" God will protect me, father," said the
girl, solemnly.

"He will, my child — he will; but your
father has been your ruin. Listen, Mary.
I was the only son of a widowed mother,
who loved me only as a mother can love
a child. She was rich, and from my ear
liest years I had the command, the almost
unlimited command, of money. It was
my destruction. Before I reached my
twentieth year, there was no species of
dissipation which I had not tasted; and
whilst others of my age were scarcely
released from school, I had drank the
nauseating cup of vice to the very dregs.
But gaming was my passion. Night after
night I sought *the hells, and lost, and
lost, until at length I could no longer
procure the means of gratifying my
cursed thirst for play. All the money
which my poor mother could command,
she blindly gave me ; but no fortune could
stand out against my constant losses, and
at last — all was gone. Then came hours
of bitter, unavailing repentance, and the
gambler's fatal determination to endeavor
by some desperate stroke to retrieve my
fallen fortunes, and to renounce the gam-

AND HIS FRIENDS.

ing table forever. I sought by every
means in my power to achieve my object
— I procured loans from friends — I heap
ed mortgage after mortgage upon the
property which should one day be mine ;
I sourted and fawned upon Jews and
money-lenders — but all, all was swallow
ed up in this yawning Charybdis of my
infatuation.

"At length my mother died — died as
yours did, Mary — of a broken heart I
killed her — 7, her pride, her darling ; but
she died with my name upon her lips,
and her last words were a blessing. I
scarcely felt the blow, so eager was I to
gain possession of the property her death
had left me; and she was scarcely cold
in her grave ere it had followed the rest,
and I was — a beggar..

"Now would have come my punish
ment, but that every feeling had become
blunted, every remnant of pride destroyed,
r\ the pursuit of my frantic passion ; and
instead of turning aside from the career
that had been my ruin, I still followed
on, blindly and madly, raising money by
the most dishonorable means, until at
last, almost driven to frenzy by the de
struction which stared me in the face, I
committed forgery. It was for a large
amount, and, as like the rest, the money
was squandered at the gaming table:
when the bill became due I had no funds
to meet it, and the forgery was discov
ered.

"But the gentleman whose name I had
used had been a friend of my poor moth
er, and instead of prosecuting me, as
he should have done, he paid the money,
and hushed the matter up. Not content
with this, he sent for me, insisted upon
my making his house my home ; and to
save my pride, gave me an appointment
as his agent. He pitied me, and his gen
erous heart scorned to fix a single condi
tion to his kindness. But a better feeling-
had been awakened within me, and vol
untarily I sought, in proving my gratitude,
to deserve his esteem. And I succeeded ;
for after some years of strict integrity,
and unwearying attention to his interests,
his utmost confidence was reposed in me.
He was married, and a beautiful girl, the
sister of his wife, came to reside with

them for a time. We met constantly
during some months, and a.s might have
been expected, we loved. My benefactor
soon discovered our "attachment, and gen
erously forgetting the degredation of my
past life, brought about an arrangement
with her family — and we were married.
She was your mother, Mary."
"And the gentleman, father?"
"Was Mr. Franks. He presented me
with a thousand pounds the morning we
were married, and as I soon after received
ten thousand more, the amount of my
bride's fortune, I was again comparatively
rich. For two years, at the end of which
time you were born, we lived happily
together. But the evil^ spirit within me
had only slept, and was soon again awak
ened. One night an old Companion,
whom I chanced to meet, in an evil hour
induced me to revisit the gaming table,
and from that time my infatuation was as
great as ever. In one short year, the
home in which all my happiness had been
centered became hateful to me, and the
mere presence of my neglected wife
seemed a reproach which I could not
bear. Every shilling I could procure, I
squandered as I formerly had done in
the hells, and in short, for the second
time, I was likely soon to become a beg
gar, when my generous friend again
stepped between me and my ruin.

" Unfortunately, my wife's fortune had
been placed entirely in my power, and a
few months more would have dissipated
what remained of it, when Mr. Franks
providentially heard of my career, and
interfered once more to save me. He,
spoke to me in the language of a brother,
and, hardened as I was, the memory of
his former kindness made me listen to
him with attention. He pointed out to
me the madness and wicked folly of my
course, and forcibly brought before me
the utter ruin, here and hereafter, that
was sure to result from such a life. But
though I felt, and felt deeply, the truth
of all he said, it would not have with
drawn me from the path I was pursuing,
but that just at that time my wife was
afflicted with a brain fever, brought on
by my brutality and neglect. Then, and
not till then — when every moment I

TOM CROSB1E

expected she should be taken from me — I
learned to feel the full value of the bless-
in o- I was about to lose ; and I made a
solemn vow that if she were spared to
me, I would endeavor to atone for the
past, and never enter a gaming house
again. For five long weeks I watched
beside her bed, and though I had been
the cause of the fearful malady that
oppressed her, through all its wildest
ravings she never once breathed my name
but with tenderness and love.

" She recovered, and, by the advice of
Mr. Franks, we went to reside in a dis
tant part of the country, where a consid
erable portion of his property was situa
ted. There five years passed over *in
peace, and we were once more becoming
easy in our circumstances, when an occur
rence took place which rendered it nec
essary for me to return for a time to
Dublin.

"Unhappily, your mother, being in a
very delicate state of health, was unable
to accompany me, and when I came to
town, I was again thrown into the soci
ety of some of my former acquaintances.
There, notwithstanding the solemn rows
I had made, and forgetting past misfor
tunes, and the ruin I had twice escaped,
I suffered myself to be led back to my
old haunts, and once more to become a
prey to the hellish excitement of the
gaming table. In vain I struggled against
the infatuation — in vain I resolved night
after night that each effort should be my
last — a curse was upon me, and it over
whelmed me. Day after day I received
letters from your poor mother, beseeching
me to return to my home, but 1 threw
them aside unanswered, and frequently
without even breaking the seal. At last,
unable to endure her agony of mind, and
despairing of my return, she followed me
up to town. The morning she. arrived I
was thrown into prison for a debt I had
contracted, and it was only by the sale of
her jewels that I was enabled to procure
my release. Everything was now gone,
and the small balance which remained,
after paying the sum for which I had been
arrested, was all we possessed in the
world. Mr. Franks, the only friend I had
on earth, was in Italy, and my wife's

family refused us the slightest assistance, EO
that we were obliged to fix ourselves in a
wretched lodging, and to exirtt without
the simplest comforts of life.

"For some months we continued in
this state of misery, and my wife was
about, for the second time, to become a
mother — when one night I took the last
few shillings that remained to us, and
stealing from the house, sought one of
the minor hells, determined to make one
last effort to procure the means of pro
viding her with some little necessaries.
But, in five minutes, every penny was
gone, and, driven to madness by the hope
less wretchedness of our situation, I
rushed in a state of frenzy from the place,
and rolled a gentleman in the street!
Pursuit was useless — I escaped; and
with the money I had taken still grasped
in my hand, reached my home. Your
mother, pale and exhausted, sat up await
ing my return; but when I threw the
money in her lap, and told her with a
wild laugh, how I had obtained it, she
fell upon her knees, and prayed to God
to forgive me. I could not bear this,
Mary ; it was for her that I had robbed,
and I could not bear that her prayers
should reproach me. I was mad, raving,
frantic, and while she knelt there, with
the new life of my unborn child breath
ing within her own, I struck her — villain
and ruffian as I was — I struck her to the
ground ! That night — that fearful night,
Mary — she died — died blessing me ! And
now — am I not a murderer?"

The sick man looked wildly in his
daughter's face as he concluded this sad
history of his past life, and cold drops of
sweat stood thickly upon his haggard
forehead; but the girl spoke not. She
had listened, breathlessly, and with tear
less eyes, to the fearful tale of her fath
er's crimes and her mother's wretched
fate; for her emotions were too deep to
admit of any outward sign; and now,
though the sick man's voice was no longer
heard, she made not the slightest move
ment ; not a feature changed, but she sat
there, as if still listening intensely — pale,
and motionless, and statue-like. She could
not have spoken, though worlds had been
her reward, for her parched lips refused

AND HIS FRIENDS.

their utterance, and her heart was full to
bursting. At length her breath came
quick, and quicker, the veins in her tem
ples swelled, her lip trembled, and a flood
of tears came to her relief. Then she
stooped over her father, and pressed her
lips upon his forehead.

The sick man gazed tenderly in her
face for a moment, and then continued:

"You were but six years old then,
Mary, and I Imew not what to do with
you. I could not remain in Dublin, and
I was without a friend on earth with
whom I could have left you. At this
period Mr. Franks providentially returned
from the continent, and, though the base
ness of my conduct had forever estranged
him from me, he took you to his home,
and promised that his own daughter
should be a sister to you, and his wife a
second mother. I left you, and in a short
time after went out to India, where I
remained for seven years. At the end
of that time, a gentleman, whose life I
had been the means of saving, offered
me a lucrative situation if I would return
with him to Europe, and I did so He
died, however, immediately after our arri
val in London, leaving me a few hundred
pounds which he had with him in ready
money, and placing in my care a small
packet, with strict injunctions to deliver
it into the hands of the person to whom
it was addressed. That person I have
never been able to discover, and, when
all is over, Mary, you will find it in the
secret drawer of my little writing desk.
Preserve it carefully, for he from whom
I received it told me it might one day be
the means of restoring happiness to the
person whose name you will find upon
the cover, and should you ever chance to
find him, place it in his hands, and tell
him how you received it.

"I remained in London for a short
time, during which I gambled again, and
lost nearly the entire of the sum which
had been bequeathed me. With the lit
tle that escaped, I came back to Dublin,
anxious to see my child, and hoping that
time had softened Mr. Franks' displeasure
against me. But he refused to see me —
refused even to read my letters, except
they related to you; and in the height of

my indignation I insisted upon withdraw
ing you from his roof.

"The rest you know, Mary; yon know
how I deprived you of your only friends
— how I dragged you from wealth and
happiness to poverty and misery — how I
shut you up from the world and from the
joys of youth, until smiles had left your
lip, and your cheek was bloodless — how
you toiled for me through hardship and
neglect, meekly and uncomplainingly —
and how, since I have lain here with the
hand of death upon me, your gentle spirit
has soothed me in my dying hours, and
taught me to turn for mercy to the God
I had forsaken, and to look forward with
hope to that world I so soon must enter."

A softer expression had come upon
his features while he spoke the last few
words, and as he concluded, weak and
exhausted, he took the hand of the weep
ing girl in his own and pressed it long
and fondly. But gradually his fingers
relaxed their hold, his eyes became fixed
and glassy, and his lips moved as if try
ing to speak, but no sound escaped them.
And thus for some time he lay ; at length
he murmured: "Mary!"

"Dear father, I am here."

" Come nearer, Mary, nearer, kiss me."

She leant over him, and pressed her
lips to his.

"It was a fearful dream!" muttered
the dying man ; " Mary are you near me ? "

" Yes, dear father, do you not see me ? "

He turned his eyes slowly in the direc
tion of her voice, but the sight had left
them.

" It is very dark," he said ; " touch me,
Mary."

The poor girl took his cold hand be
tween her fingers, and pressed it, weeping
bitterly.

" I heard music," said the dying man,
faintly; "listen!" and a smile came upon
his features; and then he muttered,
" murderer — murderer."

"Father," said the sobbing girl, "speak
to me."

"That was her voice," continued the
dying man ; " she called me twice — where
is Mary?"

"Here, beside you, father."

"Did you hear" music, Mary?"

TOM CROSBIE

"No, father, it was the wind."

" Wind ! I am cold — this darkness is —
who touched me?"

"JSTo one, father.'

"Don't let them touch me, Mary!"

"Who? dear father."

"They are dragging me away from her
— there, — there ! — that horrid gulf — save
me, Mary, save me!" and he cringed
closer towards the terrified girl.

"Father, dear father!" she said, stoop
ing over him, "you are dreaming!"

"It was a. fearful dream!" repeated
the dying man, catching the word, and
as if his wandering ideas had been re
called by the sound of his daughter's
voice, he faintly endeavored to return the
pressure of her hand, and almost inaudi-
bly whispered: "kiss me again, Mary,
darling!"

She leant closer to him, and as her
cheek was pressed upon his damp, cold
forehead, he murmured a faint — "May
God protect you ! "

And with the blessing on his lips, he
died.

CHAPTER IX.

A PLEASANT EVENING PARTY.

After dinner the gentlemen had re
turned to the drawing-room, and Lizzy
Ross had contrived to draw Rochefort
into a little tete-a-tete, in the enjoyment
of which Tom Crosbie regarded them
with no very pleasant countenance.

"And so, Miss Ross," said Gerald,
"you never were in love?"

" What a question ! to be sure I was —
I cried for an hour when I was only six
years old, because my cousin Charlie bit
the head off a little .gingerbread sweet
heart I'h ad!"

"But seriously" —

"Oh! I can do nothing 'seriously.'"

"I understood you to say that you
never loved any one ? "

" Oh!" said Tom Crosbie to himself.

" I never saw any one worth wasting a
second thought upon," said Lizzy, knowing

perfectly well that Tom was listening
to every word, but not pretending to take
the slightest notice of him.

"Hum!" said Tom, '* flattering, that!"

"You cannot expect to escape much
longer," said Rochefort, smiling; "your
beauty will soon attract a crowd of" —

"Fools," said Lizzy; "no, Mr. Roche-
fort, people generally like their opposites,
and as I 'm a fool myself, I should prefer
a steady, sensible, quiet lover, such, for
instance, as you."

"Charming!" said ,Tom to himself,
"agreeable in the extreme! delightful
modesty! anything else, I wonder?"

"I trust sincerely, Miss Ross," said
Gerald, " that you may find such a one
as will make you happy;" and he was
rising from his chair.

"You are going to leave me?" said
Lizzy, with a most provoking look.

"Oh! no," said Tom, still to himself!
" Oh ! no, I hope not — I hope he '11 stay
there for a week! Why don't you kiss
him? you ought to — oh! yes, put your
arms round his neck and kiss him — do
now — why not ? "

"Oh! Crosbie," said Gerald, for the
first time seeing him, "I was just going
to look for you."

"Of course you were!*' said Tom,
"and so was Miss Ross, I suppose?"

"No, indeed," said Lizzy, coolly, "I
was trying to keep Mr. Rochefort here."

"I'm delighted you have taken such
a fancy to him," said Tom, sarcastically;
" 1 hope it 's mutual — I hope it is ! "

" Indeed, I hope so," said Lizzy, with
a sly glance at Rochefort.

"Why, what on earth can you be
talking about?" said Gerald, looking with
astonishment at his angry friend:

"He's afraid we're going to run away
with each other," said Lizzy, laughing.

"Oh! no," said Tom, "you never saw a
man worth wasting a second thought upon !
you never loved any one but your little
gingerbread sweetheart ! you would n't
like a fool, you should have a 'steady,
sensible, quiet lover,' like" —

"Tom Crosbie!" said Lizzy, and off
she ran, laughing merrily.

After a short time, Mr. Crosbie suffered
himself to be restored to his senses and

AND HIS FRIENDS

his good humor, and then Gerald took his
leave, which gives me an opportunity of
closing the chapter.

CHAPTER X.

AN EPISODE.

Let us go back to the old house in the
Liberty, and see what is going on there
now, or if anything extraordinary has
happened there since we left it.

"Boy!" cried a loud voice from the
mside of the house.

" Lord have mercy on us ! " exclaimed
Denny, " How in the world did he come
in unknownst to me — comin', sir!" and
in he went, closing the door after him as
Quickly as he could.

A man, apparently about forty years
of age, as far as could be seen through
the disguise of a large cloak which he
wore, stood at the farthest extremity of
the hall awaiting him. His figure was
tall, straight, and powerful, as he stood
erect, with folded arms, leaning against
the banisters, but his face was almost
entirely concealed ; a large fur collar per
mitting but occasional glimpses of it to be
seen.

" Good mornin', sir ! " said Denny, en
deavoring to assume a carelessness which
he did not feel — "it's a pleasant mornin'
for walkin', sir."

" So. much the better," said the gen
tleman, if he was a gentleman, "for you
are about to walk."

"I'm not sorry for that same," said
Denny.

"Could you contrive to hold your
tongue for half a moment, while I give
you your commands ? " said the stranger,
tharply.

"I'll do my best," said Denny.

"Well, then, you know where Mr.
Franks lives?"

"Be my soul,! if walkin' up and down
the door two or three hours of an evenin'
'ud make me know it, I ought to be able
to find my way by this time" —

" Silence, fool ! and listen to me."

"Yes, sir."

"You had better not interrupt me
again," said the gentleman, sternly.

" No, sir," said Denny, " I won't say a
word."

"Listen to me then."

"I'm lis'nin', sir."

"Take this letter" —

"Yes, sir."

"Silence! I say."

"Mum's the word," said Denny.

"Take this letter, and go at once to
Mr. Franks'"—

" I '11 go this minnit, sir."

" Will you hold your tongue?"

"Amn't I houldin' it?" said "Denny.

"See Mr. Franks himself, and give it
into his own hand" —

"But if he's out, sir,"

"Then wait until you see him" —

"But if he sends down word that he
won't see me?"

"Psha! no matter how you do it, give
him the letter, and be sure you bring the
answer safe" —

"But if I get no answer?"

"Tell me what he says."

"An' if he says nothin'?"

"Confound the boy! Do as I desire
you. Lose no time."

"I won't be while you'd be sayin*
thrapstick ! "

"Take care you keep that letter safe."

" I thought you bid me give it to Mis-
ther Franks ? "

"So I did, you stupid scoundrel."

" An' now you bid me keep it."

" Was there ever such a brute ? Be
gone this instant ! "

" Are you goin' to stop here ? " asked
Denny.

"You'll find me here when you retuin,"
said the stranger, and he ascended the
stairs.

" May be you think I'm not wide awake
for you ! " said Denny to himself, as he
disappeared — "may be you think I don't
know what you're about! but I'll soon
let you know what's what." And with
this very intelligible assurance? he left the
house, and pursued his journey to the
opposite side of the city, giving an occa
sional skip now and then when something

TOM CROSBIE

very pleasant seemed to strike his fancy,
and' onca. or twice repeating aloud : " I '11
soon let you know what's what! I'm
wide awake! I'm up to snuff! walls
has ears, and so have I ! "

With similarly elegant and equally
comprehensible ejaculations, which seem
ed to afford him infinite delight.

CHAPTER XI.

A MORNING OF SORROW.

Jessie Franks, with the assistance of
her soubrette, had given the last finishing
touch to her toilet for the morning, and
was just on the point of proceeding from
her dressing-room to the drawing-room,
when her father's voice, loudly calling her
name, was heard upon the stairs.

"Jessie! Jes-s«<?/" shouted the old
gentleman, "do you intend to stay up
there forever?"

"Not quite, papa," said Jessie, laugh
ing, as she issued from the room, looking
like — like herself, and that's the highest
compliment could be paid her.

"I wish," said Mr. Franks, "that no
such things as silks and ribbons had ever
been invented; keeping women two or
three hours opposite a glass, grinning,
and smirking, and arranging their fiddle-
faddles!"

Now, it is quite clear that Mr. Franks,
when he uttered this wish, had not as yet
cast his eyes upon his daughter ; for if he
had, and could then have expressed him
self in such a manner, he must have lost
the use of his senses. Never, since silks,
and ribbons, and muslins, made their
appearance in the world, to distract the
brains of French milliners, and occupy
the thoughts of lovely women ; never had
they formed a more perfect ensemble —
never imparted more grace to beauty,
than that morning on the person of Jes
sie Franks^

I deny altogether that beauty is " when
unadorned adorned the most." There is
as much difference between a pretty

woman well- dressed and a pretty woman
^7/-dressed, as between the comparative
merits of a lobster under the same cir
cumstances. The simile is not a very
beautiful one, I must acknowledge, but
as there is a "lady" in both cases, it is
not quite so inappropriate as it may at
first appear.

But Jessie was well-dressed. What
she wore I'm not going to tell you,
because, in the first place, I don't know,
and secondly — stop! there need be no
better reason than the first — but she cer
tainly was well-dressed; and that's quite
enough for me to say on the subject.

Yes, she certainly was, and when she
followed her father into the drawing-room,
and when he turned round and beheld
her in all the laughing beauty that high
health and happiness could give her, he
forgot his contempt for silks and ribbons,
and gazing upon her with pride and love,
kissed her fondly.

"Ah, you jade!" said Mr. Franks,
when he had taken a long look at her,
"no wonder you should wish to stay
opposite your looking-glass — you won't
see such a picture anywhere else in a
hurry!"

" Very good, papa ! very well indeed,"
said Jessie, laughing, "that's the prettiest
compliment I have heard these six months
— I declare you are growing quite lover-
like!"

"And you are growing more saucy
every day — twist a compliment out of that
if you can!"

" I 'm afraid I can't," said Jessie ; " but
why did you call me ? "

" Because I wanted you, Miss ; sit
down, and you shall hear."

They sat down together, and for some
moments Mr. Franks remained silent.
He seemed to be .thinking of something
that brought up unpleasant recollections,
for his brow was clouded, and once or
twice he muttered, "Poor child! poor
child ! why did he take her away ? "

At length he said abruptly: "Jessie,
do you remember Mary Trevor ? "

Ah! where was now the happy smile
'that but a moment before played upon
her lip? Where was the joyous light
that bhone in her dark blue eye ? Gone

AND HIS FRIENDS.

— subdued, as if by magic. Not a trace
remained; but a quiver followed the
smile upon the lip, and a tear trembled
in the eye. /

"I do, father," she answered; "oh!
ves, I do indeed — poor Mary ! "

"Aye! poor child, poor child!" said
Mr. Franks ; " why did he take her from
us?"

"It was cruel of him, father — was it
not?"

"He's a villain!" cried Mr. Franks,
sternly. And then he added in a milder
voice, "I wish I knew where to find
them."

" Would you bring Mary back, papa ? "
Jessie demanded anxiously.

"I would, my child, I would," said Mr.
Franks, "if her father would let her
come."

"But they may have left Dublin," said
Jessie: "and it is long since we heard
anything of them."

"It is, child, it is a long time; six
months I think, and then he was ill" —

"And you refused to see him;" said
Jessie, reproachfully.

" I did, like an unfeeling old rascal ! I
did; I never even asked where he lived."

"That was not like yow, father!"

"Not like me! Who else was it like?
Who else could have been brute enough
to act so ? Who else would have refused
to help him when he was ill — starving,
perhaps? Not like me! Yes, it was just
like me"—

"Well, dear father, it is not too late" —

"How do you know that?" said Mr.
Franks, sharply — "how can you tell,
girl?"

" I hope you will yet be in time," Jes
sie began.

"Hope!" said her father, "pshaw!
never hope that any good can come of
harshness to a fellow creature in distress."

"But you can still relieve him, father,
and bring Mary back."

• "I tell you, girl, it is too late — Ifeelii
is too late ! " said Mr. Franks, impres
sively.

As he said the last words, a servant
entered the room, and told Jessie that an
old woman waited below to speak with
her.

"Old woman !" said Mr. Franks, "what
old woman ? "

"I don't know, sir," answered the ser
vant; "but she says her business is with
Miss Jessie, and that she must speak to
herself."

"Must! "said Mr. Franks; "humph!
old women d — d impudent! Send her
about her business ! "

"Now, papa! what on earth is the
matter with you?" said Jessie, laying her
hand upon his shoulder; "this woman's
business may be of consequence you
know" —

"Well, off with you then," said her
father, "and don't be keeping her waiting
there all day I "

Having said which, he drew his chair
closer to the fire, and began poking it
vigorously.

Jessie left the room, but she had been
scarcely a moment absent when she
returned, with her face deathly pale, and
her looks expressing fear and horror.

"He is dead!" she said, falling almost
powerless upon a chair.

" Who?" cried her father, springing
from his seat

"Who is dead?"

"Mr. Trevor."

"God of heaven!" cried Mr. Franks,
leaning against a table for support —
"dead?"

"Yes," father," said Jessie, "he died
last night."*

" Did I not tell you it was too late ? "
said Mr. Franks, looking fearfully in his
dauo-hter's face — I knew it — I felt it!
But where did it happen? How, when,
who told you?"

"That old woman, father" —

Before she could speak another word,
he had hurried from the room and rushed
breathless down stairs; but the woman
was gone ; she had told her sad tidings,
and she was gone.

"What is to be done ?" said Mr. Franks,
returning to the room; "where is poor
Mary ? Is she with him ?"

" She is, father — alone with him!" and
Jessie trembled.

"Oh, my God? my God!" cried Mr.
Franks, "why did I refuse to see him ? I
have his death to answer for ! he was dying

TOM CROSBIE

and I refused to see him; where is he,
Jessie— where is poor Mary? "

She told him the address the woman
had given her, and in a few minutes they
were on their way together to the house
of mourning.

CHAPTER XII.

MARY TREVOR.

With the blessing- upon his lips, he
died! Yes; and they were alone togeth
er — alone in the solemn silence of the
night — the living child and the dead
father. Tearless, and mute, and almost
as death-like as the cold corpse before her,
Mary stood beside the bed, and gazed in
tently upon the fixed and marble fea
tures. She could not weep, she could
not pray; agony, deep, despairing agony,
had dried up the fountains of her heart,
and she stood there, silent and immovable,
as if her own spirit had departed with
the soul that was now before its God.

And poor Mary ! she sat beside the
bed, covering her eyes with her hands,
and weeping bitterly. She thought over
the sad events that her father, with his
dying breath, had related ; she thought of
the melancholy fate of her mother — the
mother whom she had scarcely known —
and when she remembered her own deso
lation, she almost wished that she too had
died, and not been left to struggle through
the world alone and friendless. It, was
an impious wish ; but what hope had life
for her ? None. The poorest beggar in
the street was not so desolate. She had
not one tie on earth — not one. Not a
home to turn to — not a living being to
call a friend — not one amongst the mil
lions, in the wide world, to look to for pity
or consolation.

But she had a friend in heaven, who
had not forsaken her — ONE who, in his
unerring wisdom, had taken her earthly
father from her, that he, the Father of
the fatherless, might show his mercy and
boundless love to the homeless being
whose sole faith was in him !

HIS spirit upheld her now in the hour
of trial, and as again she knelt beside the
deathbed, and raised her voice in prayer,
she felt his presence in that lonely cham
ber, and was comforted.

The creaking of the door, as it was cau
tiously opened, at length disturbed her,
and rising from her knees, she perceived
that it was the old woman who was en
tering.

" God be praised ! I believe he's asleep
still," said the kind old creature.

He was indeed ! but it was the " sleep
that knows no breaking;" and poor Mary's
only answer was a silent motion of her
arm towards the bed.

"Glory be to God!" exclaimed the old
woman, starting back in horror, and cross
ing herself devoutly — "he's dead!"

Mary was still silent, but the voice of
the old woman fell kindly on her ear, and
drawing near her she laid her head upon
her shoulder, and wept bitterly.

"Don't alanna," said the old nurse ten
derly, while the tears came into her own
eyes, "don't cry, Miss Mary, asthore ; it's
glad you ought to be this mornin', instead
of breaking your heart that way; sure
'twould be a happy day for its if we were
like him this minnit, sleepin' with the
saints in heaven ! Don't cry, darlin', don't
now; if he wasn't fit to die, God wouldn't
take him ; do n't a-gra-gal machree ; — it 's
a sore sight to see you frettin' away
your heart that way" —

"Oh! he's dead," cried Mary, in a bro
ken voice ; " he's dead, Nancy, my father
is dead!"

"He is, darlin', he is," said the old
woman; "but though he's lyin' there on
that bed before you, cold and stiff, the
angels are makin' a bed for his soul in
heaven, where he '11 sleep in glory for ever
and ever." And again she crossed her
self devoutly.

"Nancy," said Mary, laying hold of her
arm, and looking piteously in her face, "I
am alone in the wide world this morning."

"No, Miss Mary, avourneen," said the
old woman, speaking impressively, "God
never forsakes the orphan and the widow,
and mark my words, he'll bring friends
about you before long. An' sure," con
tinued she, taking Mary's hand, and press-

AND HIS FRIENDS.

ing it warmly in her own, "sure, my poor
child, you'll never want a friend nor a
home to come to, so long as the Lord
laves me my health and a roof above my
head; it's only a poor offer to one like you,
Miss Mary, achorra, but it comes from
the heart, an" that 's better than if it was
richer without a welcome."

" Oh ! it is, it is indeed," said Mary ; but
she could say no more, for the kindness
of the poor old woman, at such a time,
when she believed she was without a
friend in the world, came upon her so
overpoweringly that she could not speak
one word of thanks.

At length, however, and by degrees,
she became more composed, and was
able to converse with some degree of
calmness upon the subject of her father's
death, and the hopeless nature of her
own prospects for exven the immediate fu
ture. The few shillings remaining out of
the trifle she had received for her labor
the preceding night, was the entire of
her worldly wealth. Not even the poor
furniture of that humble room belonged to
her, and the wretched clothes she wore
were the only ones she had. What was to
become of her ? The body of her lather
lay there before her eyes, and she could
not on earth command a sum sufficient
for its burial, not even to procure a coffin.

Jessie Franks! Oh, why had she not
thought of her before? The generous-
hearted playmate of her infancy; surely
she would not remember the conduct of
her dead father, but would give her aid
at once — perhaps come to her. There
was comfort in the thought, and hope
springing up afresh in her bosom, she
soon began to experience a calmer state
of feeling, and at length suffered old
Nancy to prevail upon her to lie down
and take an hour or two of rest.

The old woman then busied herself
about the room, and called up her daugh
ter to assist her in laying out the corpse,
so that when Mary, after some little rest,
arose, she found everything arranged as
well as the circumstances would admit

The bed was smoothed down, and cov-
vcred over with a clean white sheet, be
neath which the outline of the dead man's
limbs appeared, but nought else was to be
3

seen, for the woman had concealed even
the face from her view, lest the ghastly
features should terrify her when she
awoke.

The shutters were still half closed, but
the window had been opened a little to
admit the air, and it now streamed in,
fresh and invigorating. The simple fur
niture was carefully dusted down, and
ranged in its accustomed places. A
cheerful fire burned on the hearth, and
beside it stood a small earthen tea-pot,
which the old woman had placed there
to keep its contents warm and ready for
her when she should awake. Everything
had been done that kindness could sug
gest, and when poor Mary looked around
the room, and at the bed, and saw how
carefully all had been arranged to save
her feelings, she smiled faintly, and
pressed the old woman's hand in silence.

"Now, Miss Mary," said Nancy, " sit
down there, near the fire, and take a cup
of the tay, darlin'. It '11 do you all the
good in life ; it 's the finest thing in the
w6rld to raise the spirits."

And while she spoke, she poured a cup
from the tea-pot, and brought it to her.

"There now," she continued, when
Mary had swallowed it, for the poor girl
was really glad of the refreshment, "you'll
be soon as well as ever ; there 's nothin'
in life like the tay, when anything is press
ing on the heart" And she busied her
self in filling out a second cup.

By this time the morning was far ad
vanced, and Mary thought it late enough
to send her sad message to Jessie Franks.
Accordingly she now despatched the old
woman, little thinking what a pang her
melancholy news would cause.

And, oh! how anxiously she watched
for her return — how slowly the moments
seemed to pass until she should learn
what tidings she would bring. She knew
that, a few months before, Mr. Franks
had refused to see her father, though
even at that time they were suffering pov
erty and distress ; but then she remem
bered how great had been the wrongs
which had caused his estrangement; she
remembered, too, that for years he had
been all that the fondest father could
have been to her — that Jessie had been

TOM CROSBIE.

a kind and tender sister — and she could
not now believe that they would turn
aside from her in her desolation.

At length, with a beating heart, she
heard the old woman's step upon the
stairs, and in a moment after, all her
doubts were at an end.

" You saw her, Nancy ! "

" I did, Miss ; the blessin' of God, and
mine, upon her!"

" And she will come to me ? "

" She will, God love her ! Did n't I tell
you you'd soon have friends?"

And the kind-hearted old woman al
most cried, in her exultation.

" But what, what did she say ? " asked
Mary, tremulously.

" Not a word, Miss Mary — not a word.
Her heart was too full for speech; but tit
thousand tongues couldn't say as much as
the one look she gave. She made a sign
to me to tell her all, and when she heard
it, I thought she'd have fainted at my
feet, but she motioned me to come back
at once, and that she would be after me."

Scarcely had she time to conclude when
a carriage drove rapidly to the door, and
in a moment after, Mary and Jessie were
clasped in each others arms.

Mr. Franks himself remained below*
until the girls' meeting should be over,
and while he did so he learned from old
Nancy every particular of what had occur
red since the time when Mary and her
father had first come to live there.

At length, however, he ascended, and
when he entered the room where the
dead man lay, he found the two girls sit
ting hand in hand together be'side the
bed, and both weeping bitterly. For a
moment he stood unperceived within the
door, but when he looked round the mis
erable apartment where his former friend
had breathed his last, and when he
thought that there his gentle Mary had
spent so many hours of misery, he strug
gled in vain to hide his feelings, but
pressed his hands upon his forehead and
wept aloud.

Mary heard the sounds, and forgetting
for the moment her own grief, rose from
the bedside and came towards him.

The old man clasped her to his bosom,
and kissed her passionately.

"I used to call you father," she said
faintly, " but now I have no father."

"You have, Mary, you have,'' said Mr.
Franks, earnestly; "I'll be your father
again, and Jessie will be your sister, as
long as we live."

" My father is dead ! " said Mary, pite-
ously.

"And / might have saved him," ex
claimed Mr. Franks; "oh! don't reproach
me, Mary; I never thought it would
have come to this. I acted like an inhu
man old rascal, but indeed, indeed, I nev
er thought he was dying ! "

"Your name was almost the last word
he spoke," said Mary.

" Was it — was it ? " exclaimed Mr.
Franks; "poor Trevor! Oh! why did I
refuse to see him ? "

"He spoke of all your kindness," con
tinued Mary, " and blamed himself alone
that you had deserted him?"

" I was an unfeeling brute !" exclaimed
Mr. Franks, vehemently, "to refuse to
see him, if it were only for your sake."

" Look here ! " said Mary ; and leading
Mr. Franks towards the bed, she drew the
covering from the face of the corpse —
" Would you know him ? "

" Oh, God ! " cried the old man, in hor
ror, " What a fearful change ! "

"Mary," said Jessie, taking her by the
hand, and drawing her away from the ap
palling sight, " Mary, it was the will of
God!"

Vain were all the efforts of Mr. Franks
and his daughter to induce her to return
with them even for a few hours. She
persisted in her determination to remain
beside the body of her father to the last,
and though Mr. Franks used every argu
ment he could think of to get her away
during the preparation for the funeral, he
was at length forced to yield to her wishes,
and suffer her to remain.

Jessie, however, insisted upon staying
with her, to share her melancholy task,
and Mr. Franks at length departed alone
to perform the last act of kindness to him
by whom his friendship had been so ill
rewarded.

The next morning he followed the re
mains of Mr. Trevor to the grave; and
the same evening the almost broken heart-

AND HIS FRIENDS.

ed daughter returned to the home where
she had been once so happy.

CHAPTER XIII.

MEDITATIONS — A LOVERS' QUARREL — AND

A CONFIDENCE.

But how had Mr. Dennis Connor sped
on his errand? If the truth must be
told, he had not sped at all. Quite the
reverse. At first, indeed, when he set
out, he had traveled quick enough, but
according as he drew nearer his destina
tion, his speed relaxed by degrees, until
at length he came to a dead stop.

Having thus brought his soliloquy to a
satisfactory termination, Mr. Connor re
turned his pipe to his pocket, rose from
his seat on the steps, and giving himself
a few good shakes to restore the circula
tion of his blood, set off as fast as he
could towards Denzille street

He had but a short distance to go, his
present destination being in the immediate
neighborhood of bis recent resting-place,
and it was not more than eleven o'clock
when he arrived at the door of Mrs. Tay
lor's boarding-house.

Biddy was performing the last act of
servitude in that establishment, by polish
ing the brass face of the knocker with
a piece of extremely greasy shammoy
leather, which, in that particular, bore no
slight resemblance to her own counte
nance, the latter beautifully illustrating
the fact that she was doomed to procure
her livelihood by ' the sweat of her
brow.'

To her Mr. Connor addressed himself
politely, and in manner following : —

" Tell me, my purty girl, is Misther
TomCrosbie 'ithin?"

Now Biddy was not a pretty girl — un
less, indeed, red hair surmounting a face
fifty times as red, and eyes not particu
larly remarkable for the unanimity of
their glances, constitute claims to beauty ;
but her own opinion, notwithstanding, led
her to consider herself something between

a Houri and the Venus de Medicis ; and
consequently, although the personal ap
pearance of Mr. Connor was not such as
to excite her admiration in any great de
gree, she was disposed to regard him with
an eye of favor, owing to the compliment
ary style in which he had addressed her.
Therefore, her answer was more civil than
it otherwise would have been to an indi
vidual who looked so suspiciously like a
mendicant; and smiling a greasy smile,
she said:

"Stand outside the door, poor boy,
and I'll see." Saying which she disap
peared.

But had she heard the remarks which
Mr. Connor suffered to escape his lips as
he looked after her, her honey would
forthwith have been changed to gall.
It was this — I regret to record it — but it
was this : " Musha then, the divle take the
consate out of your red sconce ! "

It was not a polite speech by any
means, nor could even Biddy's vanity have
construed it into a piece of delicate flat
tery if she had heard it ; but, fortunately,
she did not, or she would not have gone
into the drawing-room as she went up
stairs, to regard her features with so
much self-complacency in the looking-
glass.

Tom Crosbie was still in his bed-room.
He was shaving, and while the lower part
of his face was embedded in a thick
coating of soap lather, and his nose was
held firmly between the finger and the
thumb of his left hand, his right plied
the razor in a series of dexterous manoeu
vres about his chin, and he thus pursued
his meditations.

" Money must be had," said Tom to
himself, " that's poz ! I'm regularly done
up, and the only ' blunt" in my possession
is the edge of this confounded razor.
Now a man without money has no more
business in society than — than what ? —
than a woman under the same circum
stances, and a woman without money is
— more than my beard is with this d — d
razor — likely to be cut. Therefore money
must be had — where, I don't know — how,
I don't care — but it mmt come! Can't
take it from Dismal — he's a friend; a
man should never borrow from a friend.

TOM CROSBIE

Must turn school-boy again, and endeavor
to fly a ' kite' — that's the only plan I see.
Let me think now. Whose name would
look well upon a bit of stiff for fifty ?
Goodman's? Oh, yes, indeed, don't I
wish I might get it! Brown's? Brown
would n't accept a bill for his father. Win
ter's? Winter would think the Tories
had set me at him to ruin him for life, if
I hinted at such a thing. Well, then,
there's Morris — he'd do it in a minute;
but, poor old fellow! he's often hard
up enough himself, and I would n't like
to ask him. Stop, though, I don't see
why I shouldn't ask Dismal — the thing-
is not like borrowing money — it won't
cost him a farthing, and I will pay it
when it 's due. By Jove ! that 'ill do ; I'll
give Mrs. Taylor her money, cut the con
cern, take quiet lodgings, go to church
every Sunday, look out for a rich widow
— no, hang it, I'll never marry; that
Lizzy Ross is enough to make a man
pitch the sexto the devil; her conduct
last night was shameful, scandalous, dis
graceful! I'll never speak to her again
as long as I live ; I hate her, I detest her,
hush ! that 's her voice singing." And
running to the door just as he was, he
opened it, and called out at the top of his
voice, " I'll be ' down in five minutes,
Lizzy, to take a second in that duett!"
Then back again he came to the dressing-
table, and went on ; "I just said that to
vex her — I have n't a notion of going-
down — where the devil is that suspender?
I would n't go if she came up' and asked
me — confound this waistcoat ! I put my
arm through the wrong hole — I never
saw a girl I disliked so much as that ! —
theje she goes again — la, la, la le, li, lo,
lu, tee, ti, to, turn ! " And he ran up
and down a few notes in imitation of her
voice. " I detest singing, I can't bear it
— stop!

" She never blamed him, never ! "

I wish she wouldn't be squalling that way
— it's a beautiful song though. D — n
this coat, it wrinkles most confoundedly
about the waist — listen ! she did that in
sweet style — beautiful, beautiful!" And
opening the door again, he cried out : —

" Ah ! can't you wait till I go down,
Lizzy — I'll not be half a dozen seconds ! "
Then back again with him to give his
whiskers another touch. " I never looked
so frightful in my life," he continued, sur
veying his handsome face and fine person
in the glass. " I'm not fit to be seen —
I made myself look so purposely, to vex
that girl ! I'll just walk into the drawing-
room in this kind of a way" — and he
folded his arms and knit his brows into
a stern frown, "and I won't open my
lips — not as much as to say good morn
ing — I'm the very fellow that can do
that sort of thing when I take it into my
head— I'll be as stiff as a Lord Chancel
lor — if she speaks to me I'll just say, in
this kind of tone, you know, hem! a —
' Miss Ross, I have the honor to wish you
a — a — hem — joy of — of your conquest
last night, madam ! ' That '11 surprise her
a bit, I suspect; but here's some one
coming up stairs — a message from her,
I'll engage — ah! there's the knock at
the door — now for it — hem! Who's
there?"

"It's me, sir — Biddy."

"Oh! you may just say I'm engaged at
present — I have something else to think
of besides singing just now."

" It's not about singing your wanting,"
began Biddy.

" Never mind," said Tom — " can't at
tend to any woman's nonsense at pres
ent!"

"It's not a woman, sir; it's a boy
that 's wanting you."

" Boy ! " cried Tom, " why the devil
did n't you say so ? — who is he ? "

" I do n't know, sir ; he's a poor look-
in' crayture, but he's very civil spoken."

" Did he kiss you ? " said Tom.

"Eh then, isn't it a shame for you,
Misther Crosbie, to be always gettin' on
in that fashion ? " simpered Biddy, wip
ing her lips in her apron, as if she had
reason to consider the question a prelude
to something else ; " I never see the likes
of you ! "

" Well," said Tom, " go down and tell
him, whoever he is, that I'll see him in
a few minutes."

And while Biddy returned with his an
swer to Mr. Connor, he proceeded to the

AND HIS FRIENDS.

drawing-room to t show Lizzy Ross how
he could do 'that sort of thing,' when
ever he took it into his head.

She was sitting at the piano, with her
back towards him as he entered, and
though she knew very well that he was
there, she pretended not to take the least
notice of him, but continued to play,
while she sang the following words to a
simple air.

The flower that I loved is withered,
Its leaves and its fragrance shed,
The destroyer has breathed upon it —

Mary is dead!

In my ear her loved voice never
Shall breathe in its silver tone,
Its music, is hushed forevern
The light of my heart is gone.

Like the spring-time's changing beauties,

As bright, and as quickly fled,

Were my dreams for the hidden future —

Mary is dead!

My fair-haired bride has left me
Deserted and alone,
Death hath of hope bereft me,
The light of my heart is gone.

Yet she smiles through the troubled dream-
ings

That come to my widow'd bed,
And I weep, for it soothes my sorrow —

Mary is dead!

I weep when the morning wakes me,
With the light of the golden sun,
For mine is a life of darkness;
The light of my heart is gone.

She sang it with taste and feeling, and
Tom Crosbie, while he listened to her,
forgot his frown and his folded arms, but
stood silent and attentive until she had
concluded. Then, indeed, he remem
bered with what intentions he had come,
and stalking across the room like a bash
aw, he flung himself at full length upon
a sofa, and commenced playing a game
of thumbs.

" Oh, are you there ? " said Lizzy, care
lessly.

Tom looked wicked.

" You seem in a cheerful humor," said
Lizzy.

Tom bit his jip.

" Do n't eat it all I beg of you," said
Lizzy ; " pray leave a little bit."

Tom turned his face to the wall.

" Pleasant creature," said Lizzy.

Tom kicked his boot against the sofa.

" Do that again," said Lizzy; ''it's so
sensible ! "

Tom did do it again.

" Another little kick ! " said Lizzy.

Tom let his foot fall to the ground.

" Wouldn't you like to kick it a little
more?" said Lizzy.

Tom let his other foot fall to the
ground.

" Perhaps you'd wish for your night
cap ? " said Lizzy.

Tom turned round upon the sofa.

" Shall I sing you a lullaby ! " said
Lizzy, quite seriously.

" Can't stand it much longer," said Tom
to himself.

" Shall I ? " repeated Lizzy.

"No!" cried Tom, in a tremendous
voice ; " go, sing one for your new con
quest; he likes that sort of thing, perhaps
—I don't"

"Oh! you have found your voice,
have you ? " said Lizzy, laughing.

" Yes, Madam," said Tom, " I have
found my voice, and let me make use of
it to tell you, Madam, that it will be some
time before you shall hear it again."

"Another silent 6t? " said Lizzy.

" You better not laugh at me, Madam,"
said Tom, rising from the sofa, and fold
ing his arms as he had intended, to show
her how he could do "that sort of thing."

" I'm not a — a — hem — not to be trifled
with, I can tell you!"

" You would n't murder me ? " said
Lizzy, with a look of mock terror, shrink
ing back from him.

" No, Madam," said Tom, looking pis
tols and twelve paces — " but I might
murder somebody else — somebody else,
Madam ; perhaps I may make myself un
derstood!" And he marched across the
room.

" Oh ! don't come near me," said
Lizzy ; " I'm afraid you '11 bite me ! "

Tom certainly looked as if he could
have done so, but he did n't though ; he
only bit his own lip.

" Good morning, Madam ! " he said,
moving towards the door, and bowing
with an air of wonderful dignity,'as he
thought — " I'm going, Madam — I have
the honor to wish you good morning! "

TOM CROSBIE

" Good morning! " said Lizzy, with a
deep courtesy, and with the gravest pos
sible countenance, while with difficulty
she restrained herself from laughing out
right — " pray don 't kill either yourself or
any one else until I see you again ! "

" Oh ! you " exclaimed Tom, leav
ing a blank to be filled up according to
her fancy, and rushing out of the room.

" Tom ! " said Lizzy. -

" Did you speak, Madam ? " said Tom,
turning round.

" You would n't shake hands with me ? "
said Lizzy, coaxingly.

"No!" said Tom, coming back into
the room, " certainly not ! "

" You would n't ? "

" I'd die first ! " said Tom, putting his
hands behind his back.

"I wouldn't let you kiss me!" said
Lizzy.

" Perhaps," said Tom, " if Mr. Roche-
fort was here, you might let him!"

" I would n't let you, at all events," said
Lizzy, drawing nearer to him.

"Oh! " said Tom, "you know /never
kissed you ! "

" You never shall again," said Lizzy.

"Shan't I?"

« No— never!"

" I would if I liked," said Tom.

" I defy you ! — I 'd scream if you did."

" You would ? "

" Yes — certainly."

" Scream now, then ! " cried Tom, and
catching her round the waist, he kissed
her half a dozen times — " there ! ".

" That 's very nice conduct, upon my
word ! " said a voice proceeding from
some one stationed at the door, *and the
detected pair, looking around, beheld a
lady in a morning costume, holding a
wet and shivering poodle in her arms,
sailing majestically into the room.

" My aunt!" exclaimed Lizzy.

"Miss Burke, by all that's unlucky!"
cried Tom, " I 'm off — good morning, la
dies!" And he was making his exit as
expeditiously as possible.

" Stop, sir ! " cried Miss Burke.

"Another time, my dear Madam," said
Tom, " 1 shall be most happy — at present,
particular business — "

" I desire you to remain ! " said Miss

Burke, looking like the goddess of chas
tity, if that divinity could be supposed to
wear a remarkably soiled blue cotton
wrapper.

" Can 't 'pon honor! " said Tom — " go
ing to a friend's death-bed — last gasp —
mind wandering, and all that sort of
thing — can't stop a moment — good morn
ing!"

And before the shocked lady could
utter another word, he had disappear
ed.

Meanwhile, Mr. Connor had been wait
ing in the hall, for Biddy had admitted
him on her return, and there Tom now
found him, keeping at bay Mrs. O'Dogh-
erty's pug-dog, which seemed particularly
anxious to taste him.

" Denny the cute ! by all that's mis
chievous ! " cried Tom, the moment he
beheld him ; " why, you ragged rascal,
what brings yotrhere ? what evil deed is
in the wind ? "

" That's it! " said Denny — "that's the
very thing I come about — I'm afeard
some evil deed is in the wind, Misther
Tom."

"Well," said Tom, "out with it at
once."

" Faix, then," said Denny, "scratching
his head, " it's asier said than done."

" What the deuce is it ? " asked Tom.

" Mischief," said Denny, " that 's what
it is ; an' schamin' an' all soorts of vaga-
bone thricks — divle a less ! "

"But what is it about?"

"About nothin' good then; but the
height of everythin' that's bad."

" Well, go on."

Denny looked cautiously about the
hall, and thought he saw the door of the
back parlor slightly open. It must have
been a mistake though, for there was no
body in that room but Mrs. Taylor, and
every one knows that ladies in her line of
life never listen ; they could n't think of
such a thing! Denny seemed to enter
tain a different opinion, however; and,
pointing with his thumb towards the door,
he whispered : " There 's the laste taste
in life of that door open, Misther Tom,
an ' it 's a saycret I have to tell ! "

There was something in the air of the
strange being before him, so different

AND HIS FRIENDS.

from his usual careless manner, that Tom
Crosbie at once perceived he had some
cause, real or imaginary, for seeking his
counsel ; and being impressed with the
absurd idea that the hall of a boarding-
house was not exactly the fittest place for
carrying on a conversation upon any pri
vate subject, he desired Denny to follow
him up stairs to his own bed-room, where,
as he took the precaution of locking the
floor, and speaking during the remainder
of the interview in a low voice, I cannot
yet record what occurred. I only know
that when, after an hour or so, Denny
took his departure, and Tom came back
again to the drawing-room, his brow was
more thoughtful than it had been for
many a long month before.

CHAPTER XIV.

SECRET SERVICE.

Slowly enough, and with no very
cheerful anticipations of the reception he
should meet with, Denny Connor re
traced his way to the Liberty. He had
' done the deed' — not exactly such a one
asMacbeth's, but one which, nevertheless,
he feared might bring down as evil re
sults upon his head. The letter had
been opened ! It was too late to recall
what he had done, even if he felt in
clined, which, truth to tell, he certainly
did not ; and all that remained for him to
do was to invent the most probable lie,
and to put the best face he could upon
the matter. The former, if there was
any justice in the character which Tom
Crosbie had given -him, was a point of
but little difficulty; but the latter, unless
he could put a better face than his own on
the matter, was likely to prove a puzzle —
for a more lugubrious expression no vis
age ever wore, than did lu's as he jour
neyed homeward.

Twenty times he had almost determin
ed not to return at all ; but his not doing
so would have destroyed at once all
the plans which between Tom Cros

bie and himself had just been so ably
concocted, and he therefore resolved,
come what would, to go boldly back, and
bear the brunt of the anger he was sure
to encounter, like a man.

"Sure," said he to himself, "he can't
ait me, any how, an' if the worst come
to the worst, may be he might come oft
second best afther all! If he isn't the
divle — Lord betune us an' harm — we '11
tache him a thrifle before he's much
oulder — we '11 let him know what 's what
— yis, be my sowl, cakes an' ale we'll
give him. I'm a fool; oh! yis, of coorse
I am — I couldn't find out a saycret at
all — I couldn't listen through a kay hole
— oh, no ! is it me ? I can do nothin' — not
a ha'p'orth — it'll be a while afore I ait
keerogues* for my supper, for all that,
I 'm thinking."

With this and sundry similar addresses
of a like nature, to himself, he contrived
to screw his courage to the sticking point
sufficiently to enable him, as soon as he
had reached the end of his journey, to
enter the little wicket in the wall with
some degree of boldness. It was opened
the instant he knocked, though, as on the
occasion of Gerald's visit, no one appear
ed; but this caused him no surprise,
knowing that this was done by means of
a spring, and a wire communicating with
the house.

Up the steps he walked, and into the
hall. No sign of any one. He opened
three or four doors and peeped into the
rooms ; but still no person appeared ; and
he was on the point of ascending the
stairs, when his name was called out in a
loud and angry voice.

" Why, then, where are you at all, sir ? "
demanded Denny, endeavoring to ascertain
whence the voice proceeded.

"Here!" was the reply, and turning
short round, Denny percc-ived the same
man who had given him the letter, stand
ing close beside him.

" Lord save us," cried Denny with a
start, " did you come out of the wall ? "

"What has detained you?" asked the
man, sharply, without appearing to notice
his confusion.

'The large house beetles.

TOM CROSBIE

"He was out, sir," answered Denny, af
ter a little hesitation.

"Who was out?"

" Why, Misther Franks, of coorse."

"Then you did not see him? "

"No, sir."

" Give me the letter."

Denny looked confused.

" Give me the letter, I say."

"The letther, sir ? "

"Yes, give it to me."

"Do you want it back, sir ! "

" Yes, I say — where is it ? "

" I thought I was to give it to Misther
Franks ? "

" You say you did not see him — "

"But may be I might see him in the
evenin'."

" Cease this trifling, boy, and give me
the letter," said the man, harshly.

" ' Twould be hard for me," said
Denny.

" What ? " exclaimed the man, " where
is it?"

" Lord knows," said Denny, boldly.

" What have you done with it?" cried
the man, furiously.

"I done nothin' with it," said Denny.

"Where is it, then?"

"Lost!" answered Denny, with as
careless an air as he could assume.

"Lost!" repeated the man, starting
back.

"Yes, lost! "said Denny; "I hope it
was nothiu' partikler was in it."

"Scoundrel! " cried the man, sternly,
and seizing Denny by the throat — "you
have done something with that letter."

"Oh, Lord!" exclaimed Denny, inno
cently ; " is it me ? — what in the world
would I do with it ? "

"Mark me, boy ! if I find that you have
been trifling with me, you shall pay dear
ly for it — can you read ? "

" I wish I could," said Denny.

"Will you swear that you have not
that letter still in your possession ? "

"Be this book! " began Denny, taking
hold of the bannisters.

" Psha ! " exclaimed the man ; " follow
me up stairs."

And he ascended to the room where
Rochefort's interview with the usurer had
taken place.

The papers no longer occupied the ta
ble, and the few wretched articles of fur
niture were the only things to be seen.
Denny had never been inside the door of
this room before, and he now glanced
around him suspiciously. The stranger
threw himself down in the old arm-chair,
and motioned him to come nearer.

"You have a mother?" he began.

" I have, sir," answered Denny ; " an'
two brothers an' a little sisther." <

"I need not ask if they be poor? "

" They are," said Denny, feelingly —
"God help 'em."

''You shall have means to make them
rich," said the stranger, "if you serve me
faithfully — can I trust you ? "

" I 'd do anything to earn an honest pen
ny," said Denny, evasively.

"Have you a father?" asked the
stranger.

" He 's dead, sir," said Denny, in a low
voice, " the Lord have mercy on him ! "

"And your family have no support but
you?"

"Barrin' the thrille my mother aims
for doin' a day's work here and there,"
said Denny, "an' that's but little."

"She shall have plenty if I can but
trust you — can I do so?"

"Did I ever do anythin' to make you
doubt me since I came here ? " said Den
ny, still evasively.

" Never, untiito-day."

" An' why to-day, sir ? "

"That letter," said the man.

"Sure I could n't help losing it," said
Denny, innocently.

" Well," said the stranger, " I will be
lieve you; but if you should play me
false, you shall suffer dearly. Answer
me, yes, or no — may I trust you ? "

Denny hesitated a moment, but remem
bering that now was his only chance to
enable him to follow out his plans, he
answered boldly —

" You may, sir."

"Then listen. You know the gentle
man who was here a few nights since —
Mr. Rochefort?"

"Yis, sir."

" Well, attend now to what I am about
to tell you. For reasons which it is
not necessary that you should know, I

AND HIS FRIENDS.

have a deep interest in that young man.
I overheard your conversation the other
night, and it is probable he may take you
as his servant If he does, you will have
an opportunity of providing me with a
knowledge of his actions which would be
of great use to me, and to him. Are
you willing to undertake this?"

"Is it to be a spy?" demanded Den
ny-

"Call it what you will," said the
stranger, "but it will be for his benefit as
well as mine."

"An" is that what you call being faith
ful ? " said Denny, indignantly.

" You say I can trust you," said the
stranger, " and this js the service I re
quire."

" Why, then, a dirty service it is," said
Denny, stoutly, forgetting in his indigna
tion the object he had in view.

"What!" cried the stranger, starting
from his seat, "have you been trifling
with me ? "

" Is it me, sir ? " said Denny, recollect
ing himself, and at once determining to
undertake the office, with the slight dif
ference of watching the actions of his
present employer, instead of his future
master — "Not myself, in troth; I was
only thinkin' that may be some people
would n't considher it a very dacent soort
of employment; but I'll do it with a
heart and a half — I'H watch him like a
cat watchin' a mouse — there isn't a turn
of his hand, from the time he gets up in
the mornin' till he goes to bed at night,
that I won 't have my eye on."

" So far so good," said the man, " and
now you must commence at once. But
stay ! you have known him before ?"

" No more than the child unborn," said
Denny, " barrin' to see him once or
twice ;" and he told the lie stoutly.

" Well, then, you shall have another
letter to take to Mr. Franks this evening;
take better care of it than of the last;
fortunately whoever finds it can make
nothing of it, there was not even a di
rection upon it. Mr. Rochefort will prob-
.ably be there. If he is, watch him, and
tell him you have been turned away
from this for speaking to him the other
night — you understand me? He will

be sure to take you into his service at
once, for, even as it is, he is anxious to
learn my secrets, and he thinks you can
discover them. Now, mark me ! you must
say that you have lived with me for some
time, and that I am a rich old miser ; that
I live here alone, never going out except
on business, never seeing a human being
but those who come to look for money,
and that your business was merely to
watch the house in my absence, and run
of messages now and then. You must nev
er divulge anything of what you may have
seen or heard since you came here, but
you may invent as many lies as you please,
the greater the better — concerning me.
Do you understand ? "

" It 's plain as the nose on my face ! "
said Denny. And beyond all doubt that
was plain enough.

"You may leave me me now," said
the stranger, " when I want you I will
call."

Denny left the room, and as he went
down stairs he muttered to himself —

"Oh! you desaivin' ould villain of the
world — you tundherin' ould Turk of a
vagabone !— - 1 'm up to your thricks — I '11
watch, never fear, but it's yourself, an'
nobody else — you imke me rich-Lyott
give my mother plinty! I wouldn't
touch your goold, now that I know you,
not if I was starvin'; an* I'd sooner see
my mother sthretched lyin' dead before
me, than she should handle a fardin' or a
half a fardin' of the wages of villainy and
desate. If we 're poor we 're honest, an'
where 's the man, woman, or child, that
could point a finger at aither of us this
minit, an' say we ever done an ill turn ?
That's more than he can say, the dishi-
lute ould haythen — it is."

And poor Denny, with his tattered
garments hanging about his emaciated
iin>bs, walked through the hall as proudly
as a lord, and with feelings in his bosom
'that the proudest lord of them all might
have envied.

Above an hour elapsed before the
stranger again called him, and when he
re-entered the room, he found him still
sitting in the arm-chair exactly as he had
left him.

"I have changed my mind," he said as

TOM CROSBIE

soon as Denny appeared ; "I shall not
write to Mr. Franks until to-morrow. But
see Mr. Rochefort to-night if possible, and
let me know in the morning how you
have succeeded."

"Am I to sleep here to-night, sir?"
asked Denny.

" No, I shall not want ydu. To-mor
row early you will find me here — mean
while be cautious." And so saying he
motioned Denny to depart.

In five minutes Denny was in the
street, cutting all manner of capers as he
journeyed rapidly towards his own poor
home, and rejoicing mightily at the suc
cessful termination to the affair of the
stolen letter.

"He's not the divle afther all," saM
he to himself, " or I could n't desaive him
that way ; but faix he '& a near relation,
I 'm thinkin'."

And having arrived at this satisfactory
conclusion, and his own door at the same
time, he disappeared.

CHAPTER XV.

A FORMER GENERATION.

For the better understanding of my
story, past and to come, it is necessary
that I should now go backwards some
years, — in adopting which course I am
influenced by the wish to emulate as far as
possible the example of such of my fair
readers as have arrived at the shady side
of five-and-twenty, beyond which age I
never knew a woman to advance, until
she was at least fifty; when she might
perhaps whisper to you in confidence that
she was " really growing quite old ; thir
ty-five her next birth-day—only think ! "

The father of Gerald Rochefort was one
of those human postscripts which affec
tionate ladies occasionally add to the let
ter of their husband's misfortunes — a
younger son! and consequently became,
as younger sons generally do, in Ireland
at least, a sort of living shuttlecock to
be knocked about according to the ca

prices of Fate, Fortune, Cupid, or any
other of the deities, celestial or infernal,
who should feel disposed to amuse them
selves with a game of battledoor.

Jack, however, was a reckless, madcap
sort of fellow, who set them all at defi
ance, and cared very little how the world
went, so long as he had his brace of
pointers in the kennel, a good neck-or-
nothing fencer in the stable, the free use
of his limbs, a light heart, and a few
pounds just to keep the devil out of his
pockets. These he always contrived to
have while his father lived, for he was the
favorite, and his elder brother resided en
tirely in Dublin; having been left an
independent fertune by his mother, to
whose apron-string, during her life-time,
he had formed an interesting appendage.

For this brother, old Mr. Rochefort en
tertained feelings of the most supreme
contempt, looking upon him as a sort of
Molly-go-easy, who, by some unaccount
able mistake of nature, had come into the
world a boy instead of a girl, and who
was destined for no other end but to
bring down disgrace and shame upon a
race who for centuries had been distin
guished as the boldest horsemen, the best
shots, and the hardest drinkers in the
country.

Therefore, while the father lived, Paul
kept himself at a civil distance, and Jack's
sway over all things at home was undis
puted. But one fine frosty night, after a
day's snipe shooting, and six bottles of
port, the old gentleman went quietly
down the slide of life, at the end of which
he found himself in another world.

That was crack the first of Fate's bat
tledoor for poor shuttlecock Jack, and he
was soon taught to feel that the house of
his boyhood was no longer the place for
him.

On the morning of the funeral, Paul
arrived from Dublin, bringing with him
three or four long visaged elders of some
sect or other, into the doctrines of which
he had been duly initiated during his so
journ in the metropolis; and wearing
upon his features a ludicrous expression
of assumed woe, which but ill-concealed
his inward satisfaction at the event which
had left him sole master of the

AND HIS FRIENDS.

nrhere, only a few days before, his very
name had been proscribed.

He was many years older than Jack,
and now took upon himself an air of au
thority which the latter, under any cir
cumstances, could but ill brook, and which
in his present state of feelings drove him
almost to distraction. Fifty times in the
course of that day he was on the point
of declaring open war wkh him ; and
nothing but the sad nature of the occa
sion protected the godly elders who had
accompanied him, from being thrown bod
ily out of the window, when once or twice
they attempted to interfere in some of the
old servant's arrangements.

Thus, some months passed away after
his father's death, and Jack was every
day becoming more and more wretched,
until at length he determined to remain
no longer in a place which had been turned
into a complete conventicle, where villainy
masqueraded in the garb of sanctity, and
where from morning till night no other
sounds were to be heard but the perpet
ual twang of some spiritual mockery.

Old Mr. Rochefort, with all his love for
Jack, had left him entirely penniless. In
deed, even if he had not died without
making a will, it would have been all the
same, for he had nothing to leave. The
property, such as it was, and that was
not very much, for it had been dwindling
away through successive generations, all
went to the elder son; and though the
old man, for the last fifteen years, had
been talking of retrenching, the usual
improvidence of a southern squire had
always prevented him from doing so, and
no provision whatever had been made
for the poor shuttlecock.

As to Jack himself, he had never given
the matter a thought It seemed to him
as if things were to go on forever in the
same unbroken line, and the only glance
he ever gave towards the future was in
anticipation of some distant necessity for
putting into effect the reiterated plan of
his father, which he was in the habit of
listening to at the conclusion of each day's
third bottle. " Jack, my boy, you must
catch an heiress ! "

Jack Rochefort could endure no longer
the wretched life of the last few months,

and at length determined to leave the
home which until lately had been so
happy, and poor and inexperienced as he
was, to go forth into the world, and " seek
his fortune."

And he did so. One summer's night,
while his brother with his "goodly fel
lowship" were enjoying the cheerful
pleasures of a "love feast," he left the
house, careless whither his steps might
lead him, and carrying with him the
entire of his worldly wealth — ten pounds
in his pocket, and a stout blackthorn in,
his hand. But he had youth, high health,
and a dauntless spirit, and the morrow
had scarce a care for him.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE JOURNEY, AND A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.

Jack walked gallantly on during the
entire night, and when the sun rose he
had left his home many a long mile be
hind him. His steps were bent towards
Dublin, for thither he had at length made
up his mind to go, although what he
should do when he got there was a ques
tion which would have puzzled him to
answer; and by the time that people
were astir in the streets he had entered
Cork. Here he paused to rest himself
for a few hours, and to procure refresh
ment, after which he again started for
ward and pursued his road towards Kil
kenny ; but he began to feel fatigued and
lonely after he had walked some miles,
and was therefore glad when he was
overtaken by a coach with a vacant seat
beside the guard.

He slept that night at Kilkenny, and
the next morning, refreshed by his rest,
and in high spirits, took his place on the
top of the day mail, and started with a
light heart for Dublin.

On they rattled through the long sum
mer's day, the guard enlivening the way
with many a funny tale, and when they
entered Dublin at night and Jack remem-

TOM CROSBIE

bered he was alone there, without home
or friend, he felt sad for the first time.

Everywhere around him busy crowds
were passing to and fro — bright lights
burned in the shops; and though many
of those who passed along the streets
were homeless and friendless as himself,
he thought he seemed like an isolated
being amongst them. But it was only a
passing gloom ; his was not the heart of
which c-are could long keep possession,
and when the coach at length arrived at
its journey's end, he jumped from its
roof with as light a heart and as little
thought for the morrow, as ever carried
an Irishman swimmingly through his mis
fortunes.

"What's the best hotel in town?" de
manded Jack of the guard, as boldly as
if the bank belonged to him.

"There's a dozen of 'em," answered
the man, smiling.

"But the best?" said Jack, with a
proper emphasis on the superlative.

"They're all best!" said the guard,
drily, " there 's nothing but best hotels in
Dublin, sir."

"How do you make that out?" asked
Jack.

"Why, sir, every one tells you his
own's the best — there 's Morrison's, that 's
the best — Gresham's is the best — Holmes'
is the best — Daly's is the best — bad loock
to me but they 're all the best."

" Well," said Jack, laughing, " I can 't
conveniently live in them all at once, so
which is the nearest ? "

"There's one beyantin Dawson sthreet,
sir, as good as any of 'em."

" Chamber-maids pretty ? " asked Jack.

"There 's worse in the north ! " said the
guard laconically, "and here's a jingle
that'll take you there in no time."

When Jack's vehicle first stopped at
the door, the noise of the wheels brought
out some half dozen waiters on the steps,
but when those gentry satisfied themselves
that it was only a jingle, and that the
individual who alighted from it was
accompanied by no baggage whatever,
they speedily retreated back again.

Jack, however, ascended the steps and
entered the hall amongst them as impu
dently as if he had come in a carriage

and four with half a dozen patent pack
ing cases, and a valet in the rumble ; and
there was an air about him which soon
made them unanimously agree that it
would be quite as well for them to be civil.

"Let a bed be prepared for me in a
couple of hours," said Jack, walking
through the midst of them, without con
descending to look at any one in partic
ular — "and — what can I have for sup
per?"

"Supper, sir?" answered an agile
waiter, stepping forward with a grand
flourish of his napkin, and duly impressed
by Jack's dashing air, " every thing, sir!"

"Then let me have everything!" com
manded Jack, who knew quite enough of
the world to be aware that a hotel "eve
rything" very frequently dwindles down
to a kidney or a mutton chop, "and the
sooner it is ready the better, for I'm as
hungry as a hawk ! "

" Yes, sir," said the waiter, (waiters
seldom say anything but "yes, sir,") and
it is probable he would have given the
same reply had he been ordered to fur
nish a roasted elephant or a fricandcau
of humming birds.

" Coffee-room, sir ! " said another of the
laconic race, throwing open the door of
that apartment, with a graceful bow.

" Slippers, sir ! " urged a third, follow
ing him into the room with a pair of the
last mentioned articles, of which he was
anything but sorry to avail himself, for
his feet were painful and swollen from the
effects of his walk, and the long confine
ment on the coach so soon succeeding it.

" Any one stopping here ? " asked Jack
carelessly.

" Yes, sir," said the waiter, " the house
is nearly full — No. 17 is sitting at the
table in the corner — old gentleman with
gray hair, sir."

"I see," said Jack, turning his head
towards the individual alluded to, "but
No. 17 is not the entire house, I suppose ? "

"Some gentlemen out, sir — some in
bed," said the waiter, "No. 17 always
sits in the coffee-room — strange old gen
tleman, sir."

"Indeed," said Jack, thinking of some
thing else at the same moment.

"Yes, sir," said the waiter; and then

AND HIS FRIENDS.

lie added confidentially, "always takes
•welch rabbit for supper, sir."

" John ! " called out No. 1 7, looking up
from the newspaper he had been perus
ing for the last two hours.

"Yes, sir!" Answered the waiter, ad
vancing toward him at a pace which wait
ers only can attain.

" Who is that gentleman ? " demanded
No. 17, gruffly, in a voice which Jack
could hear distinctly.

"One Jack Rochefort, at your service,"
said the latter, rising from his seat, and
addressing the old gentleman with a low
bow.

No. 1 7 seemed a little disconcerted for
a moment, but then, after muttering a
few words to himself, he rose, and return
ing Jack's salutation, said shortly, " Sir,
your most obedient"

Now, for the first time, Jack had an
opportunity of obtaining a proper view
of his new acquaintance — for acquaintance
he at once determined he should be, at
least for the remainder of the evening, or
unless some other person should happen
to come in, whose appearance might give
promise of a more congenial companion
ship.

He was a tall old man, with a consid
erable bend in his shoulders, and some
thing decidedly gentlemanly in his entire
person, H-is long white hair was combed
back from his temples, and hung down
behind in a scrupulously tied queue, ex
posing the whole of his high, broad fore
head, and giving him that venerable
appearance which very rarely distinguishes
the old gentlemen of the present day.
He wore a suit of black clothes, the
pantaloons made to button tight above the
ancles, and terminating in silk stockings
and slight low-quartered shoes with large
silver buckles, which displayed to the
best 'advantage a pair of legs and feet
which had once been the envy of many
a knock-kneed beau, and which even still
were remarkable for their symmetry. A
laro-e frill of spotless cambric protruded
from the breast of his shirt, and contrast
ed well with the deep black of his other
garments, while their sable hue was still
further relieved by a large bunch of gold
seals which hung suspended midway on

his thigh, by a long scarlet ribbon. He
was still handsome, and must have been
eminently so in his youth; but time had
pressed his iron fingers on his featuivs
for upwards of sixty years, and had left
traces there of care, and hard trials that
he had passed through in his life, giving
to his face occasionally an expression of
unwonted severity.

The impression his appearance made
upon Jack was decidedly favorable, for
after looking at him for a moment, he
bowed with an air of much respect, and
said:

"Pray excusd me, sir, for my self-
introduction, but as I overheard you ask
ing the waiter who I was, I thought
perhaps I could give you better informa
tion on the subject than he, and so I took
the liberty" —

"Don't say a word about it, I beg,
interrupted the old gentleman; "it is I
who should apologize for my impertinent
curiosity ; but will you do me the favor to
join me here, as I thinly I heard you
order supper; John, lay this table for
two, and let me have a welch rabbit ! "

" Yes, sir," said the waiter, in answer
to the last; and

"Most happy," said Jack, in answer to
the foregoing part of this speech; and
while the former left the room to make
preparations for the supper, the latter
seated himself at the opposite side of the
table to the old gentleman.

"Arrived to-night, I believe?" said
No. 17, addressing Jack.

"Only a few minutes since," said the
latter.

From the country, I presume ? "
Yes."

' What part, may I ask ? "
Cork."

Indeed! I have some old friends
there — the county, I suppose ? "

"Yes, near Mallow."

"I beg your pardon, but your name
escaped me when you mentioned it just
now — I fear you will think me too intru
sive" —

"Oh, by no means," said Jack, who
had no wish whatever to conceal his
name, — "Rochefort was the one I men
tioned."

TOM CROSBIE

"Rochefort! any relation of Gerald
Eochefortof Fox Rock?"

" Only his son," said Jack, smiling.

"His son! God bless my soul! Give
me your hand, my boy ! My oldest friend
in the world. I have not heard from him
since I have been in England — is he
well?"

And the old gentleman shook Jack
heartily by the hand.

But the latter, while he returned the
pressure, remained silent for a moment,
for the mention of Ms father's name
recalled all the events of the last few
months most painfully, and when at
length he answered, it was with a broken
voice :

"He is dead, sir."

"Dead," cried the old gentleman,
seeming greatly shocked — " I am deeply
grieved to hear it — how long since?"

"Six months, sir," answered Jack, sor
rowfully.

" My God ! and I never heard a word
of it — you are not the eldest son ? "

"No," said Jack, with a slight smile,
" I am the cadet."

The old gentleman looked earnestly at
him for a moment, muttering once or
twice, "how very like," and then speak
ing with great kindness, said —

"I trust you will not think me actuated
by any motive of impertinent or idle curi
osity, if I ask you for what purpose you
have come up to town."

Jack hesitated for a moment before he
answered, but there was something in
the manner of the stranger which inspired
a feeling of confidence; and within the
next half hour he had told him his entire
story from beginning to end.

The old man listened attentively, and
with evident interest to the recital, and
when Jack had concluded, he sat for sev
eral moments without speaking a word.
At length he said —

"And you have left your home, without
any settled purpose in view, and literally
without the means of existence beyond
the next few days ? "

" That is exactly the fact," said Jack.

" Unwise, to say the least of it," said
the old man ; " but what are your present
plans?"

"To tell the truth," said Jack, "I have
formed none whatever ; but I intend to
dream of something to-night."

" You talk lightly on the subject," said
the old man, gravely; "but you surely
cannot feel as lightly."

And he spoke the truth ; for Jack, with
all his assumed carelessness, was begin
ning to feel painfully the hopelessness of
his situation. Still he preserved his light-
hearted bearing, however, and answered
gaily—

"Oh, sufficient for the day is the
evil thereof. Let to-morrow provide for
itself — who knows what it may bring
forth?"

"Who, indeed! "said the old gentle
man, seriously, "have you no friends in
Dublin?"

"If I have," said Jack, "it must be
without my knowledge, I don't know a
soul h^re."

" Then why did you come 3 "

"Faith," said Jack, "that's a puzzler!
I might as well come here as anywhere
else, that 's the only reason I can give."

"A very wild one," said the old man,
shaking his head. "I am afraid, young
man, you have acted very foolishly."

"Well," said Jack, "it's done now, and
it can 't be helped."

"But it ought not to have been done,"
said the old man, positively, "you should
have remained at home."

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Jack,
"but upon that matter you must allow
me to have my own opinion."

" Well," said the old man, after a mo
ment's thought, "perhaps it is all for the
best ; but what can you do here amongst
strangers ? "

"Catch an heiress!" said Jack, laugh
ing, "if I can."

"Aye, if! " said the. old gentleman with
a slight smile; "it's no such easy matter,
I can tell you; particularly without the
means of keeping up appearances, even
for a few weeks — but seriously, have you
not fixed your mind upon any plan for
the future?"

"Seriously, then," said Jack, and he
looked serious too, "I know no more what
is to become of me than the child unborn."

The old man continued silent for some

AND HIS FRIENDS.

time, as if debating something in his own
mind, and then looking steadily at Jack
for a few seconds, his doubts, whatever
they were, seemed to be at an end, and
he said:

"Listen to me, young man. Your
father and I were old friends many years
before you were born. He did me a
kindness once, which I never had an
opportunity to repay, and for his sake, if
it was nothing else, I would be glad to
serve you. Forgive me for what I am
about to say to you, but I cannot help
thinking that you have acted very impru
dently in leaving your home on what I
must call such a wild-goose chase. If
your brother treated you ever so unkind
ly, he was still your brother, and your
senior by several years; you should at
least have warned him of your intention,
and sought his advice as to your future
course. It was nothing short of madness
to set out on such an expedition, so totally
unprovided as you were, either with
money or experience; and there are
plenty in the world who might apply
even a harsher term to your conduct.
But I am not one of these, I see it in its
true light — the thoughtless waywardness
of a high-spirited boy, unused to control,
and uninfluenced by sober reason. I
have in my time myself learned many a
bitter lesson from the world, and I would
save you, if possible, from similar trials
to those I have experienced; but you are
becoming impatient" —

"Say, rather, deeply grateful for your
kindness to a stranger," said Jack, sensi
bly touched by the softness of the old
man's manner, and throwing aside at
once the careless air he had assumed.

The old gentleman seemed much pleas
ed, and continued:

"I am an old bachelor, and have but
few relations in the world — fewer still
for whom I have any reason to feel affec
tion, and I live almost alone. My home
is in a quiet part of the country, with but
little attractions in the way of amuse
ment, for a young man who has been
used to a stirring life ; but such as it is,
I offer it to you until you can strike out

some plan for your future life. You must
have no scruples in accepting it; I owe
a deep debt of gratitude to your poor
father, which any slight service I can
render you can but ill repay ; and I will
only add that you shall find a hearty
welcome, and that F will do all in my
power to make you happy."

Jack listened with feelings in which
surprise gave place to gratitude for such
kindness coming from a stranger whom
he had never seen before, and when the
old gentleman had concluded, he said —

"I am utterly unable to thank you, sir,
at least in words, but believe me I feel
your kindness deeply, and" —

"Then you will come with me?" said
the old man interrupting him before he
could finish what he was about to say.

" I would cheerfully, but " —

" But what ? " said the old gentleman,
quickly.

"I could not think of intruding on a
stranger."

"A stranger," repeated the old man;
"you must not consider me as such. I
tell you your father was my oldest friend,
and I already feel as warm an interest in
you as if I knew you from your birth."

"I can only feel the more grateful,"
said Jack; "but I have to fight for for
tune with the world, and as the first blow
is half the battle, the sooner it is made
the better — I must make some struggle
without loss of time."

"Well," said the old gentleman, smil
ing, "I like you all the better for that
determination ; but I must insist on your
coming home with me for a few days, at
all events, until we can think over what
is to be done."

Jack could scarcely hold out any longer
in his refusal, and so he said:

"As you are so good, sir, I shall thank
fully avail myself of your offer — but it
must be for a few days only."

" As long as you please," said the old
gentleman, cheerfully, "and as it's all
settled now, we will start to-morrow."

And so it was arranged.

Fortune was taking a hand at the bat-
tledoor there !

TOM CROSBIE

CHAPTER XVII. ,

CUPID AT THE BATTLEDOOR.

Next morning after breakfast they
started, Jack having recovered his high
spirits, and the old gentleman seeming
"unusually cheerful. Their road lay
through some of the most beautiful land
scape country in Ireland, for the home of
Jack's new friend was situated in the very
heart of the county of Wicklow; and as
they journeyed along, conversing gaily
together, fresh objects for wonder and
admiration met their eyes at every turn.

Many wild and beautiful spots called
forth Jack's admiration as they were
pointed out to him by his companion
while they journeyed along; indeed the
whole country through which they passed
presented an ever-varying succession of
lovely scenery ; and it was almost with a
feeling of disappointment he listened,
when about two hours after midday the
old gentleman pointed forward, and told
him that another mile would bring them
to their journey's end.

"You see yonder white house to the
left there, with the roof just peeping
above the trees ? " said he, directing Jack's
attention to the spot, as they reached the
brow of a small hill which, had previously
hidden it from view.

" Yes," said Jack, with an expression
of almost childish delight, leaning for
ward from the carriage — " what a lovely
scene."

And so it was. Winding along like a
silver serpent through the dark green
fields — now hidden for a moment by
groves of overhanging trees, now starting
forth from its sheltered bed amongst the
mountain valleys — a river flowed brightly
on — calmly and steadily where its waters
ran the deepest; bounding and leaping
from rock to rock where they stood to
impede its flow ; and careering along like
a laughing child, in its wild sport, over
the yellow shingles, reflecting the sun
beams, in the dazzling spray of many a
mimic waterfall, and wakening the echoes
with the fairy music of its ripplings as it
danced away through the hills, for miles.

Close bj its banks, a patch of meadow
land, smiling in all its summer beauty,
was spread like a rich carpet of green
and gold, and fringed around with thick
groves of beech, and fir, and poplars,
with their silver leaves. Sloping up from
the river's edge, a luxuriant lawn, sprink
led over with cows and sheep, stretched
away towards a little hill, on the brow of
which, and sheltered by a group of larger
trees, the house was built, and now stood
fully exposed to view, with the sun stream
ing brightly down on its white front, and
glancing back dazzlingly from the win
dows. It was in truth a lovely scene, and
so Jack once more repeated.

"The place is well enough," said the
old gentleman, carelessly, at the same
time appearing highly gratified, and speak
ing in a tone which plainly said he con
sidered there was no place in the world
to be at all compared to it.

" Most beautiful ! " said Jack, still lean
ing from the carriage window as they ap
proached nearer ; but this time the exclam
ation was not called forth altogether by
the beauties of the landscape — "most
beautiful, by heavens ! "

The old gentleman seemed quite de
lighted.

"Rather pretty, I think," said he.

"Lovely!" exclaimed Jack, in ecstasy.

"Looks well in this light," said the old
gentleman.

"Well!" cried Jack — "perfect! heav
enly!"

"Certainly is rather snug," said the
old gentleman, entertaining some ideas of
embracing Jack for the admiration h/3 be
stowed on his favorite spot — "the side
view is equally pretty."

" Coming towards us by all that 's
lovely ! " cried Jack.

"Eh? what?" said the old gentleman
— "why what are you talking about?"

"Waving a handkerchief!" said Jack;
and in an instant his hat was off, and
flourishing in the air.

" What are you about ? " said the old
gentleman, seizing him by the shoulder.

"Kissing hands, too!" continued Jack,
without taking the slightest notice of the
question.

" Oh ! he 's mad ! " said the old gentle-

AND HIS FRIENDS.

man, endeavoring to draw him in from
the window; "he must be mad! why,
he's kissing hands to that old beggar wo
man sitting at the road-side!"

" Who can she be ? " said Jack, without
even looking round.

" Nancy, the beggar woman, I tell
you," said the old gentleman.

" Angel," cried Jack, paying no at
tention whatever to the answer, and re
newing the flourishes of his hat.

" Are you mad ? " cried the old gentle
man, becoming really annoyed, and giving
Jack such a pull by the arm as induced
him to draw in his head to inquire what
was the matter.

" Are you mad ? " he repeated.

" I hope not," said Jack, laughing.
, " Then what do you act in. that way
for?"

" In what way ? " said Jack.

" Kissing hands to an old beggar wo
man."

" Beggar woman ! " cried Jack, " why,
my dear sir, but there she is again ! "
and out popped his head from the
window.

" This is really too bad," cried the old
gentleman, losing all patience, and calling
to the postillion to stop.

" She 's coming straight towards us,"
said Jack, drawing in his head and en
deavoring to open the door of the car
riage — " I wonder who she can be."

By this time the cause of all Jack's
exclamations of delight had arrived at a
point of the road where she became
visible to the eyes of the old gentleman,
who, the moment he beheld her, burst
into a hearty fit of laughter, and cried
out

" Why, it 's Kate, my niece."

" Your niece," repeated Jack — " what
will she think of me ? "

" Think you excessively polite, of
course," said the old gentleman, still
laughing — " what else can she think ? "

" What a fool I have been making my
self! " said Jack, as he opened the door
of the carriage, and assisted his com
panion to alight — " and here she is close
upon us now ! "

" Oh ! uncle, I have been watching for
you these three days," cried Kate, run-
4

ning up breathlessly, and throwing her
arms round the old man's neck, without
appearing to take the slightest notice of
Jack — " what can have detained you?"

" Business, my love," said the old gen
tleman, returning her embrace affection
ately, " and for once in my life I feel
thankful for the delay, as it has procured
me the happiness of this gentleman's
acquaintance." Then turning kindly to
Jack, he added, taking him by the hand,
" This is my niece, Mr. Rochefort — Kate,
my love, the son of my oldest friend."

" And one who is almost ashamed to
speak to you," said Jack, remembering
his absurd flourishes from the carriage
window ; " but I had no idea the plea
sure of meeting you was so near."

" Or you would not have behaved so
gallantly," said Kate, laughing: "well,
that speaks but little for your courage.
However, I am quite charmed by your
courtesy to a strange nymph, wandering
alone by the river's side, and so, in return
for all your graceful salutes — here is my
hand."

And she held it forward frankly and
with a winning kindness of manner

If Jack gave that hand a more tende*
squeeze than politeness renders necessary
on a first acquaintanceship ; and if Kate's
eyes and his met by accident ; and if he
stammered, and Kate blushed; and if
the same thing happened over and over
again twenty times that day ; and if Jack,
when they sat down to dinner, requested
the old gentleman to help him to a little
Kate, instead of turkey; and Kate held
down her head and poured catsup in the
salt-cellar instead of on her plate ; and if
he looked foolish, and she blushed fifty
times redder than ever when the old
gentleman asked them what they were
thinking of, they couldn't have helped it
on any account — Cupid was busy with
the battledoor tliat evening.

" What are you thinking of ? " said the
old gentleman, addressing Jack, as they
sat together over their wine after Kate
had left the room — "you have not
opened your lips once for the last ten
minutes."

" Sir ! " stammered Jack, " I beg your
pardon — I — did you speak ? "

TOM CROSBIE

" Why, you 've been in the clouds the
entire evening, man," said the old gentle
man, smiling : " one would think you
were bewitched."

" So I believe I am," said Jack, " that's
the truth of the matter."

" By what means?" asked the old gen
tleman.

" Kate," said Jack, instantly, without
knowing what he was saying.

For the first time the idea seemed to
strike the old man, and startling was the
sudden change that came over his features,
while he remained silent for the next few
minutes. His brow became clouded and
his lips firmly compressed; the entire ex
pression of his face being changed in an
instant from its cheerful look to one of
sternness and bitter thought. At length
it seemed to be passing away, and, turn
ing to Jack with something of his former
cheerfulness, he said:

" I must warn you against her witch
eries, my young friend."

" Sir ! " said Jack, never dreaming that
he had but just now mentioned her name,
and utterly unable to comprehend the
old man's meaning, " whom do you
speak of ? "

" Of Kate, to be sure," said the old
gentleman, quietly : " you say she has
bewitched you."

"Did I say that?" said Jack, looking
particularly foolish — " did I really say
that?"

" Yes, of course you did : why, you
must be dreaming."

" Something very like it, I believe,"
said Jack, smiling, " but see, there is

Miss , your niece, I mean, on the

lawn."

" Have I not mentioned her name,
then?" asked the old gentleman with an
air of surprise: " is it possible that I did
not mention the name ? "

" Quite possible, indeed, sir," said Jack,
laughing, "and more than that, I am
still ignorant even of your own."

" God bless my soul ! " said the old
gentleman, " how stupid I am"; but why
did you not ask me ? "

" 1 intended to have done so last
night," said Jack, " but I waited until
you should think fit to tell me."

" You have less curiosity than I have,
then," said the old gentleman ; " but niy
name — I dare say you have heard your
father mention it — is Herbert."

" I have, indeed," said Jack, " a thou
sand times. He was your second in a
duel,"—

" Aye," said the old man, hastily, and
seeming anxious to escape the subject —
" the same ; but we were speaking of
Kate, my niece," —

"Yes," said Jack, anxiously; "Miss
Herbert is walking on the lawn."

" Miss Herbert ! " repeated the old
gentleman — " who told you her name was
Herbert ? "

" I beg pardon," faltered Jack, as
tonished at the harsh manner in which
the question wxs asked, " I thought you
said — that is, I fancied — in fact, I thought,
perhaps, your names were both alike."

" You fancied wrong, then," said Mr.
Herbert, sharply, " her name is Austin."

" Oh! indeed — a sister's child, then?"

" No," said Mr. Herbert, sternly ; and
then, after a moment, recollecting him
self, — " that is, — yes — what am I think
ing of ? Of course she is — my niece —
her mother's name was Austin."

Jack did not notice the confusion of his
manner while saying this, for he was too
much occupied gazing from the window
at Kate playing with a pet lamb upon the
lawn; but after a moment's silence he
said:

" What a lovely evening! I should
like to take a ramble through the
grounds ; will you excuse me ? " And
rising from his chair before Mr. Herbert
could make any answer, he was about to
quit the room, when the latter laid his
hand upon his arm, and detained him,
saying:

" I would speak a few words to you
before you go;" and while Jack re
sumed his seat with anything but a con
tented manner, he continued:

" The warning I am about to give you
may be unnecessary; I hope sincerely
that it is; nay, you may even think it
impertinent; but I am an old man, Mr.
Rochefort, and have known too many of
the evils that spring from a misplaced at
tachment, not to endeavor to guard you

AND HIS FRIENDS.

against its dangers. I have noticed with
pain your admiration of my niece, and
fearing for its results, I throw aside all
false delicacy without a scruple, and tell
you, that any feeling warmer than friend
ship between y.ou can only end in un-
happiness to both. There are circum
stances which make it utterly impossible
that she could ever become your wife,
and so, remember — ' forewarned, fore
armed!'" And before Jack, who had
listened in silent wonder, could say one
word in reply, Mr. Herbert had quitted
the room abruptly.

" Pleasant little speech that ! " said
Jack to himself, rising to follow the old
gentleman's example — "there is some
mystery here which I must endeavor to
fathom; but, stay! what right have I
to pry into the Secrets of one who has
shown me such kindness ? I '11 leave this
to-morrow, and I wish to heaven I had
never come here. Yes, I'll certainly
leave this to-morrow."

But, unfortunately for his good inten
tions, just at this moment Kate bounded
across the lawn before the window, in full
chase of her truant pet; and in five
minutes afterwards Jack and she were
strolling arm-in-arm towards the river
side.

Cupid handled the battledoor briskly
that evening.

CHAPTER XVIII.

LOVE AND NONSENSE A MOONLIGHT

RAMBLE.

Kate Austin was beautiful — beautiful
in the superlative degree, according to
Jack's exclamation when he first beheld
her — and she knew it But, for that
matter, where is the woman that does not
know she is so? or where the one who
does not believe herself to be so, whether
she is or not? Nowhere. At least I
never happened to encounter such a
rara avis; and my opinion is, that the
ugliest woman in existence (and I think I
have the misery of knowing her,) con

siders herself a sort of second edition of
Euphrosyne, but infinitely the superior of
that goddess in grace and beauty.

Kate Austin, however, was indeed a
beautiful being. I must endeavor to
describe her, though I know full well the
sterility of my brain for such a purpose,
and feel, moreover, that descriptions of
the kind, let them be ever so exact and
life-like, invariably fail in conveying to any
one a correct idea of the subject from
which the sketch is taken. 1 must try,
however, and so, reader, throw your eye
over this picture, and make the best you
can of it.

She was tall — tall beyond woman's
usual stature — but her figure was cast in
perfection's mould; and it was perfect.
From the rounded contour of her glow
ing bust, to the arched instep of her tiny
foot, Michael Angelo himself could not
have traced a fault. Her head was
small, of that beautifully proportioned
outline which is seldom seen except
carved on some antique cameo, and set
by no " 'prentice hand" upon her proudly
curving neck. The forehead was broad,
lofty, and commanding, and shaded at
either side by braids of rich dark hair:

""Whose glossy black to shame might bring
The plumage of the raven's wing."

The nose was straight, and the thin nos
trils expanded with the least emotion;
the mouth was small, and when she
smiled wore an expression of enchanting
sweetness; but there was something
about the full arched lip which seemed as
if scorn would have been more natural
there than smiles, and betokening a high
and haughty spirit. The eyes were deep
hazel, large and lustrous — soft in their
repose, but when made to flash with ex
citement, whether of joy or anger, send
ing forth burning glances that almost
awakened fear — there was danger in
them, and few would have wished to
meet their looks a second time. In short,
she was by no means the sort of person
one would expect to see playing with a
pet lamb.

But she was playful, nevertheless —
sometimes. She could be, when she

TOM CROSBIE

liked, and that evening she did like ; her
dark spirit was slumbering, lulled to sleep
by the soft whisperings of a new-born
feeling; and the bright one filled its
place, and sparkled in her. eye, and sat
smiling on her parted lips. Then, indeed,
was she truly beautiful — a being seeming
formed for man to kneel down and wor
ship — a mortal woman, but still far less
of earth than heaven.

Yet was she one that few men would
have loved; a mystery that fewer still
would understand ; that, if the veil
which hid the workings of her heart,
even from herself, could have been lifted
for a moment, not one would have ven
tured to take to his bosom as a wife, or
as a friend.

But Jack Rochefort was no Edipus in
reading riddles of the heart, and to him
she seemed all perfection. He saw that
she was young and beautiful; he listened
to the music of her low soft voice ; he
thought that her eye glanced brighter
when he spoke of love; it was his first
temptation, and like any other penniless
gentleman under the same circumstances,
he capitulated forthwith, and yielded up
the only citadel an Irishman was ever
known to surrender without a struggle —
his heart.

It was all the fault of Cupid though ;
that sly, mischievous, lurking little villain
popped an arrow into the fortress before
a redoubt could be thrown up, and from
that moment the day was all his own.
But did he aim the same shaft at Kate ?
and was its flight directed as unerringly ?
Time, perhaps, will answer whether or
no ; but if her heart was pierced, a wo
man's tact enabled her to conceal the
wound — at any rate for the present.

Not so, however, with poor Jack ; it
was burning within Mm, and the flame
shot forth instantly, and flared away at a
rate that must soon have reduced him to
a metaphorical cinder, had he not been
insured in the "Hibernian" Life Office.

It was a lovely evening in May — the
twilight of a May evening is every whit
as witching a time as moonlight; the
thrush and blackbird whistled their sere
nades in the groves around them; the

wary plover whirled in rapid flight above
their heads, filling the air with its shrill
cry; the crows, with tired wings, flew
homewards, to rest after their day of
plunder; the timid hare started from the
long tufts of grass beneath their feet, and
sped away to seek another shelter; the
landrail cracked his hoarse call in the
meadows at every side about them; the
speckled trout sprung merrily at the
evening flies that floated down the stream,
unmindful of their ephemeral existence;
the ploughman whistled the air of some
ancient ditty, as he sat lazily upon the
back of one of his jaded horses, driving
them home after their day of labor; the
" watch-dog's honest bark " bayed many
a " deep-mouthed welcome " to their re
turning masters, from the yards of the
far-off farm-houses; and now and then
the sounds of a distant fife, or fiddle
scraped by the rude hand of some rustic
Paganini, came floating upon the light
breeze, and seemed to tell that happy
faces and contented hearts were no stran
gers to the poor peasant's homely hearth.

And twilight passed away, and the
sounds of life were hushed, and from the
windows of the far-off cabins single
specks of light glimmered brightly
through the thickening gloom; but still
Kate Austin and her lover loitered along
the river side.

Was that quite proper, ladies ? I fear
not; but it was all the fault of that little
urchin, Cupid.

" Let us return," said Kate at last,
" my uncle will be uneasy. It is grow
ing quite dark."

" But a few minutes longer," said Jack,
entreatingly — " see, the moon is rising
behind yonder trees — is it not beautiful ? "
And he gazed admiringly in his com
panion's face.

" I never knew that my face was the
moon, before," said Kate, laughing, and
turning aside her head.

" More beautiful to me than a thousand
moons," said Jack, passionately, " and
brighter than a whole heaven of stars ! "

" Very well, indeed ! " exclaimed Kate,
playfully, "you are improving rapidly."

It certainly was pretty well for a

AND HIS FRIENDS.

young gentleman whose education in that
line had been rather limited, and who
had never before made love to anything
higher than a gardener's daughter. But
if Demosthenes and Cicero, instead of
shutting themselves up amongst musty
books, to s,tudy, had wandered along a
river-side on a May evening, each arm-in
arm with some bewitching woman, their
elocutionary powers would have been
quickened into life much sooner than they
were ; and so it was with Jack — he made
speeches that night that would have de
fied a forum.

" The moon is far above the trees now,"
said Kate, after some time; "we must
remain here no longer — come." And
she turned towards the house.

" Look there," said Jack, pointing to a
dark, heavy cloud that sailed steadily on
wards above their heads ; " you see that
cloud; in another moment the moon,
which shines so brightly now, will be
hidden beneath its darkness : so is it with
man's life — one moment hope beams
dazzlingly upon us; the next, some dark
cloud passes over it and buries it within
its gloom."

" But it does pass," said Kate, softly,
" and hope shines forth again, all the
brighter for having been obscured. You
see, Mr. Rochefort, there is infection in
your poetry!" And she smiled win-
ningly in his face.

" Hope can never shine for me," said
Jack, in a tone that would have gone far
to reconcile him to the good graces of his
brother Paul and the 'saints,' "I have
no hope."

"What, none?"

" No," said Jack, " none, whatever."

" All gone, so soon ? " said Kate, turn
ing her large dark eyes full upon him.

" Aye ! " said Jack, " my only hope
worth living for was smothered in its
birth — I dare not cherish it! "

" And what might it have been ? "
asked Kate, archly; •'' 'tis a pity it should
have met so hard a fate."

" I dare not tell you," said Jack ; at
the same time feeling particularly anxious
to /do so as quickly as possible. '

" Dare not ? " repeated Kate ; " oh !

what a word from an Irishman to a lady !
Dare not tell the secret of your hope ! "
And the eyes were at their work again.

" The hope itself was daring," said
Jack.

" And yet you are afraid to tell it ? for
shame, coward ! "

And she withdrew her arm playfully
from his.

" It was this," began Jack, his boldness
considerably encouraged by her manner
—"shall I tell it?"

" Yes, if your courage does not fail
you!"

"But you may be angry?"

"What then? A woman's anger,
easily aroused, is soon appeased — you
need have no fear."

" What if it concerns you?"

Kate turned away her head for a mo
ment before she answered :

" The stronger reason for my curiosity
— proceed ! "

" What if it had been that I might
love you ? " said Jack boldly, pressing the
hand ,that she had replaced within his
arm.

" I could not prevent you," answered
Kate, after a moment's hesitation, and
still leaving her hand in his.

" But if I had hoped that you might
have loved me?" continued Jack, utterly
forgetful of Mr. Herbert's warning.

Kate made no answer.

" If this had been my hope ? " urged
Jack, anxiously.

" Good night," said Kate, withdrawing
her hand, for at that moment they
reached the door — "good night! we
have remained out too late " —

" You will not answer me ? " said Jack,
taking her hand once more. " Now, was
I not right in saying the hope was
daring?"

" Its daring has been dearly punished,"
said Kate, with one of her witching
smiles — " y >u smothered it, poor thing."

" You forgive me then?" said Jack.

" For what ? — having smothered it ? "

" No : for ever giving it birth."

" A most unnatural parent," said Kate,
laughing, " to smother your own offspring I
Do you know the consequences ? "

TOM CROSBIE

" I do," said Jack — " unhappiness and
misery ! "

" What if, to save you from such a
doom, I were to restore it to life?" asked
Kate, in a low voice, holding down her
head — " would you ever again become
its murderer ? "

" Never ! " exclaimed Jack, drawing her
towards him, and passing his arm round
her waist — " never ! It should be the
sun of my future life, shedding bright
ness on its darkest paths, and, through
all its changes, cherished within my in
most heart ! "

" Then let it live ! " said Kate, and,
springing from his arm, in a moment she
was out of sight

But Jack sprang after her, and before
she could pass through the side-door,
which she had just time to reach, he had
overtaken her.

" Leave me — leave me now ! " she said,
hurriedly, as he attempted to take her
hand — " this is ungenerous ! "

" Will you not bid me good night ? "
said Jack, reproachfully.

" Yes — there — good night ! " and she
held out her hand.

Jack took it, and pressed it fondly be
tween his own ; but that did not satisfy
him — he kissed it. He passed his arm
round her waist, and drew her towards
him; but he was still unsatisfied — there
was something else he wished for. Lov
ers are never satisfied.

" Kate," he said.

No answer.

"Kate!"

She turned her face towards him.

" Will you ? " began Jack.

"What?"

" Give me — "

"Well?"

« One—"

"What?"

"That!" said Jack, and before she
could do anything to prevent Mm, he had
snatched a kiss.

He could n't help it though. It was
all Cupid's doing — every bit of it

CHAPTER XIX.

No one can fall in love like an Irish
man, especially if he be penniless. Then,
fall is too quiet a word to express the
bounding speed with which it is accom
plished — he does it in a running jump;
takes a somerset, and tumbles over head
and ears into it while you'd be looking
about you. There is a quicksilver in his
composition, which rises far above sum
mer heat at the glance of a sparkling
eye ; a veni vidi vici sort of feeling in his
nature, which sweeps him along at the
mischief's own pace, the moment a wo
man's heart is to be conquered.

In this respect, Jack was a bright ex
ample of his countrymen ; he had tumbled
into love with Kate Austin; but the
wisdom of that musty piece of advice,
" look before you leap," had never formed
any part whatever of his philosophy, and,
consequently, when he had taken the
jump, he found himself in a strange
country, of which he knew nothing, and
where, if he did not look sharp about
him, he would be very likely to " miss
his tip."

Some days passed away, and, notwith
standing Mr. Herbert's warning, the lovers,
for such they may now be called, had be
come almost inseparable. They rode to
gether, walked together, sang together,
and, though last not least, looked at the
moon together.

But what was Mr. Herbert about all
this time? One would think, after the
warning he gave Jack, that he should not
have allowed Kate and him the oppor
tunities of being so much together. Per
haps he thought the warning itself would
have been quite sufficient. If he did,
his boasted experience of the world had
taught him but little knowledge of such

matters. However, be that as it may,
from the first day out, the subject was
never mentioned, and the lovers were left
to enjoy each other's society to their
heart's content.

That was very wrong of Mr. Herbert,
very shamefully wrong; that is, if there
really existed the impossibility which he
had spoken of, that Kate could never b^-

AND HIS FRIENDS.

come Jack's wife ; and, of course, if there
did not exist something of the kind, he
would scarcely have given such a warn
ing. However, there is no denying that
old bachelors do take queer freaks in
their heads occasionally, and perhaps this
was one of them. So Jack thought, at
all events, and upon that supposition he
acted ; at least such was the salvo he ap
plied to his conscience, whenever the
"still, small voice" of that impertinent
mentor whispered to him that he was do
ing wrong in making love to Kate.

" What harm can it be ? " said Jack to
himself — the very worst person, by the
bye, to whom he could have put the
question — " I love her, and she loves me,
and why should n't we hope to be as hap
py as any other two people under the
same circumstances?"

The answer to that was — "There is
no reason in the world why we should n't."

'• Very well then," continued Jack,
quite satisfied with his own reply, "there
can be no harm whatever making love to
her ! " And arriving at this conclusion,
which he invariably did every time he
argued with himself, he would join Kate
wherever she was to be found.

In this way time flew on with rapid
wings, and a month passed away before
Jack began to remember the nature of
his situation. The memory was by no
means pleasant when it did come — such
memories seldom are, especially when
they awaken a man from a dream of love ;
and he would willingly have banished it if
he could He could n't though ; it stuck
to him like the Old Man of the Sea, and
would n't be shaken off at any price.

So one evening when he and Kate
were rambling together on their favor
ite bank, he suddenly broached the sub
ject.

" Kate,'.' he said, " I have been here
too long — much longer than I should have
been — I must go — "

"Go!" repeated Kate, standing still,
and turning her eyes upon his face — " go
where ? "

"Anywhe/e," said Jack; "I can re
main here no longer."

" But why ? " said Kate, " this is a sud
den resolution; has any thing happened?"

" No." replied Jack, " but time has
flown away so rapidly that I had forgot
ten—"

" Forgotten what ? " asked Kate, per
ceiving that he paused.

" That I am penniless," said Jack,
quiokly, "and that I have yet to battle
with the world."

" Let the world strike the first blow,"
said Kate, smiling ; " why should you at
tack it before it has quarreled with
you?"

" I have no choice," said Jack, " the
blow has been struck already."

" But it has not injured you," said
Kate; "let it be forgotten, and remain
quietly where you are."

"Would to heaven that I might!"
exclaimed Jack, earnestly; "but it can
not be."

"And wherefore not ? "

" Kate," said Jack, with something of
reproach in his voice, "you know how I
am situated ! "

" What then ? " asked Kate, quietly —
" are you not happy here ? "

" I have been, said Jack, looking ten
derly upon her — " a thousand thousand
times too happy, but I can be so no
longer."

" I do not understand you," said Kate,
turning aside her head — " why should
you be unhappy ? "

" Would you have me live a beg
gar ? " cried Jack, bitterly ; " what else
am I now ? am I not dependent on a
stranger's kindness ? am I not worse than
a beggar?"

" My uncle was your father's friend,"
said Kate, kindly, " and he is yours —
why should you consider him a stran-
ger?"

" If he had been my father's brother,5*
continued Jack, " he is still a stranger to
me, and I have no right to be a burden
on him — 1 must go."

" And leave me ? " said Kate, coax*
ingly.

" Aye ! " exclaimed Jack, passionately,
"there is the misery."

" Then why not stay, ? " urged Kate,
laying her hand upon his arm, and look
ing winningly in his face — " why not stay
with me?"

TOM CROSBIE

That look was very near putting all
his good intentions to flight, and sending
them to be added to the pavement of a
certain region, of which, according to the
proverb, such things form the flooring;
hut he struggled hard to resist its fasci
nation.

"It cannot be, Kate," he said slowly;
"I must leave this at once — I can lead
this idle life no longer."

Idle life, indeed ! He had been any
thing but idle — Kate's heart could tell that

" But why has the resolution come so
suddenly ?" she asked; "I never heard
you speak in this way before."

"Because I loved you," said Jack, " and
present happiness drove away all thoughts
for the future."

"Then, why think of it now?" said
Kate, with another of her dangerous
looks; "come, banish the thoughts again ;
you must not leave me" — and she smiled
temptingly.

Too temptingly for Jack to resist. The
good intentions were flying away like
mad — another smile like that would scat
ter the last of them to the winds ; and it
came.

" What would you have me do ? " said
Jack, " I cannot live here forever."

" Oh, not quite so long ! " said Kate,
gaily, perceiving that she had carried her
point, "only for a century or so; at all
events you must not think of going for
the present."

" But what will Mr. Herbert think of
me ? " said Jack, his resolution almost van
quished; "he knows I have my own way
to make through the world, and yet I
have been passing my time in idleness
since 1 came here, without ever seeming
to have a thought of my situation — what
must he think of me ? "

"Nothing but what is kind, depend
upon it," said Kate, warmly; "he never
does anything but what is kind." And
Jack thought she never looked so beauti
ful as when she was saying that.

" Well," said he, "I will remain for one
week knger, and then," he added gaily,
"I must go forth" and seek my fortune."

But he found it sooner than he thought.
Fortune and Cupid were both playing
with their battledoors then !

CHAPTER XX.

SURPRISES, COMING NOT "IN SINGLE SPIES,
BUT IN BATTALIONS."'

The morning after the conversation
recorded in the last chapter, Mr. Herbert
and Jack sat alone together in the study
of the former. It was by his desire that
Jack had joined him there, and he now
awaited anxiously the opening of the de
bate, if debate there was to be.

"Looking upon you almost as my own
son," began Mr. Herbert. So far so good ;
Jack liked that part of the speech uncom
monly well; he thought if it only conclu
ded as auspiciously as it began, he could
find no fault whatevep witk it. Mr. Her
bert proceeded: "Looking upon you al
most as my own son, and feeling that you
will take an interest in what 1 am about
to say to you, I have sent for you here
this morning to speak with you upon a sub
ject, which of late has given me much
pain." Jack was beginning to feel any
thing but comfortable ; he did n't like the
latter part of this sentence at all. Mr.
Herbert paused for a moment before he
went any further, and then asked sud
denly: —

"Do yon perceive a change in Kate,
since you came here ? "

"A change?" said Jack, not being
particularly aware of what he was saying,
he was so taken aback by the abruptness
of the question, "a change in Ka — Miss
Austin I mean — yes — that is — no — in
fact I don't exactly comprehend you."

"Do you perceive any change in her?"
repeated Mr. Herbert.

" In what way '?" asked Jack, endeavor
ing to recover his self-possession.

"In any way," said the old gentleman.

That was a puzzler; Jack did n't know
liow to answer it He could not imagine
Mr. Herbert's object in asking him such
a question, and so he thought the best
thing he could do under the circumstan
ces was to remain silent ; which he accor
dingly did.

" You seem not to understand me
yet ? " said Mr. Herbert, after waiting in
vain for his reply, " is it so ? "

AND HIS FRIENDS.

"It is, sir,'1 ans^red Jack, glad to be
furnished with an excuse ; " I do n't know
what change you allude to."

" Then you have not perceived any ? "

" No," replied Jack, boldly.

Now, that was a fib for him ! He had
seen a change in her, and not only seen
it, but been the cause of it. Therefore,
he should have said so at once, instead of
telling a lie about it; but he was in love,
and as love is continually prompting its
votaries to tell lies, there must be some
excuse made for him.

"You do n't think she has grown sad ? "
continued Mr. Herbert.

" No," said Jack, " certainly not."

" Nor that her spirits are gone?"

"Not at all — they seem as good as
ever."

"You must at least have noticed that
her thoughts are continually absent?"

Jack flattered himself they were no
such thing, at least when he was present,
but he did not think it necessary to say
BO ; he merely replied very sagely, " per
haps she is thinking of something!"

There was wisdom in that conjecture,
let me tell you ; every one could n't have
guessed so shrewdly !

" There is something preying upon her
mind," said Mr. Herbert, looking him
steadily in the face.

" I hope not," said Jack, feeling very
like a child detected in the act of putting
his fingers into the sugar-bowl.

" I have good reason to know there
ts," continued the old gentleman, "but it
is only within the last two days she has
become so much depressed."

" It 's coming now," thought Jack ; " I
wish this interview was over; I don't like
the turn the conversation is taking, by
any means — it 's anything but pleasant."

A guilty conscience needs no accuser,
they say ; and he was every moment ex
pecting to be upbraided as the cause of
Kate's depression.

•' You never heard me speak of her
intended husband, I believe ? " said Mr.
Herbert, abruptly, after some moments'
pause.

"Sir!" exclaimed Jack, springing from
his chair, " her husband ! "

"Intended husband," said Mr. Her

bert, gazing at him in astonishment;
" but what on earth is the matter with
you?"

" Husband ! " repeated Jack, staring
in stupid wonder, " what can it mean ? "

" What should it mean?" said the old
gentleman, fancying that Jack was taking
leave of his senses; "is there anything
so wonderful in a girl having a lover?"

"Amazing!" exclaimed Jack, taking
no notice whatever of the question,
though his exclamation seemed like an
answer to it, and only thinking of the
blow that had so suddenly been given to
his hopes.

"Amazing ! " repeated Mr. Herbert, his
wonder increasing every instant, "what
is amazing?"

"Nothing," said Jack, and he resumed
his chiii r.

"What can you be thinking of?" said
Mr. Herbert, still looking at him in aston
ishment

" Nothing," repeated Jack.

"Is anything the matter with you?"
said the old gentleman, kindly, alarmed
at his vacant gaze, and fearing that some
sudden illness had attacked him.

" Nothing," answered Jack again.

"This is most extraordinary! " said Mr.
Herbert; "I cannot understand it; you
seem quite stupefied."

"And I am so," said Jack, involuntari
ly, and then recollecting how strange his
conduct must appear, he added: "I never
heard anything of this before — I fear it
has surprised me into rudeness."

"But why should it have surprised you
at all ? " interrupted Mr. Herbert, quickly ;
"it is nothing so very wonderful."

"It was so sudden," stammered Jack,
"that I — in fact I thought — that is, 1 — I
did not think there was anything of the
kind ; but pray go on."

And he made a mighty effort to appear
at ease. ;

" What you have yet to hear will sur
prise you more," said Mr. Herbert, appa
rently satisfied with this lucid explanation,
and continuing: "twelve years ago, when
Kate was little more than five years old,
there came to reside in the neighborhood,
here close to us, a widow lady and her
son. The boy was about seven years of

TOM CROSBIE

ao-e, and of uncommon beauty — his moth
er's only child, and she idolized him. The
children soon became close companions
and played away their childhood together
but the boy from his earliest infancy
evinced a sullen and haughty temper, anc
Kate's feelings towards him were ever
more of fear than love. Still, she had
no other companion, and children do nol
love to be alone. Her mother was dead
— died before she knew her — and as
was but little skilled in the ways of child
ren, I was glad to have her as much as
possible with Mrs. Seymour, who showed
her great kindness and affection. From
her Kate received almost the entire of
her education ; she was a woman of great
attainments, much refined taste, and pow
erful understanding in all matters where
her boy was not concerned; but, there,
she was as weak as mothers usually are.
He would have required the control of a
vigorous mind to curb his haughty spirit,
but with her he became the ruler instead
of the ruled, and his wild passions were
suffered to sway and lead him whither
they would, unchecked and unrestrained.
His father, an officer in the army, had
been killed abroad a few months after he
was born, and the widow, still young and
very beautiful, had refused many offers
for her hand, and at last retired entirely
from the world, to educate her child, and
spend the remainder of her life removed
alike from its pleasures and its cares.

" The children grew up together ; child
hood passed away, and they were becom
ing man and woman. Kate was sixteen,
and George Seymour two years older,
when his tutor declared that it was time
he should enter college.

"I was sitting alone here, in this very
room, late the night before he was to
start, writing some letters which he was
to take to Dublin for me — when the door
opened, and he suddenly stood before me.
He is a remarkably handsome young
man, very tall, dark complexioned, and
gentlemanly-looking ; but there is some
thing in the expression of his large dark
eyes which I cannot describe, and which
I never saw before, except in Kate's, and
—in one other's. That night I noticed
it for the first time — it almost alarmed

me. He drew a chair to the table, and
with his eyes fixed full upon me sat oppo
site me some moments without speaking.
I thought perhaps the idea of leaving
home so soon might be preying upon his
mind, and, not wishing to disturb him, I
took no notice, but continued writing.
At length he bent forward and laid his
hand upon my arm.

"Are you busy, Mr. Herbert?" he
said, and his voice so\mded strangely
hollow.

I told him I was merely preparing the
letters he had promised to take with him
on the morrow.

" I am not going to-morrow," said he,
shortly.

"Not going to-morrow ?" I repeated ;
I thought your departure had been
positively fixed."

"No matter," said he, "I shall not go."

"When then?" I asked.

"Never ! "

"Never?" I repeated in astonishment,
" why George, what can have happened ? "

He looked steadily at me for a moment
before he answered, and then drawing his
chair closer to me, he said abruptly :

"Do you not know?"

"No," said I, beginning to feel alarmed
at the wildness of his looks, and fearing,
I kffepw not what — "I know of nothing
that could have caused this sudden change
in your determination."

" Have you not seen Kate ? " said he,
quickly, still keeping his eyes fixed upon
my face.

"No," I answered, "not since I left
icr at your mother's house this morn
ing."

" She has come home long since," he
nterrupted.

" Come home ? " I repeated in alarm,
' is she ill ? "

"No," said he, with a wild laugh, "not
she!"

" Who then ? " I asked anxiously, fear-
ng that something dreadful had happen
ed, and that his reason was unsettled,
' what has brought her home ? "

" I drove her home ! " said he ; and he
aughed wildly again.

"Good God!" said I, "what can have
lappened ? "

AND HIS FRIENDS.

And I was hastily quitting the room,
when he laid his hand upon my arm, and
forcibly detained me.

" Remain where you are, sir," said he,
"nothing has happened that need alarm
you."

"What is it, then?" I asked eagerly,
" tell me at once, I beseech you."

" I have insulted Kate ! "

"Insulted Kate!" I repeated, "impos
sible!"

"You doubt it then?" said he with a
strange smile.

"I do," said I, fancying that it was
some foolish quarrel; "I never could
believe it."

" Then ask her ! " said he, throwing
himself back upon his chair.

" Why, George," said I, feeling no fur
ther alarm upon the subject, "you are a
boy still — what have you been quarreling
about — a plaything?"

It was then he gave me a look which
I shall remember the longest day I
live. There was something so glaring,
so intensely burning, in the expression of
his eyes, that I almost felt as if it would
have scorched me — it was fearful !

"A plaything!" he repeated; "yes, a
dangerous one ! "

"What was it?" said I, with as much
carelessness as I could assume.

"A woman!" said he, fiercely.

" A woman ! " I exclaimed in wonder,
"what woman?"

"Herself!"

"What, Kate?"

"Aye, sir, none other."

"What can you mean?" said I; "I do
not understand you."

" I thought so ! " said he, and he laugh
ed again.

I was now beginning to feel really
alarmed at his strange conduct; he had
always before treated me with the great
est respect ; and I was utterly at a loss
to account for this complete and sudden
change in his manner. I knew that
something more than ordinary must have
occurred to cause it, and 1 was at length
becoming fearful that he had taken too
much wine, and under its influence had
really been guilty of what he accused
himself. However, I could not long hold

this opinion, for the wildness of his man
ner was totally different from what the
effects of drinking would have been ; and
I scarcely knew how to act, when, after
a short time, he rose from his chair and
stood before me.

"Do you know my age, sir?" said he,
in a milder voice than he had before spo
ken in.

"I do," said I; "you were eighteen
last month."

" And yet you say I am a boy still ! "

"You are scarcely more," said I; "but
what of that?"

"How old is Kate? "said he, without
noticing the question.

" Some months past sixteen," I answer
ed, wondering what could be the object
of his inquiries.

" Is she a woman ? " he continued, still
speaking in a quiet tone.

"Not in years certainly," said I; "she
is but a mere child."

"Do children ever love?" continued he,
pursuing his questions with childish per
tinacity.

"Love each other?" said I, "to be sure
they do."

"Do they ever hate?" he asked quickly.

"I hope not," said I; "hate is not
childhood's passion."

"Then," said he bitterly, "Kate must
be a woman, for she hates me."

"What can you be talking about?"
said I, still unable to comprehend him,
"why should you think so?"

"Because I know it," he answered,
shortly.

"How?"

"She told me so!"

"Nonsense!" said I, "she was jesting
with you."

"Jesting!" he cried, with another of
his burning looks, "it is dangerous sport,
sir, I am not one to jest with !" and, cer
tainly, at that moment few men could
have looked upon him wilhout feeling the
truth of what he spoke. I never beheld so
great a change worked in any human being
within so short a time. It frightened me.

" George," said I, speaking as softly as
I could, "can you not at once tell me
what has happened? — this suspense is
most painful."

TOM CROSBIE

"Ask Kate!" was his only reply.

" Since you will not tell me, I must do
so," said I, and I was about to leave the
room for that purpose, when he again
detained me.

" Stay ! " said he, " you shall hear it
from myself."

And as I resumed my chair, he drew
his opposite me, and sat down. But he
remained silent for some time before he
spoke, and when at length he did so, it
was with a choked voice and rapid utter
ance.

" Yon may think me a boy," said he,
"and in years, as you say, I am but little
more ; hut in thoughts, in feelings — the
heart's feelings, strong and powerful — I
am a man, and have been since I — since
my childhood. Kate and I have for
years been companions to each other —
lived together, played together, grown up
together; I have loved her — -I love her
still, fondly, passionately, madly — I told
her so this night for the first time, hur
ried on by the thought of so soon being
about to leave her, and what was the
return she gave me for my love ? — scorn
and hate ! Is this what you call a jest,
sir?" And his eyes flashed again with
that burning look.

I could not speak; I was stupefied
with astonishment. I had never dreamed
of such a thing as love between the chil
dren — for\ children I still considered
them — and the surprise I now experi
enced completely overpowered me. How
blindly Mrs. Seymour and I had been
acting, that the likelihood of an event like
this had never struck us. Yet so it was;
though the experience which both had
learned from the world should have
taught us differently, we saw nothing of
danger in the continued intercourse be
tween Kate and George; the changes
from infancy to youth, and from youth to
maturer years had followed one upon the
other almost unnoticed ; and though they
had become man and woman before our
eyes, we still looked upon them as child
ren, and never for a moment had a
thought, much less a fear, that any evil
could result from their companionship.
Now, however, the veil was withdrawn
from before my eyes at least* and too

late I discovered our blindness and our
folly.

"Do you, too, scorn me?" said George
at length, perceiving that I remained
silent ; " if so, say it at once — I can bear
it from a man ! "

"George," said I, mildly as possible,
for I was fearful of increasing the excite
ment of his mind by any appearance of
harshness, "we had better talk no more
on this subject to-night — to-morrow you
will be calmer."

"Calmer!" he repeated; "am I not
calm now?"

"No," said I, "something has excited
you too much" —

"Well then," said he, "I will be as
calm as you can wish ; but let the worst
be over at once — why does Kate hate
me?"

"There must be some misunderstand
ing," said I, unwilling to giw him anjr
further pain, for I could not but feel pity
for him at that moment — "you have
always been good friends."

"Friends!" he exclaimed impatiently,
"the acquaintance of to-day may be a
friend to-morrow ; we should be more —
but I tell you she hates me; she told me
so this very night!"

" Well," said I, endeavoring to soothe
him, "you know girls don't mean every
thing they say — she will tell you a dif
ferent story to-morrow."

"Aye!" said he, hoarsely, "the to
morrow which never comes — am I a fool,
sir?"

"You are not acting very wisely now,
at all events," said I, irritated by the con
tinuance of his vehement manner — "you
had better return to your home."

" I thank you, sir ! " said he haughtily,
rising from his chair, "you shall not bid
me twice;" and he was walking from the
room.

" Stay ! " said I, laying my hand upon
his arm — "you must not go in anger —
give me your hand."

But he drew back proudly as he said :
"Excuse me, sir — you have turned me
from your house — good night."

"George," I exclaimed, still detaining
him, "this is madness! you could not
think I meant that ? "

AND HIS FRIENDS.

"What else, sir?" said he, with a curl
of his lip ; "you told me I had better go —
you shall have no occasion to repeat it."

"Well," said I, detaining him no longer,
"since you are determined not to listen
to reason, I shall not prevent you; but
you will regret this when your passion
cools."

"I regret it as it is, sir," said he, "but
regret is useless now," and, bowing cold
ly, left the room.

I made no further effort to detain
him; I saw it was utterly useless to rea
son with him in his present mood, and
therefore I thought it better to let him
depart; but when he had gone I follow
ed him from the room, and sought out
Kate to endeavor to learn from her what
it was which had driven him into such a
state of excitement.

I found her sitting at a window of
the drawing-room, with her head leaning
upon her hand, gazing vacantly towards
the lawn, and so deeply engaged in
thought that she took not the slightest
notice of my entrance until I laid my
hand upon her shoulder ; then she started
suddenly, and raising her head, turned
her eyes full upon my face. The same
burning expression, that in George's had
so much alarmed me, was in their glance ;
and while for a moment they remained
fixed upon mine, I could scarcely bear
their fearful, glaring look.

"Kate," said I, "what has happened
betweeh you and George?"

" Have\you not seen him ? " she asked,
quickly. \

"I have, I answered; "he has but
this moment left me."

"And has he not told you?"

"No," said I, " he told me that he had
insulted you, but I know that could not
have been " —

"It has been,". interrupted Kate, her
eyes flashing brighter than before — "he
has told you the truth ! "

"How?" said I, "what has he done?"

"That which, if I had a brother, he
would not dare to do ! " said Kate, speak
ing rapidly, and her whole face burning
with excitement, "he has proposed to me
that I should be "—

"What?" I exclaimed eagerly.

"His mistress!" and I thought her
eyes would have burst from their sockets.

"Where is the ruffian now?" cried
Jack, springing from his chair, and seizing
Mr. Herbert by the arm — "tell me, sir,
this instant." And his lip quivered and
grew pale with passion.

Up to that moment he had listened
with breathless interest to the old man's
recital without ever once interrupting
him even by a word — but the feelings
that had been working within him, and
that by a mighty effort he had hitherto
kept down, could be restrained no longer
when he heard of the gross insult that
had been offered to a defenceless girl —
the girl whom he loved so fondly ; and he
now stood before Mr. Herbert with the
veins on his forehead swelled almost to
bursting, and trembling from head to foot,
in the excess of his long pent-up passion.

"Why, my dear Rochefort," said Mr.
Herbert, after gazing at him some time
in astonishment, "what on earth is the
matter with you ? "

"Where is he now?" repeated Jack.

"In Dublin, I believe, said Mr. Her
bert, smiling; "but why this excitement?"

" Why ? " exclaimed Jack, driven almost
to fury by the coolness of the old gentle
man — " why ? Did he not offer the gross
est insult to your niece ? — I will follow
him to the world's end until I meet him
face to face — I will rest neither day nor
night until I find him, and when I do, his
life shall answer for it — the cowardly,
cold-hearted villain ! "

"Pooh!" said Mr. Herbert, coolly,
though while Jack spoke he could scarce
ly conceal his admiration — "it was all a
mistake of Kate's."

"A mistake!" exclaimed Jack, drop
ping back into his chair as if he had been
shot — "why did you not say so?"

" You scarcely gave me time," said Mr.
Herbert, smiling, "young men will be so
hasty."

Jack said no more, but continued sit
ting impassively in his chair, looking about
as foolish as any young gentleman -well
could under similar circumstances.

" It was all a mistake," continued Mr.
Herbert; "George, with his natural in-
petuosity increased by the prospect of his

TOM C BO SB IE

immediate departure, had urged that she
should accompany him to Dublin on the
morrow, without consulting either his
mother or myself; and this was the pro
posal which Kate had construed into the
degrading one that she should become
his mistress. But no such ruffian thought
had ever crossed his mind ; I had done
him but justice when I declared it impos
sible he could have offered her an insult;
his proposal was wild hnd thoughtless in
the extreme, but it was nothing worse.
He had intended she should become his
wife the moment they reached the city.

"I learned all this next day, for early in
the morning I went to Mrs. Seymour, in
tending to acquaint her with the entire
affair; but she had already heard it;
George had told her everything on his
return the previous night. The surprise
to her was as great as it had been to me,
but she was a woman, and a woman's
experience in such matters soon enabled
her to overcome it.

"What is to be done?" said I. I had
not seen George, and we were alone
together — " What is best that we should
do?"

" Let them marry," said she, without a
moment's hesitation — "let them be happy
while they are young."

"But they are both mere children,"
said I; "it will be time enough in five or
six years to think of such a thing."

" Where may we all be before half
that time?" said Mrs. Seymour, gravely
— "why should they wait?"

" Why," said I, " George has not made
choice of a profession yet — not even en
tered college — what should he do with a
wife?"

" He has no need of any profession,"
said Mrs. Seymour, "he will be rich when
he is of age, and until then my means
are ample."

"As to that," said I, "Kate's fortune
would be more than sufficient; but there
is another objection more difficult to over
come" —

"What is it?" she asked.

" Kate's unwillingness."

"Oh! she was alarmed last night,"
said she, "it will wear off in a day or
two"

"I fear not," said I; "but even if it
should, there is still another objection,
more powerful than all."

"Nothing but objections!" exclaimed
Mrs. Seymour impatiently, " what is this
last one?"

"What I told her then," continued the
old gentleman, after a slight pause, "it is
unnecessary to repeat; suffice it to say
that though the objection I mentioned
was a strong one — insurmountable I
thought — her affection for her son, and
her anxiety to secure what she thought
necessary to his happiness, were so great,
that after a struggle they at length ena
bled her to overcome it But George
himself, I still believed, notwithstanding
the strength of his love for Kate — and
that he loved her deeply I could not
doubt after witnessing his feelings the
previous night — would never consent to
take her for his wife when what I had
told his mother should become known to
him. I was mistaken though — it caused
no change whatever in his feelings ; or if
it did, he did not suffer it to appear.

"I may pass over the occurrences of
the next few days; George and Kate
were reconciled, and I had been induced,
although reluctantly, to consent to their
marriage, provided Kate should not raise
any further objections. But every effort
was made in vain to win her consent; the
entreaties of George, the prayers of his
mother, my own arguments, all were idle ;
she declared she would never become his
wife ; and the utmost concession we could
draw from her was that, at the expiration
of a year, provided the subject was never
mentioned during that time, he might
endeavor to change her resolution if he
could. The year has now elapsed, he is
expected home every day, but I fear
Kate's feelings towards him are still the
same, and I know not how the matter
will end; in every way it is most painful
to me. Mrs. Seymour has been in Dub
lin since you came here, or you would
have seen her, but I think it likely both
she and George will return in a day or
two, and then I know not how to act.
She, with a mother's blindness, believes
it to be impossible that Kate should not
love her son, and fancies that her former

AND HIS FRIENDS

unwillingness to become his wife was
merely a girlish whim; but I think dif
ferently — I think there is a deep-rooted
dislike in her heart, for which I cannot
account, but which will prevent her from
ever changing her determination not to
marry him. What would you have me
do?"

A pleasant subject for Jack to give
advice upon, certainly ! What could he
say? What was he to do? Tell Mr.
Herbert of his own love for Kate, and
acknowledge that the warning he received
had been thrown away, and that he had
won her love in return ? Should he do
this at once, and let fate decide the rest ?
Fortune was at the battledoor, and his
good genius whispered to him it was the
best thing he could do. The suggestion
happened to come at a lucky moment; it
found him just in the right humor to
adopt it ; and in ten minutes Mr. Herbert
had become acquainted with the principal
details of his whole course of love.

It seemed as if the later years of that
old gentleman's existence were destined
for no other purpose than that they
should become one continued series of
surprises and astonishments. No sooner
had he recovered from one than, pop!
came another upon him, and, as is usual
in such cases, the last always the greatest.
It was really too bad ; enough to wear
out the patience of Job himself; but Mr.
Herbert bore them like a man, especially
this last one, for, truth to tell, it was by
far the most agreeable amongst them.

Jack, somehow or other, had become
almost as dear to him as if he had been
his own son — had carried his affections
as it were by a coup de main, and won
his way to his heart in a manner as
strange as it was sudden — for he cer
tainly had taken no pains to do it. But
Jack was that sort of a person that was
just calculated to make his way with a
man of Mr. Herbert's character — an off
hand, warm-hearted, high-spirited fellow,
who made no efforts whatever to secure
his favor, and who had acted as independ
ently since he had brought him to his
home as if the house and all belonging to
it had been his birthright. Mr. Herbert,
though old and sedate now, had been

once just such another as himself, and
there was still sufficient of his ancient
leaven within him to make him admire
Jack's buoyant and careless spirit. He
did admire t it, and he loved him for it.
Therefore, his first feeling on learning the
attachment between him and Kate, not
withstanding his warning to the contrary,
was one of pleasure; but there were cir
cumstances which soon changed it into
one of a less agreeable character, and
almost of pain.

" And so you have despised my warn
ing," said he, after some previous con
versation between him and Jack, when
the latter had told him the entire circum
stances of the case — "and you tell me
you love Kate ? "

" Such is the fact, sir," answered Jack,
boldly — for, now that the worst was-
over, he was becoming brave as a lion —
"I could not help it."

" An unanswerable excuse, certainly! "
said Mr. Herbert, smiling in spite of him
self; " but did I not tell you that any at
tachment between you could only end in
unhappiness to both ? "

" You did, sir," answered Jack with a
considerable diminution of the boldness
with which he had replied to the former
question.

" Well ? " said Mr. Herbert.

To this Jack made no reply, boldly or
otherwise.

" Well ? " said Mr. Herbert again.

"Sir?" said Jack.

" It was useless," said the old gentle
man.

" I could not help it," repeated Jack,
in extenuation of his guilt.

" But why was I not told before ? "
asked Mr. Herbert

" I intended to leave this immediately,"
answered Jack, hesitatingly, not exactly
knowing how to reply to this question of
the old gentleman's, " and I did not like
— that is, I feared you might think me
ungrateful — in short, I don't know why I
did not tell you."

" And you would have gone and left
me in ignorance ? " said Mr. Herbert, re
proachfully.

" I don't know," said Jack, "I fear I
should."

TOM CROSBJE

«' I would not have expected this,"
continued Mr. Herbert, still speaking as if
he felt hurt at Jack's want of confidence
in him — " it was unkind."

" It was never meant unkindly, sir, be
lieve me," said Jack, warmly ; " I trust I
could not be guilty of that"

" Well, well," said Mr. Herbert, soft
ened by the sincerity of his manner, " we
will say no more upon the subject; but
what is to be done ? "

H-iw could Jack tell what was to be
done ? Mr. Herbert might as well have
put the question to the man in the moon
— an immortal, whose opinion upon such
matters I should not imagine would be of
any great utility; unless, indeed, the
na'ture of his existence might enable him
to " throw some light on the subject."
In the first place, Jack knew no more
than a fool what Mr. Herbert meant by
asking him, " what was to be done ? "
and, in the second place, if he had known,
he could have given him no counsel what
ever. Therefore, he thought it better to
remain silent — which is the very wisest
thing a man can possibly do when he has
nothing to say. Jack evinced the pos
session of considerable wisdom occasion
ally, under" circumstances of this nature.

" What are you thinking of ? " said Mr.
Herbert, at length.

"Of what is to be done," answered
Jack

" Well, and what is the result of your
meditation ? "

" Nothing sir," said Jack.

" Could n't be much less at all events ! "
said Mr. Herbert, smiling ; " perhaps we
better sleep on it."

" On nothing, sir ? " asked Jack, who
might have made a softer bed with the
produce of his own brains; inasmuch as
for the last five minutes they had been
" wool gathering."

" You take it lightly," said Mr. Her
bert, with some degree of sharpness,
fancying that Jack was inclined to banter;
" but 1 meant that we should think to
night upon what is best that we should
do to-morrow."

Jack didn't admire the suggestion by
any means; he thought that the sooner
bis fate was decided, one way or other,

the better; and, for the first time in his
life, he felt disposed to attach due weight
to the proverb, that " procrastination is
the thief of time." He had no time
whatever to lose, and therefore did not at
all relish the idea that procrastination or
any other thief should have an opportu
nity of pilfering the slightest portion.
But what objection could he offer? Oh,
luck, that never yet deserted an Irishman
at a moment when she could possibly
lead him into a hobble for life, soon came
to his assistance, and made the objection
come from Mr. Herbert himself.

" Perhaps," said the latter, after a mo
ment's thought, " it is better that the
matter should be brought to a determina
tion at once — what say you ? "

Of course Jack perfectly agreed with
him; and the more readily as hope
whispered to him that the termination
was likely to be a favorable one.

" You tell me that your love for Kate
is strong and real ? " continued Mr. Her
bert, earnestly.

" It is, sir," said Jack ; " I love her
deeply and sincerely;" and he said it in
a manner which left no doubt upon the
question.

" And that you have won her's in re
turn ? " continued Mr. Herbert

" Yes," said Jack, boldly.

Rather too boldly, perhaps, if he had
known the world a little better; for wo
men often fancy they are in love when it
is nothing but a fancy ; however, in the
present instance, he was not far astray,
for Kate did love him.

" What would you have done had you
left this without acquainting me with
your attachment ? " continued Mr. Her
bert — " how would it have ended, think
you?"

" I would have gone into the world,"
answered Jack, proudly, " and struggled
with it until I won my way to fortune ; I
would have toiled and labored, from day
to day, from' year to year, vigorously and
unceasingly; I would have battled with
it through good and ill, through health
and sickness, through misfortune and
success ; aye, and I would have conquered
it ! Then, when I had succeeded, I would
return, and if Kate still loved me, I

AND HIS FRIENDS.

would proudly claim her to share my
fortune, and we should be happy. All
this I will still do, if you will promise to
give her to me as my recompense, and,
with such a prize in view, I will start to
morrow, and cry 'Faugh a ballagh'* to
the world ! "

If Kate could have seen him then, I
rather think the lips which, inspired by
love for her, had uttered such a speech,
would have received that reward for their
pains which, of all others in the world,
they would most have coveted. I may
be wrong, but I decidedly think she
would have thrown her arms round his
neck and kissed him; and if she did, let
me see who can dare say anything saucy
upon the subject. I'm a wicked old fel
low when I 'm vexed, I can tell you !

As for Mr. Herbert, he gazed on him
with open admiration while he spoke, and
when he had concluded, he seized him by
the hand, and, while a big tear rolled
down his furrojved cheek, shook it warmly
and heartily.

" Spoken like a man ! " said he, still
holding Jack by the hand, and looking at
him proudly and admiringly — " spoken
like a noble, honest-hearted fellow, as you
are, and, if I never heard your name
before, that speech alone would make me
love you."

Then his brow became clouded, as if
a sudden and painful thought had passed
across his mind, and he continued in a
lower voice : " But^ after all, I fear you
can never become her husband."

" Sir ! " cried Jack, staggering as if he
had received a blow, and every trace of
the high spirit with which he had spoken
a few moments before vanishing in an in
stant : " is this to be the end of all my
hopes ? "

" I greatly fear so," said Mr. Herbert,
sadly, " but the decision will rest with
yourself — listen ! " And, motioning Jack
to sit beside him, the old man told, with
much emotion, the brief story which will
be found in the next chapter.

Clear the way.

CHAPTER XXL
MR. HERBERT'S STORY.

" I will pass over my early years,"
commenced the old gentleman, " for I
have nothing to tell concerning them, ex
cept that they were spent in a career of
wildness and dissipation, the memory of
which it would be worse than useless to
awaken. I was an only son, the last child
remaining of a large family, every one of
which had died in infancy, and, conse
quently, I had been spoiled — that is the
usual term, and it is a correct one.

"At the age of five-and-twenty, my
father dying, I became the possessor of
a handsome fortune, but the errors of my
past life had as yet taught me but little
experience, and, thoughtless as I had
been before, I now pursued a career a
thousand times more reckless and extrava
gant than ever. It was ruinous; I was
little more than two-and-thirty when I
had squandered every shilling I possessed
in the world, and had heaped mortgage
upon mortgage on my property until
there was not an acre remaining that I
could call my own.

" Repentance carne, as it mostly does,
too late, and when not a hope was left
me of retrieving my fallen fortunes, I was
at length wakened to the madness of my
conduct. The world soon taught me to
feel that I had nothing to expect in return
for the wealth I had so profusely lavished
upon it, but ridicule and scorn. While I
was rich it fawned upon me, and would
have licked the dust at my feet to win
my favor; but now that I had, by my
own folly, become poor, it turned aside
from me as if I had been a pestilence,
and sneered at, instead of pitying, my
distress.

" I could not bear this ; it preyed upon
me until it almost drove me mad; but
there was that within me which deter
mined me that I should not bow down to
it, and 1 resolved, if health and strength
were left me, a day should come when I
would again behold it crouching at mj

TOM CROSBIE

feet And that day did come!" said the
old man proudly, while his eyes sparkled
with something of their former fire. " I
battled, as you would have done, with
the world I despised, and Providence en
abled me to make it feel the strength of
the spirit it would have crushed; but
listen nowl

" I loved — loved one who, while I was
rich, returned my affection, and who,
long after I was ruined, still believing me
to be rich, would gladly have become my
wife. But I could not deceive her — I
was not villain enough for that; and one
evening, while she sat beside me on a
sofa, with her head resting upon my
shoulder, I told her the whole story of
my misfortunes, and that I was now a
beggar. She had wealth enough for
both, and yet how do you think she
acted ? In two months from that night
she was married to another! This blow
was worse than all," continued Mr. Her
bert, after a brief pause ; " it had almost
broken my spirit; it preyed deeply upon
me for a time, but I recovered it.

" By a tremendous sacrifice, I succeeded
in raising a sum of money sufficient to
take me out to India, where a wealthy
uncle of mine had resided since he was
a boy, and where, at that time, it was no
very difficult matter to amass a rapid for
tune. The pagoda tree required but
little shaking there, before it dropped its
golden fruit in plenty, and in eight years
I had become once more rich as I had
ever been. Fortune favored me in every
way; when once she changed her course,
her gifts continued to pour in upon me in
a steady tide of plenty ; every enterprise
I undertook was crowned with success;
speculations that, with other men, could
have only led to ruin, prospered with me
as if by magic, and yielded an abundant
harvest; while, as a climax to my pros
perous career, my uncle died shortly be
fore I had intended to return, and be
queathed me the entire of the wealth
which he had accumulated during a long
and successful life.

" I returned — returned as I had re
solved I should, rich and prosperous, to
the world that had sent me forth an out-

upon it! Crowds gathered round me as
of old, and fawned upon me. Friends —
friends, mark you! who would before
have let me die and rot in a jail, came to
bid me welcome, and congratulate me. I
smiled upon them — I made them kneel
servilely in the dust, to worship the golden
calf, and, when I saw them crawling and
groveling in their abasement, I asked
them if they remembered when I was
a beggar ; and — laughed them to scorn !
But like dogs, as they were — dogs in the
beastliness of their nature, but not in
faithfulness or. affection — they would still
have crouched down to the very earth
before me, and licked the hand that
scourged them ! One day of such ecstasy
as I then enjoyed would have amply com
pensated for whole years of slavery !

" But my triumph was not yet com
plete — there was one to be still revenged
upon!

" It was now ten years since she had
been married — since, unmindful of her
plighted faith, she had forsaken me for a
richer suitor, and become the wife of one
who loved her for her wealth alone.
Since then I had never heard of her, un
til a few weeks after my return, when
one day I saw in a newspaper that her
husband and herself had arrived in Lon
don from Paris.

" I was in London at the time — in the
very same street with their hotel, and I
resolved that little time should elapse
before I would find an opportunity to put
into execution a plan which I had already
formed for my revenge. I had never
been acquainted with her husband, and
my first care now was to procure an in
troduction to him ; this I readily effected
by means of a mutual acquaintance, and
before a week elapsed I had received an
invitation to dine with him at his hotel.
So far I had gained my object; within a
few hours I should once more meet, face
to face, her whom I had so passionately
loved, and for whom, notwithstanding hew
cruelly she had deserted me, tin-re still
lingered in my heart some portion of for
mer feelings, which I could not banish.
But those feelings were not sufficient :o con
quer the resolution I had formed, and I

cast and a beggar; but I was revenged I looked forward to our first interview with a

AND HIS FRIENDS.

burning anxiety, and with unchanged de
termination. There was some devil work
ing within me then which urged me on
and which changed my nature so com
pletely that I felt like another being.

" We met : I was not forgotten ; she
knew me in an instant, and vain were all
her efforts to conceal her agitation when
I advanced to speak to her, and she saw
me there her husband's guest. She told
me afterwards that at that moment she
felt acutely a presentiment of coming evil
— and well she might !

" I need not describe minutely the
events which followed. The feelings
that swayed me then have ever been, and
are to this hour, a mystery. I loved her
again as passionately as ever — I doated
on her, but still I never for a moment lost
sight of my determination to work her
ruin. It must have been a kind of mad
ness that possessed me — that led me on,
step by step, in my horrid purpose, until
at length she became my victim. Even
then, while, like an evil spirit, I gloried
over the destruction I had wrought, I
loved her with the wildest passion; and,
though I exulted in my triumph, would
have laid down my life to serve her.
These were unnatural feelings, but I felt
them; they were hell born, but I could
not resist them ; they carried me along in
a resistless whirl of maddening passion,
until they left me without the power to
hold out against them.

" At length her husband discovered
that he had been dishonored, and though,
perhaps, under other circumstances, he
would have been heartily rejoiced to find
an excuse for parting with her, yet the
wound which his honor had received left
him no alternative but to seek for ven
geance on the head of him who had disgrac
ed them both. He challenged me, but I re
fused to fight him ; he insulted me publicly
in the streets ; but the change that had been
worked in my nature was so great that I
submitted to it, rather than afford him a
chance of wiping out the injury I had
done him, by giving him what the world

calls ' satisfaction.'
which prevented

It was no cowardice
me — I would have

fought with any other man on earth, upon

the slightest pretext, without an instant's | when 1 returned.

hesitation ; but the thought of falling by
his hand would have robbed me of half
my triumph, and I still refused to fight
him.

" Julia and I left London privately, and
came over to Ireland; but we had
scarcely arrived when he discovered
whither we had fled, and followed us.
Again the grossest insults were heaped
upon me; every degradation which could
be offered from man to man — revilings,
and even blows, I endured for a time,
more patiently than the veriest coward
that ever breathed, until at length nature
could hold out no longer, and, with the
deadliest determination to become his
murderer, I agreed to meet him. And I
did meet him. You know the fatal ter
mination of that duel; your father was
my second. The word to fire had been
scarcely given, when my rival, springing
a full yard from the ground, fell stone
dead before me — I shot him through the
heart.

" From that instant my better feelings
returned, and resumed their sway. I
would have given worlds, nay, life itself,
to recall what I had done, but it was too
late, and when the fearful ruin I had
wrought presented itself to my mind in
its full force, the thought was almost
madness. But I determined to make
atonement, as far as was in my power —
that Julia should become my wife, and
that I would endeavor, by the devotion
of my future life, to soften, in some de
gree, the bitterness of the misery I had
brought upon her.

" Before it was possible to put my in
tentions into effect, however, she was at
tacked with a brain fever, and she was
but just recovering when it became abso
lutely necessary that I should, with the
utmost speed, return to India for a time.
Even then I proposed that we should be
married before I went, but she appeared
satisfied with the assurance that on my
return full justice should be done her;
and we parted.

" My delay in India was shorter than
I expected; I sold the entire of the pro
perty which I had held in the country,
and fifteen months had scarcely passed

TOM CROSBIE

" I found Julia, not as I expected,
pining away in sorrow, but in high health
and spirits, more beautiful than ever, and
the mother of a lovely infant, which she
had given birth to in my absence. The
latter fact, instead of giving me the plea
sure which she seemed to expect, was
one that awakened feelings of the deep
est pain, for I could not bear the thought
that if the poor child should live, it might
be hereafter taunted with its parent's
shame. I was even sinful enough to wish
that it might die, rather than the time
should ever come when it should be old
enough to learn the disgraceful secret of
its illegitimacy. My feelings upon the
subject carried me so far, that when Julia,
with a mother's pride, laid her child in
my arms, I spoke to her harshly and
sternly, and cruelly upbraided her with
the shame of its birth.

" From that moment I never saw her
smile ao-ain — I thought it had broken her

o o

heart

" During the time that I was absent,
she had lived in a secluded part of the
suburbs, at the south side of Dublin, but
I was now anxious that she should be re
stored to her former comforts, and, intend
ing that she should become my wife the
moment everything was prepared, I paid
off the mortgages on the property I had
so recklessly squandered, and once more
came into the possession of my estates.

" In another week we were to have
been married, when some business con
nected with the final arrangement of my
affairs rendered it necessary that I should
go for a few days to a distant part of the
country, and, accordingly, I was obliged
again to leave her, though I did so now
with the less regret, as my absence was
only to be for so short a period. There
was something in her manner, when part
ing with me, however, which, at any other
time, would have caused me uneasiness,
but I was now so much elated at having
regained my property, and at the pros
pect of future happiness, that I suffered
it to make but little impression upon me.

" I had a servant — a foster-brother —
who, from the time we were both boys,
had never left me, but, with that strange,
instinctive affection, which almost inva

riably marks such a relationship in Ire
land, had followed my fortunes with the
utmost faithfulness through good and ill.
For the first time, I now left him behind
me — there being some affairs to be trans
acted in Dublin during my absence, which
it was necessary he should attend to —
giving him instructions that, if anything'
particular should occur before the time I
expected to return, he should follow me
to the country. I little dreamed, while
giving those directions, the nature of the
intelligence he should bring me.

" I had been a week absent, and the
business I had come upon being almost
concluded, I hoped to be able to return
in a day or two, when, one morning be
fore I had left my bed, my foster-brother,
pale with fatigue and covered from head
to foot with dust and the foam of the
horse which he had ridden, rushed into
the room.

" ' Good God ! ' I cried, starting up in
fear and wonder, ' what has happened ? '

" ' The mistress, sir, — ' he began, but
he could say no more.

" ' What of her ? ' I exclaimed, ' is she
ill?' i

" ' Oh, no, sir, no, but — ' and he stopped
again.'

"'But what?' said I, 'for God's sake
tell me at once!'

"' She's gone, sir!'

" ' Gone ! ' cried I, springing into the
middle of the floor, 'gone! where?'

" ' I do n't know, sir ; but yesterday
morning when her maid went up to her
bedroom, she was n't there, and the bed
hadn't been slept in the night before.'

" ' God of heaven!' I exclaimed in
horror, sinking into a chair, ' she has de
stroyed herself ! '

" It was the first thought that came
into my mind. I remembered then the
strangeness of her manner when I parted
from her; I remembered the deep de
jection of her spirits since the day I had
spoken so cruelly to her about her child,
and I felt the dreadful certainty that I
had driven her to commit self-destruction.
But, thank heaven ! it has spared me
at least that misery ! "

The old man paused here for a con
siderable time, overcome by the feelings

AND HIS FRIENDS.

which, after so many years, his recital
had awakened, and, when at length he
continued, his voice was for a while so low
and broken that it was scarcely audible.

" My foster-brother spoke the truth,"
he went on ; " she was gone — gone from
me, as she had before gone from her hus
band — with a seducer! But it was jus
tice that such a blow should fall upon
me : I had brought ruin on her head, and
I deserved that she should bring grief
and misery on mine — it was the justice of
heaven, and I bowed to it.

" But it almost broke my heart," con
tinued the old man, sadly, " I think it
would have done so but that for some
months I was deprived of reason. When
I was sufficiently recovered to travel, I
was ordered, for change of scene and cli
mate, to the south of France, and I went
there, taking my child with me, for now
I could not bear it an instant from my
sight. At that period few English people
ever traveled on the continent, much less
to reside there, and this, in itself, was a
principal inducement to me to go there,
for I abhorred the thought of encounter
ing any of those whom I had previously
known, and whose presence could only
the more forcibly recall events which I
should struggle to forget.

" Near the village where I resided,
there stood an old chateau, which I was
told had been uninhabited for years, and
which I was anxiously endeavoring to get
possession of, when suddenly there came
an English lady and gentleman to the
neighborhood, who, the moment it could
be prepared for their reception, became
its occupiers. Every effort I could make
to ascertain their names, or where they
had come from, was idle ; I could not ac
quire the slightest information concerning
them, and I was about to quit the place
altogether, fearing my privacy might be
invaded, when a circumstance occurred
which, for a time, prevented my removal,
and awakened afresh those feelings which,
after three years of retirement from the
world, had begun, in some degree, to
subside.

" I was strolling one evening along the
bank of a small river which ran through
the fields a short distance beyond the de

mesne of the chateau, with my little girl
playing along before me, and stooping
every now and then to add another flow
er to a huge bouquet which she had al
ready gathered, when my attention was
suddenly attracted by the sound of a
guitar, accompanied by a female voice of
surpassing melody. The music came
from within the chateau grounds, at the
opposite side of the river to where I
stood, so that the performer, or perform
ers, if there were more than one, were
hidden from my view ; but if walls of
iron had been between us they could not
have deceived me as to who was there.
I could not be mistaken in that voice —
I knew it instantly — Julia was the singer !

" I stood rooted to the spot for many
moments, in a sort of stupor ; I could not
turn away — it seemed as though I had
been spell-bound by the voice of the
syren ; so completely was my mind over
powered for the time, that even my child
was forgotten, and when I at length
turned to look for her, she was no where
to be seen.

" Some two or three hundred yards
below the spot where I had been stand
ing, the river wound suddenly round a
little wood, that stretched from the
grounds of the chateau down to its very
edge. Beyond this point, 1 could see it
no farther, and, thinking that the child
had still wandered on along its banks, I
ran forward with all the speed I could,
until I had reached the spot. I had
scarcely done so, when a piercing scream
came from a part of the wood farther on,
and, in another instant, a gentleman
broke through the trees, and I saw him
plunge headlong into the river. My first
impression was, that he was going to com
mit suicide, and, acting upon it, I was
rushing on to endeavor to save him, when,
before I had come within many yards of
the place where I had seen him disap
pear, I beheld him running towards me,
along the bank, carrying in his arms the
lifeless body of my little girl. Oh, God!
the agony of that moment! I almost
feel it now ! " And the old man sat back
in his chair, and pressed his hands tight
ly upon his forehead. But he soon grew
calmer, and continued.

TOM CROSBIE

" The agony was only for a moment —
I could not have endured it longer — it
would have driven me mad, but that I
lost all consciousness, and fainted. When
I recovered, I found myself still lying on
the grass where I had fallen, with my
head resting on the knee of the same
gentleman who had risked his life to save
my child, while he knelt anxiously over
me, bathing my temples with some strong
spirit. But his first words were worth a
million of such remedies ; he assured me
in a voice of the most eager kindness,
that he had fortunately been in time to
save my little girl, and that she was now
beyond all danger, and fast recovering.

"She had been taken instantly to the
chateau; he said, a lady who was with
him in the wood beside the river, had
seen the accident, and had hurried home
with her the moment it was possible ; a
servant had just arrived to say she was
almost quite recovered, and he trusted
there was not the slightest cause for any
further alarm. He ended, by hoping
that I would return with him, and seemed
hurt, I thought, when, after he had for
some time continued to press me warmly
to do so, I still refused.

"You will at least come with me for a
few moments while you see your little
girl?" he said. No; I thanked him for
his great kindness, I could never hope to
repay it, but at present it was impossible
I should become his visitor. I begged
that he would increase my debt of grati
tude, by sending home my child the
moment he returned, if that were possi
ble; and then, perceiving for the first
time, what in my agitation had escaped
me, that he still continued in his wet
clothes, I expressed my fears that his own
health might suffer for his kindness, and,
hastily bidding him farewell, hurried
away as quickly as my weakness would
allow me.

"I had scarcely reached my home,
when a servant arrived from the chateau
to say that my little girl had fallen into a
deep slumber, and that his lady, fearing
it might be dangerous to awaken her,
had sent to request that I would allow
her to remain during the night, and that
she should be sent home early the next

morning, as well as ever, she trusted
What were my feelings then, think
you! the mother tending her own child
without knowing it, and begging as a fa
vor from a stranger — for I had taken the
precaution to change my name — that she
should be allowed to take care of her foi
a few hours. I suffered more misery of
mind that night, than I had done for
years.

"I could not find it in my heart —
much as I longed to have my child re
stored to me — to refuse the request, and
accordingly I desired the servant to ex
press my thanks to the lady who had
sent him, and tell her I should feel grate
ful for her care of my little girl until the
morning.

" At length, after such a night of
wretchedness as I trust few men have
ever spent, the morning came, and my
darling child, high in health, and bloom
ing as ever, was once more clasped with
in my arms. But the happiness I en
joyed was only for an instant, for, on
turning aside, to thank the person who
had brought her home, I beheld Julia
standing motionless before me. She had
recognized me before I saw her, but now
when her eye met mine, she uttered a
piercing scream, and fell fainting at my
feet. It was happy for her; I wished
that I, too, had been deprived of con
sciousness ; but t stood there, with strain
ing eyes, and a burning brain, unable to
offer the slightest help, and powerless as
a child.

" I think, if any weapon had been near
me then, I would have used it for my
self-destruction, so fearful was the agony
of mipd which I endured. But I was at
length awakened from the state of stupor
into which I had been thrown, by the en
trance of my foster-brother, who, having
heard that the child had returned, came
running into the room to welcome her.

" His astonishment on beholding the
scene before him, almost equaled my
own, but he soon recovered his presence
of mind, and, withdrawing me from the
room, hastened to send a female servant
to assist in restoring Julia from her faint
ing fit. As to me, I was entirely passive,
1 could do nothing, an infant might have

AND HIS FRIENDS.

led me, and I suffered myself unresist
ingly to be taken to my bed-room. I had
not been there more than a few minutes,
when I was again startled into action, by
a succession of the most piercing screams
I ever heard, and, fearing that something
terrible had happened in the apartment
I had just left, I returned thither with
the speed of lightning, rushing down the
passage like a madman, and overcoming
every effort made by my foster-brother
to detain me.

" Julia was sitting upright on the floor,
her head supported on the lap of an old
woman, who acted as a sort of house
keeper, while another servant knelt be
side her, chafing her temples and her
hands. Her eyes were straining fearfully
forward, as if gazing at some terrible ob
ject invisible to all but her, and ever and
anon a repetition of the wild screams
which had alarmed me, burst from her
discolored lips — she was in violent hys
terics. Mingled with those piercing cries,
came now and then the mention of my
name, and heart-rending prayers not to
be torn from her child; at one moment
she called me by every endearing epithet,
at another denouncing me as her des
troyer, and once in the wildest paroxysm
of her fit, she accused me of her hus
band's murder, and said that the cruelty
of my conduct about her child, had driv
en her to seek protection from another.

"I was obliged to endure it all; I
could not bring myself again to leave the
room while she continued in that dread
ful state, and I remained, standing beside
her, helpless, and unable to afford her the
slightest relief, though my heart was
bursting at witnessing her agony. The
fit lasted for above an hour, during which
time every effort to restore her wander
ing senses had been utterly unavailing,
and, when at length she began slowly to
recover, the reality of her misery was
worse, if possible, than had been its rav
ings.

" I knew not what to do; my situation
was in every respect a trying one. I
thought it possible that the gentleman
whom I had seen the preceding evening
might be her husband ; I had heard noth
ing of her since the hour she forsook

me ; I never had the slightest clue as to
who had been her seducer; I had heard
indeed, that during the last few months
of my absence in India, a stranger, who
was supposed to be an officer, had been
a frequent a visitor at her house, but, not
withstanding every possible inquiry that
could be made, I had been unsuccessful
in discovering who he was. If it was he
with whom she was now residing — if I
could but be certain that it was so — my
course would have been clear ; but what
if it was not the same — what if he was
one who, knowing nothing of her former
life, had chanced to meet her, and, at
tracted by her beauty, which was still
great, and her accomplishments, in the
blindness of his affection had since be
come her husband.

" I knew that such things had happen
ed — I knew that marriages of this de
scription were not unfrequent, and if this,
as I thought, was not unlikely, should
chance to have been one of them, how
terrible would be the return I should
make to him who had risked his life to
save my child, by acquainting him with
the former history of the wife he had taken
to his bosom! 1 could not bring myself
to do it; yet something must be done at
once, or, alarmed at her continued ab
sence, he might come to seek her, and
then all must inevitably be discovered.

"Julia herself seemed utterly unmind
ful of what might be the result of her
being found in her present situation;
she sat there, pale and haggard, from *.he
effects of her fit, with her child — for,
with instinctive affection it had remained
beside her, clasped closely to her bosom,
the living picture of misery and despair ;
and the efforts of the servants to attract
her attention even for a moment, were
entirely unavailing.

" I had not as yet spoken to her ; in
deed, since I had returned to the room,
she did not appear to take the slightest
notice of my presence, and I was tearful
lest my addressing her in her present
state of weakness, might again disturb
her mind, and have occasioned a relapse.

"At length she looked up and saw
me. The memory of that look has never
left me ; I never beheld anything so '

TOM CROSBIE

terrible — it pierced me to the very soul.
Sorrow, and reproach, and wretchedness
of heart, were blended in it so touchingly,
that the whole sad history of her life
seemed concentrated in its glance. 1
turned away my head — I could not en
dure it.

" 'Take me away from this,' she said
at last, addressing the old servant, "let
me go home at once.'

"But she was scarcely able, even with
assistance, to raise herself from the
ground, much less to bear the fatigue
of a removal to the chateau; and there
fore, having first motioned to the servant
to leave the room, I asked her with as
much kindness as I "could, if I should
send thither to say that she had been
seized with sudden illness, and was unable
to return. I scrupulously avoided making
the slightest allusion to the past — not a
single word of reproach escaped me — I
did not even ask her a question respect
ing the gentleman who had saved our
child, lest I should have caused her any
farther pain; but, though it cost me a
bitter struggle to enable me to do so,
merely spoke to her as if she had been a
stranger, under the same circumstances.

"1 meant it kindly, but she mistook it
for contempt, and, instead of the effect I
intended it should have had, it brought
on the paroxysms again, and she became
worse than ever. The servants were once
more called in to her assistance, but the
old woman, who possessed considerable
skill in such matters, the moment she now
beheld her, declared that premature la
bor was coming on, and that her life was
in the utmost danger. I was almost
mad. I knew not what was to be done ;
there was a physician lived at about two
leagues distant, and the first thing was to
send off my foster-brother to hasten his
attendance, without a moment's delay;
then came the doubt as to how I should
act with respect to acquainting the
stranger with the situation of his com
panion, or wife, as I still believed she
might be; and I at length determined
that I would myself be the bearer of the
sad intelligence, and leave the rest to be
determined by what might afterwards
' >ccur.

"Accordingly, I mounted my horse,
and, as fast as his utmost speed could
carry me, galloped across the fields to the
chateau. The stranger was standing on
the steps, gazing anxiously forward in
the direction of the road, as if watching
for the approach of some one he had ex
pected. His horse, a powerful English hunt
er, was ready, saddled at the door, and he
was just in the act of putting his foot into
the stirrup, to ride forth in search of her
whose long absence had alarmed him,
when, breathless from the speed with
which I had ridden, and trembling in the
endeavor to conceal my excitement, I ap
peared before him.

"In as few words as possible, I told
him what had happened — that his lady,
after she had brought home my little girl,
whose life his exertions had saved, had
been suddenly attacked with illness, and
that I feared a premature confinement
had been brought on. I can never for
get the agonized expression of his face,
as he listened to the sad tidings, but he
scarcely spoke a word ; he merely thank
ed me for my care in so promptly send
ing for a physician, and, hastily directing
that a carriage should instantly be des
patched to the nearest town for further
assistance, he sprung into his saddle, and
setting spurs to his horse, dashed furi
ously across the country in the direction
of my dwelling.

" I was unable to keep up with him for
more than a few seconds, so headlong was
his speed, and, though my horse was
a good one, and I did not spare him, I
had gone little more than half the dis
tance when he had reached the house.
When I arrived, I found him pacing im
patiently up and down before the door,
waiting my approach. He had not been
admitted to the room where Julia lay —
the old nurse refused to let him see her,
telling him that the slightest excitement
now, might prove fatal to her. Half an
hour of the most painful suspense elaps
ed, before the arrival of the physician
for whom I had despatched my foster-
brother, and hours must still pass before
any further aid could be expected to
reach the spot ; I had induced my com-
I panion to come with me into the house,

AND HIS FRIENDS.

and to drink a few glasses of wine, in
the hope that they might have roused
him from the state of dejection into which
he had fallen; and I was sitting beside
him, where he sat with his head resting
on a table, endeavoring to assure him
that all would be well in a few hours,
when the old physician, who since his arri
val had been at Julia's bedside, entered the
room. I knew, the moment I saw the ex
pression of his face, that there was no hope,
and his first words confirmed me that
1 had conjectured truly — she was dead !"

Again the old man paused, and lean
ing his head down upon the table, re
mained silent for many minutes; when
he raised his face to continue, it bore the
traces of recent tears.

"A few words will suffice to tell the
rest," he went on. " The evening of
Julia's funeral, the stranger departed
from the chateau ; but before he went, I
learned from him that he was her hus
band. He may have been her seducer,
for aught I know, but if he was, the mis
ery he then suffered was more than suf
ficient atonement for the wretchedness
he had once caused me, and from my
heart I forgave him. I never heard of
him again, though I have often made in
quiries, and I think the name he was
known by at the old chateau, must have
been a feigned one.

"I returned to Ireland immediately,
and purchased this place where I now
live, and where I have ever since resided.
You now know my storj' — you know the
secret of my child's birth. That Kate
Austin, instead of being my niece, as
you believed her to be, is my daughter,
my illegitimate daughter; and with this
knowledge — with her mother's sad his
tory still fresh in your memory, you are
to decide whether you are still willing
that she should become your wife."

Thus the old gentleman concluded the
melancholy recital of his early follies and
vices, ^ hich had brought forth such fear
ful consequences. Jack had listened to
the history with the deepest interest, and
with feelings in which admiration, and
horror, and compassion, were strangely
blended; admiration for the high, un
bending spirit which had carried Mr.

Herbert through his earlier misfortunes,
and enabled him to triumph over thjem —
horror at the stern, implacable feeling,
which at a later period urged him on to
seek his dark and deadly vengeance ; and
compassion for the mournful fate of the
unhappy being whom he had so remorse
lessly sacrificed at the altar of his re
venge. But mingled with all these feelings
was one of a more painful nature ; Kate
Austin, the being he had believed so
pure, whom in his heart he idolized, had
she been deceiving him ? had she all this
time known that the old man was her fa
ther — that she was the daughter of an
adulteress? If she had, much as he
loved her, great as might be the misery
of parting from her, he resolved that be
fore to-morrow's dawn he would leave her
father's roof, and bid her farewell forever.
Mr. Herbert perceived the struggle that
was passing in his mind, but he attributed
it to another cause ; he thought the mere
fact of his daughter's illegitimacy was in
itself sufficient to deter him from becom
ing her husband, and acting upon this
supposition he spoke : —

" I warned you how any attachment
between you must end," he said, "in un-
happiness to both, but the warning was
unheeded. God help my poor child! It
is hard that she should suffer for her fa
ther's guilt"

And he said it so touchingly, that Jack
pitied him from his heart.

"You wrong me, indeed, sir," said the
latter, warmly, "if you think me base
enough, after winning her affections, to
forsake her for such a cause, but" — and
he hesitated.

" But what ? " asked Mr. Herbert, ea
gerly, unable to conjecture any other ob
jection that could exist.

"I will be plain and brief with you,"
said Jack, after a moment's pause — ;' one
question, and one answer will determine
me. Does Kate know the secret of her
birth?"

"Know it!" repeated Mr. Herbert;
" God forbid that she ever should ! With
her spirit, it would break her heart."

" Then," cried Jack, springing joyfully
from his chair, and seizing the astonished
old gentleman by the hand, "if you will

TOM CROSBIE

give her to an adventurer like myself,
with nothing to depend upon but the for
tune which God has given me — a hand
to protect, and a heart to love her — I '11
take her for my wife to-morrow as proud
ly as if she had been born in holy wed
lock, the daughter of a monarch and
heiress to a throne ! "

"My noble boy!" said Mr. Herbert,
gazing delightedly at the flashing eye
and glowing cheek of the excited speak
er — " I will give her to you this moment
if she were the heiress of a thousand
thrones, and feel prouder of the choice
that she had made, than if another laid
the wealth of Europe at her feet! She
shall be yours when you choose to claim
her — the sooner the better, for the rea
sons I have told you — and when, with
the fondest blessings of my heart, I give
her to you at the altar, you shall find
that you have taken to your bosom no
dowerless bride."

That was the way Fortune paid her
visit to Jack Rochefort.

CHAPTER XXII.

A RETURN A QUARREL AND A MISTRESS

MISSING.

That same evening, Kate, and Jack,
and Mr. Herbert, sat before an open win
dow of the drawing-room, looking out
upon the beautiful landscape that lay be
fore them; but, though their eyes wan
dered from one lovely object to another,
and were in turn fixed on each, their
thoughts were of other things. The lov
ers thought of the future — the old man
of the past ; the one, of the happiness to
come — the other, of that which has gone
forever ; but the thoughts of each were
silent.

Soon, however, they were interrupted.
Suddenly the door of the apartment was
thrown open, and, without a word of an
nouncement, George Seymour stood be

fore them. His surprise on beholding a
stranger where he had never before
known one to be admitted, for a moment
prevented him from speaking, and when
he did speak, the eager look with which
he had entered the room, gave place to
an expression of cold and haughty po
liteness, while he said, addressing himself
to Mr. Herbert:

" I trust you will pardon this intrusion,
sir; I had expected to find you alone;"
and his eye was fixed for a moment on
Jack. But he met a look there that told
him plainly the spirit he had to deal with
was as unbending as his own, and he
quickly withdrew his glance.

Mr. Herbert, the moment his entrance
had been perceived, had risen from his
chair, and was advancing Avith his hand
warmly extended, to bid him welcome,
when the cutting coldness of his manner
suddenly checked him, and caused him
to stand still with wonder.

"Intrusion!" he repeated; "why,
George, when were you ever considered
an intruder here ? "

' " It matters not," said the young man,
sullenly, "I see I am one now!" And
again he glanced towards Jack.

" Do you not see Kate ? " asked Mr.
Herbert, astonished at the strangeness of
his conduct

"I do!" said he emphatically, while his
eyes shot forth one of those burning
glances of which the old gentleman had
spoken — "I do see her."

" Then why not speak to her ? "

" I should be sorry to interrupt her at
present" he answered, with a bitter
sneer.

"You have returned sooner than we
expected, Mr. Seymour," said Kate, turn
ing round upon her chair, for, since the
moment he had first entered the room,
she had not before looked at him.

" Indeed ? Miss Austin ! " said he with
a withering look, and laying peculiar
emphasis on the words. It was the first
time they had ever been anything to each
other but " Kate" and " George." "You
might have added, sooner than I w&b
welcome."

"You think so?"

"I da"

AND HIS FRIENDS.

'.5

"Then you should not have come,"
said Kate, indignantly, and again she
turned from him.

" By heaven ! this is not to be borne ! "
cried George, furiously, losing all con
trol over his passion ; and, striding across
the room, until he stood opposite to Jack
he demanded sternly — " Who are you
sir?"

"Sir!" exclaimed Jack, in the most
unbounded astonishment, almost believ
ing him to be mad.

" Who are you ? " repeated George.
Jack was astounded ; he looked first at
Kate, and then at Mr. Herbert, as if to
gather from them what it all meant; but,
perceiving that their surprise was almost
equal to his own, he turned his eyes back
again to George, and sat staring at him
in amazement

"Did you hear me, sir?" demanded
the latter, in a still louder voice than be
fore, " and do you understand me ? "

"Perfectly!" said Jack, beginning to
recover his senses a little.

"Then why not answer me?"
" I never answer impertinent questions."
" Ha !" cried George — " impertinent ? "
"Aye, sir! such was the word — would
you like -it stronger ? "

" Rochefort, dear Rochefort," exclaim
ed Kate, imploringly, laying her hand on
Jack's arm, "do not quarrel with him —
for my sake do not — he knows not what
he is doing."

" They '11 drive me mad ! " cried George,
passionately, dashing his clenched hand
wildly against his forehead. "Oh, God!
why did I come here ? " and then, sud
denly, with a mighty effort, becoming
calm, he turned on Jack a look of the
most deadly hatred, and, in a choked
voice of suppressed passion, said: "You
shall answer to me for this, sir ! "

"Anywhere but here," answered Jack,
with a slight glance towards Kate, "and
when you please."

"'Tis well, sir; " and, bowing haught
ily, he was about to leave the room, when
Kate, pale as death, and trembling in the
excitement of her feelings, stood before
him, and detained him.

"Why did you come here?" she said,
turning her eyes full upon his face.

"Because I was mad enough to love a
wanton ! " he answered fiercely, his pas
sion sweeping every other feeling resist-
lessly before it

Jack sprang from his chair, and with
one bound reaching the spot where he
stood, seized him by the throat; but be
fore any struggle could take place between
them, Kate laid her hand upon his arm,
and withdrew it from his grasp.

"Let me speak to him," she said, the
paleness on her cheek succeeded by a
crimson flush, and her eyes flashing fear
fully — "let him hear me now;" and
standing like a beautiful Pythoness before
George, with a heaving bosom, and a
trembling lip, she spoke :

" Listen to me, George Seymour ! We
were children together, companions to
gether, and, were it not for the evil
workings of your own dark spirit, a nearer
tie might have held us still together.
As a child I feared you ; as I grew older
I learned to admire your bold and daring
nature; and as a woman, I could have
loved you, but your sullen temper turned
my heart against you, and changed its
feelings from affection to indifference —
from indifference to fear — from fear to
hatred.

"You became a tyrant; where you
should have wooed, you sought to com
mand ; my spirit was as haughty as your
own — it would have broken rather than
one like you should bend it, and, instead
of yielding, it acquired fresh strength,
until at last the heart your gentleness
could have taught to love, was forced by
your tyranny to hate you. When, a year
back, you asked me to become your wife,
I told you this — I told you neither time
nor any earthly power could change my
feelings towards you ; but I was wrong ;
they are changed; I hated you then, I
now despise you!"

And, with a look of the deepest scorn,
she turned from him, and walked proudly
"rom the room.

George Seymour remained rooted to
,he spot where she had left him, motion-
ess as if he had been petrified. The
aope, the fondest of his life, his only one
since he had left his home, was gone for-
ver ; it had received its death-blow ; and

TOM CROSBIE

from the lips of her he loved so deeply,
so devoutly! His spirit quailed within
him for an instant, but it was only for an
instant. Without taking the slightest no
tice of Mr. Herbert, he turned on Jack a
look of undying hatred, and hissing
through his clenched teeth, "We meet
again?" strode from the apartment.

Mr. Herbert was the first to speak.

"Rochefort," said he, you must prom
ise me to avoid a meeting with this rash
young man, "I tremble to think how any
such might end."

"But how can it be prevented, sir?"
demanded Jack; "I could not refuse to
meet him."

" You must leave this for a few days,"
said Mr. Herbert, after a moment's
thought, "he will be gone before you
return, or it will all have blown over."

" What ! " said Jack, " run away, and
let him call me a coward ! You surely
would not have me do this ? "

"I would," replied Mr. Herbert, reso
lutely, "there must be no further quarrel
between you."

" I have no wish to quarrel," said Jack,
and he spoke the truth ; he would gladly
have shrunk from it, if his feelings of
what he had been taught to consider
honor would have allowed him.

"If you remain here," continued Mr.
Herbert, "it is inevitable; George Sey
mour's dark spirit will urge him on, as
mine did me, to seek revenge upon his
rival, depend upon it"

"Let him seek it! "said Jack, deter
minedly, for the old gentleman's last words
were badly calculated to have their
intended effect upon him — "I shall not
shun him."

" And you will fight with him ? " de
manded Mr. Herbert.

"Most assuredly, if he «wishes it," re
plied Jack, resolutely.

"That is your determination?"

"Certainly."

" Then hear me. That reckless boy —
for even yet I can think him but little
more — is, as I have already told you, the
only child of a doating mother — her last
tie on earth. If any ill should happen to
him it would break her heart. Many
long years of intercourse between us

have taught me to feel towards her a
brother's, or rather a father's affection;
she has been a companion to myself, a
mother to my child ; that boy she adores,
doats on, almost idolizes; without him her
life would be desolate. Now mark me!
if he should fall by your hand, 1 would
see my daughter lying dead before me
rather than she should ever become your
wife!"

And as the old man spoke, with strong
emotion, Jack, while he kept his eyes
fixed upon his face, could not help think
ing over the story he had told him of the
workings of his early passions.

"What would you have me do?" he
said, when Mr. Herbert had concluded.

"I have already told you," was the
answer; "you must leave this to-night."

" To go where ? " asked Jack, resolving
in his own mind to remain somewhere in
the neighborhood, in case George Sey
mour, as he felt certain he would, should
seek a meeting with him.

"Anywhere for a few days," said Mr.
Herbert; "but you must prepare to start
immediately."

"And Kate?"

"You will see her before you go."

" What will she think of me ; to run
away on the mere chance of danger ? "
said Jack, in a tone expressive of anything
but pleasure. " A coward she rmist think
me! "

" I will explain it all to her," said Mr.
Herbert, "she will think no such thing,
believe me."

" And how long must I remain absent ? "

" But a very short time, I trust ; George
will leave the neighborhood at once, or I
am much mistaken. In the meantime
everything shall be arranged for your
marriage, and when you return you shall
be happy, if Kale can make you so."

This was better calculated to reconcile
Jack to the idea of his sudden departure
than anything the old gentleman had yet
said, and he- therefore offered no further
objections; in the first place, because he
thought it would be useless to do so, and
secondly, because he had already deter
mined that, unless he should happen to
be shot in the meantime, his absence
would be but a short one.

AND HIS FRIENDS.

And the old gentleman put on his
spectacles and sat down, with his mind
much easier than it had been for some
time.

Jack left the room instantly to search
for Kate. Where to find lier though
puzzled him not a little ; every room in
the house, the garden, the shrubbery, the
lawn, were visited in vain; she was no
where to be seen. Servants were ques
tioned, and laborers interrogated, but with
a like result; none of them could give
any information concerning her. It was
becoming dusk — where could she have
gone ? Jack was growing uneasy. Ten
minutes more elapsed, and still no signs
of her. Jack was getting wild with anx
iety. Another ten minutes — no intelli
gence whatever. Jack could bear the
suspense no longer ; he was running about
like one demented. From the house to
the lawn; from the lawn to the stables;
from the stables to the cow-house; from
the cow-house to the pig-sty ; tumbling
about sheaves of corn in the barn ; peep
ing into churns in the dairy; upsetting
hen-coops, and overturning turf-creels;
prosecuting his vigorous search in every
unimaginable spot he could think of, and
in all kinds of places where she could not
by possibility have concealed herself;
still she was not forthcoming.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A PARTING, AND A FALSE ALARM.

When Kate left the drawing-room after
having given George Seymour his final
conge, which it will be recollected she did
in no very nattering manner, she first
betook herself to the solitude of her own
apartment, or "boudoir," as ladies may
prefer to have it termed. There, she
seated herself upon a small and softly
cushioned lounge, or ottoman, or what
ever it was, and for some moments —

painful ones they were, too — held com
mune with her thoughts.

Thoughts are very often the most disa
greeable companions either man or woman
could possibly choose, and upon the pres
ent occasion Kate found them to be event
more than usually cheerless and unpleas
ant The feelings which had swelled
within her but a few minutes before, urg
ing her to resent the unmannerly insult
she had received from her former lover,
were now fast subsiding, and she almost
regretted that they had betrayed her into
such harshness towards him. Neverthe
less, if at that instant he had again ap
peared before her, she would have
repeated the same expressions of hatred
and contempt; for that she did hate and
despise him, it can be scarcely doubted.

However, unaccountable as it may
seem, she now felt a pang at the pain she
must have caused him, and as she sat
there, thinking over the years they had
passed away in childhood and youth
together, the memories that came back
upon her softened by degrees her feelings
towards him, until at length something
like pity began, thief- like, to steal into
her bosom.

"Pity," they say "is akin to love."
May be so. If it be, the relationship in
the present instance was a very dis
tant one — a thirty-second cousinship, or
something of that kind ; but, nevertheless,
those cousins far removed are occasion
ally very pushing, troublesome connex
ions, and the greater distance they are
kept at the better.

Kate Austin's was an untamed spirit;
a wild and dangerous one; one which
would have required the powers of a
master mind to keep it in control, and
which, such a mentor being wanting, was
liable at any moment to break forth, and,
spurning all restraint, hurry her on to
danger, if not absolutely to destruction.
It was at this very moment working fear
fully within her, rousing her passions into
a whirl of excitement, that left her almost
powerless to think, much less to act, and
likely, if not subdued by some strong
effort, to carry her resistlessly before it

It was then Jack Rochefort should have
been beside her, instead of playing with

TOM CROSBIE

the silken ears of her spaniel — he might
have soothed her at a moment when,
most of all, she required it; but he was
not to blame; he knew nothing of the
struggle that was passing in her mind — if
he did, she would not have been long
alone.

At length a thought seemed to strike
her suddenly, and, starting from her seat,
she exclaimed:

"I will go to Mrs. Seymour!"

And in another moment she was equip
ped and ready for her journey. She had
but two miles to go, and, without a syl
lable of her intention to any one in the
house, she set forth instantly, and, walk
ing rapidly along, followed a path which
led through the fields in the direction of
the place she sought

What her object was in seeking Mrs.
Seymour she could have scarcely told if
any one had asked her ; the impulse of a
moment had determined her to go to
her, but, except that she was the only
female friend she had in the world, her
visit to her was without any defined pur
pose.

As she walked along, however, her
mind became more settled ; she thought
how painful it must be to both if she
should happen to meet George beneath
his mother's roof; she thought of what
reception she would be likely to meet
when the mother should hear of the cruel
manner in which her darling son had been
rejected ; and she was on the point of re
turning home again without proceeding
any further, when George Seymour him
self stood before her on the path.

Her first impression was that he had
seen her leaving the house and followed
her; and, notwithstanding the regret she
had so lately felt for her harshness to
wards him — notwithstanding the pity
which she had begun to feel for him, in
an instant her spirit was again up in arms
at the insult she had received, and every
softer feeling was forgotten.

George continued standing full in the
path before her, with his eyes fixed sadly
on her face, but he neither spoke nor of
fered to draw aside to let her pass.

"Why have you followed me?" she
said at length; "what means this con

tinued insult ? " And she made an effort
to return.

"I have not followed you," he an
swered, but without changing his position
— " I little expected to find you here. I
am but returning to my home — the home
which you have made a wretched one."
And his voice sounded "more in sorrow
than in anger."

"Then let me pass," said Kate; "why
do you detain me ? "

"It is the last time we may ever meet,"
said George, in a low voice, struggling to
suppress his feelings; "I would speak a
few words to you before we part."

" Speak them quickly then," answered
Kate, turning aside her head ; "it is grow
ing late — I must return instantly."

"Aye to your lover!" said George,
bitterly.

"To whom I please," said Kate, proud
ly; "you have no right to question me.
Let me pass, sir." And she again en
deavoured to move on.

" One moment," said George, " and I
leave you forever — leave you to my ri
val! " And he laughed fearfully.

" Move aside this instant, and let me
pass," exclaimed Kate, indignantly — "1
never until now believed you to be a
coward!" And she pronounced the
word scornfully. "If you detain me a
moment longer I shall be obliged to call
some one to my assistance.

" Would that your champion were my
favored rival! " cried George, passionate
ly, driven almost to phrenzy by her taunts
— "it should be the last time one of us
would stand before you! But we shall
meet before long ! "

And while he spoke, he looked as if
some devil had possessed him.

For many moments she continued
standing in the spot where he had left
her, too much overpowered to have any
thought of the lateness of the hour or
the loneliness of the place. Her feelings
were of a nature that few would envy;
hate, and fear, and love were strangely
blended in them, leaving her mind a chaos
of excitement which for the time de
prived it of its calmer powers.

At length her passion began to cool
sufficiently to enable her to remember

AND HIS FRIENDS.

what had brought her from her home at
such an hour, and, though it was now
almost entirely dark, she determined on
carrying out her first intention and con
tinuing her journey to Mrs. Seymour's.

"£>he shall hear it all from my own
lips," repeated the excited girl; ''now,
while the memory of his cowardly insults
is fresh and strung, his mother shall learn
that his own conduct has taught me, has
forced me, to hate him!" And forget
ting that George would have reached his
home before her — that her visit would
probably bring about another interview
between them, she hastened on, and nev
er paused again until she found herself
standing upon the hall-door steps of the
house which for years had been a second
home to her.

George had not returned; she found
Mrs. Seymour alone, and, before the
latter had recovered from the surprise
into which she was thrown by Kate's
visit at such an hour, she had learned the
whole story of her son's rejection and
the interview which followed it.

Kate had expected her upbraidings —
she would have listened to them without
a murmur, but she was entirely unpre
pared for the torrent of wrath which
bvst from her when she heard of the
treatment her darling son had received;
it was so unlike her usual calm and pla-
o,id manner — so fierce, and even abusive,
that the high-spirited girl could not brook
it, and she parted from the mother with
her woman's feelings roused to a deeper
sense of injury than she had before ex
perienced in parting with the son.

This, then, had been the cause of that
prolonged absence which had created
such a panic in the bosoms of her father
and her lover ; and, while Jack Rochefort
was speeding, "fiery hot with haste," in
the direction of the river to seek for her,
she was returning quietly along the lone
ly path leading through the fields. When
I say "quietly," I mean the expression
to apply merely to the pace she walked
at, for her mind was any thing but quiet

— she was unhappy and wretched for the
first time in her life, and her wretchedness
was that description which would require
the soothing power of time to banish it.

She had parted from the only friend
she had ever had, in anger — they could
never be friends again; she felt this
acutely, but when she thought of her last
interview with her discarded lover, and
the fearful vent he had then given to his
passion, her feelings became of even a
more painful nature. Such threats as
he had uttered were not to be considered
lightly by one who knew the darkness of
his disposition — they were not the idle
outpourings of a mere passionate impulse
— there was danger in them ; she felt
painful presentiment of future evil, and
as she pursued her way towards home
with thoughts of this description brooding
in her mind, never was less of happiness
in the heart of one about to become a
bride.

As she approached her home, the path
she followed led close beside the river,
and she had almost reached the bounds
of the shrubbery, when she distinguished
two voices at a little distance, both of
which made frequent allusion to her own
name.

Now, I regret to be obliged to state
that, instead of Jack returning thanks to
Providence for her restoration, the very
first thing he did was to catch her in his
arms, press her to his bosom, and kiss
her lips at least half a dozen times — a
course of proceeding of which he ought
to have been heartily ashamed, and at
which Kate evinced her very natural dis
pleasure by returning him his kisses as
fast as he gave them1

" Oh ! where have you been ? " asked
Jack, as soon as he could apply his lips
to the purposes of speaking; " why did
you leave us in this state of misery and
suspense ? "

"Ask me no questions now; you shall
know every thing when we reach the
house." And she placed her arm within
his.

TOM CROSBIE

CHAPTER XXIV.

A CATASTROPHE.

There was no moonlight now to guide
them, or to beam gently through th
trees on the shrubbery path as thej
walked along, but if they had been blind
fold they could have found their way
there in safety, for there was not a pebbl
from one end to the other that their feet
had not trod upon in some of their former
rambles.

No, there was no moonlight, certainly,
but they required none, for had not Jack
told Kate, the very first night they
strolled there together, that "her eye
were brighter than a thousand moons "
— and did he not think so still ? To be
sure he did! else why have repeated the
same thing now every time she com
plained of the darkness ?

If the moon had been peeping from
the clouds that night, she might have
seen more than one repetition of what she
had so often seen before in the same
place, and might have heard other coo-
ings besides those of the wood-pigeons.
It plays the very devil with a man to be
assisting a girl through a shrubbery on a
dark night; faith, it's a doubt to me but
it 's almost as bad as moonlight !

Kate and her lover had arrived at the
end of the shrubbery, and were just
stepping across a path which divided it
from the lawn, when they perceived a
figure pass rapidly before them ; but be
fore either of them could discover who it
was, it had disappeared.

"Who could it have been?" said
Kate, uneasily, feeling a sort of fear for
which she could not account.

" Oh ! it's McDermott running home as
fast as terror can drive him," answered
Jack, carelessly.

" That was not McDermott's figure,"
said Kate, anxiously ; "it was some young-
man — what could have brought him
here?"

And her own fears suggested to her
who it might have been.

"Some of the men about the place,
taking a short cut home," said Jack'
" but no matter who it was — why should
you be alarmed ? " And he pressed her
arm closer to his side.

" I scarcely know," she replied, * but

I thought the figure was like .Georo-e
Seymour's."

"Pooh!" interrupted Jack, gaily, at
the same time being well assured she had
not been mistaken — "what should bring
him here at such an hour ? No ; depend
upon it, he was not the person who
passed, and, even if he was, why should
you feel uneasy ? "

" I cannot tell," said Kate, "but let us
hasten home!" And they quickened
iheir steps accordingly.

They reached the house without be-
ng troubled any farther by the figure,
whosoever it was. Kate found her father
still in the most harrassing state of sus-
)ense about her; however, her presence
soon restored him, and he was able to
isten attentively to the account of her
nterview with George and his mother.

It was not until they had been sitting
or some time together, that Mr. Herbert
uddenly exclaimed:

" Where is Rochefort — have you not
een him?"

Kate started; she had never noticed
lis absence until that moment, and she
ecame alarmed lest he had returned to
he grounds to discover who the person
vas that had passed them so rapidly,
,nd that, if her fears as to its being
Greorge were true, a meeting might take
lace between them, the consequences of
which would be fatal to one or the other.

" He came home with me," she an-
wered eagerly ; " I thought he had beeq
ere ever since! "

" Oh ! if he came home with you it's

II right," said Mr. Herbert cheerfully;
I suppose he is gone to prepare for his

ourney."

"Journey!" repeated Ka^e — "What
ourney ? "

" Ah, I see he did not like to tell you,"
aid the old gentleman smiling; "and
ow I remember I promised him to ex-
lain it all to you. "

And he went on to tell her how he

AND HIS FRIENDS.

nad insisted upon Jack's leaving the
neighborhood for a few days to avoid a
meeting with George Seymour, and how
it was arranged that he should start that
very night.

The intelligence was a great relief to
her. She thought it probable that he
had really gone to prepare for his intend
ed journey, and that all might yet end
well without any farther encounter be
tween him and George. Her first fears
when his absence was noticed, however,
had not been groundless, as will presently
appear.

Kate and Jack, as I have already said,
had reached the house without again per
ceiving the figure that had startled them
on the lawn, and the former had just
passed across the threshold of that same
side-door where the kiss had been snatch
ed from her upon a previous occasion,
when Jack felt a hand laid upon his
arm.

Before he looked around, however, not
wishing to alarm Kate, he suffered her to
reach the end of the passage leading into
the house, and then, closing the door
behind her, he turned, and beheld George
Seymour standing in the shadow of the
wall. But it did not cause him the least
surprise; he had recognized his figure
the moment it passed him on the lawn,
and he was prepared for an interview of
the kind.

"Mr. Seymour, if I mistake not?" said
he, rather more politely than might have
been expected under the circumstances;
but there is no time at which well bred
gentlemen are so scrupulously civil to
each other as when they are about to cut
each other's throats.

George answered by a slight inclination
of b'.s head, and, motioning Jack to fol
low, strode across a small field that open
ed into an enclosure behind the house.
Here, as soon as he had reached a group
of trees which stood at the further end,
he paused, and folding his arms across
his breast, awaited the approach of Jack,
who was still a few yards behind.

"You know why I have sought you?"
he said, in a hoarse voice, so soon as the
latter had come close beside him.

"I can guess," answered Jack, shortly.
6

"You are my rival!" said George,
bitterly.

"I know it," was the brief reply.

"My favored rival ! " continued George.

"I know that, also."

"You came like a thief, in my absence,"
exclaimed George, fiercely, driven to fury
by his coolness, " and stole her from me !
Have you not done this ? "

"You must use other language if you
expect a reply from me," said Jack, calm
ly, for he was determined to keep a com
mand over his temper, though it must be
confessed the task was already becoming
rather difficult.

"I cannot pause to choose my words,
sir," said George, with a bitter sneer:
" I ask you if you are to become the hus
band of Kate — of Miss Austin ? "

"Though you have no right whatever
to propose such a question," replied Jack,
quietly, "I will give you an answer — I
am!"

" How soon ? "

"I cannot tell the day."

"You shall never live to see! "cried
George, hoarsely, while his face became
livid with passion — "you have robbed me
of my happiness."

" I deeply regret it ! " interrupted Jack,
and he spoke the truth — he did regret it.

"Regret it!" exclaimed George, furi
ously — "do you mock me, sir? — do you
take me for a schoolboy or a fool?"
And his eyes burned again in their
sockets.

"The sooner this interview is at an end
the better for us both," said Jack, begin
ning to find it a severe struggle to restrain
his impatience ; " for what purpose have
you brought me here?"

" I thought you had guessed it ! " re
plied George, with a curl of his lip.

" I had certainly expected your object
to be something more than the bandying
mere idle words," said Jack, with a more
decided tone than he had before spoken
in, for he was fast losing all patience, and
his spirit could not much longer tamely
brook the continued fierceness of his
rival's manner.

"You were right, sir!" rejoined the
latter, sternly, "I sought you for a wide
ly different purpose."

TOM CROSBIE

"Name it then at once," said Jack,
"and let there be an end to this painful
interview."

"There shall be an end to it!" replied
George, in a deep voice; "it is the last
nigh i that one of us shall live — here you
see, I am prepared!"

And he took a case of duelling pistols
from beneath a tree where he had previ
ously concealed them.

" I shall not fight with you," said Jack,
in a low voice, for at that moment he
remembered the threat of Mr. Herbert,
that if George should fall by his hand,
Kate should never become his wife.

" What ! " exclaimed George, scornfully,
"a coward!"

"It is false!" cried Jack, proudly,
while his eyes flashed, and the veins in
his forehead swelled with the strength
of his excitement, "false as hell!"

"Then choose your weapon," said
George, quickly, holding a pistol towards
him in each hand, "chouse either of these
— they are both carefully loaded — and
take your ground at once."

" 1 cannot tight with you," repeated
Jack, in a choked voice, turning away his
head.

" Villain ! " cried George, passionately,
still holding the pistols towards him, " take
one of these, or I will shoot you where
you stand!"

"I will not lift my hand against you,"
said Jack, resolutely, standing calmly
before him, though he felt the blood
boiling through his veins and leaping
madly in his pulses, with the intensity of
his suppressed feelings, " I will never lift
my hand against you."

And he folded his arms across his
bosom.

" God ! " exclaimed George Seymour,
in a fearful tone, while his whole frame
shook with passion, "see what has won a
woman's heart — what has robbed me of
her love! — a base, cringing, despicable
coward." And he ground his teeth to
gether, and stamped furiously upon the
ground in the excess of his overwhelming
rage.

" Give me the pistol ! " cried Jack,
springing" forward, and laying hold of one
of the weapons, "your blood be upon

your own head ! " And he stepped back
a few paces.

Kate, and Mr. Herbert, and the whole
world, were forgotten for the instant, for
his pent-up passion had broken forth
beyond all restraint at the last bitter
taunt of his rival, and he was almost
mad.

A look of fiendish exultation passed
for a moment across the features of
George Seymour, and then, throwing
aside his cloak, he stood confronting Jack
at scarcely ten paces distance.

"One of us must fall ! " he exclaimed,
hoarsely.

" Be it so ! " said Jack, and he grasped
his pistol firmly.

"We fire together," continued George,
"or let who will reserve his fire; but aim
your best, for by Him who made me, /
shall not spare you."

And he spoke in a tone of deadly
hatred.

" Waste no more words, sir," said Jack,
impatiently, "but proceed at once."

The moon had by tlu's time risen and
cast a faint light on the spot where they
stood, so that, while objects at a greater
distance were still indistinct, they could
see each other plainly.

"Who gives the word?" demanded
George, through his clenched teeth.

" Let it rest with you," replied Jack,
"the affair is entirely of your own seek-
ing."

"Be it so then — are you ready?"
And the pistols were presented deliber
ately.

" Ready ! " replied Jack.

"Then fire!"

And the flash of his pistol accompanied
the word.

Jack stood firmly on his ground, drawn
up to his full height, with his right arm still
steadily extended, and with his eye fixed
calmly and with a deadly glance upou
the person of his enemy, the pistol was
pointed unerringly at his heart; and if
his finger had but touched the trigger
then, George Seymour would have been
in eternity ; but a better impulse seemed
to change his purpose, and after a few
seconds, during which he had not moved
a muscle, he raised the weapon slowly

AND HIS FRIENDS.

from its level and discharged it in the air.
The next instant he staggered slightly,
pressed His hands suddenly against his
side, and after a vain endeavor to recover
his erect position, uttered a low moan,
and fell heavily on the ground.

George Seymour's bullet had erred
but slightly in its course — it had been
intended for his heart!

CHAPTER XXV.

AN ALARM, AND A WARNING.

Kate and Mr. Herbert had just been
speaking of Jack's absence, and the for
mer was in the act of rising from her
chair to go in search of him, when the
reports of the pistols reached her ears,
and caused her to fall back again in ter
ror. . In a second after, Mr. McDermott
rushed into the room, the picture of dis
may and fear, and, while he remained
standing in the middle of the floor, shiv
ering from head to foot as if he had the
ague, cried out:

"Och ! masther dear, Miss Kate alanna,
there's some one afther bein' kilt an'
murthered in the big field 'ithout ! Did n't
yees hear the shootin' ? "

And Mr. McDermott's knees rattled
together like castanets.

"They have met!" exclaimed Kate
and Mr. Herbert in a breath, " they have
met, and at this moment one of them
may be dying!" continued the latter,
"where were the shots fired, McDer
mott ? "

"In the big field behind the house,"
replied that pleasant individual, and then
by way of comfort he added — "we '11 all
be kilt in less than five minnits!"

" Get lights instantly ! " directed Mr.
Herbert, "and search the field."

" Me ! " exclaimed Mr. McDermott, in
horror, "me sarch the field?"

"Get lights instantly!" repeated the

fcold man sternly, " I will accompany you
myself."

"We'll be shot like shnipes! "said the
comforter, dissuadingly.

"Begone directly !" shouted Mr. Her
bert in a voice which sent his heroic ser
vant out of the room even quicker than
he had entered it;' not, however, until he
had repeated the assurance that they
should be shot

" Oh ! uncle, uncle ! " exclaimed Kate,
"this suspense is terrible! I fear that
George's revenge has been already ac
complished ! "

And she caught Mr. Herbert by the
arm, while her face was deadly pale and
her lip worked convulsively.

" I knew it would come to this ! " said
Mr. Herbert, sadly, "I knew what would
happen if Rochefort remained here!"
And he paced impatiently across the
room. "But remain quietly here, my
child," he continued, speaking in a more
gentle tone, "we shall soon know the
worst. Let us hope it may not be so bad
as our fears would make it seem."

And he kissed his daughter affection
ately as he was about to leave the room.

" Oh ! let me go with you, uncle ! " ex
claimed Kate, beseechingly, "I cannot
bear this dreadful uncertainty."

" No, no, my cliild," said the old man,
"if they have met, and, that either has
been wounded, it would be a fearful
sight for a woman's eyes; remain where
you are, and I will return with all the
speed I can."

So saying, and pressing her fondly to
his bosom, he hurried from the room.

Accompanied, or rather followed, by Mr.
McDermott, who as he slunk along furbish
ed up in his mind every species of prayer
he could think of preparatory to being
ushered into the other world — and with
two or three other servants bearing lights,
for the night was still gloomy, notwith
standing that the moon peeped forth now
and then — Mr. Herbert proceeded rapid
ly in the direction where the shots had
been heard.

He had scarcely entered the field when
he perceived a man hastily advancing
towards him, and in another moment
George Seymour, still holding the pistol

TOM CROSBIE

in his hand, and with his features wearing
a wild and haggard expression, came up
close beside him.

"What have you done?" exclaimed
Mr. Herbert, breathlessly, and gazing
earnestly in the pallid face of the young
man — " where is my noble boy ? " And
his voice became tremulous with varied
emotions.

"There!" answered George, in a voice
that seemed to come from the very depths
of his chest, and pointing in the direction
of the group of trees near which the
encounter had taken place, "you will find
him there ! "

"Have you killed him?" exclaimed
the old man in a tone that spoke his ago
ny of mind, drawing closer to George,
until their faces nearly touched, "have
you killed him? speak!"

" Aye ! " cried the latter, with a fearful
laugh, " you must seek another husband
for your — niece!" And his eyes glared
wildly upon Mr. Herbert as he spoke.

" Then may my heavy curse fall upon
your head ! " exclaimed the old man, pas
sionately. "Begone, murderer! lest 1
should be tempted to lift my hand against
your life!" And he motioned him to
depart.

But George moved not; he stood with
folded arms, calmly, and with a scornful
smile upon his lip, looking steadily in the
face of the excited old man, while he
said slowly, and speaking in a voice where
every evil passion seemed blended.

" I despise your threats, sir ; I once
respected and loved you as a father ; I
hate you now — I hate you all, father, and
child, and lover! Amongst you, you
have worked my ruin, soul and body ; but
on him, at least I have avenged myself!"
And for a moment his eyes flashed wildly.
He continued : " Your ' noble boy ' lies
beside yonder trees — a corpse; my hand
robbed him of his life, as he robbed me
of my happiness ! Be sure you tell this
to Kate, and tell her that my revenge has
but begun ; she shall feel it yet as long
as both may live — feel it until she prays
to God for death as his greatest blessing
— until her heart is seared and blasted
as the one she has cast from her — until
her existence becomes a torment and a

curse! Tell her this, and bid her, when
she is hereafter writhing beneath the
power of the spirit she has despised, to
think of the last words I ever spoke to
her, and remember that the tortures she
is enduring are but the workings of my
revenge ! "

And while the old man continued
standing there, silent and motionless with
horror, he turned round and strode rap
idly from the field.

All this passed in a much shorter time
than I have taken to tell it — the inter
view lasted scarcely a moment, and,
though it was one the i mpression of
which could never be forgotten, it occa
sioned but a brief delay until Mr. Her
bert had reached the spot where Jack
was lying.

He found him senseless, with his hands
still pressed upon his side, and weltering
in the blood which oozed thickly from
between his fingers; but life was not yet
extinct

" He lives ! " was the joyful exclama
tion of the old man, as he dropped on
his knees beside him, and offered up a
short prayer of thankfulness to heaven.

"Lord be about us!" ejaculated Mr.
McDermott, crossing himself, "it's Mis-
ther Rochefort that's afther bein' kilt an'
murthered! Glory be to God!" And
the faithful comforter elevated his eyes
religiously.

" Bear him to the house instantly," di
rected Mr. Herbert, addressing the ser
vants, who were standing by, looking on
in mute astonishment, " and, McDermott,
do you run back and ride for your life
to the nearest surgeon — you have not f«r
to go."

" Surgin ! " interrupted Patrick, —
"ayeh! what for? Is it to bring a d' ad
man to life? the priest himself coulcn't
do that!"

"Begone this instant!" repeated Mr.
Herbert, " lose not a moment, but do as
I desire you."

" Oh, an' sure I will, sir," replied the
comforter, " but if you take my advice
you won't let any one touch the body
till the crowner howlds a 'quest on it! "

"Was there ever such a scoundrel!''
exclaimed the old gentleman, passional t-

AND HIS FRIENDS.

ly, " do you want to drive me mad, sir
rah? Do you see him dying there b«-
fore you, and you will not exert yourself
to save him."

" I'll go this ininnit, sir ! " said Mr. Mc-
Dermott, laying down his lantern, " I'll
have the docthor back here in half a jif-
fey, but I might as well stay where I am
— whin a man's dead there's nothin' to be
done but wake him like a christyan an'
bury him daeently!"

And, notwithstanding his entertaining

• O B O

tins opinion, the extraordinary being set
off as hard as his legs could carry him,
nor did he suffer an instant to elapse in
unnecessary delay until he was returning
at full speed with the " docthor" by his
side.

In the meanwhile the servants, assisted
by Mr. Herbert, bore the almost lifeless
body of Jack slowly towards the house,
which they had nearly reached when
Kate, unable any longer to endure the
torturing state of suspense in which she
had been left, was seen approaching hasti
ly towards them.

The lantern which one of the men
still carried threw its light before the
group in such a manner as to prevent
her, at first, from perceiving the sad na
ture of their task, but when at length she
came sufficiently near them to distinguish
that they bore what appeared to be the
rigid form of a dead man, she uttered a
piercing scream, and would have fallen
but that a paling was close beside her,
against which she leaned for support

" Kate, Kate, why did you come
liere ? " exclaimed Mr. Herbert, reproach
fully — " return with us, my child, all
will be well, but let us trust in God ! "

" I am the cause of this," said the poor
girl, in a voice of agony — " I am his
murderer ! " And she pressed her hands
before her eyes.

" No, no," said Mr. Herbert, soothing
ly, " he is not dead."

"Not dead!" repeated Kate, the
whole expression of her features chang
ing like magic from the deepest misery
to intense, maddening joy; and, spring
ing forward towards the group, she laid
her hand upon 'her father's arm, and
continued :

"Not dead! did you say not dead?"
And she fixed her eyes with a look of
burning anxiety upon his face.

" He lives, my child, he lives, and will
live!" replied the old man softly, while a
tear flowed down his cheek.

"Let me look upon him!" continued
Kate ; " let me touch him ! " And, re
sisting every effort of her father's to pre
vent her, she stooped over the senseless
form of her lover, and pressed her lips
in a long kiss upon his clammy forehead.

At that moment a low, painful moan
escaped him, and there was a slight move
ment of his lip as if vainly endeavoring
to articulate.

" He does live ! " cried Kate, in a voice
of the wildest joy. " God of heaven, I
thank thee!" And her eyes were for a
moment reverently raised to the throne
of Him whose name she had invoked.

In less than two months from that
night they were married.

CHAPTER XXVI.

A LONG JUMP, AND AN INTERVIEW.

I must now, in order to bring this part
of my story to a conclusion, pass, at a
bound, over a period of seventeen years;
for doing which I have humbly to crave
the reader's pardon ; but it will be found
that, in taking such a gigantic stride, I do
not deprive either the hero or heroine of
this long episode of any part of what
ever little interest I may have attached
to them; for the truth is that, during
the time which I have thus skipped over,
there did not occur any event, with the
exception of Mr. Herbert's death, which
it would be necessary for my purpose to
relate just at present

The departure of the old gentleman on
his journey to

" That undiscovered country.
From whose bourne no traveler returns,"

TOM CROSB1E

occurred about five years after his daugh
ter's marriage with Jack Rochefort, and
was the first interruption to the happiness
which up to that time, notwithstanding
George Seymour's evil prognostications,
they had continued to enjoy.

As to George himself, for nearly six
years after their marriage, they had not
heard of him; he and his mother had
suddenly left their home on the morning-
succeeding the duel, and, though Jack
had in private made every possible effort
to obtain information on the subject, not
a soul could, or would, tell whither they
had gone.

Immediately after the death of Mr.
Herbert, his daughter and her husband,
who were now in possession of the prop
erty which had been his, and who since
their marriage had continued to live en
tirely with him, quitted their former
home, and came to reside in Dublin,
where they shortly established themselves
in such a manner as plainly to evince their
intention of making up for the time which
they had lost during their previous re
tirement, by dashing at once into a style
of splendor and magnificence, at that day
almost unequaled in the metropolis, and
which their fortune, large as it was, could
not long enable them to support.

They had an only child, a boy, and at
the time 1 now speak of, just on what
may be called their first entrance into life,
he had shortly entered upon his fifth year.

With this brief notice of what is ne
cessary, I should in this place relate, a*
having occurred during the earlier por
tion of that period, which you are to un
derstand has elapsed before I again take
up the thread of my story, and shall now
dash rapidly in medias res.

Seventeen years then, after the occur
rences related in the last chapter, had
passed away ; middle age had stolen in
upon the path of youth, and outstripped
it in the rapid pace of time, while infan
cy had sprang forward with its buoyant
step, and filled the place which the latter
had left forever. In other and plainer
words, Jack Rochefort was now eight-and-
thirty, Kate four years younger, and their
son a tall, handsome, manly fellow of six
teen.

It was a winter's night, cold, dark, and
dreary; and a thick wet snow, melting
as it fell, poured heavily down upon the
almost deserted streets; when a man,
wrapt closely up in a large military cloak,
was seen to pace anxiously up and down
upon the flags in front of a handsome
mansion in Merrion Square. He seemed
for a time irresolute of purpose, pausing
now and then, and directing an impatient
glance upwards towards the drawing-
room windows, and then turning hastily
away again, to pursue his rapid walk to
and fro before the house.

At length, as if obeying some sudden
impulse, he sprang up the steps, and
knocked loudly and quickly at the door.
It was opened almost instantly by a ser
vant in rich livery, who seemed at once
to recognize the visitor.

"Has he returned?" demanded the
latter, in a hasty and authoritative voice.

" No sir," was the servant's answer —
" he dined out"

" And your mistress — is she alone ? "

" She is, sir."

" I must see her instantly ! " said the
stranger, stepping across the threshold.

" But, sir — " began the servant, en
deavoring to detain him — " you know my
orders — I dare not admit you."

" Dare not ! " repeated the person to
whom this was addressed; and, laying
his hand, without any apparent effort,
upon the servant's shoulder, he sent him
reeling against the wall. " Stand aside,
fellow, and let me pass ! "

And before the discomfited footman
could oppose any further bar to his en
trance, he strode forward through the
hall, and proceeded to ascend the stairs.
For a moment or two he paused when
he reached the first corridor; of which
brief time I shall avail myself to give a
hasty glance at another part of the man
sion.

In a brilliantly lighted drawing-room,
splendidly and tastefully furnished, sur
rounded by all the luxuries of elegance
and refinement, which taste could suggest
or wealth procure, a woman of stately
beauty, and still in the prime of life, sat
with her head leaning upon the arm of a
velvet-cushioned sofa — her thoughts, of

AND HIS FRIENDS.

whatever kind they were, her only com
panions. One hand, half hidden amongst
the rich dark hair that fell forward over
her face and bosom, was pressed upon
her forehead; in the other she held the
miniature of a strikingly handsome, but
stern-looking man, dressed in a military
uniform, upon which, ever and anon, she
looked with a deeply sad expression, as
though it Avere the likeness of one belov
ed, but lost to her for ever. Her mood
seemed altogether a sad one; and well it
might, for there was that passing within
her at the moment which was sufficient
to prey heavily upon her spirits — a pas
sion, gnawing and corroding her very
heart

At such times as she raised her head
from the arm of the sofa where it reclin
ed, to gaze with one of those melancholy
looks upon the miniature, she exposed to
view, a face in whose every lineament,
despite the surpassing beauty of the fea
tures, were traced the workings of dark
and dangerous feelings, which, added to
the ravages which a life of dissipation had
effected, gave to a countenance of al
most unequaled loveliness, a haggard and
unpleasing expression that seemed unnat
ural. Premature wrinkles had begun to
steal upon her forehead and beneath her
eyes, but the eyes themselves were splen
did, and the forehead still preserved its
bold, cormnanding look. The lips had
lost but little of their fullness, arid in for
mation they were perfect, but there was
pride, and haughtiness, and scorn, in the
curl that occasionally came upon the up
per one; in a word, the lonely occupant
of that luxurious apartment, was such a
woman as George Seymour had once
declared to be — " a dangerous play
thing!"

She had again gazed upon the minia
ture, and sunk into one 01 those periods
of intense thought which usually follow
ed, when the noise caused by the open
ing of the door disturbed her, and, sud
denly raising her head to discover who
had been the intruder, she beheld, stand
ing with folded arms, and his eyes fixed
firmly upon her face, the stranger who
had entered the house so unceremoni
ously.

"Again, sir!" she cried, starting from
the sofa — " have you dared" —

"Aye, Madam," answered the man,
sternly, "I have dared more than this.
Remember ! "

"Would to God that I could for git!"
she exclaimed, bitterly, drooping her head
upon her hands; and then, in a lower
voice, she said : — \

" Why have you come here now ?"

" To bring you news ! " was the short
answer, spoken in a hoarse and rapid
voice.

"News!" repeated the lady, faintly,
raising her head for an instant — " what
news can you have brought me ? You
were ever the bearer of evil tidings ! "

"And am now — and ever shall be to
you, and yours ! " cried the stranger,
fiercely. " Have you felt my power yet,
Madam?" And he advanced closer to
her.

" Ob, I have, I have ! " she answered,
in a broken voice — "but spare me now."
And she sank back again upon the sofa.

" Nor now, nor never! " exclaimed her
visitor, sternly — " you shall feel it to the
last!"

" Speak, then, at once ! " she said, with
something of her former spirit — "let me
hear the worst — I can bear anything now
— what new evil has your malice in store
forme?"

"Simply this," he answered, and the
words sounded like the hissing of a ser
pent — " you are a beggar ? "

The lady made no answer; she could
make none; horror and amazement de
prived her of all powers of speech, and
she remained for a moment, motionless as
a statue, with her eyes fixed wildly upon
the face of him who stood before her,
o-loating over the misery he had caused.

" Has the news surprised you, Mad
am?" he said, with a fiendish smile —
" has it found you unprepared, or does it
rejoice you to have the opportunity of
proving to your husband how your love
for him will live on, through poverty and
starvation?" And still his words were
hissed forth through his clenched teeth.

But the mention of her husband rous
ed in an instant the half-crushed spirit of
her whom he had sought to make his vie-

TOM CROSBIE

tim ; and, rising from her seat with every
•sign of weakness vanished, she drew her
self up to the full height of her com
manding figure, and, while her lip curled
with that haughty scorn which was its
natural expression, exclaimed:

"Begone, sir, instantly! My husband,
were he here, would soon chastise the
coward, who dares in his absence to in
sult his unprotected wife. Would to hea
ven he were returned now !"

And as she spoke, her eyes flashed
proudly, and for the moment she looked
like another being.

"He is more happily engaged just at
present!" was the only reply of the
strange visitor, and he spoke it in a sneer
ing tone, which plainly implied that it
meant more than met the ear.

Whatever it meant, it had the effect he
desired, for she to whom it was addressed,
became changed again as suddenly as be
fore, but this time the change was a fear
ful one. Her eyes flashed, her bosom
heaved, the veins in her throat and tem
ples swelled out like cords, and she seem
ed in the paroxysm of some terrible in
ward struggle, which required her most
powerful efforts to subdue. At length
she spoke: —

" You told me this before," she said —
"you told me the time he spends from
home, is devoted to — to — another. Oh,
God! could I but believe it to be true!
You told nfe he loved "me no longer —
that his heart was estranged from me —
that he was deserting me — but" — and a
better feeling came upon her — " I disbe
lieved you then, and 1 disbelieve you
now!" And her terrible emotion be
came gradually calmed.

"Would you wish for proof?" de
manded the stranger, quickly.

" Proof ! " she repeated — "yes, give
me proof; but no, no! I will never be
lieve it — never! It is another of your
dark plots."

"Ha, ha!" exclaimed her persecutor,
with a scornful laugh. " I never before
believed you to be a fool! Think you
there is truth in man, more than in wo
man?"

"There is truth in himf" said the
wife, proudly — " truth, and confidence,

and honor ! " And again her features
beamed with almost the freshness of their
early beauty.

" Is this the spirit of a woman ? " ex
claimed the stranger, scornfully — " of a
woman forsaken and betrayed ? "

"'Tis the spirit of a wife!" she an
swered — " a spirit of love and trust in
the husband of her bosom — the father of
her boy!"

And as she spoke, every high feeling
of her impetuous nature spoke proudly
forth in the tones of her voice, and glow
ed in the lofty expression of her fea
tures.

"You love him still!" demanded her
visitor, fixing his eyes sternly on her
face.

"I do, devotedly and faithfully."

"Faithfully!" he repeated, with a
sneer.

"Yes, faithfully."

" You forget ! " said he, with a dark
smile.

" I forget nothing," she answered
quickly ; " if my heart ever wandered
from its truth for a moment, it has return
ed to him again; it is his now, solely and
undivided."

" Remember ! " said her companion,
slowly, " Remember ! "

" I do remember," she answered, " all,
everything ! I remember that ten years
ago, when business of importance called
my husband from his home, you came
with a tale of disappointed hopes, and
early sorrows — you told me of years of life
wasted away in recklessness — of a consti
tution falling a prey to dissipation — of ago
ny of mind, and bitterness of heart. You
told me that / had been the cause of all
— and I pitied you. The memory of our
early years came back upon me, and soft
ened my feelings towards you ; I thought
of our childhood's hours, when we were
all to each other, when we knew not,
thought not, of any world beyond the
fields and valleys round our quiet home ;
I thought of her who had been a second
mother to me, who was now, as you told
me, in her grave ; I thought of my own poor
i uncle, whose love for you had been once
so strong; and, forgetting that any ill
I feeling had ever been between us, 1 re-

AND HIS FRIENDS.

ceived you as a friend — almost as a long-
lost brother.

" Day after day, we sat and talked to
gether over the happy past, recalling to
each other the things that were dear to
us in our infancy ; smiling over the memo
ry of many a wild prank, and youthful
frolic, in which both had shared; until it
almost seemed as if childhood had come
back again. I was happy for a time ; but
the illusion was a short one. My hus
band was delayed for many weeks, and,
by degrees, I was almost taught to be
lieve the false reports which every day
you so industriously gathered, or rather
made, to account for his absence.

"The poison was artfully applied, and
had nearly proved fatal; my woman's
pride was touched, my feelings outraged :
and then, availing yourself of the misery
you had caused, you offered your friend
ship to soothe me — -friendship! that was
the term you used — the term you would
have abused ; such friendship as the wolf
shows towards the lamb, or, more danger
ous, more remorseless still, such as man
shows towards the woman he would de
ceive. You taught me, by what magic
I know not, almost to — I will own it — to
love you ; you forced the avowal from me
at a moment when I was almost driven
to distraction by a story which your sub
tlety had invented, of my husband's faith
lessness, and then you put forth all your
sophistry to make me become your victim.
This was your friendship! But pride
upheld me where virtue would have fal
len, and I escaped your snares.

" I was still a woman, though, and with
a woman's weakness I suffered you to
make your peace, for you urged as your
excuse the overwhelming passion of. a
moment, and made the most solemn vows
that the bonds of friendship and honor
should never be transgressed again. I
believed you, and I forgave you. I knew
not then as I do now, the fearful danger
of the path I was pursuing ; I dreamt not
that it was one from which there is no
returning, once the first step has been ta
ken; and I even suffered you to obtain
my promise that my husband should nev
er be acquainted with what had passed.
I did more ; I felt so deeply for the pain,

which you still told me my early rejection
of you had caused, that on his return, I
induced him, also, to receive you as a
friend.

" You know how his friendship was re
paid — you know how you worked upon
his open, generous nature, until he be
came little better than your tool. In five
years, you had changed him from the
happy, noble-hearted being you had
found him, to a morose, discontented man;
you led him into dissipation, and the soci
ety of those who prey like tigers upon
their fellow-men, until at length he be
came a confirmed gambler, and between
you he was robbed of half his fortune.

"Still he believed you \\\s friend, while
I, fool, and worse than fool, that I
was, looked on in silence, and suffered
you to lead him hood- winked to his ruin.
These were the consequences of my first
step in deception ; I was afraid to unde
ceive him now — I wanted the courage to
tell him that his own wife was the cause
of all his wretchedness.

" At length, you went abroad, and du
ring the four years that you were absent,
both my husband and I were restored to
our better feelings; but you returned, and
we fell again — he to the habits that you
had taught him; I to the unholy love,
which, spite of all my knowledge of your
evil disposition, still lingered like an ac
cursed mystery in my heart.

"It is now six months since you return
ed ; for four, you made no attempt to
renew the insulting proposal which you
had made years before, and I hoped
your solemn promises would have, been
respected ; but you soon undeceived me.
It is barely a week since the insult was
repeated; I told you then, that let the
consequences to me be what they might,
I would acquaint my husband with the
baseness of the friend he had taken to
his bosom, unless you Swore to me that
no inducement should ever make you en
ter this house again. You have broken
the oath, and so sure as he returns, that
moment I will tell him all. Now, think
you have I forgotten ? "

She had spoken the whole time with
strong excitement, and, though her com
panion had made several attempts to

TOM CROSBIE

interrupt her, she would not suffer him to
do so until she had concluded ; but now
that she had done so, a deadly smile of
triumph and satisfaction came upon his
face, and he spoke :

" You have, Madam, forgotten one tri
fling item in your catalogue of grievan
ces," he said, with a bitter sneer ; " but
it is a mere trifle — of no consequence I
suppose, amidst such a host of mighty
ills!"

"What is it?" asked the lady, quickly.

" That you and your husband are now
beggars!" And his eyes glared with the
excess of his triumph.

" Beggars ! " she repeated, faintly, and
again she sunk back on the sofa — "I had
forgotten — you told me so. What does it
mean ? "

" It means this — the only meaning that I
know of for the word — that you will both
be thrown outcasts on the world, to beg
your bread from the hands of strangers ! "
And while he spoke he seemed actually
to chuckle with delight.

" It cannot be true ! " exclaimed his com
panion, " this is but another invention for
some of your evil purposes."

" Listen ! " said the stranger, " and you
shall hear. Your uncle placed your for
tune, and the entire of his property, in
your husband's power — you are aware of
this?"

"I am," said his companion, faintly.

" Nearly live years ago," he continued,
" when I went abroad, your husband had
squandered every shilling of ready money
he could command, in gambling, and
other kinds of dissipation. The greater
portion of the landed property was in the
hands of money-brokers ; and to raise the
means of extricating himself from present
exigencies and pressing difficulties, he was
obliged to mortgage the remaining part.
I advanced him the money. I did more
— I paid off the'usurer's claims, and got
the entire of his liabilities into my own pos
session. During my absence, I under
stand, he gambled but little, and might
have eventually recruited in some degree,
but I had my agents to keep an eye upon
his motions, and I was informed of every
action, even the most trifling of his life.
I returned, and since then his ruin has

been completed ; last night he lost the
last hundred pounds he had in the world.
Every acre of the property your uncle so
wisely left in the power of a penniless ad
venturer, is now i'n my possession — mort
gaged to me, and I may safely say my
own, for though, if the money be repaid
within ten years, all will be his and yours
again, I need entertain but little fear that
I shall ever have to give it up; if a hun
dred pounds could save both your lives
this moment, he could not command the
sum. Now, do you believe I spoke the
truth when I told you, you were beg
gars?"

But he received no answer. His com
panion had fainted, and now lay senseless
on the sofa before him.

Not a shade of remorse passed across
his mind as he stood there for a moment
looking at her — not the slightest expres
sion of pity or regret was visible on his
features, but, instead, they wore a look
of concentrated passion and exultation.

At length he advanced slowly towards
the sofa, placed his arm round the neck
of her whom the recital of his deliberate
villainy had for the time deprived of all
sense or power, and stooping over her,
pressed his lips to hers in a succession of
burning kisses.

Where was Jack Rochefort then, that
he was not there to protect his wife from
insult — from the insults of his former ri
val — his present destroyer ?

CHAPTER XXVII.

A WIND-UP.

Within a very few weeks, there flour
ished in the Dublin newspapers an ad
vertisement, setting forth that, on such a
day, would be sold by auction, " The
splendid mansion, No. — Merriori Square
North, with its magnificent collection of
household furniture, pictures, wines, car
riages, horses, «fcc., &c." — and about the

AND HIS FRIENDS.

same time there disappeared from the ad
vertising columns another announcement,
to the effect that — ''a small, neat cottage,
pleasantly situated in a retired part cf the
suburbs at the south side, fit for the im
mediate reception of a small family of res
pectability," was to be let.

To this "small neat cottage" the ill-
fated couple now retired, to live on the
miserable remnant of the fortune that
had betn so recklessly squandered, and to
afford an opportunity to many of those
"d — d good-natured friends" who had
reveled in their hospitality, to moralize
upon the ill effects of people living be
yond their means, and read lectures to
their sons and daughters upon the evil
consequences of extravagance.

For a couple of months they lived on
in misery — the misery which must ever
be the portion of generous hearts, doomed
to dole out in sixpences and shillings the
miserable means, to which their own un
thinking open-handedness has reduced
them.

Their son, who had but shortly entered
college, was obliged to give up at a mo
ment all the bright prospects of his youth,
and to return to a home so widely differ
ent from the one he had but recently
quitted, where he had never had a desire
ungratified.

At this time, when things were so bad
that they could scarcely have been worse,
saint Paul "shuffled off this mortal coil,"
and departed to join his kindred saints —
where, I cannot do more than guess.

But at all events, his death was of more
use than ever his life had been, and Jack,
one morning while he was contemplating
the speediest method of committing sui
cide, was startled by a postman's knock,
within two minutes after which, a black
edged letter conveyed to him the intelli
gence that he was now the possessor of
four hundred a year — that being the
entire value of the property to which he
had succeeded, every shilling of ready
money, as well as all other things that
were available, being dedicated to the
special worship of the devil — or, in other
words, having been bequeathed to the
white-cravated harpies, by the soft music
of whose nosey-ologies the "saint" had

been wafted from this " vale of tears "
up, or down, as the case may be, to an
other world.

Fortunately for Jack, and also for wo
mankind, the " saint," as all saints should,
had lived a life of single blessedness, and
consequently, at his demise, the good man
had been obliged to leave to his non-
elect brother all the property which it
was out of his power to leave to any one
else.

However, to Jack it was a welcome
God-send, and by no means the less so
for having lately been in the possession of
the devil, or, at least, of his accredited
agents ; but it came too late. Within four
months from the fatal night he had discov
ered the fearful treachery to which he had
fallen a victim — the deadly enmity that
had so nearly added his wife's dishonor
to his own ruin — that had deprived him of
wealth, and happiness, and hope — he died
of a broken heart. Death had given the
last blow to the poor shuttlecock !

I am anything but sorry to have brought
this part of my story to a conclusion ; and
shall merely skim over the next few years,
until I come back again to those who
should have been my hero and heroine,
and from whom, unavoidably, I have so
long separated my readers.

During the first year of her widow
hood, Kate continued to live with her son,
in the retirement of the "small, neat cot
tage ;" but, at the end of that period, she
began to think that with four hundred a
year she should, for the sake of her boy,
emerge from her solitude, and enter again
into society.

Between the formation of the project
and its execution there elapsed but little
time ; a furnished house was taken in a
fashionable part of the city, which would
have required at least double her income
to support ; an expensive establishment was
set up ; her weeds were thrown aside —
the " widow's sombre cap" no longer con
cealed her rich, dark hair — and, with a
little assistance from milliners, and the
" foreign aid of ornament," Kate Roche-
fort once more appeared amongst the
world, almost as beautiful as ever.

The lesson which experience should
have taught her was thrown away. Once

TOM CROSBIE

entered upon the path of pleasure where
she had formerly shone so brilliantly— re
ceived with open arms by the dear friends
who were deceived by the style of her
appearance into the belief that she had
through some means or other become
rich wain — she forgot all the sad results
of her former extravagance, and launched
out afresh into the dissipations of the same
fashionable life she had led before.

The son, whose welfare she had whis
pered to herself as her excuse for return
ing to the world, was soon almost lost
sight of, and might have gone to destruc
tion in any way most pleasing to himself,
but that, fortunately, an old general, with
whom poor Jack had been a favorite, took
a fancy to the boy, or man as he migl>t
now be called, and procured him a com
mission in a regiment, of which an old
brother officer was colonel.

The army was the profession of all
others that best suited Gerald's inclina
tions, and, parting from his mother without
a pang on either side, he set out to enter
upon his soldier's life, with the same light
ness of heart and carelessness of disposi
tion that had once distinguished his poor
shuttlecock father.

At this time, he still wanted three years
of being of age, and, until that period
should arrive, he was to have from his
mother an allowance of one hundred a
year besides his pay ; but with the excep
tion of a fifty pound note at parting, he
never received the slightest assistance
from her — not even when, in his utmost
need, he had sought it.

Shortly after his departure from home,
there happened an event which was des
tined to exercise an influence of no slight
description upon his future life, at least
for a tima

Many years before, when Kate and her
husband had first come to Dublin, there
arose between the former and a young-
lady who had but just become a bride,
one of those female friendships which, few
and far between as angels' visits, are to
be found outliving the passing hour. Mrs.
Aubyn, like Kate herself, was an heiress,
to whom moonlight walks and a winning
tongue had proved fatal, and who, despite

guardian, had married one of those dan
gerous " detrimentals," a handsome youn
ger son, whose brains and whose pockets,
conjointly, would not have turned the
scale against a feather.

But to a young lady of seventeen, with
fifteen or twenty thousand pounds at her
own disposal, of what value are brains, so
long as a man can curl his whiskers and
tie his cravat becomingly, or what does
she care for his pockets being empty, pro
vided his heart is full? In such a case,
good teeth are infinitely better than good
sense, and black whiskers infallibly carry
the day against bank-notes.

So it was with Emma St. Leger. Frank
Aubyn met her at a ball, danced half a
dozen successive sets with her, squeezed
her hand rather more than was necessa
ry, learned that she was an heiress, and
forth with jumped into love with her. He
admired her dark blue eyes, and her
thousands in the three per cents, and she
liked his white teeth, and the soft persua
sive nonsense that fell, " thick as leaves in
Vallambrosa," from his honeyed tongue.
They danced and flirted through the re- .
mainder of the season — Frank "loved her,
wooed her, won her" — and at its close,
the blue-eyed heiress transferred herself
and her three per cents to the keeping —
would I might say safe keeping of the
deluded detrimental.

She had but just returned from hei
honey-moon tour, when she became ac
quainted with Mrs. Rochefort, then enter
ing upon her career of fashion, and thence
dated the commencement of a friendship
which was only to end with the life of
one.

Some years afterwards, Mr. and Mrs.
Aubyn went to reside on the continent;
but before their departure, Emma sport
ively entered into an agreement with her
Achates in petticoats that their children,
hers being a girl, should, upon arriving at
the age of maturity, become man and wife.

Now these anticipative hymeneals, al
though having a very pretty, romantic
effect in theory, seldom turn out well in
practice, nor indeed do they generally
tend to any result more favorable than
creating a decided repugnance to each

the maledictions of a cross old aunt, her I other in the breasts of those whom they

AND HIS FRIENDS.

are intended to make mutually happy —
the chances being fifty to oue that two
people betrothed by proxy in this manner,
will hate each other most cordially ;
whereas if they had been thrown casually
into each other's society, and cautioned
against an attachment, the probable re
sult would be a love match, and, may
hap an elopement.

For the first five or six years after her
departure to the continent, Mrs. Aubyn
maintained a regular correspondence with
her fashionable friend; but, at the end of
that time, her letters became less and
less frequent, until at length they had
ceased altogether, and even one or two
of Kate's remained unanswered.

Mrs. Rochefort, however, had learned
from some kind friends, lately returned
from a residence in Paris, that Frank
Aubyn had squandered the greater part
of his wife's fortune in all kinds of ex
travagance and dissipation, and that poor
Emma's fairy visions of romance were fast
fading away, before the sad realities of life,
and the bitterness of disappointed hopes.

From this period, until a month or two
after Gerald's departure to join his reg
iment, Kate heard no more of her fair
friend, and, to tell the truth, she had al
most forgotten the Damon and Pythias
sort of friendship that had existed be
tween them; when one morning, while
sitting at a late breakfast, it was an
nounced to her that a gentleman request
ed to speak with her upon a business
which admitted of no delay.

The interview between them was a
long one; and at its termination Kate
Rochefort — the least calculated woman
in the world for such a charge — found
herself the guardian of a little girl,
scarcely ten years old, bequeathed to her
care by a dying mother.

Poor Emma Aubyn's fate was a sad
one. Her husband, after his folly and
extravagance had deprived them both
of the very means of existence, had be
come thoroughly reckless, and at length
met his death in a duel with a gentleman
whom he had insulted at a gaming table.
She herself, alone amongst strangers, and
broken-hearted by neglect and disappoint
ment, survived him little more than a !

month, and when on her death-bed her
thoughts recurred to the first happy days
of her married life, and to her who had
then been her friend and companion, it
soothed her last hours to feel that there
was still one who would be a mother to
her little girl.

With this assurance she died, leaving
her darling child in charge of an En
glish gentleman who was about return
ing home, and who promised to put her
last wishes into execution.

Mrs. Aubyn, after the first three or
four years of her marriage, perceiving
the ruinous career of extravagance her
husband had entered upon, contrived,
without his knowledge, to lay by a thou
sand pounds as a future provision for her
little daughter, and this sum was now to
be placed in the hands of Kate Rochefort,
the interest to be applied towards the ed
ucation of the child, and the principal to
be held in trust for her until she should
arrive at the age of eighteen.

On the day succeeding the visit of tke
gentleman who had thus acquitted him
self of his charge, the little Emma was
installed in her new home, warmly and
affectionately welcomed by Kate, who on
the impulse of the moment, determined
to fulfill towards her the part of a fond
and careful mother, and for the time for
got, in the sorrows of her early friend,
and heart- felt pity for her untimely fate,
the fascinations of that life of fashion into
the whirl of which she had again entered
with as much avidity as ever.

But, they say that " hell is paved with
good intentions," and if there be truth in
the aphorism, Kate Rochefort's may no
doubt be found tesselating some nook or
other of that region, for certain it is, that
they were never put into effect in this
world. For a short time, indeed, she de
voted almost her exclusive attention to
her little ward, but the impulse which
had urged her so to do, gradually died
away, and every day she became less and
less generous of her care, until, eventu
ally, even the education of Emma was al
together neglected, and the poor girl was
suffered to employ her time entirely in ac
cordance with the dictates of her own
fancy.

TOM CKOSBIE

Fortunately for her, however, she at
tracted the attention of a widow lady
who resided in the neighborhood, one
who was herself childless, and who felt
deeply for the situation of an orphan
thrown into such a position in life, and
surrounded by an atmosphere so fraught
with danger. With this lady little Em
ma passed the great portion of her time,
and from her received those lessons,
taught by a Christian spirit, which were
to uphold her through the trials and
struggles of after life.

Meanwhile, the regiment to which
Gerald was attaehed had been ordered
abroad, to Canada, if I remember rightly,
and there he remained for nearly five
years. Amongst his brother officers was
one, a Captain Mordaunt, between whom
and the young soldier there existed an
enmity, for which at first it was difficult
to account; but the secret of which was
this. The former had a very beautiful
wife, and the latter had the misfortune to
find favor in her sight.

Captain Mordaunt's means were of
too limited a nature to allow of his leav
ing his lady at home, in the enjoyment of
a separate establishment, and consequent
ly, she was obliged to accompany him
abroad, to do which, as Gerald was to be
their compaynon du voyage, it was Whis
pered she was nothing loth.

Gerald was young and inexperienced,
and, though possessing as small a share
of vanity as possible, was nattered by the
decided preference of a remarkably beau
tiful and fascinating woman; but beyond
this, her too evident partiality awakened
no other feeling — or, if it did, he smoth
ered it in its birth. Of course, as he
very reasonably thought, common polite
ness required that he should pay every
attention in his power, during the monot
ony of a sea voyage, to one who found
such evident pleasure in his society, and
therefore he devoted himself as much as
possible to her service, and did all he
could to make himself agreeable, in re
turn for the kindness she lost no opportu
nity of evincing towards him.

But before they left England at all,
her husband's jealousy had been awaken
ed, and, in the bitterness of that fearful

passion, he swore that he would dearly
avenge the injury he had conceived had
been done against him. With an appar
ent unsuspicious frankness, he seemed to
encourage the intimacy between Gerald
and his wife ; either of them little sus
pecting that his design was to entrap
them in a snare from which it would be
impossible to escape.

With all his watchfulness, however, he
was unable to discover anything in their
conduct beyond what the position in
which they were placed might justify, and
which, on Gerald's part, at least, was
never for a moment suffered to overstep
the strict bounds of propriety.

But still the jealous man felt that he
had been wronged, and was only the
more determined to find proof that he
was so, notwithstanding that, the more
he watched, the more reason he had to
believe that he was indulging in a fatal
error.

For years this unfounded enmity to
Gerald continued unabated. Privately,
and by means degrading to an honor
able nature, he had sought to injure him
in his profession; but the character of the
young soldier stood too high to be affected
by the secret inuendos of one who was
well known to be his enemy ; and Mor
daunt himself had more than once nar
rowly escaped falling into the pit which
he had dug for the destruction of a man
who, even in thought, had never done
him an injury.

Gerald, indeed, instead of (contemplat
ing the crime of which the husband sup
posed him guilty, had been the entire
time playing Joseph to Mrs. Mordaunt's
Potiphar's wife, for that lady was at no
pains to hide the feelings with which he
had inspired her — and, even for years
after his coolness with her husband had
rendered it impossible for him to be any
longer a visitor at her own house, she
still endeavored to have him at her side
in whatever society they chanced to meet.

Gerald, at so early a period of life,
was wanting in the moral courage which
would have enabled him at once to put
an end to this one-sided liaison; he
could not possibly affect blindness re
specting the nature of Mrs. Mordaunt's

AND HIS FRIENDS.

preference for him above all others — and,
consequently, he was, to a certain extent,
to blame in even seeming to encourage it
— for still, upon all occasions he devoted
his attentions to her — but, beyond this,
he at least had never afforded her hus
band the slightest grounds for his
jealousy.

At length the lady — who did not "let
concealment, like a worm i' the bud, feed
on her damask cheek " — finding that all
her wiles and charms were ineffectual to
induce a reciprocity of feeling, thought
proper to take to her bed, and announced
her intention of existing no longer in a
world where no species of animal mag
netism she could employ was sufficiently
powerful to attract a heart kindred
to her own. The physicians, indeed,
were ignorant and impertinent enough to
say that there was no cause for alarm —
just as if they could have known as well
as the lady herself — and she declared that
she could not live a week.

It happened, unfortunately, at this
time, that her husband had been but a
few days before despatched to a part of
the country situated at some considerable
distance, to which it would be scarcely
possible to convey the afflicting intelli
gence in sufficient time to enable him to
be back in season to receive her last sigh ;
and, in this dilemma, such of her friends,
or acquaintance, as had gathered around
her, were not a little puzzled as to what
course they should pur&e.

Mrs. Mordaunt herself, however, re
quested that no steps should be taken
which might tend to create any needless
alarm in the mind of her husband, in
case that by some miracle she might hap
pen to recover; and then, falling back
upon her pillow, she fell into a very ex
cellent imitation of a quiet sleep, from
which she did not think it necessary to
awaken until such time as her friends
had departed on tiptoe from the room.

Then she called to her side a sort of
"Jill of all trades," who, for the nonce,
served her in the capacity of femme de
chambre and confidante, and whom she
'forthwith despatched to Gerald's quar
ters, with* a message to the effect that
" her lady was dying, and begged as a

last favor, that he would come to her
bedside for a few moments, before she
breathed her last"

Poor Gerald was terrified ; he believed
that his cruelty had caused her death,
and, without pausing for a moment to
think of what he was about to do, un
hesitatingly set off as fast as he could,
with the intention of affording her every
possible solace in her dying hour.

" There's many a slip between the cup
and the lip," saith a proverb, the truth
of which was never more fully exempli
fied than in the present instance; for he
had scarcely time to approach her bed
side, and gently to clasp the hand which
was languidly extended to him, when her
husband, frantic with the fury which for
years he had been obliged to keep pent
up until it now burst forth in a torrent of
fearful wrath and bloody determination
to have revenge, rushed into the room.

'• Trifles, light as air,
Are to the jealous, confirmations strong
As proofs of Holy Writ."

But, faith, this was no trifle; it was "con
firmation strong" and damnable, that his
suspicions were well-founded, and all that
now remained for the satiation of his
blind and unjust rage against poor unof
fending Gerald, was to shed his heart's
blood upon the spot Unfortunately, too,
he was provided with the means; he
held a loaded pistol in each hand. But
Gerald read his determination in his eye,
and before it was possible for the mad
man to effect his deadly purpose, he had
closed with him, and endeavored to
wrench the pistols from his grasp.

In the struggle, however, one of the
weapons was discharged, and, on the spot
where, scarcely ten seconds before, Cap
tain Mordaunt had stood in the health
and strength of vigorous manhood, he
now lay — a corpse — the victim of his
own ungovernable passion and injustice;
the bullet had gone right through his
heart.

His guilty wife — guilty in will, though
not in act — was the only witness to the
fatal quarrel, but, though there were
many amongsj; the acquaintance of the

TOM CROSBIE

deceased who spoke of unfair play, nonel He had been two years returned at the

dared venture openly to accuse Gerald
of his murder.

It was, however, notified to him that he
should either stand a court martial, or
retire from the service ; and, feeling that
his hopes in the profession were destroy
ed at a blow, and that he could never
be happy again amongst scenes that would
continually recall to his mind the terrible
event that had thus involved him, he
chose the latter alternative, and, at the
age of little more than three- and-t wen ty,
quitted the army ; and, with a spirit bro
ken for a time, returned to his native
country, where, during his absence, his
mother had continued her career of ex
travagance and dissipation, until every
shilling she could command was gone,
and she had besides contracted debts
which it would take years of retrench
ment to enable her to pay/.

For the six years that he had been
away, Gerald had never received a shil
ling from her, though, since he had reach
ed one-and-twenty, her claims upon the
property were legally at an end; and
even when, two years before, he had
applied to her for a sum to enable him to
effect his exchange into another regiment,
which would have withdrawn him from
the connection which had ended so fatally,
and thus have saved him much of the
misery that must attend his future life,
she returned him a cold answer, "that it
was not in her power to be' of any assist
ance to him just then, having some heavy
demands to meet immediately, and that
she trusted he might be able to manage
tolerably well on his pay, as he was now
a lieutenant" — forgetting that in reality
it was his money she was squandering so
shamefully and so dishonestly.

1 am not sure if Gerald himself was
aware of this; I do not think he knew
how the property was settled until after
his return ; and then, at least for the pres
ent, it was of slight consequence to him,
for, as I have before said, it would have
taken the annual amount of it for years
to come to pay his mother's debts ; and
these he at once determined should be
paid, let him meanwhile want what he
would.

time my story opened — years, the events
of which will appear as I go on.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

AN ADVENTURE.

At the time when Gerald Rochefort
returned from abroad, Emma Aubyn, his
mother's ward, had just entered upon her
seventeenth year — a dangerous age for a
girl to be thrown constantly into the soci
ety of a young, handsome, fascinating
man, and a soldier withal; for there is
decidedly something in a scarlet coat, or
rather in the man who is entitled to wear
one, which exercises a considerable influ
ence upon the fancy of a "Miss in her
teens." Why, I am unable to conjecture,
but it is nevertheless a truth beyond the
power of refutation. I do not exactly
mean to say that a red coat will ensure
to its wearer the happiness, or unhappi-
ness, as the case may be, of being fallen
in love with by every girl he meets ; but
this I do assert, that it will most assuredly
increase the odds in his favor ; particular
ly if he happened^to be quartered in any
of the towns or cities of the "gem of
the seas," where the ladies are addicted
to subscribing at libraries and waltzing
with " the officers."

Emma Aubyn, however, had no par
ticular predilection in favor of a scarlet
more than any other coat, but it was not
long until she had a very decided one in
favor of him who had laid it aside forever
to be succeeded by a black one.

Gerald was not the sort of man likely
to be living upon terms of the closest
intimacy with a girl so young, and ardent*
and inexperienced, as his mother's ward,
without awakening feelings something
warmer than mere friendship in her bo
som; and before he was six months at
home he had won, undesignedly and
unknowingly, the first devotion of a warm

AND HIS FRIENDS.

and guileless heart. That was a sad
commencement to poor Emma's life — an
unrequited attachment.

But why should it have been unre
quited? Had Gerald's affections been
bestowed upon another, or was it be
cause the orphan girl was poor and, I
may almost say, friendless, that his heart
was proof against her love ? Neither.
His affections were still untouched, and
his nature was incapable of any but a
disinterested passion. Why then was it
that his feelings towards her never went
beyond the regard a brother might cher
ish for a beloved sister — for as a sister,
he did love her.

It would be a difficult question to de
termine; perhaps Fate had something to
do with it — perhaps it was that his mother
Lad confided to him the sort of engage
ment she had entered into with her de
parted friend respecting the union of their
children. It might have been this, for,
as I have before said, those betrothments
by proxy seldom turn out as they are
intended, and there are few men who
would like to have their matrimonial des
tiny decided in this pig-in-a-poke fashion.

It happened, one April morning, when
the laughing spring-time was putting forth
its buds and flowers in the bright promise
of joyous summer, like the first freshness
of early hope ; when the blackbirds began
their cheerful songs in the hedges,
beneath whose shelter peeped forth the
modest violet and the "pale primrose;"
when, breaking the glassy stillness of the
deeper pools, or springing merrily from
the curls of the brooks and streams, the
speckled trout rose at the early flies dis
porting their short lives along the water ;
when buzzing -bees commenced their
humming labor, and sallied forth to
"improve the shining hour;" when chil
dren began to chase the butterflies along
the "daisy -sprinkled" lawns; when swal
lows skimmed through the air in rapid
flight, twittering their welcome to the
advancing season; when everything in
nature seemed gay, and fresh, and beau
tiful ; — it happened that Gerald, deep in
one of those fits of mental abstraction
which is neither thought nor revery,
sauntered listlessly along a quiet coun-
7

try road, some five miles distant from th«
city.

The world without and the world within
were, at t.iat moment, alike chaos to hi%
brain; past, nor present, nor future filled
his mind — it was a void ; when suddenly
there came upon his ear the sound of
horses' feet. He started, like a deer at
the cry of the huntsmen — raised his head
for an instant to listen — paused, as if to
recall his scattered fancies — and then
walked forward with a quicker step.

Scouring through the fields which, on
either side of the road, and separated
from it only by slight hedges, lay smiling
in their freshened verdure, a brace of
handsome pointers beat along, now at
their full speed, now turning dead short
beside some thick clump of grass where
the sky-lark lay, beguiling their noses
into the idea that they scented game.

They were dogs whose well-bred
appearance told plainly that their master
was a sportsman, though, as he pursued
his way along the road, neither turning
to the right nor to the left to look at
them, he would scarcely have been taken
for one by those whom he might chance
to meet.

In truth the canine race had but little
to do with Gerald's thoughts that morn
ing, and the pointers might have set, and
" backed " at tomtits and sparrows, or
even robin-redbreasts, with impunity, so
little did he heed their movements, until
at length his attention was attracted to
them by a circumstance which soon had
the effect of quickening his faculties and
rousing him into action.

He had not proceeded many yards
from the spot where the sound of the
horses' feet had first awakened him from
his abstraction, when he perceived ad
vancing towards hims at an easy canter,
two equestrians — a gentleman and a lady.
The former, as well as he could distinguish
at a distance of some hundred yards,
was elderly; the latter, from her lithe
and graceful figure, it was easy to per
ceive was young. The gentleman was
mounted on a tall, powerful looking, dark
bay horse ; the lady rode a spirited chest
nut mare, whose beautiful action and pro
portions at once caught the practiced eye

TOM CROSBIE

of the sportsman, and won his admira
tion.

On they came, conversing gaily togeth
er, the lady's light laugh ever and anon
ringing musically through the still ^air
speaking of a happy and careless heart
in the heart's own language ; for where
is the ear that cannot judge from laugh
ter's sound whether it be a reality or a
mockery ? They drew nearer to Gerald
— nearer still; there were scarcely ten
yards between them; another moment
and they would have passed, when, one
after another, the two dogs bounded
across the ditch, right before the horses'
path.

The startled animals stopped short for
an instant, thrown back almost on their
haunches, and then, pawing the air for a
moment with her fore-feet, the mare
plunged madly forward, and set off along
the road at full speed ; the tamer horse,
which the gentleman rode, remained quiet
after the first start. But his rider, recov
ering from the stupefaction into which he
had been thrown, loosened the rein upon
his neck, and, plunging his spurs deep
into his sides, was In the act of starting
forward in pursuit, when Gerald, spring
ing across the road, seized the bridle close
by the animal's head, and putting his
entire strength into the effort, threw him
back a second time upon his haunches.

" Dismount, sir, quick, quick ! " he
cried, almost pulling the old gentleman
from his saddle, before the latter could
speak a word — "quick, sir, for God's
sake! or it will be too late;" and in an
other moment the old man was standing
on the ground, while Gerald, laying his
hand upon the horse's neck, sprang lightly
into the saddle.

The gentleman had not yet opened his
lips, but with his eyes bent forward along
the road, where by this time the mare
and her rider had nearly disappeared,
continued standing, speechless with fear
and agony.

At length he seemed to comprehend
Gerald's intention, and as the latter, with
out another word, dashed from beside
him, and clearing the hedge at a bound,
urged his horse to his topmost speed
across the fields, the old man sank down

upon the road, almost insensible, repeat
ing in a voice of the most touching agony :

"My child! my child!"

They were the only words he spoke.

Gerald's object in taking to the fields
was to come, by a short cut, upon the
road at a certain point before the runa
way should reach it, knowing that a short
distance beyond it lay a deep quarry,
which if, as was not improbable, the
frightened animal should plunge into, its
rider would inevitably be dashed to pieces.

On he sped; the noble horse he rode,

if conscious that a life depended on
his swiftness, putting forth his powers to
the uttermost, and clearing every obstacle
before him as though he felt a pride in
his gallant efforts.

" He seemed as if the speed of thought
Was in his limbs ; "

And right nobly did he exert it in that
lightning race; but it had almost been
in vain, for just as, flying like a bird across
the last hedge, he came upon the road,
the mare passed him, still in full career.

It was an awful moment ; the quarry
was in sight, scarcely a hundred yards
aefore them; the girl saw her danger —
saw that there was scarce a hope of es-
;aping it — nothing but a miracle could
save her now; and as she passed the
spot where Gerald had checked his horse
ibr a moment in dismay and terror, she
;urned towards him such a look of hope-
ess supplication that it almost deprived
iim of all power to assist her.

What was he to do ? If he had kept
;he field but ten yards lower down, all
would have been well; but now, his only
;hance was to outstrip the flying animal
Before it should reach the spot of danger,
and already he had lost ten yards out of
the hundred. Besides, he knew that the
Dursuit would add to the mare's alarm,
and increase her speed; but there was
nothing else for it, and, once more loos
ening the rein on his horse's neck, he
urged the noble beast to a fresh trial of
lis powers.

It was not in vain; stride by stride he
gained upon the terrified animal that now
eemed to fly along before them with

AND HIS FRIENDS.

redoubled speed; her hoofs threw back the
stones against his head and chest as he
came closer to her ; now he almost touched
— now close upon her flank — on, on they
go ! shoulder to shoulder — neck to neck !
— ten yards before them lies the quarry !
— now, good steed, one stride more, if it
be thy last! so — so — now God give
strength to thy rider's arm ! for he needs
it — there are scarce three yards between
that fair girl and eternity ! Now, now,
the bridle is within his grasp — now for
the stalwart arm and the iron nerve ! By
heaven! the rein has broken! Ha! he
throws himself from the saddle — one yard
further and all will be dashed to atoms —
"rider and steed in one red burial blent"
— quick, quick! lost! — no, no! God be
thanked ! — he has saved her !

It was all the work of an instant — the
whole thing seemed less like reality than
the rapid incident of some terrible dream ;
but it was over now, and Gerald, with his
right arm hanging broken by his side,
stood close by the edge of the quarry,
supporting with his left the senseless form
of her whom, almost by a miracle, he had
rescued from her appalling danger.

The horse he had ridden stood panting
and covered with foam close beside the
spot, but the mare lay dead full fifty
feet below, literally crushed to pieces.
Gerald had scarcely torn her rider from
the saddle, when the maddened animal
plunged forward into the chasm — it was
a fearful chance !

"Where am I?" exclaimed the girl,
faintly, when, after a few moments, she
began to recover, looking wildly into Ge
rald's face.

"Safe, thank God!" answered he,
eagerly — "all will be well when you have
had a short rest" — and he moved his knee
to render the position of her head more
comfortable ; for such was the pillow on
which it had reposed while she remained
insensible.

"Oh! it was terrible!" she repeated,
with a shudder — " terrible ! " And then
starting suddenly, she exclaimed again —
"Where am I?"

"Here," replied Gerald; and the answer
was certainly a safe one.

" Where is my father — is he near me ? "

"When your strength returns a little,
we will go to him," said Gerald, feeling
some how or other particularly well satis
fied to hear that the old gentleman was
her father. Old gentlemen will have
young wives sometimes, and Gerald felt
much greater pleasure in fancying that
his fair companion was a spinster — per
haps he thought he had already experi
enced quite enough of married women.

"I — I am better now," said the terri
fied girl, beginning to comprehend her
situation, and remembering how all had
happened — "let us return to him at once."
And she made an effort to rise. But her
strength was as yet unequal to the task,
and her head fell back again upon its pil
low — a circumstance which caused a thrill
of pleasure to shoot through the said pil
low, and to communicate itself to all other
parts of the body to which the same be
longed.

" Do not be alarmed," said Gerald, soft
ly, at the same time bending his head
somewhat closer than was absolutely ne
cessary to that which now reposed upon
his knee — " he is probably close to us by
this time ; at all events he is but a short
distance off, and we can reach him in a
few minutes. Do you feel better now?"

And as he asked the question, his lips
almost touched her ear.

" Oh I yes, much better," she answered,
faintly, raising her eyes to his face with
an expression that sent the blood dancing
a fandango through his heart — "and 1
owe my life ^to you. How — how can I
repay you ? "

Of course there was but one speech to
be made in answer to that question, and
consequently Gerald proceeded to assure
her — "that the memory of having saved
her would a thousand times more than
repay him, and that he had done nothing
but what any other man would have done
under the circumstances."

This was what he said; but, perhaps,
the reply that suggested itself to his mind
when he heard the words "how can I re
pay you ? " might have been somewhat
different. Indeed, I am rather inclined
to believe that he was within a pip of
exclaiming something or other commenc
ing with "Ah!" and ending with Lord

100

TOM CROSBIE

knows what ; but, by a struggle, he re
strained himself, and merely said a few
words to the effect I have recorded.

At length his companion was sufficient
ly recovered to be able to rise, and it was
then, for the first time, she discovered
what until then had escaped her notice, that
Gerald's right arm hung powerless by his
side. Indeed, though suffering the most
acute pains, he had hitherto concealed
the fact of its being broken, and it was
only now, when his change of position
caused him to attempt to move it, that
the agony consequent upon the effort
made him, in spite of himself, utter a sud
den cry of pain.

"Good heavens, you are hurt!" ex
claimed his companion, anxiously — "and
never to mention it all this time ! "

And there was something of gentle re
proach in the tone in which the last words
were spoken; so gentle, and withal seem
ing so full of interest, that Gerald began
to fancy, for a moment, that the pain of
a broken arm — under circumstances such
as these — was about the pleasantest sen
sation in life.

Nor was the happiness of this feeling
at all decreased when the anxious girl,
too grateful to think of idle forms, and
too innocent to heed them if she did, laid
her fair hand tenderly upon the affected
limb, and endeavored to raise it from his
side.

" It is nothing," he said, telling one of
those excusable lies at which the record
ing angel grieves not — "a few days and
it will be as strong as ever. A broken
arm is nothing ! " And, as if to illustrate
the truth of this assertion, he groaned
aloud with torture.

"Broken!" repeated his companion in
horror — "and there is no assistance near."

Saying which she gave such a look at
Gerald that he had it in contemplation to
break his other arm, in order to insure its
repetition.

" It will not signify," said he, forming
his handkerchief into a temporary sling;
and then, as she looked incredulous, he
added :

"I scarcely feel it now at all;" whioh
assertion, as he had done the former one,
he corroborated by a groan of anguish.

However, they left the spot; the iady
never even mentioning her mare, though
it had been a favorite; which establishes
beyond a doubt that she had discovered
a dearer object for her thoughts and cares ;
and Gerald, with his sound arm passed
through the bridle of the horse — for his
companion, fearful of burdening him by
leaning upon it, had refused to take it —
walked on beside her along the road, in
the direction where he had left the old
gentleman.

There did take place between them, as
they moved slowly on, a brief conversa
tion, respecting the terrible nature of the
danger which had so lately been escaped ;
and, when it is remembered that the
speakers were a very handsome young
man and a very beautiful girl — and that
the former had just saved the latter's life
— and that, moreover, his arm had been
broken in his efforts — it need scarcely ex
cite much wonder if the same conversa
tion soon became of a rather more inter
esting nature, or if, towards the close of
it, such words as follows happened to
have been spoken.

"And you are an only 'child?"

"Yes — a spoiled one."

"What father would not spoil one so
beautiful ? if that were possible."

"It is quite possible," said the lady, in
answer to the last part of his speech, the
first she did not notice, at least by words
— "lam completely spoiled."

"Oh!" said Gerald, in that tone with
which people generally pronounce the in
terjection when it prefaces the words,
"what a fib "—"oh!"

"You doubt it then?" said the lady,
with a laugh, " but you shall see."

And, as she said this, it seemed to
imply that they were hereafter to
become intimate acquaintances — a per
spective in Gerald's views for the future
which tended to brighten the picture
considerably.

By this time they were not more than
two hundred yards from the spot where
the old gentleman had been left; but,
though their view of the road extended
much beyond this distance he was not to
be seen, and Gerald began to feel rather
uneasy at the circumstance, fearing that

AND HIS FRIENDS.

101

illness had attacked him, and that he had
been removed.

However, fearing to alarm his compan
ion by any suspicion of the kind, he still
walked on, and, by way of beguiling her
attention — as he fancied — resumed the
conversation in the following strain.

" What a happy life must be a father's
— I mean with a (laughter such as you."

"My father's life is a happy one, I
hope," she answered, gravely, and then,
recovering her wonted smile, she added
— " would you like to be a father ? "

Oh! ho! what a question that was!
Gerald smiled !

" Yes — he certainly would like to be a
father, with a certain proviso."

"What might that be?" asked his
companion.

The answer that burned on the tip of
his tongue was this — "Provided you were
the mother ! " but I am happy to say that
he checked the words as they were on
the point of issuing from his lips, and
merely replied:

K Provided I was sure of such a
daughter."

And this time the lady did not look
displeased.

"You would soon wish to be a bache
lor," she said, laughing, "papa wishes it
twenty times a day."

"What if he were put to the test?"
said Gerald — "would he be easily tempt
ed to part with you ? "

"I cannot tell; the temptation has
never been offered him."

And she laughed gaily, whereupon
Gerald began to fancy she was a bit of a
dirt

"Never?" he repeated, interrogatively.

"No, never."

" Perhaps you never wished it ? "

"Perhaps so," said the lady, archly.

" Ah ! " said Gerald, which interjection
uras very expressive of — nothing.

"Your arm seems to pain you dread
fully," said his companion, changing the
conversation.

" Oh ! no, by no means," he answered ;
and his whole face became convulsed with
the torture of a sudden pang — "a little
nursing will set it all to rights."

There is something in the word "nurs-

ing" that never fails to strike upon the
softest chords of a woman's heart; and as
Geritld spoke the last sentence, there
came upon the face of his companion an
expression of interest and pity which
almost said:

" Would that I might watch beside and
tend thee."

At last, after a moment's hesitation,
she said:

"Pardon me, but — have you a sister ?"

Somehow or other, it never entered
into her head that he might possibly have
a wife.

Gerald answered in the negative.

" And who will nurse you ? " she in
quired innocently.

" Oh, some old lady with a dowdy cap
and a beard a foot long," said Gerald,
smiling — " the only description of nurses
propriety will allow a bachelor."

"Then, why are you a bachen.r?"

The words were spoken without a mo
ment's thought ; they were meant to con
tain no latent meaning, nor did any
" crimson blush suffuse the face " of the
speaker when she had tittered them, for
the question was asked with real, not as
sumed, innocence; but Gerald fancieu
that he had received a fair challenge, and
"upon this hint he spake."

"I should not long be one," he suii,
"if a certain wish was granted."

And here he paused.

"What may that be?"

"One which yesterday I had never
known."

"You speak in riddles that I cannot
read. Is the wish a secret ? "

" It was so this morning, even to my
own heart"

" Then I may not hope to hear it ? "

"If I thought—" began Gerald, but
he paused again.

"Thought what?"

" That I might venture" — . Another
pause.

"Nothing venture, nothing win," said
the lady, archly. "You need not fear
to trust me ; I can keep a secret. What
is this mighty wish ? " And she smiled
a smile that would have wheedled a diplo
matist.

" It is this," said Gerald, boldly, and

102

TOM CROSBIE

at the last word his boldness forsook
him.

"Exceedingly intelligible!" mentally
ejaculated the lady; but, audibly, she
only said — " well ! "

"That ifiy last act of bachelorship
might be the one which should change me
into your husband ! "

It was out now, and the look which he
received in return for the expression of
his wish made him feel particularly like a
fool.

When a man feels like a fool, he gea-
erally speaks like one, and, therefore, in
stead of recording any further efforts of
his eloquence, I deem it an indulgence,
both to him and the reader, to close the
chapter here.

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE RETURN TO TOWN.

subsequently spoken by Gerald — and
that they were not of a particularly Sol-
omonian description, may be conjectured
from the concluding remark of the last
chapter — their effect did not seem to be

pering to somebody — that he was Ihe
bearer of tidings concerning him they
sought.

And "something," for once, was rio-ht,
for the man, coming straight up to the
lady, touched what had once been a hat,
and, with that nice distinction of singu
lar and plural, not to speak of the beau
tiful carelessness as to the arrangement
of the different parts of speech, which
usually characterize the language of his
class, propounded the following polite
query :

"Is you the lady that wor ran away
wid, Miss?"

An answer in the affirmative was smil
ingly given, and the Chesterfield pro
ceeded:

" Are this the jintleman that run away
wid the other jintleman's baste ? "

A second affirmative assured him that
it was.

"You're not afther bein' kill'd, thin,
Miss?" said the man, looking rather dis
appointed than otherwise.

The truth of these kst words was -too
apparent to need further confirmation, and
he continued :

"The poor ould jintleman that 's kilt" —

" Killed ? " screamed the poor girl, not
understanding the wide distinction be
tween the two words, or rather between
their meaning; and she became deadly
pale.

" Och, no, Miss," said the man, kindly,

any very great drawback on the friendly { hastening to undeceive her — "tis n't killed
nature of the acquaintance, which, in so at all he is — he was only knocked of a
short a time had sprung up between him- \ hape like."

self and his companion; for they still
walked on together, conversing amica
bly, though they had changed the sub
ject.

The spot where the old gentleman had
been left, was reached and passed, but
still he was not to be seen, and Gerald
was beginning to find himself in the re
markably unpleasant position of the "lit-

Here, Gerald for the first time inform
ed her of the condition in which he had
left her father — and then they learned
from the man, who told his story in his
own roundabout way, that he had been
coming along the road, some ten minutes
or so, previously, and that he discovered
the old gentleman lying on the grass be
side the ditch, in a state of stupefaction,

tie old woman who lived in a shoe," at i or, as he elegantly and emphatically

that portion of her interesting history
when it is recorded "ske did not know
what to do," when he perceived a coun
tryman advancing towards him at a quick
pace along the road, and something whis
pered to him — something is always whis-

expressed it, — " knocked of a hape like."
In fact, he had fainted, and in this con
dition he was kindly lifted by the man
into a milk-cart which he drove, and con
veyed to a house a couple of hundred
yards farther on, where he was now

AND HIS FRIENDS

recovering; but he was still too weak to
move without support, and had been only
able to give a brief outline of what had
happened ; having heard which, the man
had volunteered to come in search of the
"lady that wor ran away wid, and the
Jintleman that run away wid the other
jintleman's baste."

So, onwards towards the place indica
ted they walked, quickening their pace
as much as possible, and in a couple of
minutes they had arrived at the door of
a small house, scarcely more than a cab
in indeed, that stood close beside the
road, and the position of which, being
built in a kind of angle, prevented those
within from noticing their approach, until
the man who accompanied them stood
upon the threshold, and announced at
the top of his lungs that they had arriv
ed, and that "the lady war n't kill'd, nor
as much as a hair of her head hurted" —
8 declaration to which he thought fit to
add, " that It 'ud be a murtherin* sin
if anythin' happened to her, for she was
a royal darlin' ! "

The girl herself followed the announce
ment so quickly that it was impossible
for her father even to rise from the chair
in which he had been sitting, before she
was in his arms, and then the old man
fairly wept Avith joy.

People may speak of a mother's love
— and that it is a deep and holy passion,
I am not the man tc deny — but I question
much if the feelings of an old man's heart
towards an only daughter are not strong
er and more powerful. She is to him the
tie that binds him to the present — the
link that connects him with the past — the
object of his hopes and cares for the fu
ture — the young ivy plant, which, as it
springs into strength and vigor, entwines
its tendrils around the aged oak, as if to
support in its declining years the tree
which had given shelter and protection
to its infancy,

Gerald remained a moment standing
outside the cottage door before he enter
ed, for he felt that such a meeting as was
there should not be broken in upon by
the intrusion of a stranger. But he was
not suffered to remain there long, for the
moment the girl could disengage herself

from her father's arms, she returned to
the door, and taking him by the hand as
if he had been the friend of years, led
him inside, and, approaching the chair
where the old man sat, said — •

" Father ! "

Not another word but that, but it was
enough — the whole contents of a diction
ary, arranged by Cicero himself into pe
riods of glowing eloquence, could not
have spoken more than that one simple
word — it was the "open sesame" to the
old man's heart.

He took Gerald by the hand — the hand
his daughter had placed in his — pressed
it in a long and warm grasp, and after
vainly endeavoring once or twice to speak,
at length said, shortly :

"You have saved my daughter's life,
and mine — for it would have killed me ;
words cannot thank you, but — I am
your friend."

That was all ; the words were few, and
spoken with but little aid from eloquence,
but the speech was one of the few — the
very few — that in this world may be de
pended on — it came from the heart, not
from the brain.

And then they sat down together;
those three bound firmly to each other
by one of those ties which, formed of a
sudden by the mystery of circumstances,
bind heart to heart more strongly than
the acquaintanceship of years, or even
the friendship of a life-long.

And they spoke of the danger that
happily was over now, and of how it had
been escaped ; it was the only theme for
the father and daughter, though Gerald
frequently sought to change it, and thus
many minutes passed away before the old
man became aware that the arm of the
latter had been broken. But when he
did, his weakness seemed to forsake him
in a moment, and, rising quickly from his
chair, he first upbraided his daughter for
not having told him the fact at once,
then accused himself of being a fool, and
in inhuman old brute, and ended by de
claring that they should hasten back to
to town instantly.

However, that was more easily said
than done, for though the distance was so
short, yet they happened to be in a spot

104

TOM CROSBIE

where no description of conveyance was
to be had for love or money, and how to
reach the city in their present condition
they knew not.

The fact was, that though Gerald had
struggled hard to suppress all outward
;uons, he had been since his arrival at the
cottage, suffering the severest torture
from his wounded limb, and the pain had
at length become so great that it was im
possible for him to conceal it any longer
— his arm was frightfully swollen, so
much so that it seemed as if it would
burst the coat, from which he was unable
to remove it until the sleeve had been
ripped open from the shoulder to the
hand, and when it was thus exposed to
view, the flesh, livid and discolored, both
father and daughter were terrified at the
sight, and to tell the truth Gerald him
self was alarmed not a little.

At last, by one of those lucky chances
seldom met with when people require
them, a farmer driving his tax-cart
into town, passed the door of the cottage,
and having been hurriedly informed of
the circumstance, at once offered to make
room for Gerald and the lady, the old gen
tleman declaring that he was quite suf
ficiently recovered to remount his own
horse.

So they started, and within an hour
they had safely arrived in town, when
the old man insisted that Gerald should
accompany him to his own house instead
of returning home — an invitation which
the daughter, with her eyes, though not
with her lips, so strengthened that it was
impossible to refuse.

Accordingly, home they went, and
long before evening Gerald found himself
•with his arm properly set and bandaged,
reclining on a strange bed, just awaken
ing from a short sleep into which he had
fallen after the pain of the operation, and
with the light and graceful figure of his
young hostess passing with noiseless steps
to and from his chamber.

So passed the first evening of Ger
ald Rochefort's acquaintance with Jessie
Franks.

CHAPTER XXX.

AN ALARM.

In Gerald's own home, meanwhile,
things went very differently. The mes
senger had arrived with the news of hia
accident just as Mrs. Rochefort and her
ward, after waiting above an hour beyond
the usual time, were sitting down to din
ner, both wondering at the cause of his
unaccustomed absence.

"There's a man in the hall, ma'am,
wants to see you," announced a female
servant, entering the room.

" What man ? Did you say I was at
dinner ? "

" I did, ma'am, but he says his business
is pertickler ; he 's a sarvint in green and
goold livery."

" Oh ! from Mrs. Fitzmaurice, perhaps.
Emma, excuse me for an instant." And
Mrs. Rochefort left the room.

But she had been scarcely a moment
absent, when a loud scream was heard in
the hall, and Emma, pale as death,
started from her chair, and sprang into
the passage.

She found Mrs. Rochefort sitting in
one of the hall chairs, into which she
had fallen insensible, her head supported
by the servant woman, while the messen
ger of evil tidings, twirling his hat in his
hand, stood with his mouth wide open,
half frightened out of his life.

That man would never have been qual
ified for a London footman.

"What — what has happened?" ex
claimed Emma, breathlessly.

" The young masther, Miss " be
gan the woman.

" Merciful heaven ! has anything hap
pened to him ? " and the poor girl almost
reeled from the suddenness of the alarm —
"will no one tell me what has occurred ?"

" Don't be frightened, Miss," said the
man, kindly and respectfully — " it's only
an accident, and Miss Jessie bid me say
there's no danger."

" Miss Jessie ! " repeated Emma, invo
untarily.

AND HIS FRIENDS

105

" Yis, Miss, that's my young misthress."
And the man seemed to think he had
given a most lucid explanation.

"Where is Ger Mr. Rochefort,

now?" asked Emma, as she took the
place of the servant woman, while the
latter went to seek restoratives.

"At our house, Miss," answered the
man.

"Where is that?"

"In Mount sthreet, Miss."

"But who's house?"

" Misther Franks's, Miss."

"Franks!" repeated Emma to herself

' I never heard the name."

And then again addressing the man,
she said as calmly as she could: " What
was the accident ? "

And then the man told her as much
as he knew himself, which was, that in
saving the life of his young mistress,
Mr. Rochefort — God bless him forever ! —
had had his arm broken, and that he was
now comfortably settled in Mr. Franks'
own room, " where the best of care and
attention would be paid him, in the re
gard that he'd have one to nurse him
that an angel out o' heav'n could n't
aquil for a tendher heart and a gentle
hand ! "

" Then they were strangers before to
day?" said Emma, eagerly.

" They wor, Miss."

" I will go to him instantly ! " she ex
claimed, a heavy load being removed
from her heart. "Say to your master"
(not a word about his mistress) " that I —
that is, that Mrs. Rochefort feels deeply
thankful for his kindness, and that the
moment she is sufficiently recovered she
will be with her son."

The man bowed, scraped his foot along
the floor, and departed; and Emma then
turned and devoted her entire attention
to the recovery of Mrs. Rochefort.

In a few minutes, with the aid of some
of those many little contrivances in the
shape of essences and aromatic perfumes
which are always to be found about a
lady's dressing table, the latter was suffi
ciently restored to be able to return to
the dining-room, where, when she had
been placed near an open window, her
first words were:

"Is it all true?"

" No, ma'am," answered the good-na
tured serving woman, thinking that if her
mistress had been driven into a fainting
fit by a truth, she might, perhaps, be re
covered by a falsehood — " no, ma'am, it's
all a lie!"

"Say that again, Mary — say that
again ! " cried Mrs. Rochefort, her senses
scarcely yet returned.

" To be sure, ma'am," replied Mary,
kindly, " an' coorse it was a lie !"

" And Gerald is not killed ?"

" Killed !" repeated Emma, — " no,
thank God! he is safe; it was only a
slight accident"

" Then there was an accident?" inter
rupted Mrs. Rochefort.

" There was, but he is safe now."

" Why has he not returned then ? "

Emma now informed her, as well as
she could, of what had happened, and
gradually she became quieted; but it was
long before she recovered from the shock
she had received, for the man who had
brought the tidings of Gerald's mishap
had, in his anxiety to break the news as
gently as possible, bungled so terribly
that she understood him to say her son
was dead.

It was in this way that the mistake
arose.

When she reached the hall and found
the man standing there, looking as if he
did not know how to commence his busi
ness, she asked him for what purpose he
had come.

" I beg your pardon, my lady," said
the man, "b'ut is your name Missis Roche-
fort?"

« It is."

"Well, ma'am, don't be frightened
now, but the young masther, your son,
ma'am — "

" What — what ? " exclaimed Mrs.
Rochefort, in alarm.

"'Twas God's will, ma'am, but it's all
over — "

That was all she heard ; the next mo
ment she had sank insensible upon a
chair. Spite of all her faults and follies,
the mother's feelings still lived within hej
bosom.

But now, the alarm was over in a

106

TOM CROSBIE

great measure, her son was not in am
danger, and the feelings which had beei
so suddenly awakened were again sub
siding. Not so with Emma; poor girl
her untutored heart was beating with
new and strange emotions, and her brain
was a perfect chaos. Gerald was lying on
a sick bed, amongst strangers, and who
was there to tend him? She reme
bered that the man had said he would
have one, gentle and tender, to be his
nurse ; but what hand of yesterday's ac
quaintance could smooth his pillow so
gently — what stranger's heart could feel
so tenderly for his pain as hers ?

She thought that this was her anxiety,
but something stirred within her bosom
and Avhispered to her that, with all her
care for him, it would have pleased her
better if no such nurse as the servant
spoke of had been near him.

"Emma," said Mrs. Rochefort, after a

considerable

pause,

" I do not see of

what use we could be to Gerald by going
to see him — "

" Not go to him!" exclaimed Emma,
in undisguised astonishment — " not go to
him ! leave him to the care of strangers,
and his own mother so near ! "

It was now Mrs. Rochefort's turn to be
astonished. The timid girl, who ever up
to that moment had been gentleness it
self — who had never, even by a look, op
posed her slightest wish, thus to be trans
formed into an impetuous woman, and to
upbraid her to her face! It was more
than her quick spirit could tamely brook,
and, with a flushed cheek, she turned to
her ward.

" Miss Aubyn," she said, sharply, " you
forget your position ; never again presume
to address me in such a manner. I shall
act as I think proper, without consulting
your opinion."

Tt was an unkind speech, one which, if
she had taken time to think, she never
would have spoken ; and it cut, sorely and
deeply. >

For a moment Emma felt her face
burning, and her breath came short and
quick, as she struggled to keep down the
angry words that were rising to her lips ;
but her gentle feelings soon returned,
and remembering that for years Mrs.

Rochefort had been a mother to her, she
rose from hei chair, and, while her eyes
were filled with tears, said:

" Forgive me ; indeed I did not mean
to make you angry !"

It was enough ; Mrs. Rochefort's anger,
easily aroused, was seldom difficult to
appease, and she drew Emma towards
he<r and kissed her on the forehead. But
she had felt the girl's reproach, and, more
over, had begun to think of what Gerald
himself and the strangers in whose house
he was, would say if she, his own mother,
should suffer the night to pass over with
out going near him.

I am truly sorry to be obliged to own
that the latter consideration had more
weight with her than maternal anxiety,
for, now that the first excitement on her
son's account was over, and that she was
assured he was in no danger, she felt
but little uneasiness on the subject,
and would much more willingly have re
mained at home. The fact was, that
since Gerald's return fnom abroad, she
had been obliged to resign into his hands
ihe property which up to that period she
iiad been so recklessly squandering, and
hough a single word of reproach for her
sxtravagance had never escaped his lips,
she knew that she had forfeited his es-
;eem, and that the tie which now bound
lim to her was more that of filial duty
han filial love.

The mother felt humbled in the pres-
mce of her son, and consequently the
deep affection that should ever bind the
child to the parent and the parent to the
child, was at an end between them.

If Gerald had been in danger, she
would instantly have flown to him ; while
she had believed him so, the mother's
eelings overcame every other; but now
hat she knew there was none, and that
was amongst those who would give him
every care, she would certainly have re
mained at home, had it not been for her
fear of worldly opinion.

" Well, Emma," she said at length, " I
suppose I had better go. Perhaps you
would wish to come with me."

" Certainly ! " replied her ward, eager
ly; and then, as she noticed Mrs. Roche-
fort's eyes fixed intently for a moment on.

AND HIS FRIENDS.

107

her face, she added, hesitatingly, " that is,
if you have no objection. I think I
could be more attentive to him than —
than a stranger."

Mrs. Rochefort still continued her
steadfast gaze on the countenance of her
ward, and when at length she withdrew
her eyes, she remained for several mo
ments silent, and with an expression upon
her features as though some painful
thoughts were passing in her mind.

After some deliberation, Mrs. Roche-
fort declared she was not equal to the ex
ertion, and Emma must go alone.

CHAPTER XXXI.

AN ALARM, AND A WARNING.

It was nearly ten o'clock when she left
her home, and as that home was situated
far away at the north side of the city,
she had fully three miles to walk before
she could reach her destination. How
ever, she stepped forward briskly, and
had again arrived as far as Merrion
Square without encountering any obsta
cle or annoyance whatever.

Neither policeman nor watchman, nor,
indeed, any other man whatever was in
sight, to aid Emma in case she should
require it, and consequently it need not
to be wondered at if she felt rather un
easy when footsteps came nearer and
nearer until they were at length close be
hind her; then they relaxed their speed,
accommodating it to hers as she continued
to walk on, and making no effort to out
strip her. They were heavy footsteps,
too; a man's evidently, and she could
now plainly distinguish his shadow mov
ing along beside her own. Her fear was
not of robbers ; she would have been much
less alarmed had she been sure the man
behind her was one; nor was she, upon
ordinary occasions, at all cowardly; but
a dread was over her now which she
could neither banish nor account for, and

she would have given all she possessed
in the world to have been safe at her
journey's end.

And she was very near it ; a hundred
yards further and she would have reached
it, but she was not certain as to the exact
house, and she might be passing it, for all
she knew.

Just then, a bright thought struck her;
she would turn up the next steps and
knock at the door, as if it were the one
she sought

She put her intention into effect, and
sprang up the next steps she came to,
and there she saw him, standing at the
bottom. He looked like a gentleman,
though; a lamp was close behind him,
and its light enabled her to perceive that,
even before he removed his hat slightly
and bowed with a certain air that would
at once have set the matter beyond a
doubt.

Before she could knock at the door,
however, he was beside her, and prevented
her by laying his hand upon her arm.
Gently, though — very gently; there was
nothing of rudeness in the way he did it,
and yet Emma shrank from his touches
though it had been pollution. She could
not have helped it for a kingdom; it was
perfectly involuntary, so much so that
she could not have acted otherwise, even
if she would, but the stranger perceived
it in an instant, and as he did so, an ex
pression of a not particularly amiable
description was discernable for a moment
on his features. It quickly passed away,
however, and in a very soft, gentle voice,

he said:

I beg you

will not be in the least

alarmed; there is no cause whatever. I
merely have taken this liberty for the
purpose of saving you from a mistake;
this is not the house you seek."

"How know you that, sir?" was Em
ma's involuntary exclamation, her surprise
overcoming every other feeling.

"You seek Mr. Franks' if I mistake
not?" said the stranger, without appear
ing to notice her astonishment — " am I
right?"

Emma did not know how to act. She
was too confused to be able to think, and
as her only object for the present was to

106

TOM CROSBIE

escape from her strange companion as
quickly as possible, she after a moment's
hesitation replied in the affirmative.

" Then, if you will permit me," said
he, "I will direct you;" and he offered
his arm to assist her down the steps.

Emma declined the favor, however,
and merely said: "You are very kind,
sir, to give yourself so much trouble, but
I shall now be able to find the house
without any further assistance!"

And, so saying, she sprang down the
steps even more rapidly than she had as
cended them, and hastened on.

She had proceeded but a very short
way, however, when the stranger was
again beside her, and again he spoke.

" I beg a thousand pardons for this in
trusion," he said, with an air of much re
spect, "but if you would only permit me
to explain my motive, I am sure you
would at once excuse me."

Emma was now really alarmed,
though there was nothing whatever in
either the appearance or manner of the
stranger calculated to excite her fears,
and as she knew she had but a very few
yards further to go to reach her destina
tion, she continued to walk on rapidly
without returning any answer.

" I see you are determined to refuse
me the opportunity I ask for," said her
companion — for such he certainly was,
though much against her will — "and I
cannot blame you for doing so; but I re
gret it very much, as it concerns the in
terest of — him you are about to visit.
You are now at Mr. Franks' door, and I
will no longer intrude upon you. Good
night." And raising his hat politely, he
turned to walk away.

But — whether intentionally or not, I
cannot tell — he had manoeuvred most
skillfully in hinting that any interest of
Gerald was concerned in his object for
addressing Emma, and so he was quickly
led to perceive ; for before he had taken
a second step from the spot, she stayed
him, saying: —

" Forgive me, sir, but you are a stran
ger to me, and therefore cannot wonder
at my disinclination to enter into any con
versation with you. However, you just
now mentioned that your motive was to

— to — in short, that the interests of an
other were concerned, and therefore,
though I may be wrong in doing so, I
will hear anything you have to say."

There was something very like a
smile on the face of the stranger, as he
turned round, and said : —

"Another has much reason to be
grateful for your kindness. I trust he
will prove so. Your present visit is, I
believe, intended for Mr. Gerald Roche-
fort?"

"You seem to require no information
on the subject, sir," said Emma, with
some little show of displeasure, for the
tone in which she had been last addressed
conveyed a hint that her companion was
somehow acquainted with more of her
affairs than she considered at all desirable
— " you seem perfectly acquainted with
my movements, however the knowledge
has been acquired, and I must beg that,
if you have really any communication to
make, you will be good enough to do so
at once ; if not — "

" It shall be as you wish, madam,"
said the stranger. " There are circum
stances which render it essentially nec
essary that Mr. Rocbefort should be re
moved to his own home as speedily as
possible — to-morrow, if it can be con
trived — the sooner the better. Will you
undertake to accomplish this, without
mentioning to any one the cause ? "

"I shall do no such thing, sir!" said
Emma, hastily. "I shall mention this
interview to Ger — to Mr. Rochefort, the
moment I have an opportunity — "

"I think not, madam," said the stran
ger, coolly — " I think not, when I have
told you that your doing so can only in
volve him in a very painful manner. I
am not at liberty to tell you how, but be
assured that the request I make is en
tirely for his benefit, and that, if he is
not removed before to-morrow night, he
will have cause to regret that you have
thought proper to neglect my warning."

"Even so, sir," said Emma, though
with much more irresolution than before
— " even so, I cannot consent to comply
with the wishes of a perfect stranger, un
less I am made acquainted with his mo
tives. They may be good — I am willing

AND HIS FRIENDS.

109

to believe they are so ; but still, unless
you explain them to me, I cannot, will
not, act as you require."

" Well, Miss Aubyn," said the stran
ger, calmly — and as Emma heard her
own name, she started and looked scrutin-
izingly in his face — "well, Miss Aubyn,
I have warned you. I can do no more.
You will now act as you think proper;
but, remember, if you mention this in
terview to any one (and if so I shall
hear it) the consequences to Mr. Roche-
fort will be — more than unpleasant. Re
member, also, that it will be expedient
for him to return to his home as soon as
possible; and this advice — though you
seem to doubt it-~- comes from one who
would befriend him. I will detain you
no longer now. Good-night, and — re-
mem ber."

Without another word, he walked
quickly away; and with a heavy heart.
Emma turned from the spot, and sought
Mr. Franks' door, which at length she
reached in safety.

CHAPTER XXXII.

DREAMINOS AND JEALOUSIES.

Gerald was asleep when Emma stole
into his room on tiptoe. A pleasant sleep
it was, too, if one might judge from the
smiles that played on his lip now and
then, and the expressions that occasionally
escaped him, though without his knowl
edge.

The wounded arm seemed to trouble
him but little; it reposed outside the
clothes, bound up in its splinters, and
with a pillow placed carefully under it.
Emma glanced at that pillow in a way
which clearly said — "I know who put
you there, and I don't think you're prop
erly arranged." Whereupon she pro
ceeded with the utmost gentleness to ef
fect a change in its position — which she
succeeded in doing without awakening

the sleeper. The touch of her hand
upon his arm, however, may have vibrat
ed the mysterious chord that linked the
changes of his dream; for he smiled
again, and murmured; —

" Thank you, my gentle nurse."

Emnia didfn't like that at all. She
knew full well that she was not the
"gentle nurse" alluded to, and she
wished people would n't talk that way in
their sleep.

But if such was her wish even then, it
may be imagined it lost nothing of its
force when she listened to his next wan
dering. Which was this: —

" I never loved before, but, dearest, I
am too poor to marry." Then he paused
a moment, as if listening, and again went
on — "No, never! I will never bring pov
erty on one I love. Your father? — con
sent — if I thought there was hope of
that — yes, yes, he is grateful that I
saved your life, I know, but — well, there,
dearest, we will hope — one kiss more
there! — another — one little other! now
— good-night — good-night — " And he
laughed lightly and gaily.

What a delightful welcome for poor
Emma! She sat down beside the bed
and began to think. Think, poor girl ! it
was a sad employment Thought had
but little joy for her — a few words spoken
in a dream had awakened her from her
dream, for ever.

"He loves another," was the convic
tion that forced itself upon her — the re
frain to all her little episodes of thought
" He loves another — a stranger — and he
never cared for me!"

She had at length tasted the fruit of the
tree of knowledge — and a bitter fruit
she found it Who has not found it so?

I like to throw out a hint for a moral
reflection !

Her train of thought, however, was not,
this time, suffered to be a long one ; for
she had scarcely been five minutes so
occupied, when Jessie made her appear
ance in the room. Now, the latter, on
being apprised by the servant who had
admitted Emma, that a lady had come to
visit Mr. Rochefort, immediately came to
the very natural conclusion that that lady
could be no other than his mother.

110

TOM CROSBIE

Gerald had told her that he had no
sister, and therefore her surprise may be
imagined when, on entering the room, in
the expectation of meeting a respectable
elderly matron, she beheld sitting beside
the patient's bed a young and remarkably
beautiful girl.

Jessie started, and it must be confessed
the expression of her countenance de
noted anything but delight.

"I beg pardon," slui began — "I — I
was not prepared — that is, I — in fact —
I expected to find Mrs. Rochefort here."

Emma had not noticed her entrance,
but now, the moment she heard the voice,
she raised her head quickly, and the eyes
of the two girls met.

Now Jessie Franks and Emma Aubyn
were both good girls, both kind, and
gentle, and warm-hearted; if they had
met under ordinary circumstances they
would instantly have become friends;
but, as it was, each conceived an involun
tary dislike against the other, and the
probability is that, at that moment, if
the truth were known, it would have
been a source of mutual satisfaction could
they have comfortably tucked up their
sleeves, and forthwith "pitched into"
each other.

However, politeness — if not a better
feeling — prevented them from going to
such lengths as that, and their animosity,
if such it may be called, was for the
present confined within their own bosoms
— that being, according to all novel
•writers, the abode of every description of
feeling, whether of good or evil.

Emma rose from her chair, and curt
seyed stiffly to Jessie, and Jessie curtseyed
quite as stiffly to Emma, and such was
their greeting. Then the former said : —

" Miss Franks, I presume ? "

And Jessie replied: — "Yes."

"Mrs. Rochefort, I am sorry to say,"
continued Emma, "has been prevented
by sudden indisposition from coming here
to-night, but she has deputed me to
thank you in her name for the attention
which has been bestowed upon her son.
May 1 beg to know the nature of the ac
cident that has involved you in so much
trouble ? "

To the first part of this speech, Jessie

was about to return some equally cold
reply, when the few last words recalled
the events of the morning, and instantly
restored her to her natural warmth of
manner.

"In saving my life," she said, eagerly,
"Mr. Rochefort risked his own." And
then she proceeded to tell Emma how
everything had occurred. There was no
coldness in her tone then — no want of
warmth in the looks that ever and anon
were turned towards the bed as her nar
rative went on, and when she came to the
description of the moment that Gerald
rushed between her and destruction, Em
ma Aubyn read full plainly that the
dreamer need entertain no fears of an
unrequited passion.

"Happily," continued Jessie, "the re
sult has not proved dangerous. A few
hours of quiet sleep, such as he now en
joys, will allay all signs of fever, and the
surgeon has declared the fracture of his
arm to be very slight."

" Thank God for that," said Emma to
herself, but she suffered no outward sign
of feeling to escape her, and when Jessie
had concluded she said —

" Mrs. Rochefort will be deeply grateful
for your kindness, but fearing that you
have already experienced great trouble,
she has sent me — that is, I came to re
lieve you — and — to attend Gerald until
he is sufficiently recovered to return
home."

"Attend Gerald!'1'1 repeated Jessie, to
herself — "who can she be that calls him
so familiarly ? " And as she propounded
this question she found her manner again
gradually approaching freezing point.

"There is no gratitude whatever due
to either myself or my father," she said,
coldly; "it is entirely on our side" — this
was not spoken quite so chillingly — "and
as to trouble, I am sorry any one could
for a moment think of such a thing, on an
occasion like the present."

" Of course, you do not consider it a
trouble, but, nevertheless, I trust you will
now permit me to relieve you from all
farther anxiety, and suffer me to remain
in attendance here until the morning."

Before Jessie had time to return an.
answer to this request, the attention of

AND HIS FRIENDS.

Ill

both girls was suddenly attracted by an
other of the dreamer's wanderings:

"I love your daughter, sir," commencec
Gerald, in an eager tone, "I love her, anc
listen to me, Mr. Franks — "

Jessie started, and when Emma turnec
her eyes upon her face, she saw that a
burning blush had crimsoned it all over
A pleasant predicament that was! So
they both thought, and so they had tol
erably good reason to think.

"If you give her to me," continued
Gerald — "if you will thus consent to make
me happy — "

At this moment Jessie, by accident of
course, knocked her elbow against a small
vase of flowers that stood on a table be
side her, and the noise it made, as it fell
in fragments on the floor, ai once aroused
the sleeper.

It was a cruel thing of Jessie to dis
turb him then, but perhaps she didn't
intend it; may be it might have occurred
to her that it would be more charitable
to awake him at once, than to suffer him
to go on dreaming of happiness that would
never be realized! Ah, may be so!

Gerald awoke with a start, and as he
glanced across the room the first object
that met his sight was Emma standing in
the middle of the floor, gazing at him.
His faculties were not yet sufficiently res
tored to enable him to remember where
he was, and his first impression, there
fore, was, that he was at home, and that
something must be the matter. Else,
why was Emma in his bed-room? But
before he arrived at even this conclusion,
he muttered, with no very pleased ex
pression of either voice or features :

"Then it was all a dream!" Having
given utterance to which, he demanded:
"Emma, what's the matter?"

In his eagerness to propose this ques
tion, however, he raised himself up in the
bed, in doing which, the wounded arm
received a shock that caused a sudden
pang to shoot upwards through his frame,
in this manner was the answer conveyed
to him.

"Ah! now I remember!" he exclaim
ed — " now I remember all about it When
did you come, Emma; is my mother
horet"

Then she told him how Mrs. Rochefort
had come part of the way to see him, and
how a sudden illness had obliged her to
return home.

"And you came alone ? " asked Gerald,
anxiously.

"Yes, I thought I might be of some
use—"

"My dearest Emma," he exclaimed,
warmly, "how can I thank you for this
kindness?"

"My 'dearest' Emma! Oh!" thought
Jessie, whom Gerald had not as yet per
ceived — "his dearest Emma! very good!
that's very good! but what is it to me?
I don't care for him — his dearest Emma."
And down went another vase.

"What's that?" cried Gerald, with a
start ; "is there a cat in the room ? Where
is it ? "

"Here?" said Jessie, and forward she
came.

" Miss Franks! " he exclaimed — "I beg
a thousand pardons, I was not aware you
were in the room."

"No!" thought Jessie, "I don't sup
pose you were!" but she didn't say so;
she only replied:

"It is I who should beg your pardon,
for I am afraid I have intruded."

Oh! for shame, Jessie; that was a
piteful little speech; it was altogether
unworthy of you; I hope I shall never
have to record such another.

"Intruded! " repeated Gerald, in aston-
shment

"The fact is," continued Jessie, feeling
i little ashan^ed of herself — " the fact is,
when I hear i that a lady had arrived, I
thought it might have been Mrs. Roche-
brt, and under that impression I came
icre ; but — " and she began to stammer,
or it suddenly occurred to her that she
was on the point of saying something
hat would not be very polite towards
Smma.

" Permit me," said Gerald, " to intro-
luce you, Miss Aubyn, my mother's ward
— Miss Franks."

As a matter of course, the introduction
caused the two girls to incline their heads
to each other — but, I regret to say, it
had by no means a similar effect upon
their hearts. The "green-eyed monster"

112

TOM CROSBIE

was making himself particularly busy just
then, and the natural consequence was,
that under such an influence, neither of
them was inclined to make any advances
whatever towards intimacy, beyond what
common politeness required.

Emma saw plainly, from the very first,
that her hopes were at an end, and as
Gerald had acknowledged in his dream
that he loved another, and that that other
was Jessie, on her alone was she inclined
to lay all the blame ; and therefore she
was jealous.

Jessie, on the other hand, notwithstand
ing that the same dream had informed
her that she herself was the real object
of the sleeper's love, still looked on Emma
with an eye of more than suspicion, and
the " dearest " which Gerald had prefixed
to her name seemed to settle the point at
once; for why should he use the super
lative, unless she was something more
than a mere friend ? and, therefore, she
was jealous!

"You feel better after your sleep, I
hope?" said Jessie, rather more coldly
than the same inquiry would have been
put a couple of hours previously.

" Thanks to your care and kindness,"
replied Gerald, ''I do feel much better."

•' There is nothing more, 1 believe, that
I can do for you at present," she contin
ued, " and as you probably wish to be
uninterrupted here, I shall now leave you.
Can I offer you anything, Miss Aubyn ?
Some refreshment would be necessary
after your long journey."

"Nothing, I thank you," said Emma,
coldly.

"Adieu, then, for a while," and with a
graceful inclination of her head to both,
she retired from the apartment.

Poor Emma! alas, poor Emma!

There she sat for many minutes be
fore either spoke. Gerald's thoughts were
occupied with the events of the day, and
anticipations of what those events might
lead to ; and she, poor girl, was pondering
over her dream of life for the last two
years, and contrasting the happiness of
her past hope with the misery of her
present knowledge.

Then, for the tirst time, she remember
ed her interview with the stranger in the

street, and that circumstance gave a turn
to her thoughts. Self was soon forgot
ten when she recollected that danger te
Gerald had been spoken of, and now her
mind was occupied alone with doubts and
fears upon this, to her, mysterious sub
ject. How was she to act ? The stranger
had told her that if she should speak of
her interview with him to any one, dan
ger would surely follow. He had also
told her that if Gerald did not return to
his home upon the morrow, some un
known misfortune would as certainly befall
him.

"What am I to do?"

The words startled Gerald from t
pleasant reverie into which he had fallen,
and, turning quickly round, he exclaim
ed —

" What's the matter, Emma ? "

It was a very simple question, verj
easily asked, but by no means so easilj
replied to, and Emma paused for a mo
ment, attempted to speak, hesitated, and
remained silent

"Emma, what is the matter?" repeat
ed Gerald.

" Oh, nothing ! " she answered, " I wai
thinking of — of — "

And again she hesitated.

"Of what?"

"Nothing."

"There must be something the matter,"
said Gerald, becoming alarmed, for he
perceived the evident confusion with
which she endeavored to evade his ques
tion — "tell me what it is, Emma. Has
anything happened to my mother ? "

" No, nothing but what I have told
you."

"Then what can it be ? Your manner
tells me that something unpleasant has
occurred. Let me hear it at once."

"I am afraid to tell you, Gerald," be
gan the poor girl, scarcely knowing what
she said.

"Afraid?"

" That is, I do not know what I ought
to do — but any thing is better than this
.suspense — I will tell you."

And she did. Every word that the '
stranger had spoken she told him; how
he had spoken, and the manner in which
he had followed her in the street; but

AND HJS FRIENDS.

113

not a word did she say of having seen
him while she was with Mrs. Roehefort.
That, she thought, could tend to no other
purpose than to excite uneasiness and
alarm — groundless alarm, perhaps, upon
a subject which as yet was only a con
jecture, and, therefore, upon that point
iihe held her peace.

Gerald never once interrupted her ; he
listened to the detail in the most perfect
silence, but the changes of his counte
nance during the time she had been
speaking, expressed plainly the surprise
and impatience he felt, and when she had
concluded, he demanded quickly —

" Did you ever see him before ?"

"Never before to-night," she answered.

" What sort of man was he ? "

"Both in appearance and manner, a
gentleman."

"Old or young?"

" Neither. I should say, as well as I j that his object could have been what you
could judge by the partial light in which suppose. There may be, in reality, no

danger such as he alluded to, but his
motive in following me, and giving such
a warning is, I am firmly convinced, a

rent certainty in the way she said this,
that Gerald was induced to believe that
something more must have passed be
tween her and the stranger than she had
yet told him, and he looked inquiringly
rn her face as he repeated —

" Positive ? how can you be positive,
Emma?"

It was no easy task for her to satisfy
him on that point. She herself felt per
fectly assured that there was some pow
erful motive for the stranger's warning;
for from the moment she first beheld him
she had been laboring under a presenti
ment of coming evil, with which he was
to be connected; but she could not

attempt to
!v answer

explain this,
to Gerald's

and

last

her on-
question

" His manner while speaking to me
leads me to believe it to be impossible

1 sa-w him, that his age might be about
four or five-and-forty."

"He attempted no rudeness I"

" Not the slightest. On the contra
ry, his manner towards me all through,
was as respectful as possible under the
circumstances."

" He called vou by your name, you
said?"

"He did, and you also — both cor
rectly."

"Most extraordinary!" exclaimed Ge
rald, after a moment's thought — " I cannot
for a moment conceive who it could pos
sibly have been, or what his object. Did
he mention the nature of the danger he
alluded to?"

" No ; but when 1 asked him what it
was, he said it was not then in his power
to explain."

"Most extraordinary ! " again repeated
Gerald.

"I cannot think of any one answering
the description, and I certainly am en
tirely unaware of the approach of any
new trouble. It must have been a hoax."

" It appears most unaccountable, cer
tainly," said Emma, "but whatever the
stranger's motive may be, it is no hoax,
believe me. I am positive of that!"

strong one."

" Be it what it may," returned Gerald,
"the whole thing is to me utterly incom
prehensible; but as I am convinced no
danger can be the result of my remaining
here, I will, at all events, despise the
warning."

"But," said Emma, hastily, "if you are
sufficiently recovered by to-morrow to
return home, why not do so ? "

"Because," replied Gerald, and here he
stopped ; for the best of all possible rea
sons — because there was no cause what
ever for him to assign.

Emma, however, fancied she could very
readily fathom his reasons, and feeling
this, she thought perhaps it would be
better for her not to urge him any further
on the subject; so she held her tongue,
and they both relapsed into their former
silence.

"Emma," said Gerald, at length, as if
an idea had suddenly struck him — " I
will follow your advice — I will go home
to-morrow ! " And just as the words es
caped him, Jessie re-entered the room,
and overheard them. How much she

1'aere was so much decision and appa- 1 loved Emma the.n !
8

114

TOM CROSBIE

CHAPTER XXXIII.

FURTHER VAGARIES OF THE "GREEN-
EYED."

"I will follow your advice, Emma; I
will go home to-morrow," said Gerald.

"I am sorry that we have not had it in
our power to offer you any inducement
to remain here" said Jessie, pettishly,
"but as you seem so anxious to leave us,
I trust the effects of your accident will
not prevent your doing so; much as we
may regret your quitting us so soon, we
should be sorry indeed to detain you
hjjainst your inclination ! "

•Against my inclination!" repeated
Gerald after he had gazed at her for ^
moment, as if believing it impossible tht.t
she could really mean that. "What on
earth could have given you such an idea ?
If my inclination had anything to do

with the matter, I would " He

paused suddenly, and looked towards
Emma.

"Would what — may I ask?" said Jes
sie, unmercifully.

"Need I tell you?" asked Gerald,
softly.

"If you please."

" I would " and again he turned

coward.

"Would, what?"

" Stay here for ever \ " he exclaimed,
heroically. v

Alas! poor Emma! the words shot
home like a barbed arrow to her heart,
and as she watched the gratified smile
that banished the frown from Jessie's face,
she illustrated the fate of the frogs in the
fable — "what was sport to Jessie, was
death to her ! "

Verily, the workings of the human
heart are a curious study ; Jessie Franks,
the kind, generous, warm-hearted girl,
saw her rival's pain, and — gloried in it!

But still she was by no means satisfied
— who ever was, in love, I should like
to know? — she took it into her sapient
little head that Gerald might merely have
been giving expression to a piece of com

mon gallantry, and so, the frown came
back and hunted away the smile.

"I beg you will not suffer any con
sideration of politeness towards us, to
have the slightest weight with you," she
said.

Gerald gave her a look, as much as
to say — " This is very unkind of you ! "
but, Emma being present, he didn't well
know how to answer, as he otherwise
would have done. At length he thought
it better to tell the truth, or something
like, it and so he said: —

"The fact is, Miss Franks, I have just
heard some intelligence that makes it
necessary for me to return home as soon
as possible; but believe me, as I said
before, my inclination has nothing to do
with the matter."

And this was said in such a tone as to
render it scarcely possible that Jessie
could any longer misconceive his motive.

"Well," she replied, "we can talk about
this to-morrow, but in the meantime you
must remain perfectly at rest, and I think
the sooner you go to sleep the better.
Miss Aubyn, if you will do me the favor
to come with me, I will show you to your
room."

" Thank you," said Emma, coldly,
"but as I can be of no service here, I
will not inconvenience you by remaining.
Besides, I am anxious to let Mrs. Roche-
fort know that sh° has no cause for any
f ir'her uneasinvis."

"Emma!" exclaimed Gerald, "you
surely cannot think of returning at this
hour — and alone."

" I have not the least fear now," she
answered; "the streets are quiet, and I
shall soon reach home."

"Indeed you must not think of any
such thing," said Jessie, warmly — " I
cannot hear of your leaving us at such a
time of night as this — and to such a dis
tance. t)o l#t me persuade you to re
main ! "

But Emma was resolute. She would
not have stayed in that house that night,
to be made a queen ! The solitude of her
own room was the only place that should
be sacred to her sorrows, and she persist
ed in her determination to return.

" At least," said Jessie, after she had

AND HIS FRIENDS.

115

in vain used every argument she could
think of to induce Emma to change her
resolution, ^at least you will permit me
to send a servant with you. It is mid
night now, and should you venture un
protected through the streets you might
meet with some annoyance."

But even to this, Emma objected.
She would rather even run the risk, than
owe the slightest service to one whom she
looked upon, unjustly, as the destroyer
of her hopes and happiness. However,
Gerald positively insisted that she should
accept Miss Franks' offer, and at length,
when she saw that without giving offence,
she could hold out no longer, she yielded
with the best grace she could, and having
bid good-night to Gerald, with a smiling
lip, though her heart was full to burst
ing, she left the house that had been to
her the scene of so much misery, and,
attended by a servant, set forth to return
to her home.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

CONTAINS A MORAL REFLECTION.

Emma reached home in safety ; nothing-
occurred to cause her any further alarm,
no adventure of any kind whatever dis
turbed "the even tenor of her way."

To the details of her interview with the
stranger, Mrs. Rochefort listened with the
most breathless interest; it was evident,
though, that she was making powerful
efforts to suppress all outward signs of
the alarm which the recital caused her,
and while Emma watched her attentively
as she went on, she became convinced
that some dark secret was involved, the
nature of which she dare not trust herself
to think.

"And what did Gerald say?" deman
ded Mrs. Rochefort, anxiously, when Em
ma had concluded.

" At first he thought it was a hoax, or
merely an excuse for addressing me, but
afterwards he seemed to think more seri

ously of it, and he has promised to return
home to-morrow."

"Thank God for that!" exclaimed
Mrs. Rochefort, quickly, "the warning
came from one who — that is — it is better
it should not be despised. It is most
strange, certainly, but it is better it should
not be despised — much better." And
saying this she left the room abruptly.

If anything was wanting to add to
Emma's trouble and unhappiness, her
guardian's conduct on this occasion would
have been sufficient, for amidst all her
misery, the feeling which was now upper
most in her thoughts was anxiety upon
Gerald's account, and fear of the un
known danger that threatened him — a
feeling which had acquired new strength
from the alarm that Mrs. Rochefort had
been unable to conceal while listening to
her story.

However, it soon seemed to appear that
her fears were groundless, for though a
fortnight elapsed, and Gerald had not re
turned, no dire event had as yet arisen
to overwhelm him for having despised
the warning.

Mrs. Rochefort had visited him three
or four times, and if Emma had required
any stronger confirmation of the truth of
her suspicions relating to her guardian's
being in some way connected with the mys
tery of the stranger's appearance, it would
have been afforded to her in the fact, that
in any of these visits to her son she never
made the slightest allusion to that affair,
nor ever suffered him to notice her pow
erful anxiety for his return home.

As to Gerald himself, he seemed to
have forgotten the matter altogether; at
all events he never mentioned it again,
nor did he seem at all inclined to quit his
present quarters as long as he had any
reasonable excuse for remaining. Some
how or other, that arm of his was very
slow in its recovery; he felt a most tre
mendous pain shoot through it whenever
a word was said about his removal — a
pain for which the surgeon who attended
him could not in any way account, and
which seemed to depart as if by magic
whenever Jessie approached his side !

At the end of a fortnight, however,
common decency obliged him to get well,

TOM OROSBIE

and with a feeling of anything but ecsta
sy, he offered his thanks to Mr. Franks
and his daughter for their kindness, and
returned home.

And a gloomy home he found it.
From this period a manifest change ap
peared in both his mother and her ward ;
the former forsook all society, scarcely
ever went abroad, and was evidently
laboring under some heavy mental dis
ease; while the latter, though always
cheerful in his presence, seemed continu
ally struggling with some powerful sen
sation, that required all her strongest
efforts to subdue.

However, he gave them but little of
. his society. The more saddened appear
ed his home, the gayer seemed he to
become, and thus was an additional pang-
given to the sorrows of poor Emma. She
knew full well whence the inspiration of
his gaiety was derived — she knew that
while she was weeping in his absence,
his smiles were lavished on another with
out a thought of her existence. And, so
far, she was right. He certainly did not
fatigue his mind with many thoughts of
her, while seated beside Jessie Franks on
the soft sofa of her rose-colored penetralia,
nor was he, on those occasions, at all
sparing of his smiles — when his lips were
not otherwise employed !

Truth to tell he was leading a remark
ably pleasant sort of life ; not very use
ful it must be confessed, but decidedly
pleasant At least I fancy most men
would consider it so, to spend morning
after morning, and evening after evening,
in the society of their best beloved — a
beautiful girl, moreover, and an heiress
to boot — without the intervention of any
thing in the shape of a cross old aunt, or a
meddling chaperone of any other descrip
tion whatever. Time was when my
mornings and evenings — but no matter!
"Woe is me, Alhama!"

Yes, Gerald certainly was leading a
rery pleasant life, and so, I have no doubt,
he thought it. But what was Mr. Franks
about all this time ? Surely the conduct
of the old gentleman, in permitting such
opportunities, was most blamable !

The fact is, reader, there are none so
blind as those who don't choose to see, and

he suffered a sort of voluntary op thalmia to
obscure the usual acuteness of his vision ;
in pursuing which course, I maintain that
he displayed the possession of much val
uable wisdom. It soon become apparent
to him — as he was a-parent to her (par
don the pun, it came of its own accord)
that his daughter, if she had not already
lost her heart, was in the fairest possible
way to do so, and some reminiscences of
his own early wooings with the deceased
Mrs. Franks furnished him with an analogy
whereupon to form his opinions, and so
regulate his conduct in the present af
fair.

Experience had made him sufficiently
acquainted with the mysteries of the
female heart to know, that opposition is
one of the greatest strengthened of its
love, or at least of what, for the time
being, it may fancy to be such, and avail
ing himself of this knowledge, he wisely
thought proper to shut his eyes, and say
nothing. If there were a few more fath
ers like him in the world, happiness would
not be quite so scarce a commodity
amongst love-stricken young ladies as it
seems now to be.

Jessie had had many of those propo
sals which the world is pleased to denom
inate "advantageous" and "eligible;"
that is, her hand had been sought by
two or three elderly gentlemen with good
estates in possession, and half-a-doze/i
young ones with "great expectations" of
good estates in future; but as, in seeking
the hand, they had all neglected the
somewhat necessary (in this case) pre
liminary of securing the heart, themselves
and their eligible offers were very speed
ily sent to the right-about face.

But the course of true love never did
run smooth, and there is no pleasure in
life without some countervailing misery.
(Original remark, that!) Gerald knew
he was loved, but he did not know that
Mr. Franks was equally well informed on
the subject. Roughing it through the
world had taught him to believe that
poverty — in the eyes of those who are
themselves beyond it — is decidedly, and
in spite of the proverb, a disgrace; and
with this belief he could scarcely trust
himself to hope that a rich old gentleman

AND HIS FRIENDS.

117

like Jessie's father would do anything but
frown upon his suit.

A glance behind the scenes occasional1
ly, would be of infinite service to us: if
Gerald could have obtained such a peep,
his fears would have been at an end, for
it would at once have enabled him to
perceive that Mr. Franks only waited
to be asked, before he should stretch
forth his hand to welcome him as a son-
in-law. Thus, by being kept in the dark,
he stood trembling on the threshold of
happiness, when one bold step would have
ushered him safely through the door.

"Moral reflection:" — How often in
life do we pause when we ought to go on,
and go on when we ought to pause; and
how little attention do we pay to that
beautifully inculcated maxim — "Follow
your nose, and you will be sure not to go
astray ! "

Jessie herself, too, labored under the
pleasing delusion that her love was a
secret to her father. I say "pleasing,"
because when a young lady falls in love,
her parents are the last people in the
world she would wish to know anything
about it. Indeed, for that matter, I be
lieve real love is essentially a secret pas
sion with women; and though, when it
does become known, they glory in it, yet
it seems to be their aim, or perhaps their
nature, to keep it concealed as long as
they can, in the innermost recesses of
their own hearts.

Now, the love of man is generally the
reverse of this. He would wish it trum
peted forth to the four corners of the
earth,* provided the announcement did
not happen to reach the ears of any un
yielding guardians, who might rush for
ward to upset the cup of joy before he
could raise it to his lips.

In the present case, however, both
believed that to themselves alone the
secret of their love was known, and with

* This is a common phrase* but as, in my
geography, the world was stated to be round,
I do n't exactly know where the corners are
situated.

the assurance that it was known to them
selves, they were content

It is a curious thing to reflect upon the
game of cross-purposes that all through
life is continually going on around us, and
in which every one of us at some time or
other take a part Here was a little
family, i resisting only of father and
daughter, between whom the exchange
of half-a-dozen words would have set
everything to rights and made both hap
py ; and yet, because each, from a differ
ent motive, remained silent, the happiness
which might thus have been secured was
wanting, and, for the first time in their
life, reserve on one side begot something
very like distrust on the other.

Things could not long go on in this
fashion, and Mr. Franks at length deter
mined to take the earliest opportunity of
bringing matters to a focus.

But he did not like to speak openly to
Gerald on the subject; he feared that by
doing so he might be guilty of a want of
delicacy towards Jessie, and how would
he ever forgive himself if it should turn
out that, after all, the love was only on
her side? Of this, certainly there was
no great probability ; it appeared to him
— and he flattered himself he had the
use of his eyes — that one party was just
as deep in the mire as the other; and, be
lieving this, he looked upon Gerald as
little better than a fool for not coming to
the point at once.

Just as affairs were in this state, and
when a few days more would have
brought about a crisis, Gerald received a
letter from an old brother officer who was
then in London, proposing his acceptance
of a lucrative situation which was then
vacant, and which, with a little exercise
of interest, he thought might easily be
procured. In the then condition of his
inances, Gerald considered that such an
opportunity was not to be neglected, and
having bid farewell to Jessie, with as many-
vows as though he were departing on a
rusade to the Holy Land, he "tore him
self away," as is usual on such occasions,
and set off for London.

118

TOM CROSBIE

CHAPTER XXXV.

A DISCOVERY A VISITOR AND A

COMPACT.

Meanwhile, the three months /hat with
Gerald had passed so lightly over, fanned
their leaden wings heavily enough over
the heads of his mother and her ward;
but they came and departed without
bringing that threatened evil which both
seemed to feel, and fear, was sure to
come.

At length, however, when so long a
period had elapsed without the occur
rence of any incident denoting its ap
proach, their minds had begun to resume
something of a quiet tone, and were by
degrees recovering from the oppression
of that feeling- which had so long been
preying upon them — when Gerald was
called away.

On the morning succeeding his depart
ure, both were seated in Mrs. Rochefort's
dressing-room — Mrs. Rochefort seemingly
engaged with a book, Emma busying her
fingers with some needle-work, and her
thoughts with — certainly not with the bit
of cambric she was stitching.

Suddenly the former raised her head
from the volume she had not been perus
ing, and said abruptly:

"Emma, why have you been so sad
lately?"

Emma started; she had not heard the
question distinctly ; she knew some remark
had been addressed to her, but it should
have been one of great interest indeed
that could have fixed her attention just
then.

" You asked me something ? " she said.

"You have become very thoughtful of
late," replied Mrs. Rochefort, "I asked
you the cause."

Emma made no answer; if she had
been called upon to explain the principles
of perpetual motion, or the philosophy
of dreams, she would have found it less
difficult at that moment

"You should have no concealments
from me. Emma," said Mrs. Rochefort, ,

reproachfully, "I have always endeavored
to act by you as a mother, and 1 expected
that you would at least treat me as a
friend."

"Indeed," replied Emma, gently, "I
have never concealed anything from you
— never had anything to conceal. Why
should you think so?"

"Because I know you have."

Emma felt a little confounded; but
still she though^ her secret was safe.

"I have long suspected it," continued
Mrs. Rochefort, "ever since the night of
Gerald's accident; and many circumstan
ces have strengthened me in the convic
tion. Emma, I know your secret — you
love my son ! "

Had a bullet pierced her heart, its
effect could scarcely have been greater
than was that of this sudden announce
ment on poor Emma. For an instant,
face, neck and arms were crimsoned
over wit! a burning blush — her breath
came short and quick — the veins in her
throat and temples swelled, as though the
blood would have burst its channels —
and then, as suddenly turning deadly
pale, her head drooped upon her shoul
der, her arms fell powerless beside her,
and before Mrs. Rochefort could cross the
room to support her, she sunk from her
chair insensible.

Emma was not one of those young
ladies who are partial to performing syn
copes; a faint was not a feint with her:
this -was the first time in her life that
such a thing had happened to her, and
Mrs. Rochefort saw full plainly that the
arrow had shot home — she had not been
mistaken in her conjecture.

Slowly the weakness passed away ; but
at length it was over, and when she had
sufficiently recovered, Emma sat down
beside her guardian, and confessed the
story of her love.

Mrs. Rochefort listened with the deep
est interest; the recital awakened memo
ries of her own early years; thoughts
and feelings that had long slumbered
sprung again into fresh life, and as Emma
concluded, she pressed her to her heart,
and wept with all a woman's sympathy.

It was the only comfort she could give
her; she knew that her love was hope-

AND HIS FRIENDS.

119

less, for it was no secret to her that Ger
ald had bestowed his affections upon
another, and though his marriage with
that other would raise him to wealth and
station, and perhaps restore herself to
affluence and the society she still pinec
for, yet, at that moment, if she had th<
power to effect it, all should have been
given up to restore her ward to happi
ness. But, alas! the power was wanting
$nd the only solace sne could give was
sympathy.

Even this was a balm to Emma; she
thought she should feel less in future, now
that the secret so long pent up within
her heart had been confided to another
and, for the moment, she felt happiei
than she had done for many months
before.

Not so Mrs. Rochefort. Her conscience
(for it is a fact that some women have
consciences) accused her of neglect to
wards her ward, and of having betrayed
her trust — the trust reposed in her by a
dying mother. Why had she not fore
seen the probability of this attachment,
that so she might have guarded against
its danger? Why had she been so cul
pably blind, when her duty would have
been to be awake and watchful ?

Unfortunately, questions of this descrip
tion seldom arise in time to avert an
evil, though, when the mischief is done
and it is all too late to answer them, they
crowd one upon another quickly enough.
The wisdom which propounds such que
ries may be safely classed in the same
order with that which impels people to
button their pockets when their purses
have been abstracted, and to shut the
stable-door after the steed has disap
peared.

Mrs. Rochefort asked them over and
over again, without any satisfactory re
ply having suggested itself, and as it ap-
pearrd probable that, had she continued
them until doomsday, the result would
have been the same, she at length wisely
determined instead of lamenting over the
past, to make all the atonement in her
power by future kindness to her ward.

I do believe, that no one ever yet made
a good resolution, without the devil being
at his elbow to intercept it before it could

reach the recording angel. Mrs. Roche-
fort had no sooner formed this one in her
mind, than a servant entered the room to
say that a gentleman waited below who
wanted to speak with her on urgent bus
iness.

"Did I not tell you to deny me to any
one who might come here in Mr. Roche-
fort's absence ? " she said, and as she
spoke, Emma observed that her cheek
was flushed.

"So I did, ma'am," replied the girl,
"but the gentleman said he knew you
would see him, and before I could know
what to say to him, he passed me by, and
walked into the parlor."

" Oh ! very well," said Mrs. Rochefort,
with a strong effort to appear at her ease,
" I suppose he is some old friend. Say I
will be down immediately. Emma, my
love, excuse me for a few moments." And.
kissing her ward, with a sickly smile left
the room.

It would be difficult, indeed, to paint
the thoughts that occupied her mind for
the few seconds that elapsed in her pas
sage to the room where the visitor await
ed her. They were of the most painful
description, and not the less so that with
them was mingled a presentiment of the
approach of some new and overwhelming
evil.

The strong, proud mind that had be
longed to her in former days, seemed now
to have deserted her — the haughty spirit
seemed crushed and broken, and when
he reached the door of the apartment
where the interview was to take place1,
she lingered outside it for a moment, pale
and trembling, as if endeavoring to sum-
mm sufficient courage to support her
.hrough the coming scene.

And well might she feel a presenti
ment of evil, for, when at length, recov-
ring herself by a powerful effort, she
ntered the room, George Seymour stood
before her. He was the first to speak.

"It is long since we have met," he
;aid, "at least, since we have met alone.
fou are greatly altered!"

Mrs. Rochefort remained silent; she

at with her face buried in her hands,

endeavoring in vain to hide the emotion

which was too powerful to be concealed.

120

TOM CROSBIE

'" Years bring wondrous changes," con
tinued Seymour, as if speaking to him
self; "I remember when that wrinkled
forehead was smooth as polished marble,
and that drooping eye lit up with the fire
of pride and beauty; yet it is not age
which has marked the features, but the
workings of the heart — the keart itself
cannot be seen, but it writes its history
in the face. Her heart was always false
— mine to-day, his to-morrow. Yet I
loved her once — loved her to be despised
and scorned ; but I have been revenged,
and will be, until revenge itself can go
bo farther ! "

He spoke the last words with fearful
energy, but they needed not this to reach
the ears of her who sat before him; ev
ery syllable he had uttered she heard
plainly, as though his voice had been loud
as thunder; and deeply did she feel
them — more deeply by far than if they
had been spoken directly to her; for she
knew they came involuntarily, and that
they were true.

"Where is your son?" demanded
Seymour, abruptly, after a short pause,
during which he had been gazing intent
ly on the worn features of his early love.

"He left us last night," replied Mrs.
Rochefort, speaking for th^ first time,
and with as much calmness as she could
command, "as I dare say you are aware,
or 1 should have been spared this visit."

Seymour smiled.

" You are right," he said, "I am aware
that he left you last night, but where has
he gone ? "

"To London."

"•London ! what has taken him there?"

"He is gone," replied Mrs. Rochefort,
with a spirit that even surprised herself
— "he is gone to seek employment, as a
means of raising himself from the beg
gary which your machinations have
brought upon him."

Again Seymour smiled, and this time
the smile was one in which triumph was
mingled with the bitterness.

" You seem to forget, Madam," he said,
"that the beggary of which you speak is
owing more to your conduct than to mine.
I have been told your son was left an inde
pendent property by his father — where is

it now? No machinations — as you are
pleased to call them — of mine have de
prived him of that, and yet it seems he
has it not."

Mrs. Rochefort made no reply; she
felt the justice of the accusation, and,
when next she spoke, it was with an en
deavor to change the subject.

"What is the object of your coming
now? "she said. "I had hoped — until
that night when by chance I encountered
you in the street — that we should never
meet again — that you had at length re
lented ; but I see the hope was idle — why
are you here?"

" You shall soon know-," replied Sey
mour, shortly. " On the morning of that
night when last you saw me, your son
saved a lady's life — he has since been
paying his addresses to her, I am told. Is
such the fact ? "

" I cannot tell ; it may be so."

"You know full well it is so; and,
moreover you know your heart is set up
on the match — the lady is rich, and her
wealth would be well applied in patching
up your broken fortunes! You cannot
blind me, Madam ; I know you well ! Now
listen to me — and I think you will scarce
ly doubt my determination to effect aught
I may undertake; I will prevent that
marriage, and through your means. Your
son shall have to thank his mother for the
destruction of his happiness."

" What mean you ? " exclaimed Mrs.
Rochefort, faintly — "when will this per
secution cease?"

"When I cease to live ! " returned Sey
mour, sternly.

" May God forgive you, George ! but if
I must still suffer from your unrelenting
cruelty, why should your vengeance pur
sue my unoffending child — he has never
given you any cause" —

"He is your son!" said Seymour,
fiprcely, " and therefore I am his ene
my!"

Mrs. Rochefort burst into tears.

"My God! my God !" she cried "what
have I done to deserve all this?" And
then raising her clasped hands in suppli
cation towards her persecutor, she con
tinued :

"Have mercy, George! you say you

AND HIS FRIENDS.

121

loved me once, and by the memory of |
that love, by the memory of our child- '
hood, and of the dead whom we both did
love, I conjure you now to spare my
boy. You broke his father's heart, and
I will soon be with him in the grave, for
mine, also, you have broken ; but extend
not your vengeance to my boy — he has
deserved it not — why should your hate
descend on him ? "

Not a shadow of remorse or pity was
visible in the expression of Seymour's
features during this address, and when
she had concluded, he spoke again in the
same stern, unyielding tone, he had used
before.

" Listen to me, Kate Rochefort. You
have spoken of our childhood; there was
a time, when the words from your lips
could have wrought a spell — that time is
past; you yourself have destroyed the
charm. You have reminded me of the
love I bore you once; I did love you,
deeplj% madly — and what was the return ?
Contempt and scorn! In a heart like
mine, there is »oom for but one passion —
you changed that passion from love to
hate, and it is meet that yours should be
the fruit You have conjured me by the
memory of the dead; what are the dead
to me 1 I tell you, woman, that if they
were to rise from their graves this mo
ment, and kneel before me, they could
not effect the change of a hair's breadth
in the purpose of my revenge.

"You- say I broke your husband's
heart — if I did, the guilt is upon your
head — I had a heart as well as him, and
you felt no pity when you crushed it with
your scorn. You tell me I have broken
yours also ; it is false ! once I thought it
might be possible, but I was wrong —
your heart is iron — you never knew what
pity was, then, wherefore talk of it to
me ? It is in vain. By him who made
me ! happiness shall never be the lot of
you or yours, so long as I have the pow
er to prevent it! " And as he concluded
he rose from his chair, and paced hurried
ly to and fro the room.

Kate Rochefort wept no longer; she
had humbled herself in vain to sue for
mercy ; she saw that the more she yield
ed, the more relentless became her ene

my, and her pride returned — the spiri'
that had so long deserted her was fast
acquiring its former strength.

Why should she fear this man ? What
had she ever done to place herself so
fearfully within his power? If, years ago,
her love had wandered from her husband
for a time, yet it had never betrayed her
into guilt, and that husband himself had
forgiven her from his heart.

This was the only hold Seymour had
ever had upon her, and whvshould she
suffer it to be so any longer \ She would
not suffer it — she would take courage
now, and break the spell at once, and for
ever. •

These were her first thoughts, and
acting upon them she spoke.

" Now listen to me, George Seymour ! "
Seymour started as if he had been shot
— it was the very voice, that seven and
twenty years ago, had scorned him when,
he declared his love! He gazed upon
the speaker — her lip wore the same ex
pression it had worn then — the same
tierce brightness was in her eye. Was
this the pale, trembling woman, who,
scarcely a moment since had begged to
him for mercy ? It was, and as he now
stood there before her, and marked the
bursting forth of that excitement which
had been so long pent up, he could not
help but feel that his influence was al
most at an end.

"For years — for many bitter years,"
continued Mrs. Rochefort, "you have
made my life a curse; it was a happy
life until you came, like a spirit of evil,
to blast its joy, and destroy its peace for
ever. All of happiness that could fall to
woman's lot was mine ; wealth, rank, and
— dearer far than all — the devotion of a
heart that loved me — where are they
now ? Gone — and you are the destroy
er ! Even honor you would have rob
bed me of, but that I saw my infatuation
in time to escape the danger. Still, I
could not root you entirely from my heart
— first impressions were there, and it is
hard to blot them out. I forgave you all
until I discovered your dark treachery
to my husband.

" Now mark me ! you say I changed
your love to hate ; the fiercest hate that

122

TOM CROSBIE

ever burned in your heart was nothing
compared with the deadly loathing and
abhorrence felt towards you from that
moment, and afterwards for years. But
time softened it; if I had never seen you
again, I would have forgiven you; the
memory of our childhood, and of the dead,
had not lost its power on my heart, as it has
on yours. You came again, though — came
as you ever did, with evil tidings; you
brought me a tale of my son's having quit
ted the army^in disgrace — that was false,
and you knew it was, but no matter; for the
time it helped you in your revenge. He
returned shortly after, and for many
months I saw you no more.

"But at last we met again. You came
— as you had once before done — with ex
pressions of penitence and sorrow ; you
told me you were about to leave the
country, and as a proof of your contri
tion, you offered to free me from my em
barrassments by refunding a portion of
the wealth of which you had deprived
me.

"Notwithstanding all that experience
should have taught me of your charac
ter, I had faith in what you told me then,
and, believing your professions were sin
cere, I confided to you the history of my
ward, and, that in order to screen some
of my follies, and mad extravagance from
my son, I had spent the fortune bequeath
ed her by her mother.

"No sooner had I told you this than
you threw off the mask, and swore that,
unless I yielded to the proposal which
years before you had made, the secret I
had thus confided to you should be made
public. But God gave me strength, and
I defied you! You left me then, swear
ing that before the lapse of another day,
my disgrace should be published to the
world. From that hour I lived in a state
of fear and apprehension, that almost de
prived me of my reason ; day after day,
I expected the blow to fall — I almost
prayed that it might fall, to relieve me
from the torture of suspense. If Gerald
was only absent for an hour, I watched
his return with the most intense anxiety
of fear — ever dreading that when he did
return, it would be to curse his mother
for having brought disgrace upon his

head; no felon ever looked upon his judge
with greater dread, than did I upon my
own child!

" But months went over without the
execution of your threat; gradually my
terrible alarm wore away, and a strong
hope sprang up that you had relented
and had in reality left the country; thai
hope was crushed when I encountered
you in the street on the night of Gerald's
accident, and from that moment the tor
tures of my mind have been as great as
ever.

"I have long expected this time to
come — I knew you were watching, tiger-
like, the moment, to make a spring — that
moment has now arrived, and I am in
your power. Use it ! The heaviest dis
grace you can bring upon me cannot be
a punishment so fearful as the agony of
mind I have endured for years. I fear
you no longer! I despise your power
now. Do your worst at once, but let the
blow fall on me alone, for I alone deserve
it. You shall never make me an agent
in your plots against the happiness of my
child ; he has enough to curse me for al
ready. May God forgive me ! "

And as the feelings of the mother be •
came uppermost, the spirit of the woman
forsook her, and she burst into a passion
ate flood of tears.

To depict the host of conflicting pas
sions and emotions which this speech
called up in the mind of George Sey
mour, would be impossible. The feeling
of surprise at the sudden and unlooked
for change from fear of his power to ab
solute defiance, was perhaps the most
powerful ; he could scarcely believe it
possible that the woman he had seen, at
one moment, subdued and humbled be
fore him, could, in the next, assume the
tartling spirit that had astonished him —
the spirit he had deemed for ever crush
ed and broken — and, even at the risk of
being degraded, firmly defy his power.

He saw that he had gone too far —
the threat of making her an instrument
n frustrating the happiness of her son
!iad roused all her better feelings, and for
the time destroyed the influence he had
acquired over her; but he believed that
t was only for a time ; he thought that

AND HIS FRIENDS.

123

when her excitement had passed away,
the fear of disgrace would return and
place her as firmly as ever within his
power. He remembered the haughti
ness of her pride as a girl ; he reflected
that, all through life, pride — worldly
pride — had been her undoing, and he
now trusted to that same pride as the
certain means of once more subduing her
to his influence. The dread of being ut
terly and hopelessly degraded in the eyes
of that world whose good report, while
affecting to despise it, had ever been so
dear to her, would, he thought, soon
cause her to yield again, and, thus rea
soning, he addressed her.

" It is well, Madam !" he said coldly,
when he perceived that she had become
a little calm ; " because up to this time I
have spared you, you think you may
with safety defy me now; but you will
find yourself mistaken — and that, when
it is too late. You say truly that your
son has already sufficient cause to curse
you, but he shall have more. You de
clare that you will be no agent in frus
trating his happiness! So far, you have
declared the truth — /will be the agent —
you the principal. Think you that Mr.
Franks would give his daughter to the
son of one who has robbed the orphan
committed to her charge ? and so sure as
I stand here before you, so surely will I
proclaim to him the fact!"

" You could not be such a villain ! "
exclaimed Mrs. Rochefort, passionately —
" you cannot mean to poison my own
child against me, and make him hate me.
Some remnant of human feeling must
still be in your nature."

"Human feeling!" repeated Seymour
bitterly — " what care I for the cant terms
of the world ! are not all feelings human ?
is not every passion of the heart, whether
good or evil, human? and the more
evil the more human ? My nature itself
is changed — I have no feeling now but
one, and that one is hatred of you and
yours ; I could not change it if I would !
But for you my life would have been
widely different I once had dreams of
honor and ambition — I had energy to
work out their fulfillment — and my place
would have been a high one amongst my '

fellow men, if you had not blasted the
! first hope of my heart. You have sown
and nurtured the seed, and so shall you
gather. I would pause at nothing now,
that could be the means of bringing
down upon your head the misery, the
tortures of mind and heart, which you
have brought on me. Therefore expect
no mercy at my hands, for none shall you
receive."

" God pity me ! " murmured Mrs.
Rochefort, in a subdued and broken
voice, as she pressed both hands upon
her temples — " God pity me, and spare
me my reason; for a little, a very Little
more, will destroy it!"

And then, with a wild look, starting
from her chair, exclaimed: "Leave me,
George Seymour, if you would not see
me a maniac or a suicide! Go! in mercy
go! my mind is weakened, and madness
is coming upon me. Oh! may heaven
forgive you for all this! " And again she
burst into tears.

But in the heart where revenge has
taken up its throne, pity can never find a
place, and even this appeal had no power
to turn George Seymour from his purpose.

" Tears are ever ready with woman,"
he said coldly, and with something of
contempt in his tone — "and they some
times prove effective; but, with me, you
will find them unavailing. You had bet
ter, therefore, give them up at once, and
listen calmly to what I am about to say.
There is still one condition upon which
you can insure my silence in this matter
relating to your ward."

"Name it!" exclaimed Mrs. Rochefort,
interrupting him with a sudden eagerness
that plainly told him how strong was still
her anxiety to keep the matter a secret

"It is simply this," he replied, "that
you will consent to tell Miss Aubyn that,
at her mother's death, she was bequeath
ed to my care, as well as yours — that I
was absent in another country at the time,
and that I am now returned to claim
my guardianship."

Mrs. tRochefort's astonishment at this
extraordinary proposal was so powerful,
that for several moments after he had
spoken she remained silent. But in vain
she endeavored to conjecture what could

124

TOM CROSBIE

be the motive which had prompted him
to make it; that it could not be aught
but an evil one she felt thoroughly as
sured, and she at once determined that
Emma, at least, should suffer no farther
injury through her means. Her answer,
therefore, was a flat refusal.

" It is enough that I have already be
trayed my trust," she said — "I wi'il do
so no farther."

" But if I tell you that your consent
to this proposal will be a service to the
girl instead of an injury" —

"I will not believe ft! In what way
could it be a service ? "

" No matter! I tell you it will be, and
you must either trust me, or abide the
consequences."

"Then I will abide them!" said Mrs.
Rochefort, firmly. " Unless you fully ex
plain to me your motive in making such
a proposal, no fears for myself shall in
duce me to take a step that may bring
misery to her."

" That is your resolution? "

" It is."

" Then hear me — before I leave this
house, she shall know how faithfully her
guardian has fulfilled her duty."

Mrs. Rochefort started, and turned
deadly pale; her pride was touched
again, and the fear of being so terribly
humbled in the eyes of her ward, almost
overcame her. Seymour marked the
change, and for a few seconds his fea
tures wore an expression of satisfaction.

" When I have taught her" he con
tinued, " to despise you, I will then pro
ceed to Mr. Franks and enlighten him a
little as to the family affairs of his intend
ed son-in-law. Your son himself shall
be the next" —

" Stay ! " cried Mrs. Rochefort, with a
look of the most hopeless agony — " no
more, or you will drive me mad. I can
not bear this — it is in vain to struggle" —

" Then yield at once!" said Seymour,
perceiving that he had conquered — "con
sent at once to my proposal, and I will be
silent."

"How can I depend on that? you
have often before deceived me " —

"You must depend on it,'\said Sey
mour, shortly, "or" —

"No more! I will consent," muttered
Mrs. Rochefort, faintly — "and if Emma
is the sufferer, may God forgive me ! "

"Your anxiety for her welfare is doubt
less very great," said Seymour, with a
cutting smile ; " but you need not be
alarmed: I dare say she will find my
guardianship at least as beneficial as
yours-has been. At all events, you have
1 provided against any wrong being done
her in a pecuniary point of view. As
you are so careful of her interests, I
should be sorry to remove her from your
vigilance and kindness, and, therefore, all
I require from you at present is that, in '
case she should question you on the sub
ject, you tell her that I am her guardian,
but tlaat peculiar circumstances prevented
you from giving her such information be
fore. You understand me — you are nev
er to mention the subject to her, unless
she questions you."

Something like renewed hope was vis
ible in Mrs. Rochefort1 s face as she inter
rupted him.

" And if she should never question
me?"

"Then be silent!"

" One word more — upon this condition
you promise me that my secret shall be
safe ? "

I have said so."

And you will not endeavor to
prevent my son's marriage with Miss
Franks?"

"I have not promised that!" said Sey
mour, quickly, but perceiving that Mrs.
Rochefort was about to withdraw her
consent to the proposal, he added : " but
if the marriage should be broken off, it
must be the act of your son himself —
will that content you ? "

" It must, for I have no alternative."
" Then remember our compact — if Miss
Aubyn should at any time ask you if it
be true that I am her guardian, you an
swer without hesitation that such is the
fact. Break through the condition, and
you know the result ! "

So saying, he left her, and departed.

AND HIS FRIENDS.

125

CHAPTER XXXVI.

A SHORT CHAPTER, CONTAINING SOME
GLOOMY MEDITATIONS.

For hours after Seymour's departure,
Mrs. Rochefort stirred not from the spot
where he had left her. There she sat,
with her eyes intently fixed, and her
clasped hands resting on her knees be
fore her, pale and still, as though no life
were in her pulses. She almost wished
that no life had been in them. And with
that wish came desperate thoughts. • " Life
hangs but by a thread — a single', fragile
thread, that a touch can sever — one
strong effort of the will, one movement of
a finger, and it may be snapped forever !
Why should that effort not be made ?
Life was hateful to her; it had become a
curse — why then, when it was in her
own power to end it, should she live ?
Death! what was death? a mystery!
The life of this world may be as great a
mystery to the dwellers in another sphere.

"To all but ONE it is a mere theory,
nothing more — it may be eternal sleep —
it may be everlasting punishment — it may
be the passing of a soul to a life of endless
joy!

"None can tell, and so we fear it — its
mystery is its greatest terror. Who can say
but that we may have existed in a world
before this, and that here our punishment
is awarded us ? Or who but that we may
pass into other worlds, and so on till the
end of time — if time will ever end ! That
secret can only be discovered in the
grave ! Death may be only the end of
life — the blow by which the almighty
hand destroys the machinery of that ex
istence which is no longer necessary for
his all-wise purposes — but, if so, no mor
tal arm should dare to strike it ! "

With this thought the power of the
tempter departed — the madness of the
moment passed away — and Mrs. Roche-
fort shuddered, as the fearful precipice
upon whose brink she had been standing,

appeared palpable and exposed before
her!

"May God forgive me!" she exclaim
ed, solemnly, "and save me from such
thoughts in future!" And from that
moment, she was restored to a calmer
state of mind.

Calmer, but still far from calm; for then
her thoughts recurred to the interview of
the morning, and she remembered the
condition she had been forced to yield to,
to secure the silence of her enemy. Sud
denly an idea struck her — " What if she
were to confess to Emma herself, that
she had wronged her? She was sure of
her forgiveness, and thus she might
partly free herself from Seymour's pow
er."

If she had acted on the suggestion of
that moment, much future misery would
have been spared her; but, unfortunate
ly, her false pride stepped in, and whis
pered to her that she should not humble
herself so far before one who had learn
ed to look upon her as a mother. There
was a chance, too, that if she kept her
secret still, it might never be disclosed,
for, except Seymour, no one was ac
quainted with it — and something might
happen to him,

Up to the present hour, neither Ger
ald nor Emma herself had the slightest
knowledge that any fortune whatever
had been bequeathed her; and, there
fore, if the fact could be concealed a lit
tle longer, all might yet be well. Be
sides, if she had acknowledged to her
ward the way in which she had betrayed
her trust, that would not have prevented
Seymour from informing Mr. Franks, and
thus the matter would have reached her
son — which was her greatest dread;
whereas if she had but confided in him,
he would have raised the money at any
sacrifice, and she would never have heard
a word of upbraiding from his lips.

But, as I have said before, we are al
ways playing at cross-purposes — a game
in which it se'ems to afford us very pecu
liar pleasure to be continually humbug
ging ourselves into the belief that we are
acting with the most commendable pru
dence, when in reality we are doing that

126

TOM CROSBIF

which should insure us the entree of Bed
lam or Charenton — and in accordance
with this system, Mrs. Rochefort deter
mined to keep silence for the present, and
let things take their course.

What the result of that determination
proved, we shall, presently have an op
portunity of learning, if, indeed, the dis
criminating reader, (and every reader is
discriminating,) has not already made a
shrewd guess on the subject.

It was dinner time that day, before
Mrs. Rochefort and her ward met again,
and when they did meet, any conversation
that took place between them, had no
reference whatever to the affairs of the
morning, nor, indeed, to anything else but
subjects of the most ordinary uninterest
ing description.

Nor was Emma at all surprised at this ;
it was just what she expected ; for she
had caught a glimpse of Seymour on his
departure, and she had sufficient experi
ence lately, that where he was concerned
her guardian was not likely to be com
municative. Yet, notwithstanding that
one might imagine the affairs of her own
heart would be sufficient occupation for
her mind, they were, for the time, almost
forgotten in the overwhelming depth of
her curiosity to discover the nature of the
connection between Mrs. Rochefort and
this stranger; and it required no trifling-
effort to enable her to suppress the de
sire she felt to propose a direct question
on the subject

However, she did suppress it, and, af
ter about as miserable an evening as ever
was spent, they both retired to bed, long-
before their usual 'time — to which place,
as I could not without a breach of pro
priety accompany them, I must, however,
unwillingly, suffer them to proceed alone ;
and having previously bidden them good
night, leave them to arrange their night
caps — which I believe no lady would neg-
Iftct to do, even though she were to be
hanged the next morning-r-and to retire
to sleep, " perchance to dream ! "

CHAPTER XXXVII.

WHICH IS SOMETHING LONGER THAN THE
LAST.

Next morning, Mrs. Rochefort was too
unwell to leave her bed, and Emma sat
alone in the drawing-room, thinking still
of the occurrences of the previous day,
and wondering why the postman, who
had just gone by, had not been the bear
er of a letter from Gerald.

Just at this moment, a loud double-
knock — such as postmen give — caused
her to start from her chair, and with a
flushed cheek, and a throbbing heart, she
hastened from the room to receive the
expected missive. The servant was al
ready half-way up the stairs with a let
ter in her hand, and holding it out, she
said:

"For you, Miss."

"For me?" repeated Emma, a beam
of joy for an instant lighting up her face,
and then, as she looked at the direction,
and perceived that the writing was in a
strange hand, the expression passed as
quickly away, and she added in a tone of
the deepest disappointment — "I thought
it was from Mr. Gerald."

"No, Miss," said the girl, "there's a
man waitin' for an answer."

" Well, stay a moment," tsaid Emma,
and she returned to the drawing-room.

I believe no one ever yet received a let
ter directed in an unknown hand-writing,
without examining the outside for at least
five minutes before opening it. First the
penmanship is minutely scanned, then the
seal, or wafer, as the case may be, then the
post-mark, then the fold of the missive;
each inspection being accompanied with
an expression of wonder as to who it can
be from ; then another look at the fold,
the post-mark, the wafer, and the pen
manship; and after half a dozen times
repeating this formula, a lucky thought
seems to suggest the propriety of "inqui
ring within."

Nor did Emma in the present instance
afford any exception to the rule; but at

AND HIS FRIENDS.

length the letter was opened, and here
are its contents:

"My dear Miss Aubyn" —

Tolerably impertinent from a stranger,
thought Emma, for she had already
glanced at the signature, and perceived
that the name was one she had never
even heard before.

"For, although, as yet we are little
more than strangers, I venture to address
you thus familiarly — I must beg your
forgiveness for what, without explanation,
must, I fear, seem presumptuous, but
circumstances of imperative necessity
compel me to demand a private interview
with you, immediately, and without the
knowledge of y"our present guardian.
You will, of course, hesitate to grant such
a request made in so strange a manner;
it is but natural that you should ; but at
the same time it must be granted, and,
therefore, let your hesitation be as short
as possible.

" It is of vital import to yourself, and
to others, who are doubtless dear to you,
that we should meet at once, when I
will explain to you my reasons for adopt
ing this method of seeking an interview ;
and, meanwhile, you must suffer me to
impress upon you the absolute necessity
of observing the strictest secrecy on the
subject

"If you neglect this caution, or if you
fail to grant me the desired opportunity
of a few moments' conversation, the con
sequences to the family of your guardian
will be such as you may hereafter deeply
regret, and, therefore, however strong your
disinclination to comply, I feel assured you
will allow no personal considerations to
influence your decision.

"My name is as yet unknown to you, but
we have met before, as you will proba
bly remember when I remind you of a
conversation you had with a stranger in
the street, one night, some months since ;
and it may possibly in some degree tend
to remove your objections to a second
meeting, if I assure you that I am influ
enced now as I was then, solely by mo
tives of kindness.

" The bearer will bring me your re
ply, and as I cannot doubt that it will be

a favorable one, may I beg that you will do
me the favor to appoint the earliest hour,
suitable with your convenience, for our in
terview. But as it must take place without
the knowledge of Mrs. Rochefort, it will
be necessarv that you also mention where
we are to meet; at all events, meet we
must! and in the meantime, I beg you will
believe that I am, although a stranger,
" Your most sincere friend,

"GEORGE SEYMOUR."

If^Emma was not astonished when she
had read this letter, no one ever was;
but with astonishment were mingled
other feelings, which soon rendered that
a minor one. In the h'rst place, she felt
perfectly assured that some dire intelli
gence was about to burst upon her; she
had a presentiment of that for the last
three months. Secondly, she was utterly
at a loss how to act — whether at once
to hasten to Mrs. Rochefort, and show
her the letter, or to comply with its de
sire, or rather command, and grant the
interview.

She was strongly tempted to follow
this first suggestion, and had actually
risen from her chair for that purpose,
when she remembered the hint at "con
sequences to the family of her guardian ;"
and as that " family" consisted solely of
Gerald, the thought that she might pos
sibly injure him acted as a full stop, and
she quietly returned to her seat.

Some one has had ingenuity enough to
discover, and kindness enough to make
the discovery public, that "when a wo
man deliberates she is lost." Now, with
the most profound respect for the origin
ator of that maxim, I take leave to differ
with him — or her, for I am not sure but
that it may have come from a lady — I
may be wrong — the probability is that I
am wrong — but in my opinion, it is in
consequence of not deliberating that most
women are lost.

However, it certainly was not from
want of deliberation that Emma ran any
risk of being placed in such a position.
Fully ten minutes elapsed before she
could bring her mind to any conclusion
on the subject, and probably twice as
many more would have gone by in the

128

TOM CROSBIE

same manner, had not t e servant girl,
who was becoming rather impatient of
being kept waiting so long, at length
roused her from her thought, by asking
if there was any answer to the letter.

"What shall I do?" exclaimed Emma,
once more starting from her chair, but as
the question was only a repetition of that
which she had asked herself about fifty
times since she sat down, her mind did
not seem in the least disposed to afford
any more satisfactory reply than it had
previously done, and that- amounted to
just no reply at all.

Something must be done, however, and,
by one strong effort overcoming all per
sonal scruples, she determined that, if it
was in her power to prevent it, no ill
should befall either her guardian or Ger
ald, and, taking up a pen,xshe hastily
•wrote the following answer:

" Although I feel that I am wrong in
doing so, I will see you as you desire. I
am too much agitated now to think calmly
on the subject, but as you say you act
from motives of kindness, I am willing to
believe you, and therefore, in two hours
from this time, I shall be ready to hear
any communication you may have to
make. But, whatever its nature, it must
be made here. Mrs. Rochefort is confined
by illness to her own room, and you need
not therefore have any apprehension of
meeting her; but, before you come, I
think it right to apprise you that I will
use my own discretion as to whether she
shall be afterwards made acquainted with
whatever may pass between us ; nor would
I under any circumstances consent to
take this step without her knowledge,
were it not that I am induced to do so by
the hope of averting some evil, which the
nature of your letter teaches me to fear
is approaching.

"EMMA AUBYN,"

This was speedily sealed and dispatched,
and then Emma, having given directions
to the servant to admit a gentleman whom
she expected in the course of the day,
retired into her own room, to think, and,
as a matter of course, to make some im
provement in her toilet; for I verilv be

lieve that if Methuselah, or old Parr
should announce an intention of visiting
a lady — no matter what might be lit the
moment preying on her mind — her first
care would be to arrange her ringlets, and
put on a becoming garment to receive
them.

Two hours never went by more slowly
than did those at the end of which Emma
expected her visitor. Curiosity is a very
impatient passion — for it is a passion —
and it must be acknowledged that, just at
present, it was the most predominant with
Emma. But at length the given time
arrived, and with it, punctual to a mo
ment, arrived George Seymour.

He was shown into the same little par
lor where his interview with Mrs. Roche-
fort had taken place on the previous day ;
but, although the servant girl had admit
ted him on both occasions, she. did not
now recognize him, he having taken the
precaution to disguise as much of his face
as possible, within the deep fur collar of
the cloak which he wore.

When Emma entered the room, he
rose from his chair, and, bowing respect
fully, addressed her.

" I have to make many apologies, Miss
Aubyn, for this unceremonious intrusion
— for intrusion, I fear, you must consider
it. If you will do me the favor to sit
down and attend to me for a few mo
ments, I will endeavor to explain my
reasons."

And so saying, he placed a chair for
her, close beside the one upon which he
had himself been sitting.

"But," he continued, "before I begin,
suffer me to assure you, you have no
cause to fear the approach of any evil,
such as, from your answer to my letter,
you seem to apprehend."

And he said this so gently, and with
such an apparent wish to relieve her
from all uneasiness, that Emma felt
rather ashamed of her prejudice against
him.

" You remember to have seen me on
a former occasion?" he said interroga
tively.

Emma replied in the affirmative.

" My intrusion then," he continued,
slightly smiling, " must, I fear, have ap-

AND HIS FRIENDS.

129

peared even more unpardonable than the
present."

To this, Emma made no reply, but said :

" You will excuse me if I request that
I may at once be informed of the object
of this visit." And then, perceiving that
Seymour appeared rather displeased at
the coldness of her tone, she added with
a smile : " My anxiety to have this appar
ent mystery cleared up, you will I am
sure allow, is only natural ''

"Oh, certainly," replied Seymour, "and
I was coming to that ; I merely wished to
remind you of our former conversation,
as its subject was in some degree con
nected with the present one. You re
member the warning which I then gave
you — may I ask if you repeated it to Mr.
Rochefort 3"

Emma hesitated for a moment and then
replied — " I did."

" And you told him how it had been
given ? "

" Yes." .

" And by whom ? "

" No; that was not in my power, for I
did not know myself."

" Well, no matter. He took no notice
of it, however — he remained at Mr.
Franks' for a fortnight afterwards, I be
lieve ? "

"He did," replied Emma: "but he
was prevented by illness from leaving it
Booner."

" I understand ! " said Seymour, em
phatically — "I perfectly understand the
nature of that illness!"

Etnma felt anything but comfortable,
for she, also, had formed some tolerably
correct conjectures on the subject, but she
said nothing.

" Did you also relate the circumstances
of our interview to Mrs. Rochefort ? " asked
Seymour.

"Most certainly," replied Emma; "I
believed it my duty to do so, and there
fore told her exactly what had occurred."

" Yet, if you remember, I cautioned
you at the time, that your mentioning it
to any one, could only lead to unpleas
ant results."

"I perfectly remember your having
said so," replied Emma, " but I told you
I would keep no secret of the kind."
9

"And you have kept your word ! " said
Seymour, shortly; "the result remains
to be seen."

" Once more," said Emma, somewhat
impatiently. " I must beg that you will
acquaint me with the object of this visit;
I cannot see any good to which our pres
ent conversation tends."

" Pardon me one moment," replied
Seymour, " there are two or three ques
tions I would first ask you, and though
they may appear somewhat impertinent,
believe me 1 do not mean them to be so,
as I am sure you will acknowledge when
matters have been explained. In the
first place, then, what is your age ? "

Emma could not help smiling at the
oddity of the question, but she answered
without an instant's hesitation: "Eight
een my next birth-day."

"And when will that be!"

" Oh, a long way off," replied Emma,
still smiling, " the latter end of March."

"March," repeated Seymour, as if to
himself, " and this is the last week in July
— eight months." Then addressing Em
ma again, he continued : — " you were
born in Paris, I believe?"

Emma bowed an affirmative.

" Do you remember to have ever seen
me there when you were a child ? "

Emma started and looked earnestly in
his face for a moment; and, as she did
so, something like a ray of memory flashed
upon her that the features were not un
familiar, but it was more like the indistinct
return of a long-forgotten dream than
anything else, and departed as quickly as
it came. She therefore replied in the
negative.

Many seconds passed before Seymour
spoke again. He paused, as if meditat
ing how his next question should be pro
posed without wounding the feelings of
his companion, and when he did speak,
Emma thought she had never heard so
sweet a voice coming from the lips of
man ; it was so soft and low, and even,
plaintive in its tone, that it almost sunk
into her heart at once.

His judgment of that heart had, not
tailed him, and he played his part deeply
and successfully.

" Your mother died when you were

130

TOM CROSBIE

very young," he said, " do you remember
her"?"

The spring was touched! Quicker
than the lightning's flash, a thousand
memories of infant years sprang into in
stant life; scenes, that in passing had
been forgotten, now appeared, vivid and
distinct, as though they were of yester
day ; the home of her happy childhood,
with all its old associations, rose up before
her — she played once more by the old
fountain in the garden — she gathered the
brightest flowers, and almost fancied she
could inhale their perfume— rshe knelt at
her mother's knee to lisp out her little
prayers — and, as the sweet tones of that
loved voice that was wont to teach her
the simple words, were borne back by
memory to her ear, the illusion faded
nway, and, more bitterly than she had
ever done before, the desolate girl felt her
loneliness, and wept the loss of her dead
mother.

What magic is there in woman's tears,
that man cannot look upon them unmov
ed? Why is it that we can heap every
cruelty upon her, trample upon her hopes,
and crush her happiness without a pang,
while her wrongs are borne uncomplain
ingly — feel no pity when we look upon
the dimmed eye, the sunken cheek, the
bloodless lip, the wasted form — listen with
out a shadow of remorse to the sigh that,
spite of every struggle, will force its way
from the bursting heart — turn with a
mocking lip from the haggard features
quivering with silent agony; — and yet
that a few tears can so work upon our
nature, as to soften the sternest of us all
to pity, even though the feeling live but
for a moment?

When I say the "sternest of us all," I
mean men — for I know that there are
many two-legged animals who take the
liberty of classing themselves amongst
the " genus homo," upon whom an At
lantic ocean of tears, even were they
tears of blood, would have no more effect
than on a crocodile, N. B. — Poor-law
guardians, work-house masters, reviewers,
"saints," bill-discounters, bailiffs, (d — n
them!) attorneys, hangmen, (arcades
ambo !) et id genus omne, are usually
•choice specimens.

But to have any effect, even upon a
man, tears must be real — to go home to
the heart, they must come from the heart;
otherwise the only feeling they are likely
to awaken is one of annoyance, if not
contempt. Seymour had looked upon
the tears of Mrs. Rochefort unmoved be
cause he believed them to have sprung
from excitement of the mind rather than
of the heart, but in those of Emma he
beheld the genuine outpourings ot nature,
and as he listened to the sobbings of the
weeping girl, feelings that had been dead
for years stirred, afresh within him, and
he almost wept himself.

From that instant he determined that
while he lived Emma should never want
a friend ; but still, even while intent on
good, evil kept its power over his mind,
and the purpose of his revenge remained
unchanged.

It was many minutes before Emma's
burst of grief subsided, but Seymour
suffered it to be indulged without inter
ruption, and not until he saw that she had /
gradually become calm did he again ad
dress her.

; " I meant not this, believe me," he
said with, womanly softness ; "I am deep
ly grieved that I should have awakened
memories so painful. I would not, let
the consequence be what it night, have
touched upon such a subject, could I
have foreseen the sorrow it would have
caused you. Can you forgive me ? "
And he laid his hand with the utmost
gentleness on hers.

Emma did not withdraw it; there was
something in Seymour's manner that was
fast winning upon her, and already she
felt a sort of undefined liking towards
him, almost as strong as the dislike with
which she at first regarded him. But
don't mistake, fair reader, the feeling was
nothing akin to love; there is a kind of
incipient regard which sometimes springs
up towards those by whom old associa
tions are revived — a feeling which may
be hereafter ripened into friendship/ and
which disposes us frequently to place
more confidence in a stranger, than in
those whom we have known for years;
and this was it which Emma now felt
towards Seymour.

AND HIS FRIENDS.

131

"I have nothing to forgive," she said
in a voice still broken from her recent
grief; "you could not have intended to
wound my feelings, nor could I have
thought that, after so many years, the
mere mention of my poor mother, and of
my early home, could have betrayed me
fmo such weakness; but it is over now.
L can listen calmly to anything you say —
iiray go on."

" It yoa do not feel perfectly recover
ed," said Seymour, kindly, "I would
rather postpo/ie the subject to another
day; I womd not upon any account
whatever that your mind should be fur-
iher disturbed — "

"No! now — now at once," said Emma,
eagerly; "let me be relieved from this
i-uspense — I can bear any tiling better
itian that."

" It shall be even as you wish," replied
&\iymour, "though I fear that what I
b-^vo to tell you will cause you fresh
pwn. You are already aware that at
your mother's death you were brought
over here from France, and placed under
the guaiJianship of Mrs. Rochefort; but I
believe you have never yet been informed
that there was also another to whose care
you were bequeathed. Circumstances
have hitherto prevented that other from
coming forward to perform his share of
duty towards you. In fact, until very
iately he has been absent in a distant land.

" On his return to this country, one of
his earliest acts was to seek out Mrs.
Rochefort, with the view of offering his
assistance in any way that could tend to
the benefit and future welfare of their
mutual ward, and also with a strong anx
iety to behold once more the child of her
who in her early years had been to him
as a dearly loved sister.

"He hoped to have found that the
care of one guardian had been sufficient,
and that you had suffered nothing by his
unavoidable neglect; but he was deceiv
ed ; instead of that he discovered that all
your interests, present and future, had
been sacrificed by her whose duty it
should have been to fulfill towards you
the part of a second mother."

"It is false!" exclaimed Emma, inter
rupting him, and speaking with the ut

most energy, "grossly false, whoever
says it ! She has been a second mother
tome; if she had not, what would have
become of me when I was thrown on the
world homeless and penniless?"

" You have been deceived," interrupt
ed Seymour; "you were not left penni
less. There was a sum placed in Mrs.
Rochefort's hands for your use, the inter
est of which was to be devoted to your
education, and the principal to become
yours when you should reach the age of
eighteen."

"Impossible!" uttered Emma, while it
was evident that in her own mind doubt
was beginning to spring up — "impossible !
you have been altogether misinformed on
the subject, sir. If it were really as you
say, Mrs. Rochefort would not have kept
me in the dark so long; she could not
have suffered me to remain under the
impression that I was entirely dependent
on her bounty, if such were not indeed
the fact. You must be misinformed ! "

"That is not likely," replied Seymour,
with a smile "as I think you will allow
when I tell you that Mrs. Rochefort her
self is my informant. But I will explain
matters to you at once. / am her fellow
guardian, and she has confessed to me
that the money — a thousand pounds —
which was placed in her hands for your
use by the person who delivered you into
her care, has been long since squandered."

"I will not believe it!" exclaimed Em
ma, almost breathless with astonishment
and indignation ; " until I hear it from her
own lips I will not believe it. What ob
ject could she have in concealing from
me the fact that I had another guardian ?
or, if money had really been placed in
her hands for my use, why not have told
me when she knew that it would have
been my greatest pride to offer it for her
service? I cannot believe it! I will go
to her this instant."

"And she was rising from her chair,
when Seymour laid his hand upon her
arm and detained her.

"Stay!" said he; "If yoi^ would not
bring instant ruin on her head, you will
keep this interview a secret — at least for
the present."

" Why is all this mystery ? " demanded

132

TOM CROSBIE

Emma "If what you say be true, what
can be your objection that I should ques
tion Mrs. Rochefort on the subject? or
why not before now have come forward
openly, and declared yourself my guar
dian ! 1 cannot understand it."

"Believe me" replied Seymour, "I had
strong reasons for acting as I have done,
as you will ere long discover. There are
circumstances which render it absolutely
necessary that Mrs. Rochefort's son should
remain for a time in ignorance of my re
turn to this country, and therefore I have
taken advantage of his absence to seek
this interview.

" Besides, I was not aware, until within
a day or two, how1 your guardian had be
trayed her trust. You know not all I have
discovered — you could never dream of the
wrongs that have been done you."

"One question," interrupted Emma,
as if a sudden thought had struck her —
"if all you have told me be indeed true,
is it with Gerald's knowledge?"

Seymour gazed steadily in her face
for a moment before he replied, and in
that brief glance he read the history of
her heart, as plainly as if she had told it
to him in as many words.

"I believe he knows no more than
yourself, that any fortune had been left
you," was his answer ; and he added, bit
terly: "there are many secrets besides
this, which bis mother has not thought
necessary to confide to him."

As he spoke, his eyes were still fixed
on Emma's face, and the look of satisfac
tion with which she received the words
which exculpated Gerald, did not escape
him. '

"I am told," he continued, "that this
young man is paying his addresses to a
wealthy heiress — do you know her ? "

Emma felt herself changing color,
and she could scarcely trust her voice to
reply ; but, after a moment's struggle, she
overcame the weakness, and said with all
the composure she could assume —

"If you allude to Miss Franks. I have
seen her, but I do not know her intimate-
)y, nor have I heard anything of the kind
which you speak of; but if it would be
for Gerald's advantage, I hope — I hope it
is the case."

And the poor girl turned aside her
head, for in spite of every effort the tears
had started into her eyes.

"It is not likely to be of much advan
tage to him," remarked Seymour, coolly,
"inasmuch as no marriage will ever take
place between them."

"What!" cried Emma, quickly, forget
ting herself for the moment — "how know
you that?"

" Because," replied Seymour, " / have
it in my power to prevent it, and I will
prevent it."

Oh ! if she could be sure of that, how
happy it would have made her! As it
was, an undefined hope sprang up in her
bosom, and those few last words of Sey
mour's had gone far to establish him in
her favor.

For upwards of an hour after that, they
sat there together, and when at length
they parted it was as future friends.
Seymour had worked upon her feelings
with a well-told story of his early friend
ship with her mother, and had succeeded
beyond his hopes; they were to meet
again, frequently, subject to one condi
tion, namely, that Emma, without men
tioning the nature of the present inter
view, should inform Mrs. Rochefort that
it had taken place, for the purpose of in
quiring from her, whether it was true that
she had indeed a second guardian: but
she was not, in any way, to let her sup
pose that she had been made acquainted
with the fact of any money having been
bequeathed her.

If Mrs. Rochefort acknowledged that
Seymour had stated the truth, Emma
promised to be guided in future by his
advice, and, on this understanding, they
parted.

AND HIS FRIENDS.

133

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

EAVES-DROPPING, AND ITS RESULTS.

From this period, time — as tha novel
ists say — rolled on, and at a double-quick
pace, too, on his march towards eternity.
The "rosy -fingered hours" spread their
light wings, and laughing at the Past,
played gaily with the Present as they
flew, careering thoughtlessly along that
path where no returning footsteps leave
their traces — the path which, darkening
as it goes, leads to the shadowy bounds
of the unknown and viewless future.

Hours lengthened into days, days to
weeks, and \v-eks to months ; and amongst
the thousand hearts which had fallen
victims to the unerring shafts of Master
Cupid, none bore the " pleasing pain'' of
their wounds more patiently — none more
obediently acknowledged the dominion of
the young toxopholite — than Gerald
Rochefort. Anacreon himself, reclining.

With rose-bound head,
Upon his blooming lotus bed,"

never felt the little archer's power more
keenly.

Poor Gerald ! his doom was sealed. It
was all up with him ; the citadel had sur
rendered, and the achievements of the sol
dier were now confined to turning over
the leaves of a music book, and providing
fresh flowers to deck the vases of his en
slaver's boudoir — Hercules sneaking from
the path of glory, to hold the distaff for
the Lydian queen!

His journey to London — like the jour
neys of many others to the same place —
had resulted in nothing; a circumstance
which at least afforded him the consola
tion of knowing that it could not have re
sulted in much less; and I have no doubt
that people in general derive a consider
able share of comfort from the considera
tion of the same fact : at all events it is
the only kind of comfort which they are
likely to receive on such an occasion, and

it is the act of a plu'losopher to make the
best of it

Gerald did make the best of it, and
therefore he may be looked upon as a
philosopher by any one who chooses to
regard him in that light; while, on the
other hand, nobody need consider him
such who does not choose ; and this I take
to be a highly philosophical conclusion.

Finding that in London he could do
nothing, he wisely came to the determi
nation that Dublin would afford him
quite as good an opportunity for that sort
of occupation, as any other spot on the
face of the earth, and, moreover, that
there dwelt in that city a certain fair lady,
in whose possession he had left his heart ;
therefore, to Dublin he returned; and we
will suppose some six or seven months to
have elapsed from that period, when we
again take up the thread of our story.

Meanwhile, while we play the spy on
his love makings and other little matters
of that nature, let us glance briefly at the
course of events, as connected with his
family at home.

Mrs. Rochefort had confessed to Emma
that Seymour's story of having been
named her second guardian, was true;
and the confusion of her manner while
doing so was sufficient to confirm her
ward in the suspicions which Seyiaour
had awakened, that foul play had hither
to been the cause of her silence on the
subject.

So far as the mere luss of the money
which had been bequeathed her, Emma
felt very little trouble ; she would cheer
fully have given ten times the sum, had
it been in her power, to find that she had
been deceived by the only person on earth
whom she could have called a friend. It
cut her to the heart to think of Gerald's
agony, if all this should ever come to his
knowledge — for that, as yet, he was per
fectly in ignorance of the entire matter,
she had not the remotest doubt, and she
determined that every effort in her power
should be made to prevent it from ever
being known to ^im.

From the moment Mrs. Rochefort had
been questioned relative to the truth of
Seymour's statement, her misery knew
no bounds; she was afraid to inquire of

134

TOM CROSBIE

Emma by what means the circumstances
had been made known to her; and even
after she had heard that an interview had
taken p/ace between her and Seymour,
she forbore all allusions to the subject;
nor did Emma herself recur to it again.

Never until now had Kate Rochefort
experienced the full bitterness of the
punishment which the folly and want of
principle of her life had brought upon
her. A strong affection for Emma had
lately grown up within her heart — a hope,
perhaps, of having a fond companion in
her declining years increased the regard;
and now that she had began to love her
as a daughter, she was to be snatched
from her, and taught to hate her.

She believed that Seymour had broken
through his promised silence, and told
her how she had been wronged: the
changed manner of the girl — for, spite of
every effort, there was a change — made
her feel almost sure of this, but she was
afraid even to hint at it, and the state of
her mind, kept as she was in continual
suspense, was so terrible, that It was fast
preying upon her constitution.

For about a month after the interview
related in the preceding chapter, Sey
mour and Emma had frequent meetings;
but at the end of that time Gerald return
ed from London, and the former then de
clared that he was about to leave Ireland
for some months.

He parted from Emma with strict in
junctions that, during his absence, she
should never mention to any one what
occurred between them, and a promise
that the moment it would be possible for
him to return, he would openly declare
the fact of his being her guardian, and
put an end to all mystery on the subject

The parting was not without regret on
both sides; for, during their short inter
course an affection had sprung up between
them, for which either would have found
it difficult to account, and on the part of
Emma, particularly, the feeling had daily
increased in strength, unyl she almost
regarded her newly-discovered guardian
in the light of a long-lost parent.

But other cares soon came upon her,
which engrossed her mind even more
than her anxiety for his return. Gerald

was again at home, and his visits to Mount
Street were, if possible, more frequent
than ever. It required no great skill in
prophecy to enable her to foresee how all
this would end; and, notwithstanding
Seymour's declaration that he would pre
vent a marriage, she had but little hope
in the probability of so desirable an event —
and but slight faith in his power to effect it.

In truth, her life was most unhappy ;
there was nothing to relieve the monoto
ny of its wretchedness; Gerald was con
tinually absent, and Mrs. Rochefort seldom
quitted her own apartment ; indeed, even
if this had not been the ease, her pre
sence would have added to, rather than
alleviated, Emma's uneasiness of mind
for, as all confidence was at an end be
tween them, it would have required a
continual struggle on both sides to main
tain even the appearance of their former
friendliness ; so that she was almost always
left alone, to pursue her sad thoughts in
solitude and silence.

In this way many months passed over,
and she had not even heard from Sey
mour since his departure, though he had
promised that* if delayed beyond a cer
tain period, he would write ; and such
was the position of affairs in Gerald's
home, while he himself was daily occu
pied in plunging deeper and deeper into
the ocean of love. ( This ocean is not
mentioned in any geography that I have
ever seen ; neither is it set forth on any
map; but, nevertheless, it exists, and I
believe is a favorite bathing-place, in
which — very indelicately, as I think —
young ladies and young gentlemen, and
even old ones occasionally, are wont to
take their " dip " together. )

We are told that from the sublime to
the ridiculous is but a step, and certainly
in affairs of the heart this truth is fre
quently rendered particularly apparent,
for though love itself is sublime, the hom
age it exacts from those who have become
its slaves, is in most cases, assuredly ridic
ulous.

Just fancy a great, broad-shouldered
fellow, six-feet-two in his stockings, with
an eye like a thunderbolt, and a pair of
whiskers that might terrify a horde of Be
douins—only fancy him kneeling at the

AND HIS FRIENDS.

136

feet of a fifty-inch fairy, and with a trem
bling lip, a pale cheek, and a voice like a
schoolboy going to be whipped, imploring
mercy from a weeny little creature he
might carry about in his waistcoat pocket !

1 don't exactly intend, by this pream
ble, to convey the assertion that the woo
ing of Gerald Rochefort was carried on
after such a genuflective fashion; but it
may have been, for aught I know to the
contrary. He certainly was not the sort
of fellow one would suspect for a thing of
the kind, but once a man thinks fit to fall
in love, there is no telling what he may
do, or what he may not do.

All I can positively state is this, that
he ivas in love — most outrageously so;
and, therefore, I wouldn't be surprised
at his doing anything. However, be that
as it may, I must now go on with my
story.

Mr. Franks sat in his study one eve
ning, as was his wont of late, indulging
in no very pleasant rumination on the
course which matters were taking between-
his daughter and Gerald. The fact was
that he couldn't at all understand the
conduct of the latter.

It was nearly a year now since their
first acquaintance, and he thought it high
time that, if any question was to be pop
ped at all, it should be popped at once.
Since Gerald's visits had become so con
stant, the life of the old man had by no
means been so happy and unruffled as
heretofore ; he enjoyed but a very small
portion of his daughter's society; and
even at such times as she did happen to
be alone with him, her thoughts seemed
to be wandering elsewhere.

Mr. Franks did n't like this at all — and,
indeed, for that matter, it may be pre
sumed that few fathers would have liked
it ; but still, he believed the happiness of
his child to be at stake, and he never
could bring himself to take a step which
might chance to compromise it Besides,
day after day, he had been withheld by
the hope that the morrow, at farthest,
vrould bring a proposal from Gerald ; un
til at length his patience was almost worn
out.

Now, I have no doubt whatever that
a great many very worthy people will

consider this course of conduct highly de
serving of their censure ; in the first place,
because it was not "proper" to permit so
many opportunities, under any circum
stances, to two individuals of opposite
sexes; and, secondly, because Gerald
Rochefort was a "detrimental," whereas
Jessie herself was an "eligible" of the
first class.

To those virtuous and right-minded in
dividuals I can offer no excuse on behalf
of the old gentleman, and, therefore, they
must be content to console themselves
with the reflection that they would have
acted differently — as I have no doubt
they would.

In my own opinion, Mr. Franks was a
little to blame — a very little; but his
heart was the monitor which prompted
him to act as he did, and that heart was
one whose errors were always on the side
of generous and kindly feelings ; which is
more than can be said for those who will
cock up their noses (if they be not cock
ed up already) at his conduct.

On the evening in question, however,
he was not in the best temper in the
world, for notwithstanding that after din
ner he had hinted to Gerald that he
wished to say something to him in pri
vate, that love-stricken gentleman had
thought proper to take the earliest oppor
tunity of making himself scarce, for the
purpose of pursuing Jessie to the draw
ing-room — where the delinquent now
was, and from whence descended occa
sionally the tones of a harp, accompanied
by two voices blending together in such
harmony as plainly told that their prac
tice had been considerable.

"Confound that infernal strumming!"
exclaimed Mr. Franks, at the same time
that if any one else on earth had presum
ed to hint that more delightful music had
ever been heard by mortal ears, he would
have insulted the offender on the spot —
" confound that infernal strumming ! A
man might as well live in Bedlam ! Pah !
there it is again — that eternal, ' I know
a bank' — they ought to know it pretty
well by this time, God knows ! We' 11 have
the ' Minute-gun at Sea' presently, and
then some cursed Italian screech. I wish
the inventor of music had the pain that

136

TOM CROSBIE

I have in my big toe this minute, and see
how it would make him sing! Wherever
there's duet-singing there's mischief — it
never comes to good — there's villany at
the bottom of it always! Such turning
up of eyes, and squeezing out of sighs,
and every d — d nonsense of the kind, must
mean mischief ! But I '11 put an end to it
— I '11 make them sing to another tune —
I '11 invent a gamut for them ! If I don't
— I won't, that's all! " And Mr. Franks
looked dangerous.

Then his thoughts ran on for a while
in another channel, and b-e began to wax
wroth as he conned over in his mind all
the pros and cons of the case which he
was industriously manufacturing against
poor Gerald.

"What!" he muttered, half mentally,
" could n't he come forward boldly, and
say : ' Mr. Franks, I love your daughter
— will you give her to me ? ' That would !
be behaving like a man; but, instead,
here he comes sneaking day after day,
and then sneaking off again — bah ! I have
no patience with such a fellow! Why,
when I was a young man — but times are
altered since then! — when I was a young-
man like him, damme! I'd have popped
the question in five minutes; and if the
answer was 'No' — psha! what am I
thinking of? He knows as well as I do
that it would be no such thing. If he
doesn't propose for her before ten days
are over his head, hang me if I don't
hunt him, like a redshank, about his busi
ness. There 's an end on it ! "

And in this way did the old gentleman
vent his spleen, until by degrees he fell
into a sort of half doze, disturbed now and
then by a sudden malediction against the
sounds of the music, which still continued
at intervals to reach his ears.

At length neither the tones of the harp
nor of the voices were any longer to be
heard, and once more he started in his
chair.

"Humph!" he muttered, "there's
some villany going on now! Whenever
two young people are in a room together,
and no sounds audible beyond the door,
there's sure to be mischief in the wind!
For two pins I 'd steal a march, and h'nd
out what they're at; if it's not mischief, I

there 's no harm done ; if it is, I '11 open
their eyes a bit But 'listeners never
hear good of themselves,' they say — no
matter! Hang me if I don't do it! I
know there 's villany going on— and I'll
see if I can 't make it out — I'll astonish
them!"

And so saying, the impetuous old
gentleman stood up, and noiselessly left
the room.

The luckless pair, against whom he
was meditating such dark plots and awful
visitations, sat beside each other on a
sofa; the hand of the maiden reposed
quietly in that of her lover; there was
no blush of false modesty on her cheek
— no turning aside the eyes in affected
delicacy — no struggle to free her fingers
from the pressure ; she was a stranger to
all such mockeries ; she had yielded up
her heart to him who sat beside her, and
henceforth there should be nought but
confidence between them.

Yet, though she loved him, and knew
that his love was equal to her own, no
avowal on either side had ever taken
place. The passion had grown upon
them day by day, increasing in its strength
as time went on ; they felt that it was so,
and that was sufficient for their happi
ness; a million vows could not have ad
ded to their security in the truthfulness
of each other's love.

But, in spite of this, there were times
when Jessie would have wished her lover
to speak of the affection which she knew
he felt; — times when, in a desponding
mood, he mourned the hard fate that
rendered vain and hopeless all the dear
est wishes of his heart For a voice in
her own bosom whispered to her what
those wishes were ; and if at such times
he had but openly declared them, she
could have thrown aside all maidenly re
serve, and offering him her hand, put an
end to his doubts and fears for ever.

Many a little manoauvre had she been
guilty of to bring about this opportunity
— many a time had she hinted that riches
were no object with either her father or
herself; but, hitherto, vain had been all
her efforts to effect her wish ; so far as
words went, Gerald still continued silent
on the subject of his love. Yet it was

AND HIS FRIENDS.

137

not without a struggle that he did so.
Scarcely a day went over that he had not
been on the point of breaking forth into
a declaration of his passion, and boldly
asking her to become his wife.

But then would come the remem
brance of his broken fortunes, and,
with the words almost forcing them
selves from his lip, he would suppress
their utterance, rather than woo her to
the miseries of poverty.

But, this night, love had been the con-
querer. The hint which Mr. Franks had
thrown out of wishing to speak to him in
private, alarmed him into a momentary
forge tfulriess of all his scruples, and the
dreaded crisis had at length arrived.
The old gentleman had chose a a lucky
moment for his eaves- dropping!

As yet, the lovers had not spoken
since they sat there together; but an
Instinct whispered to Jessie that her
wishes were now about to be fulfilled, and
she listened anxiously for the words that
should enable her, without a scruple, to
avow her affection, and bestow her hand
and fortune where her heart had been
already given.

But still Gerald continued silent. How
could he bring himself to ask her to be
come his wife, when he knew that even
to support himself his means were scarcely
sufficient? for, notwithstanding all the
encouragement Mr. Franks had given
him, he could not believe that he would
consent to his daughter's marriage with
one whom he knew to be without fortune ;
or the hope of fortune; and he felt that
to urge a child to disobedience against her
parent was to insure her future misery, if
not present unhappiness. However, as I
have already said, love was the conqueror
in this struggle, and words found their
way at last.

" Jessie," he said, in a low voice, but
not so low as to escape the ears of the
old gentleman, who had taken up his po
sition outside the half-closed door — "Jes
sie, I am very unhappy."

" Humph ! " growled Mr. Franks — and
the reader will be good enough to un
derstand that upon this occasion, all his
remarks were made mentally — "humph!
what does he mean by that?"

" Why should you be unhappy ? " asked
Jessie, softly.

" Because he's an a?s ! " muttered her
father — " that's why ! "

"Ever since the tirst hour I saw you,"
replied Gerald, " I have been dream
ing — "

"Almost time for 'you to wake, then,''
chorussed Mr. Franks.

" And now," continued Gerald, " I
feel that when that dream is ended, life
will have no further happiness for me."

"But why should you have such
fears?" said Jessie, looking smilingly in
his face — " dreams have been often real
ized you know."

" Mine can scarcely be," returned Ger
ald, gloomily — "it was too bright!"

" Too fiddlestick ! " ejaculated the old
gentleman — " confounded stuff! Can't
the fellow put his arm round her neck,
like a man, and give her a smack at once,
instead of all this nonsense ? "

"Too bright," repeated Gerald — " far
too bright! "

" If he says that again," exclaimed
Mr. Franks, " hang me if 1 don't rush in
and kick him ! "

" Are you dreaming now ? " asked Jes
sie, archly, " or do you want to put me
to sleep, with that doleful voice and look ?
What has made you so sad to night ? "

" Your father — " he began.

" Ha ! " said the old gentleman, now
we 're going to «have it ! " I thought
there was mischief in the wind ! "

" Your father," continued Gerald, "told
me after dinner to-day that he Avished to
speak to me in private."

" Well ? " exclaimed Jessie, anxiously.

"I was afraid to remain," he resumed,
" for I anticipated the nature of his
speech — it would have been to tell me to
coihe here no more."

" You must be dreaming ! " said Jessie
— " how could you think of such a
thing ? "

" I feel it," he replied — " and he is
right; he cannot but have seen my love
for you ; and," he added bitterly, " he
knows I am a beggar."

"I'm longing to be at him!" muttered
Mr. Franks.

" Gerald," said Jessie, impressively,

138

TOM CROSBIE

and withdrawing her hand from his,
" vou do my father an injustice. If such
a motive could have governed him for an
instant — which is impossible, as you
should by this time know, he would never
have suffered our intercourse to continue.
No earthly consideration could ever in-
d*uce him to risk the happiness of his
child. You do not know my father!"

" My child ! my own true-hearted
child ! " murmured the old man, softly,
while a tear flowed down his cheek —
" God bless her."

" Forgive me, Jessie," said Gerald,
again taking her hand, and pressing it
fondly between both his own — " forgive
me, dearest; I meant not to offend you,
but the fear that I should be separated
from you now almost deprives me of my
reason. If you could only know the
depth of my love, you would not blame
me."

"Ah! that's something like!" said
Mr. Franks, " the business will soon be
settled now ! "

" Is it very deep ? " asked Jessie, coax-
ingly ; " I think it must be, it has taken
BO long to come to the surface."

"Good!" said Mr. Franks; "let him
put that in his pipe and smoke it."

Gerald passed one arm round the waist
of his companion, and, as he drew her
closer to his side, whispered — " you love
me, Jessie?"

"Do I?" ,

" Such is my hope — is it a deceitful
one?"

" Not quite so much so as hopes gen
erally are."

"You know my poverty."

" Damn his poverty ! " cried Mr.
Franks.

" Never allude to that again," said Jes
sie, "if you would not wish seriously to
wound my feelings." And then, smiling
gaily, she added: "You know riches
are so unromantic! "

"Damn romance!" growled the old
gentleman. " We '11 have 'love in a cot
tage' now — flow'rs and bow'rs, eyes and
sighs, hearts and darts, and aU that sort
of thing — pah!"

^'They may be unromantic, Jessie,"
said Gerald, despondingly, " but they are

very necessary nevertheless, and not
withstanding all your father's kindness to
me, I cannot hope that he would give his
consent to our union."

" For sixpence I'd walk in and order
him to march,' exclaimed Mr. Franks —
" how dare lLo fellow hav? such an opin
ion of me?"1

" Gerald," said Jessie, after a mo
ment's paiue — during which there was a
struggle between her maidenly propriety
and her love, " Gerald, dear Gerald"-—
and her \oico sunk almost to a whisper
— " there must be no reserve between us
now; I know I am stepping beyond the
bounds of what the world calls propriety
in what I am about to say ; but you at
least, will judge me lightly." And she
looked up confidingly in his face. " Shall
I confess it ? I have long wished for this
hour to come. I could not be blind to
your love, for my own heart taught me
to read yours; I knew your feelings, for
I knew my own; but I longed to hear
you speak them, for then, dear Gerald,
I could tell you how they were returned."

And here the ears of the old gentle
man were greeted by a sound which led
him to entertain a strong suspicion that a
kiss had taken place, while immediately
succeeding it, he was enabled to distin
guish the words — " My own Jessie ! "

"All right!" he chuckled, "I may
soon walk in ! "

" There ! that will do ! " resumed Jes
sie, as another detonation resounded
through the room — " let me finish what
I have to say, before you smother me en
tirely." And, dropping her voice to the
tone she had before spoken in, she con
tinued : —

" I will speak to you now, as freely as
if we had already pledged our vows be
fore the altar, for why should a false
modesty make me hesitate to say that
which can give happiness to both ? Ger
ald, I know my dear father's nature, and
you have but to tell him of — of our at
tachment, to insure his consent, and his
blessing."

H The little villain ! " exclaimed Mr.
Franks, in an Ecstasy of delight, " the
unning little villain ! how did she guess
it?"

AND HIS FRIENDS.

139

And the old gentleman wondered why,
at that moment, an intrusive tear should
have started to his eye.

At the conclusion of Jessie's speech,
her companion sprang from the sofa, as if
some uncontrollable impulse urged him
to perform a hornpipe ; but, as suddenly,
the idea struck him that he was about to
make a particularly ridiculous fool of
himself, and so he contented himself, for
that occasion, with reseating himself be
side her, and embracing her passionately,
while he exclaimed:

" Now am I indeed happy; but, dear
est, may you not be mistaken ? — may not
you reckon too fondly on your father's
yielding his consent? "

" I'll make him smart for this ! " mut
tered Mr, Franks.

" No, Gerald," replied Jessie, " I am
not mistaken; my father loves you as
well — almost as well as" — she paused
and, while a rich blush came upon her
cheek, added — "as well as I do."

"My own darling girl!" exclaimed
Gerald, passionately, and, drawing her to
his heart, he pressed his lips to hers in a
kiss that was worth five years of life.

"Come! this won't do?" cried Mr.
Franks aloud; and, throwing open the
•ioor, he walked into the apartment —
'Hang me if I stand any more of this!"
ae exclaimed, " he '11 eat her before he
stops ! " And the old gentleman hobbled
over towards the delinquents.

" Mr. Franks ! " cried Gerald, and —

" My father ! " ejaculated Jessie, si
multaneously, while they both looked
particularly foolish.

" Yes, sir — Mr. Franks ! Yes, madam
— your father ! " vociferated the old gen
tleman, with a desperate endeavor to
make his voice like thunder, and his look
fike forked lightning — " you ought to be
proud of yourselves ! This is a remarka
bly nice sort of duet I have interrupted
— pray go on with it — oh, pray do!"
And Mr. Franks was perfectly satisfied
that he had said something terrifically
ironical.

" Indeed, sir," stammered Gerald ; and
he went no farther.

" Well, sir! what have you got to say 1
Are you ashamed of yourself? Do you

feel afraid to look me in the face ? Do
you tremble when you hear my voice ? "
And, as Mr. Franks said this, he fancied
that an ogre was a fool to him.

Gerald, in spite of himself, smiled, and
so did Jessie.

" What are you grinning at, Madam ? "
exclaimed her father, with what he con
sidered an awe-inspiring frown — " how
dare you smile? I wonder you don't
sink into the earth with shame ! Have
you no idea of decency ? "

"Come, papa, don't be cross!" said
Jessie, coaxingly, while she drew close to
him, and laid one hand upon his shoul
der — "you know you look so terrible
when you 're vexed ! " And she smiled
archly.

" Do n't touch me ! " cried the old gen
tleman, at the same time dying to em
brace her, but with a wicked determina
tion to punish her, as he imagined, for
not having made him her confidante —
" do n't you come within twenty miles of
me! How dare you love any one with
out asking your father's leave? How
dare you do it, I say ? "

"Please, sir," said Jessie, dropping a
curtesey, "I couldn't help it!"

" You could n't help it either, sir, I
suppose ? " sneered Mr. Franks, turning
towards Gerald.

" No, sir," replied Gerald, timidly.

"And do you dare to tell me that you
love my daughter ? "

" I do, sir ! " was the bold response.

"And you would wed her without my
consent ? "

"I would not, sir; there you wrong
me. I would never have urged her to
disobedience of your wishes, and, there
fore, deeply as I have loved her, I have
never spoken of it until now."

" Say no more ! " interrupted Mr.
Franks ; and then, turning to his daugh
ter, he demanded:

" And you, Madam, would you
have become his wife without my sunc-
tion?"

"No, father, no!" she replied, throw
ing both her arms round his neck — "you
know I would not "

" And you love him ? "

She nestled her head closer to her

140

TOM CROSBIE

father's bosom, and in a low, sweet voice,
replied — " I do."

The old man pressed her to his heart,
and stooping his head upon her shoulder,
remained silent for a moment, then, turn
ing towards Gerald, he motioned him to
approach.

"Here," said he, taking him by the
hand, and speaking in a voice, husky and
broken from emotion — " here — take her
— take my darling, my own beloved
child." And, as he resigned her to his
arms, the old man's eyes were filled with
tears of pride and love. " Cherish her,
sir! "he continued, in strong excitement
— "cherish her in your heart's core! for
heaven has given her to you for a bless
ing! If ever you neglect her — if ever
one cold look should fall upon my child
— I will curse" —

" Father ! dear father ! " exclaimed Jes
sie, returning to him, and pressing her
lips upon his forehead — "you must not
have such thoughts — we will all be so
happy now ! "

And the beautiful girl looked as con
fident to the future, as though care and
sorrow were strangers to the world.

The old man made no answer. Slowly
and tenderly he laid his hands, one after
another upon her shoulders, and thus
holding her at arm's length before him,
he gazed upon her for a moment with
such intense affection, that it seemed as
though the fountains within his heart
were full to overflowing, and were gush
ing forth in that look of holy love ; he
tried to speak, but he couid not — feelings
such as then were his, can find no utter
ance — at length a tear forced its way, and
trickled down his cheek, and then anoth
er, and another; he clasped her to his
bosom in a passionate embrace; held her
there an instant, and then, suddenly re
leasing her, he placed her hand in
that of Gerald, and fervently exclaiming :
" May God's blessing, and mine, attend
you both ! " rushed from the room, sob-
bins: as if his heart would break.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

MISCHIEF SUCCESSFUL MACHINATIONS

AND A DEPARTURE.

While the happiness of Gerald was
thus almost secured in the foregoing
scene, one of a very different description
had taken place in his own home, which
was calculated to destroy all his newly-
born hopes, and plunge him into misery,
far deeper than he had ever known be
fore.

Seymour had returned — or I should
rather say re-appeared, for the story he
had told of being obliged to leave town
was nothing more than a pretext for
avoiding a meeting with Gerald, and to
enable him the better to mature those
plans which he had already formed in his
mind.

Amongst them, the principal project
was one for preventing a marriage be
tween Gerald and Jessie Franks; and, as
he believed that he had now perfected
all his arrangements, he deemed it time
that he should commence those opera
tions, for the success of which he had
scarcely a doubt or fear, and which, he
reckoned, would speedily bring matters
to the wished for termination.

Early that evening, he sought an inter
view with Emma. She was sitting alone
in the drawing-room, busied with some
needle-work, and, as usual, thinking in
spite of herself of Gerald, when, with
out a word of announcement, he en
tered.

After she had recovered from the sur
prise caused by this sudden visit, and
when she had listened to the excuses
which he made for his length< ned ab
sence, she anxiously demanded :

"And you have come now to fulfill
your promise ? "

u What promise? "

"That which you made when last
I saw you — that, upon your return,
you would openly declare yourself my
guardian, and end all this strange mys
tery. You have come to do

AND HIS FRIENDS.

141

" I have; the promise shall be kept; I
will see Mrs. Rochefort at once — where
is she ? "

"In her own chamber. Shall I tell
her you are here?"

" Presently ; but first I have a ques
tion or two to ask. Her son has never
been told anything that has passed be-
ween us ? has never been informed that
you had a second guardian ? "

" Never by me, and I am sure the sub
ject has never since been alluded to by
his mother."

'•So much the better. He must not
hear that you have ever seen me be
fore. It is necessary he should be given
to understand that I have but now
returned from abroad; otherwise he
might think it strange that you had here
tofore concealed the fact. You under
stand ?."

"Yes; but why should he not have
been at first informed ?"

"No matter — he will know it time
enough ! "

And an he said this, Emma thought
she perceived a strange alteration in
his tone, and in the expression of his fea
tures.

" But what will he think now ? " she
asked ; " will it not seem stranger still
that his mother should have kept this
circumstance a secret ? "

" He will discover stranger things than
that before long, " replied Seymour, qui
etly ; " but as Mrs. Rochefort has chosen
to withhold her confidence from him, so
she must take th.6 consequences whatever
they may be."

" Could not he be told that I had, all
through, been aware of the fact of hav
ing a second guardian ? "

"To what end? How would this
amend matters ? "

" It would at least make his mother's
conduct appear less unaccountable."

" His mother, I tell you, has chosen
her own line of action, and must abide
by it."

" But what objection can you have
that it should be as I say? Why give
cause for trouble and unhappiness, if it
can be avoided?"

"It cannot be avoided!" said Sey

mour, shortly; "it must come, and the
sooner the better!"

" What mean you? " exclaimed Emma,
in alarm.

" This ! Mrs. Rochefort has robbed you
— she must be punished!"

"Punished? I do not understand
you."

" I say she has robbed you. Should
not crime be punished?"

" Still, I do not understand you."

"Listen. This is the first week in
March ; in three weeks more, you will be
eighteen. At that age, you were to have
received a thousand pounds; it was
placed in Mrs. Rochefort's hands for that
purpose — she has spent it — it will not be
forthcoming. It is my duty to see that
justice is done towards you — she shall go
to prison,"

"Prison!" cried Emma, in a voice of
terror, and becoming pale as death, "you
cannot mean this! You cannot mean
that she who has filled the place of a
mother to me for so many years, should
be sent to prison for having done that
which I would freely have consented to,
had she but confided in me. Why should
you try to alarm me ia this way ? "

And she gazed eagerly in his face.

" I have no wish to alarm you," he
replied, coldly; "I have only told you
what must occur — I merely do my duty."

"Your duty!" exclaimed Emma, indig
nantly; "is it your duty to bring ruin on
the head of one, but for whom I might
have been thrown without a friend or
home upon the world ? What do you
take me for? Do you think, even if she
had wronged me to a thousand times the
amount, that I would suffer her to be in
jured — to be accused, much less punish
ed for it?"

"You cannot prevent it," replied Sey
mour, calmly, "you will have nothing to
do with it. It must be ! "

" I tell you it must not be ! " said Em
ma, energetically. "What! let my ben
efactress, my second mother, be brought
to shame and disgrace on my account?
Never! Am I lost to all gratitude, think
you, that I should yield such a return for
years of care and kindness?"

Poor girl! she forgot how little of

142

TOM CROSBIE

these she had experienced. At such a
time as this she could remember nothing
but that, as a friendless orphan, she had
found protection and a home when she
most required them; and therefore her
indignation at Seymour's threat was so
strong that it alarmed him in no slight
degree, lest it should tend to render fu
tile those plans which he had so indus
triously formed, and which he had just
now thought were about to be put suc
cessfully into execution.

However, he suffered none of his alarm
to appear, but, taking advantage of Em
ma's ignorance respecting what the law
might entitle him to do, supposing him to
be in reality her guardian, he determined
still to maintain his resolution to punish
Mrs. Rochefort, hoping by these means
to effect his projects more easily than he
could otherwise have done.

"Once more," he replied, "I tell you
you will have nothing to do with it.
You have been shamefully defrauded,
and it becomes my duty, as a guardian,
to take care that you shah1 at least have
justice."

"Justice ! Do you speak to me of jus
tice such as this ! In what way could it
benefit me, should your threats be put
into execution ? What service — "

" You shall hear. Mrs. Rochefort's son
has the remnant of a small property left
him by his father — his mother has already
dissipated the greater portion of it; but,
rather than see her in a prison, he will
sacrifice what remains — and then the
sum which you are entitled to may be
recovered."

"Merciful heaven!" cried Emma, with
strong emotion, "this is horrible! What
have you ever seen in my conduct, sir,
that you should dare to propose to me
such a plan as this? Oh, I cannot
believe that you are serious — it is cruel,
sir, to tamper with me in this manner ! "
And she remained watching his looks, as
though expecting that his next words
would relieve her from her fears.

Seymour paused some time before he
replied ; he was meditating a darker piece
of villany than he had at first intended,
for he saw that before he could bring her
to listen to the plan he had proposed, it

| would be necessary to touch a chord that
should vibrate more powerfully to her
heart than any feeling he had as yet
awakened ; and he did touch it.

"Emma," he said slowly, "you do nof
know how this woman has wronged you.''

" I do — have you not told me ? "

"I have not; nor would I now, but|t«
prove to you that she deserves neithei
pity nor mercy at your hands."

" She deserves both," returned Emma,
with strong feeling, "and she shall find
them. Had she not felt pity for me when
I was brought to her desolate and friend
less, what would have been my fate?^
For shame, sir! to make me forget all
this!"

"If you knew all," said Seymour,
calmly, "perhaps you might change your
feelings."

" I will never change them."

"What if I should tell you that she has
interfered with your happiness, in a way
you never dreamed of?"

" My happiness ! What happiness have
I ever known ? "

" But for her you might have known it."

" I do not understand. What mean
you?"

He fixed his look intently on her face,
and when he had caught her eye so that
he could mark the slightest change in its
expression, said quickly :

" You loved her son ! "

"Sir!"

"You loved her son!" repeated Sey
mour.

Emma covered her face with her
hands; it was an involuntary movement,
she felt the blood rushing to her forehead,
and she sought to hide this acknowledg
ment of her weakness — of her shame —
for was it not shame to feel that her love
was fixed on one who cared not for her,
and to know that her secret had been
discovered by him who was now beside
her? Her courage left her; she could
not speak.

Seymour saw the advantage he had
gained, and continued:

"You loved him, Emma, and even
now, when his heart is given to another—
when he is lost to you forever — you love
him still."

AND HIS FRIENDS.

143

The poor girl pressed her hands closer
on her forehead, and the rapid heaving of
her bosom told of the struggle that was
passing within; but she remained silent.

"I will tell you now," continued Sey
mour, still keeping his eyes intently fixed
upon her, " I will tell you now what you
Lave never known before — your love was
returned."

Quick as lightning, she raised her head ;
there was no time for thought then — the
impulse of the moment must be obeyed.

"Who told you this!" she exclaimed.

" Calm yourself," answered Seymour,
"and you shall hear."

"I am calm, quite calm! Speak! tell
me — tell me — are you sure of this ? you
would not deceive me ? "

" I would not. I have spoken the
truth — he loved you."

" No, no, it cannot be — it is impossible,
he loves another ! "

"Now he does, but once — "

"Well? once?"

" His heart was yours."

"My God ! " said Emma, as if speaking
to herself, "how is this? I cannot un
derstand it ! why did he never tell me ?
why, if all this be true, should he have
changed? why should he love another
now?"

" I will explain the mystery," said Sey
mour, replying to the question, which, un
consciously, she had asked aloud, and,
as she looked eagerly in his face, he con
tinued : —

" He confided his secret to his mother.
Now, do you comprehend how he has
wronged you ? "

"No, no, I can comprehend nothing.
I feel as though it were all a dream!
Tell me — oh, tell me at once ! "

"You are too excited now," said Sey
mour, seeking an excuse for a momentary
pause; for he was unprepared for the
course he had thus adopted, and, scarcely
nowing how to shape his next falsehood,
he endeavored to obtain a brief time to
consider in what manner he should follow
up the advantage he had already gained.
Perhaps, if he could have recalled the
last few minutes, he would not have been
guilty of such villany, for, as he per
ceived the agony of mind into which he

had thrown Emma by his cruelty, a»kind
of remorse possessed him for a moment,
and with this was mingled something like
a feeling of shame for the baseness of his
conduct in deceiving her.

But it was too late now ; he had gone
too far to retreat without awakening sus
picion, and as that would bring destruc
tion on all his plans, he determined to
turn a deaf ear to the whisperings of con
science, and to pursue to the end the
treacherous scheme that had suddenly-
suggested itself to his mind. An instant
sufficed for these thoughts, and he con
tinued : —

"You are too excited now to hear
what I was about to say. Another time
I will tell you every thing."

" No — now — now, this moment ! " en
treated Emma. " In mercy relieve me
from this suspense ! "

"Well, then, since you wish it, Iteten.
Gerald had been but a short time at
home after his return from abroad, when
he began to feel towards you something
more than brotherly affection; this feel
ing grew rapidly into passionate love — "

"Stay !" cried Emma, interrupting him.
" If this indeed be true — if it be possible,
why did I never know it — or by what
means has it been made known to you ?"

" You shall hear presently ; but let me
finish. He was poor — his mother, as I
have already told you, had dissipated the
greater portion of a trifling property
which should have been his on his coming
of age ; he saw no prospect of ever pos
sessing sufficient wealth to enable him to
marry; and honor prevented him from
endeavoring to win your affections when
unhappiness alone could be the result.
More than this, he determined to leave
his home, lest the strength of his passion
should overcome his resolution ; with this
intent he sought his mother, told her of
his determination, and confided to her the
cause — "

"Ho did this?" interrupted Emma;
" His mother, then, knew it ? "

"She did ! but attend, and you will un
derstand her conduct. It did not suit
her purposes that his intention should be
put into execution; for this reason — it
would have lessened her means, already

144

TOM CROSBIE

very trifling, had they been obliged t<
live separately; neither did she wish tha
his love for you should continue, fearing
that it might lead to a marriage, for hei
last hope was, and is, that he should ob
tain a wealthy bride, by means of whose
riches she should be restored to the sta
tion she has lost, and be enabled again to
enter into the same dissipation by which
she had driven her husband to beggary
and an untimely grave.

" This hope — the mere chance of such
an event — was a thousand times dearer to
her than either your happiness or that oi
her son — and her resolution was instantly
taken. It was this — to make Gerald
believe that you already loved another — "
"My God!" exclaimed Emma, "can
this be true ? "

"It can, and is. You know little of
this woman, or you would not ask the
question. She is capable of anything; no
considerations have the slightest weight
with her, where her personal interest is
concerned."

" But Gerald could not have believed
this? It is impossible, when he knew
that, from the period of his return, I had
no intercourse with human being except
himself."

" He did believe it. His mother told
her story too artfully to let him feel a
doubt on the subject."

And Seymour paused; in order that he
might himself invent this very story
which he spoke of.

" What did she tell him ? " exclaimed
Emma, almost breathless with anxiety.

"This — that shortly before his return
you had been betrothed to a young colle
gian, whom you had known since you
first came to Ireland, and who had been
suddenly obliged to depart with his
father, on a three years' tour to the con
tinent.

" Gerald's distress on hearing this was
great ; he believed that there was no hope
of his attachment being reciprocated; he
thought that it would be worse than dis
honorable to continue his attentions, and
from that moment he determined to con
quer his passion by every means in his
power."

"My God! my God!" said Emma bit

terly, "that I had known this before it
was too late ! "

A sudden thought seemed to strike
Seymour.

"It may not be too late yet," he said.
" How ? " she exclaimed eagerly — " not
too late ? "

" It is possible that it may not be ; if
you wish it, it shall be probable."

"Probable! you would not trifle with
me now ? it would be cruel — very cruel!"

And then, remembering the subject
upon which she displayed such anxiety —
£ feeling of shame made her hang down
her head.

Seymour perceived this, and taking
her hand in his, he said in a tone of kind
ness and sympathy:

"You need have no delicacy with me,
Emma; regard me as one who would be
a father to you in every way in his power.
I feel deeply for you, believe me, but I
am not without hope that all may yet be
well."

" No, no ! it cannot be ; it is too late —
he loves another now."

And again the poor girl was betrayed
into a burst of feeling.

"First love is always the strongest,"
said Seymour softly. " A man can never
root it altogether from his heart, unless"
— and suddenly a terrible change came
upon his features — "unless he has been
scorned!"

" But," repeated Emma, as if this was
the overwhelming cause of all her sorrow
— " he loves another now."

" Suppose this other should never be
come his wife?"

" Ah ! you spoke of this before."

" I did — all depends on you."

" On me! how?"

" You can assist me in breaking off this
match."

Emma raised her head proudly.

"I assist you!" she said, indignantly —
' do you think, sir, because I have been
>etraye*d into this weakness before you,
hat I would be capable of descending to
uch an act as this ? " Do you think 1
would be guilty of such baseness as to
secure my own happiness by the des-
ruction of another's ? What have I done
to deserve this insult ? "

AlfD HIS FRIENDS.

145

" Pardon me," said Seymour, cold
ly, " I was mistaken. You led me
to suppose that you still loved this
young man. 1 find I have been in er
ror/'1"

"It is because I do love him still," said
Emma, entirely carried away by her feel
ings, " that I scorn such an act as you
propose. If he ever had any affection
for me, it is past; he has given it to an
other — he loves her now — let them be
happy; I — I — hope they may!" And,
vainly struggling to hide her em
otion, she held down her head and
wept.

Seymour did not speak again until he
saw that her excitement had subsided;
then, he said, gently:

" We will talk no more on this sub
ject, since it gives you so much pain;
and believe me I would not have mention
ed it at all, if I had not thought it would
have been for your good. I will see Mrs.
Rochefort now."

Emma rose from her chair.

" Before I tell her you are here,"
she said, " let me ask you once more
if you. are perfectly assured of the
truth of all you have just told me."

" I am, perfectly."

"It appears so impossible to me," she
continued, " that I find it very hard to
believe it — very hard. Pardon me, but
by what means has it come to your know
ledge?"

"Mrs. Rochefort, with her own lips,
confessed it to me — and, even more than
this, boasted of it"

" God of heaven!" exclaimed Em
ma, " how cruelly I have been deceiv
ed!"

And then, while her face became dead
ly pale, and her looks told plainly the
strength of the efforts which it cost her
to appear calm, she continued :

" You have caused me much misery,
sir — very much misery. It would have
been far kinder to have left me in ignor
ance of all this. I was unhappy enough
before, but I might yet have known peace
of mind — it is now destroyed forever.
You have taught me almost to hate her
whom I loved with a child's affection;
but for you I would never have known
10

how cruelly she has wronged me: I
would still have had a mother. Now, I
am alone — alone in the wide world; for
from this night— even though I should
be driven to beg for my support — this
shall no longer be my home ! "

Had she marked the looks of her com
panion, at that moment, they must have
betrayed the delight and satisfaction
which he felt, and which he could scarce
ly refrain from openly expressing, as he
listened to her words.

His fondest hopes could never have led
him to dream of a result so fortunate as
this ; he already saw the speedy and suc
cessful consummation of those plans
which, a moment ago, he had almost
trembled for; and great were his inward
rejoicings at his triumph.

" My child," he said, addressing Emma,
with a tone and manner of the most
touching kindness, and pressing both her
hands in his, " my child, for henceforth
you shall be my daughter, and I will be
to you as fond a father as if you were
my own (and he meant this, truly and
sincerely) — you wound me to the heart
by accusing me .of having caused you
misery. All I have told you I meant in
kindness, and in the hope of securing
your future happiness. If I have erred,
forgive me — say you forgive me, Emma,
my daughter?" And he looked be
seechingly in her face.

"I do, I do," she answered, deeply
touched by his words, and the fatherly
kindness of his manner, " you have done
it for the best."

" And you will be my daughter ? 1
am rich; my wealth shall be yours — I
am childless; all my heart's love shall be
centred in you — I am alone in the world;
we will be companions to each other : you
will be my daughter?"

Her heart was too full to speak; she
had found a friend in the depth of her
distress, and she was grateful, deeply
grateful ; but she tried in vain to., express
her gratitude ; she felt a suffocating sen
sation in her throat that deprived her of
all power of words; at leagth, in a fit of
emotion that could not be controlled, she
let her head fall upon his shoulder, and
burst into tears.

146

TOM CROSBIE

Seymour drew her closer to his bosom ;
for the moment, the stern revengeful man
was moved to woman's softness, and, for
the first time since he was a boy, he felt
that his eye was dimmed, as he pressed
his lips, with a father's kiss, upon her
forehead.

After a brief silence, she raised her
head again.

" How can I thank you for this great,
this undeserved goodness ? " she ex
claimed ; " how can I ever hope to repay
it?"

" You hare more than repaid it
already," replied Seymour, softly ; " have
you not consented to be my daugh
ter?"

" If a daughter's duty and affection —
if the devotion of my future life — can
prove my gratitude," said Emma, with
deep feeling, "they shall be yours. I
would say more, but words are idle to
express what I feel here," and she pressed
her hand to her heart.

Again Seymour kissed her fore
head.

" Let that kiss seal our covenant," he
said. "Henceforth we are father and
child. And now to business. You will
leave this house with me to-night."

" No — not to-night," she said hastily,
and in a broken voice — " not to-night. I
•would wish before I go, to — to — see —
Gerald."

" It must not be, Emma. You shall
see him soon, and under happier circum
stances, for I have some little plans and
secrets, which you must not hear at pres
ent; but you must not see him now. It
would only tend to make both wretched,
and no good could possibly result. Give
over this wish, my child, and I promise
that you shall meet again before many
days."

"But when he discovers that I am
gone, what can he think ? "

" He shall know the truth ; his mo
ther shall be left the task of informing
him."

"What? Of every thing ?"

" Of every thing. Unless, as is quite
possible, she should invent another story
to deceive him. 1 will, however, take
care that he shall know the facts."

" And Mrs. Rochefort — he will learn to
despise her — his mother! Oh, it is ter
rible ! it will kill her."

"•Kill her!" cried Seymour, with a
bitter laugh — " we shall see ! She is not
quite so delicate, believe me." Then,
changing his voice to its former tone of
kindness, he continued:

" But come, dearest, do not look so sor-
sowful; you shall soon be happy — far
happier than ever. Come — we will leave
this at once. I will return and arrange
matters here."

" You would not have me leave with
out a word of parting to my — guar
dian?"

" I would. She is your guardian no
longer. An interview with her could not
but be most painful, and besides — '

"I could not do it !" exclaimed Emma;
" I could not leave her for ever, without
a word of farewell — without telling her
the agony it costs me to part from her
thus, after so many years of respect and
love. Oh! I must appear very heart
less and ungrateful! but she cannot
blame me — she cannot blame me, when
she remembers that she had destroyed
my happiness for life — broken my hf^rt,
perhaps ! "

And she sighed bitterly.

" She shall pay dearly for it ! " said
Seymour, sternly ; " before a rnofcth is
over she shall be the inmate of a pri
son ! "

" Never ! " exclaimed Emma — " never
on my account. I will remain with her,
sir; 1 would bear every thing — I would
die, rather than this. It must not be.
If you would leave me any remnant of
happiness, you will promise me that, it
shall not be ! "

And with clasped hands, and tearful
eyes, she stood before him, looking en-
treatingly in his face.

" Well," he replied, seeming as if he
relented, "if you will leave this house
now, at once, it shall be as you wish."

" You promise ? "

"I do, but on this condition only."

" Then I will go with you, and if I am
acting ungratefully, may God forgive
me ! Will you not see her before we
go?"

AND HIS FRIENDS.

"No; I will return immediately; but
would you not wish to leave a line for Ge
rald ? "

" Oh ! I would," she answered eagerly ;
"I would not for worlds that he should
believe me ungrateful! But what can I
say to him?"

" Take a pen, and write as I dictate :
first to his mother, and then to him. It
will be better."

Emma sat down at a table, and drew
the materials before her, but her eyes
were so dimmed that she could scarcely
see the paper.

" Stay," said Seymour, " I will write ;
you can afterwards copy." And ta
king a pen, he wrote rapidly these
words —

" I have discovered all. Hence
forth, deep as may be the sorrow it will
cause me, we cannot live together. Mr.
Seymour has offered me his protection,
and in future I live with him. He will
himself explain everything; I am unable
to do so. It has almost broken my heart
to find that you, whom I loved as a se
cond mother, have acted so cruelly to
wards me ; but I will not reproach you —
I forgive the wrong you have done me,
but I cannot forget it, and, therefore, I
seek another home. I will ever remem
ber with gratitude that as an orphan you
gave me shelter, and, though I take this
step, which you have compelled me to, I
will ever pray for your happiness. I can
say no more. Farewell.

EMMA.

" That will do, I think," he said, when
he had concluded, handing the paper to
Emma. " While you copy that, I will -go
on with Gerald's." And resuming the
pen which he had laid down for a mo
ment, he wrote as follows —

" Circumstances have occurred,
dear Gerald, which make it imperative on
me that I should seek another home.
Your mother will tell you a/1, and explain
tc you why she has heretofore concealed
from you the fact of my having a second
giifirdian. With that guardian I will for
the future reside, but believe me, dear

Gerald, that, in taking this step, I am not
ungrateful for past kindness. You will
hereafter know my reasons, but, until
that time arrives, I beseech you let noth
ing persuade you that my present con
duct springs from ingratitude, or any
other cause than imperative necessity."

This also he handed to Emma, but he
found to his surprise that as yet she had
not copied a syllable of the first.

" How is this ?" he asked — " I thought
you would have finished by this time."

" I cannot," she replied ; " I cannot
bring myself to write such cold and cut
ting words. I; woufd spare her feelings
as much as possible."

" Her feelings ! You know little about
them; but in reality the letter I have
written for you is a thousand times kinder
and more forgiving than she has any
right to expect. Come — take the pen';
or if you do not wish it, you need not
write it at all. I will be the bearer of
any message you choose to send her."

" No, no ! " answered Emma quickly,
" I will write."

And without further hesitation she took
the paper and copied it.

Then came the note to Gerald; to this
she raised no objections, but in spite of
herself a tear fell on the paper as she
added at the end — " God bless you !
dear Gerald, and believe that I am still,
as I shall ever be, sincerely and affection
ately yours, Emma."

Seymour smiled when, in reading over
the note, these words met his eye, but ho
suffered no remark to escape him.

" Let us go now," he said, as soon as
both letters were sealed and directed;
" I will see that these are taken care of;
and, Emma, you must take nothing with
you from this house, except such clothes
as are necessary for walking a short dis
tance through the streets. Get them as
quickly as you can; I would wish, if
possible, to be back before Gerald re
turns."

Emma rose at once and left the room.
She was but a short time absent — scarcely
five minutes — but in those five minutes
her sufferings had been deeper and more
acute than she had ever known before,

148

TOM CROSBIE

and when she returned, Seymour could
see, even through the thick veil she had
drawn before her face, that her eyes were
red and swollen from weeping.

Not another word was exchanged be
tween them; he rang the bell, and then,
drawing her arm within his, they left the
room, and passed down the stairs in
silence. A servant met them in the hall.

" Take this," said Seymour, handing
the letter for Mrs. Rochefort — " give it to
your mistress, and tell her I will be here
again in half an hour. Miss Aubyn is
coming with me."

And they went through the hall, and
out into the street.

Emma made many efforts to speak,
but in vain ; she felt as though she would
have fainted, and it was not until the
fresh, piercing night air revived her,
that she became sufficiently recovered to
think with some degree of calmness on
the step which she had taken — a step
which could never be recalled, and which
left her without one friend in the whole
world — if he in whom she trusted should
deceive her.

CHAPTER XL.

THE THREAT.

To describe the state of Mrs. Roche-
fort's mind when she had read the letter,
which the servant duly delivered, would
be an impossible and hopeless task. As
tonishment, indignation, and terror, in
their turn possessed her, and almost drove
her mad. Astonishment, at the power
which Seymour had so suddenly acquired
over Emma — indignation that the latter
should thus without a moment's notice,
without a word of explanation, have
taken such a step — for of course she was
ignorant of the means which had been
employed to induce her; believing that
the fact of her fortune having been ap
propriated without her knowledge, was

the only one that Seymour had it in his
power to tell her — and terror when she
thought of her son, and of what might
be the consequences when he should dis
cover how she had acted.

This last feeling soon overwhelmed
every other — it deprived her for the time
of reason — all power of thinking c,almly
was at an end — she became helpless as a
child, and with her hands clasped tightly
on her temples, uttering now and then
some incoherent exclamation, she paced
distractedly up and down her chamber.

At length a loud knock at the street
door aroused her, and, with a wild start,
she sprang to the head of the stairs to
listen — fearing that it should be her son
who had returned. But she was relieved
for a moment when she heard Seymour's
voice, saying to the servant:

"Tell your mistress I am here, and
wish to see her instantly."

The words were scarcely spoken, when
she was half-way down the stairs, but
suddenly pausing, she waited until the
girl had come up to deliver her message,
and then, hastening on, with a hectic
flush burning on her cheeks, and her
eyes gleaming wildly, she entered the
parlor, where Seymour stood awaiting
her.

" Villain ! " she cried, advancing to
wards him, and gazing fiercely in his
face — " what is this you have done ?
What frightful crime do you contemplate,
that you have forced this young girl from
her home ? "

" When you have quite done perform
ing the part of a Pythoness," returned
Seymour, scornfully, "and think proper
to use language a little less violent, I may
perhaps give you the information you re
quire."

" Oh God, grant me patience ! " cried
Mrs. Rochefort, "for my trials are very
great;" and then, again addressing Sey
mour, she continued vehemently: "Man!
I ask you what is this you have done?
Why have you taken away this child 1 "

" As to what I have done," he replied
calmly, " you can be at no loss to know ;
and as to having taken away your ward,
I beg at once to undeceive you, by refer-
ing you to her letter, from which you will

AND HIS FRIENDS.

149

perceive that she has acted of her own I
free will."

" Yes ! her own free will ! but what
desperate villany has influenced her to
exercise that will ? What arts and false
hoods have you used to poison her mind
against me?"

" None whatever, Madam. If you will
be good enough to recollect yourself for
a moment, I think you will allow that the
simple truth would be quite sufficient.
This I have told her but nothing more."

"I will not believe it! I cannot be
lieve that the mere fact of my having — "

" Robbed her ! " interrupted Seymour.

" Having appropriated her fortune,"
continued Mrs. Rochefort, without seem
ing to heed him, " could make her take
this step, without a word of notice or ex
planation."

" Oh," said Seymour, sarcastically,
" every one may not think so lightly and
forgivingly of the crime of robbery as
Mrs. Rochefort!"

The wretched woman covered her face
with her hands, and sank into a chair.

" God pity me ! " she cried bitterly,
"for this man has no mercy."

" Mercy ! " repeated Seymour, scorn
fully, "what mercy have you deserved?
Where was your mercy when you crushed
the heart that loved you better than all
things on earth, or in heaven — wben you
drove to madness and desperation one
who, but for you, might have won from
the world a proud and honorable name,
instead of being plunged into a career of
vice and villany — changing this world to
a hell, that leaves no terrors for the next !
Woman, you have changed me to a,
devil!"

And he dashed his clenched hand
against his forehead.

"You ask me," he resumed, "why I
have taken away this girl. Listen, and
you shall hear — to be an instrument of
punishment for the wrong you have done
to her; and to aid me in the fulfillment
of that revenge which I have sworn
against you and yours ! "

" Aid you ! how ? She has never in
jured you. You would not destroy her ? "

" Her! Not for a thousand worlds!"
cried Seymour, with strong feeling; "I

will cherish her while I live, and at my
death she shall be mistress of all I pos
sess on earth. When you are rotting in
a jail, or begging from door to door, the
orphan you have robbed, whom you
would have left to starve, shall shine the
proudest amongst those who have cast
you off forever, and with whom in future
your iiaiiif shall be a bye-word and a
scorn ! If you can glean any comfort
from this knowledge, you are welcome to
it!"

Mrs. Rochefort rose calmly from her
chair. It seemed as though a powerful
struggle had been going on in her mind
for the last few minutes, and that at
length she had formed her resolution.

" You are deceived," she said, speak
ing in a clear distinct tone, that for the
moment alarmed Seymour not a little —
" you are deceived in thinking that I will
submit to this; the worm at last will
turn upon the foot that crushes it. My
course is now clear before me, and you
shall find that I, too, can be determined ;
this night my son shall be informed of
everything."

" Such is my intention ! " answered
Seymour, calmly ; "for that purpose I ana
now here — "

"What! and you will dare to face
him when he has learned all your vil
lany?"

"I will dare more than that, Madam;
for \A*ith my own lips I will tell him all
that 1 have done; and moreover, all that
you have done! So you see you are not
likely to gain any very great advantage
by your determination."

" If he knew," cried Mrs. Rochefort,
with a mother's pride, "if my boy knew
one half of the misery you have caused
his parents — one tithe of the insults you
have offered to his mother — he would
crush you to the earth, if you had a
thousand lives ! and he shall know it ! "

Seymour saw that the game he was
now playing would be a losing one, if he
could not manage his card more skillfully;
it would not suit his purpose at all, not
withstanding what he had a moment be
fore asserted, to encounter Gerald just
then, and as he did not know the instant
he might return, he determined to add

!50

TOM CROSBIE

one other stroke of villany to those he
had been already guilty of, in order to
recover his power over Mrs. Rochefort.

He had spoken the truth when he said
that she had changed him to a devil.
He was desperate now, and placing him
self before her, while his cheek flushed,
and his eye assumed that terrible glance
which had so often terrified her when
he was a boy, he boldly avowed the hell
ish determination he had formed.

" Mark me ! " he exclaimed, seizing
her arm, as with a vice, " the time has
now come when all scruples must be
thrown aside — heaven nor hell shall baulk
me in what I have sworn to perform !
Attend well now to what I am about to
say, for it will be for your own advantage
as well as mine that you should act as I
direct. I love this girl who has been
your ward — you need not start — as a
daughter I love her. She has found her
way to a heart that I had believed for
ever hardened against the world and
against my kind — she may be the means
yet of restoring me to something of the
happiness I have lost"

And his voice became softened as he
spoke.

" i wish to find if I cannot make one
human being love me; I am alone — she
has promised to be my daughter. I
must keep her! you hear — I say I must
keep her 1 To enable me to do this, your
son must be told the same story which I
have already told Emma, and which you
have confirmed, namely, that I am in re
ality her guardian. You can invent what
excuses you please for never having in
formed him of such a fact until now, and
that will end the matter.

" You will thus be saved the shame of
detection on account of the money you
have spent — you will be relieved from
the burden of supporting the girl any
longer — and in every way it will be
more to your advantage than to have the
entire matter become known, which would
insure eternal disgrace on you, and ruin
the prospects of your son forever."

Mrs. Rochefort smiled scornfully.

" You need say no more," she exclaim
ed; "I will rather bear every evil your
malice can inflict, than be any longer

at your mercy. Were I now to act as
you desire, you would to-morrow break
through all your promises as you have
done before. Your power is over, tempt
er ! I defy you ! "

"Think again," said Seymour, with a
forced calmness that boded the bursting
forth of a storm — " think again before
you refuse. You had better ! "

" I have thought already — my resolu
tion is fixed — unchangeably fixed. Once
more I tell you, I defy you ! "

"Then, by heaven!" he cried, vehe
mently, "you shall curse the hour you
did so ! Had you yielded to my will, I
might have spared you — for the sake of
her who shall henceforth be my child, I
might have spared you; but now, now 1
will crush you, mind, and heart, and
soul, as you have crushed me, without
pity, and without remorse!"

And he ground his teeth together in
the fury of his passion.

But Mrs. Rochefort was no longer the
timid, broken-spirited woman he had so
long triumphed over; she had resolved
to make all the atonement in her power
for the past, by pursuing a right course
in future, and the consciousness of this
good resolution gave her new strength to
uphold her through the present trial.
She met this outbreak of his rage un
flinchingly, and, looking steadily in his
face, replied:

"I no longer fear you! What more is
there in your power than to tell my son
that which I am myself resolved to tell
him! and you will then be more in his
pqwer than either he or I in yours. What
infatuation has been over me that I have
not done this before ! "

"Woman!" cried Seymour, "you do
not know what I am capable of doing, if
you drive me to desperation."

"You mistake; I know full well thai
you are capable of every villany that
could enter the mind of man."

" And, believing this, you still defy
me!"

" Yes ! a thousand times, yes ! "

" Then mark me ! I will do that which
shall make you such an object of loathing
to your child, that, rather than live the
son of such a mother, he will lift his owa

AND HIS FRIENDS.

151

against his life — that he will forfeit
his soul in the next world, ruther than
endure in this the disgrace that your name
will bring upon him — and go to his doom
calling down curses on you with his dying
breath ! "

" Oh, God ! " cried Mrs. Rochefort, in
•horror, "what a fiend has this man be
come ! "

" A fiend ! yes, and who has made me
one ? but you little dream of what I will
yet do to deserve the name! You think,
perhaps, that my threats are idle ? "

" I care not what they are. I despise
them!"

Seymour saw that she was resolute —
every moment was precious — there re
mained but one desperate chance for his
success — and, forgetting every feeling of
honor and of manhood, he resolved to
hazard it

"Remember you have driven me to
this," he said, in a deep hoarse voice; " a
few words might have saved you — might
yet save you, if you consent" —

"Never!" exclaimed Mrs. Rochefort;
"I hold no faith with you in future — do
your worst! "

" Listen, then ! " And advancing close
beside her, he continued, in a voice that
seemed to hiss out the words, rather than
speak them — " Your son already knows
the story of his father's ruin — he knows
that I was the cause of it — that the en
tire of his property was mortgaged to me,
and is still in my possession ; and know
ing all this, what, think you will be his
feelings, when he discovers that since that
father's death, you have carried on an in
tercourse with me — that you have done so
secretly — and that within the last few
months, you joined with me in a plot to
make your ward believe that I, as well as
you, had been named her guardian —
when he discovers all this, 1 say, what
can he think ? Must he not believe that
you had some powerful motive for acting
as you have done ? and, once suspicion is
awakened, will it not be a task of but
Uttle difficulty to convince him that" —

He paused.

"What! For God's sake, what?"
cried Mrs. Rochefort, pale and breathless
from an undefined alarm.

"Can you not conjecture?" he asked
slowly, as if glorying in the torture of
her suspense.

"No, no! in mercy, speak at 02. ce!
What would you convince him ? "

Seymour stooped his head close to her
ear, and, in a tone that pierced her very
brain, whispered:

"That his father was dishonored!"

His victim sprang from her chair into
the very centre of the room; stood for
an instant gazing towards him, her eyes
distended, and her face livid as death
with horror ; and then, pressing her hands
upon her forehead, as though she felt
that her mind was wandering, she stag
gered to a table, but for the support of
which, she would have fallen to the
ground.

" God of mercy! " she cried, in a voice
scarcely audible from excess of surprise
and terror — " can such a villain be the
work of thy hand ? Can man made in
thy image, be given a mind to prompt
him to such hellish thoughts?"

"I told you you little dreamed of
what I was capable," said Seymour, re
covering his calmness now that his villany
was avowed ; " remember you have driv
en me to it; the consequences be upon
your own head ! But, even still it is in
your power to avert your ruin — consent
to make to your son the explanation I de
sire, and I hold my peace."

As he said this he again drew near her,
but, with a look of unutterable loathing,
she motioned him to keep back, exclaim
ing:

" If you are human — if a rtmnant of
manly feeling yet lingers in your nature
—leave me! My brain is turning to fire
— my heart is bursting — reason can bear
no more ! "

And with clasped hands, and straining
eyes, she stood before him — a piclure of
hopeless misery and despair. But Sey
mour was unmoved.

" Let there be an end to this acting- ! "
he said, scornfully; "you should by this
time have learned its fruitlessntss* to
change my purpose. Turn your thoughts
to what may still save you — a few min
utes more, and it will be too late, for, so
sure as there is a heaven above us, it

132

TOM CROSBIE

your son returns -while I am here, I will
fulfill my threat ! Consent to what I have-
demanded, and I leave you now — for
ever."

What could the wretched woman do ?
There was no hope that her enemy would
relent — she dare not risk the fearful
chance of his failing to convince her son
that she was guilty ; circumstances were
too strong against her; the crime was
one of which she could never prove her
innocence, and she could not bear the
thought that even a doubt of her virtue —
the slightest shadow of suspicion against
her honor — should find its way into the
mind of her own child, to poison it against
his mother.

The power of her intellect was shaken
by the horrible shock she had received,
and what remained for her to do but
yield?

True, by consenting to Seymour's de
mand, she would place herself more firmly
than ever in his power ; but, he had prom
ised that on such condition, he would be
silent; that he would leave her then for
ever; and, though the same promise had
before been unscrupulously broken, yet,
as the drowning man will catch at straws,
she thought it better to trust even to such
a chance as this, than, by defying him
any longer, bring down upon her head
the fearful vengeance he had threatened.

And so, in a fatal moment, after a
long and terrible struggle, she gave the
promise he required.

In triumph he left the house; and
scarcely had the door closed upon him,
when Gerald, with a heart overflowing
with happiness and bright anticipations,
returned — little dreaming how soon that
happiness should be turned into bitter
ness and sorrowing.

Seymour, on leaving Mrs. Rochefort,
had given to the servant, Emma's note
for Gerald, desiring her to deliver it the
instant he returned; which, accordingly,
she did.

"Without proceeding any further than
the hall, he opened, and read it; and, no
sooner had he done so, than he uttered
an exclamation that nearly terrified the
girl out of her senses; and, turning
towards her with a look which scarcely |

left her able to tell whether she was
standing on her head or her heels, de
manded fiercely:

"What is all this? Where is Miss
Aubyn ? "

" Oh Lord ! sir, I do n't know — she 'a
gone out, sir" —

" When ? where ? with whom ? why
don't you answer, and not stand there
staring like a fool ? "

" Oh, my goodness ! " cried the unfor
tunate girl, utterly confounded and over
whelmed at this language from one who
had never been known to speak a cross
word to a servant in his life — " Oh, my
goodness! sir, sure it's not my fault — I
did n't know, indeed, sir."

" Did n't know what, woman ? "

" Nothin' sir ! not a ha'p'orth ! I could
declare, if I was dyin' I know no more
about it than nobody ! "

" Do you want to drive me mad ? "
cried Gerald ; " I ask you when did Miss
Aubyn leave the house ? "

" This evenin', sir, after dark."

" Was she alone ? "

" No sir ; the gentleman was with her."

"What gentleman?"

"I do n't know, sir — the same as left
the letter."

" Could n't you have said so at once ?
where is your mistress ? "

" Oh ! sir, she 's in the parlor, a-cryin' .
like a baby ! "

He waited to hear no more, but,
throwing open the door, sprang into the
room.

"Mother!" he exclaimed, "what is all
this? In the name of God what has
happened ? "

But he received no answer. Mrs.
Rochefort sat beside a table with her face
resting on her extended arms; and,
when he approached and endeavored to
raise her head, he found that she had
fainted.

For several minutes every effort to re
cover her proved unavailing, and when
at length they partially succeeded, the
first signs of life were instantly followed
by violent hysterics, which so terrified
Gerald that, thinking she was dying, he
rushed from the house to seek a physi
cian.

AND HIS FRIENDS.

153

In his absence, however, with the
assistance of her maid, she became
restored; and he having, in his haste,
fortunately dropped Emma's note, she
was enabled before his return to learn/
its contents, and to be in some degree
prepared to answer his inquiries which
it would be impossible for her to have
done without confusion, had she remain
ed in ignorance of the nature of the in
formation he had already received.

Before he retired to bed that night, she
had told him the story which Seymour
had taught her, and which had before
been told to Emma; accounting for her
previous silence by assigning as the cause,
that "as Seymour had been in a distant
country and might probably never return,
she thought it better to be entirely silent
on the subject, than disturb his mind —
as she felt it would do — by acquainting
him with the fact that she Avas in any wny
connected with him who had caused their
ruin."

So far, Gerald was satisfied, but he
could not at all understand why Emma,
to whom, as he believed, his mother's kind
ness had been so great, should thus so
suddenly and unaccountably have left
her protection, for that of a perfect
stranger.

Her note said that his mother would
explain everything, but, instead of that,
he found she could give no explanation
whatever, further than that Seymour had
returned — had asserted his claims as a
guardian — and had taken her away with
out a moment's notice.

However, he determined that on the
morrow he would sift matters to the bot
tom, and, if he found that Emma had
not acted of her own free will, take such
steps as should at once restore her to her
home; and as to Seymour, he resolved
that he would thwart him in every possi
ble manner — never for a moment doubt
ing that his only object in removing the
poor girl from his mother's care, was to
bring fresh grief and trouble to those he
bad already ruined.

But when the morrow came, it brought
with it, as it ever does, its own share of
evil — evil which, coming upon him at
such a time, when he had believed his

happiness secure, when the future ap
peared so bright and full of promise, fell
with a double share of bitterness.

CHAPTER XLI.

THE LETTER.

After a wakeful and restless night, Ge
rald had at length fallen into a sort of
sleep in which his fancy, free and un
trammelled, flitted busily through the
bright and pleasant changes of "morn
ing's winged dream," when he was rude
ly disturbed by the tones of no very
gentle voice, from outside the door of his
chamber, exclaiming: "Are you awake,
sir ? are you awake ? "

The propounder of this question seemed
resolved that it should be no fault of hers
if the reply was not in the affirmative;
for she accompanied every repetition of
the words by sundry applications of her
knuckles to the pannels, sufficient to have
aroused him, even if his sleep had been
the consequence of reading one of the
novels of a certain noble author — com
pared with whose lucubrations "not pop
py, nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy
sirups of the world," can be considered
worth one farthing as soporifics.

" Are yo\i awake, sir ? " cried the Abi
gail — "are you awa — ake?" And she
shook the handle of the door furiously.

"Confound your uproar!" exclaimed
Gerald, starting up in the bed — " who do
you think could sleep with such an infer
nal clatter outside his door ? What the
devil do you want ? "

" Here 's a letter, sir."

"Then why don't you bring it in? "

"Please, sir, I couldn't."

"Why not? what's to prevent you?"

" Sure you 're in bed, sir ! " simpered
the vestal.

Gerald, in spite of himself, could not
help laughing.

"Oh, if that 'sail, Mary," he said, "you
may safely venture — there 's uo danger ! "

154

TOM OROSBIE

And, considering that nature had en
dowed the said Mary with the protective
qualities of a fiery red head, and a skin
like a camelopard's it may easily be im
agined that, in any case, the risk would
not have been very great — unless, in
deed, the chamber happened to be tenant
ed by "an insane Gaffer, or some other
individual of an equal fastidious nature.

Still, however, she hesitated, until at
length, losing all patience, Gerald jumped
from the bed, and, sans calotte as he was,
threw open the door.

" Ob, Lord ! " cried the horrified dam
sel — " oh ! sir ! oh, gracious me ! oh, fie
for shame ! " And converting her apron
into a veil, she turned aside her head
while she handed him the letter.

As soon as he had snatched it from
her, he banged the door in her face, but
her voice might have been heard as she
descended the stairs, muttering : " Well !
if ever I see sich a sight as that! Oh,
dear me ! men is shockin' undelicate —
shockin ' ! — but for all that, he has the
beautifullest pair of legs! sich calves!
and sich lily-white skin ! for all the world
like a lady's buzzom ! I never did see
sich a exflunctifyin' apparition! It's a
marcy I did n't get the hustericks, and
go off in a swound. Oh my ! oh my !
sich calves!" And so on, until the
sounds grew "beautifully less," as she
descended to the dusky regions of her
own legitimate domain.

But the gratification which Gerald
must naturally have experienced, had her
eulogies on his nether man reached his
ears, was unfortunately lost to him ; inas
much as he had all this time been intent
upon the letter; and what were the feel
ings with which he read it, may be con
ceived from its contents. Here they are.

" Sir,

" On behalf of my ward, Miss Emma
Aubyn, I beg to apprise you that, in the
course of a few days, the time will hatfe
arrived when she will be legally entitled
to the sum of one thousand pounds, be
queathed her by her mother, and placed
for her use in the hands of Mrs. Roche-
fort, at the period when she was first con

signed to the guardianship of that lady;
and as I am informed that the latter has
long since appropriated this money to her
own use, I wish to give you timely notice,
in order that you may be enabled to meet
the demand when it shall be made.

" I am particularly influenced to this step
by the belief that you have been hitherto
kept entirely ignorant of every circum
stance connected with the subject, and,
though you are a stranger to me, it would
cause me the deepest regret should you
in any way become a sufferer from the
consequences of a transaction of which
you had no knowledge.

" However, in a case of this nature, no
personal feelings can be allowed to inter
fere, and, if the money is not forthcoming,
it will be my painful duty to take such
steps for its recovery as will inevitably
make the matter public; in which case
you will, of course, though unjustly, be
involved in the disgrace which <must fall
upon your mother; and, from circum
stances which have lately come to my
knowledge, I greatly fear that such an
event, occurring just at the present time,
would, in all probability, destroy your
prospects and happiness for life.

"It will be necessary, therefore, that
you lose no time in exerting yourself to
procure the money, particularly as I am
afraid you will find it a matter of no small
difficulty to raise so large a sum, without
better security than you can at present
offer.

"With regard to the removal of Miss
Aubyn, I presume you are by this time
aware that my claims as her guardian are
equal to those of Mrs. Rochefort, although
hitherto she has been left solely to the
care of the latter. On my return to this
country after an absence of many years,
I discovered some painful circumstances
which led me to believe that your mother
had but ill fulfilled her duties, and upon
inquiry she herself confessed to me the
fact of her having applied to her own use
the sum which had been confided to her
in trust for her ward. This circumstance
I looked upon as a sufficient reason that
I should at once assert my claims, and in
future take upon myself the protection
of Miss Aubyn.

AND HIS FRIENDS.

155

"I have therefore done so, and hence
forth she will remain with me — which she
does of her own free will and choice. For
the present, however, we this morning-
leave town for some days, and will not re
turn before the 26th of the month; at
which time she will be legally entitled to
her fortune. On that day, therefore, it
shall be duly demanded of Mrs. Roche-
fort, and, for your sake, I trust she may
be fully prepared, so that no evil conse
quences may ensue. Meanwhile, I beg
to remain, <fcc., &c.

" GEORGE SEYMOUR."

For many minutes after he had read
this death-warrant to the bright hopes
which but a few short hours before had
pictured a cloudless future, Gerald paced
to and fro his chamber, like one distract
ed. It was a crushing blow to fall upon
him at such a time as this — a terrible and
crushing blow ! At first he could scarce
ly believe it possible that the accusation
against his mother was not a gross and
wicked falsehood; if Emma had been
left this money, he must have heard it;
such a circumstance would never have
been concealed from him.

But then he remembered that he had
never been told she had a second guar
dian, and if this fact had been withheld
from him, why not the other? Thus by
degrees the conviction forced itself upon
him that it was all too true, until at length
every doubt departed from his mind, and
he groaned aloud as he thought of the
ruin that must inevitably follow.

But perhaps what increased the bitter
ness of his feelings more than all, was the
tone of affected^ kindness of the letter.
To think that the destroyer of his family
— for he knew by what means his father
had been ruined — should dare assume
towards him the language of pity and re
gret — should presume to force upon him
this mockery of good-will at the very mo
ment when he was about to overwhelm
him with disgrace and shame, was a ter
rible addition to his torture.

Seymour had studied deeply before he
wrote that letter; it was intended to
wound cruelly, and could he but have
known how successfully it had fulfilled

its aim — how sharp were the daggers it
sent home to the heart of his victim, even
his revenge must have been satisfied. It
was in every respect a master-stroke of
deceit and villany ; he calculated — and
calculated wisely — that before Gerald
should receive it, his mother would have
committed herself beyond the power of
escape by acknowledging the matter of
the guardianship, and, with a deviKsh
cunning, argued that the unfortunate
woman, rather than brave the desperate
vengeance he had threatened, would con
fess every charge he made against her;
and thus place both so entirely within his
power, that he should be able to accom
plish his designs against them in any way
he might hereafter choose, without the
slightest fear of their escaping him.

He believed that it would be impossi
ble for Gerald, situated as he was, to
procure the money in so short a lime,
and though he knew that, even had he
really been Emma's guardian, he could
never have recovered a shilling of her
fortune, as it had been placed in Mrs.
Rochefort's hands merely as a trust,
without any legal form whatever, and
even without acknowledgment; still he
trusted to the chance of Gerald's not
being aware of this, and that when his
mother should own to him the fact of
having received the money as the portion
of her ward, he would take it for granted
that she had placed herself within the
power of the law by applying it to her
own purposes; or even if he should dis
cover the true state of the case, yet that
the fear of disgrace and of having the
matter made public would, he believed,
be quite sufficient to keep him still \yith-
in his influence.

His plans had all been laid with the
cunning of the serpent, and the time, as
he thought, had at length arrived when
they were to be crowned with even
greater success than he had ever hoped
for. •

It may be easily imagined that he had
written the letter entirely without Emma's
knowledge, and as to his assertion that
they were that morning to leave town,
it was nothing more than a ruse to pre
vent Gerald's taking any steps to seek

150

TOM CROSBIE

him out and demand an explanation at
bis bands.

On the previous night, immediately af
ter his gross falsehoods had induced her
to take the step of banishing herself from
the protection of her former guardian, he
bad removed her to his own dwelling — a
small but handsomely appointed house in
one of the most private streets at the
south side ; of which he begged that she
would in future consider herself the mis
tress ; and, indeed, in every respect, noth
ing could possibly have been kinder or
more delicately managed than her recep
tion and the arrangements of her comfort.

There, for the present, we must leave
her, while we return to Gerald and his
mother.

No words can describe the state of
mind into which the former was plunged
by the discoveries of the last few hours.
So overwhelmingly had they come upon
him, that it seemed more like a terrible
dreum than anything else, and for some
time his brain continued in such a whirl
of confusion as to turn his thoughts into
a chaos that entirely deprived him of all
power of action.

At length, however, he became in
some degree restored to his presence of
mind, and dressing with all the haste he
could, he proceeded to his mother's cham
ber.

The interview that there took place
between them we shall not attempt to
describe. Suffice it to say that Sey
mour's judgment had not deceived him;
Mrs. Rochefort was too firmly in the snare
he had set for her, to attempt escape now ;
and though struck with horror at his des
perate villany, and crushed down to the
earth with shame before her son, her
dread of his further vengeance was still
too great to suffer her to make a free
confession of the entire matter, and she
therefore adhered to her story of the pre
vious night, acknowledged that his accu
sation against her of having defrauded
her ward, was, alas, too true. /

Gerald saw that the shame and re
morse she felt were far greater punish
ments than any upbraidings on his part
could inflict, and though he could not
conceal from himself the fact that by her

conduct she had forfeited his respect and
esteem for ever, still he pitied her from
the bottom of his heart, and during the
entire interview, not one harsh word did
he suffer to escape him.

" Mother," he said, as he rose to leave
the room, "set your mind at rest, if the
sacrifice of all I possess on earth is ne
cessary to procure this money, it shall be
made. This villain, Seymour, shall have
no further triumph ! "

And before she had time to express the
gratitude, the mother's pride and love,
that were burning on her lips, he had left
her.

We have already seen how the prom
ise thus given was fulfilled ; we have wit
nessed his interview with the old usurer,
and the sacrifice he then consented to, as
the condition of receiving the necessary
sum; and as we have now brought our
story to the point where we began it, we
shall, with the permission of the kind
reader, and in utter defiance of the«»kind,
return to some of our dramatis personal,
whom we have so long lost sight of.

CHAPTER XLIL

HOW MR. CROSBIE SPENDS HIS MORNING.

When last we had the pleasure of be
holding Mr. Dennis Connor, it was, if I
rightly remember, after that interview
with his employer wherein he received
instructions to establish himself with all
possible speed in Gerald's service, in or
der that a system of espionage on the
actions of the latter might be forthwith
commenced; and we have seen in what
manner the confidence which the usurer
had placed in his eccentric agent was
likely to be rewarded.

The reader will be good enough to re
member that the interview above men
tioned took place immediately after Mr.
Connor had thought proper to take Tom
Crosbie into his councils; upon the occa-

AND HIS FRIENDS.

15?

sion of a certain letter being intrusted to
his care, which letter, instead of being
duly delivered as directed, was feloniously
detained by those worthy conferrers.

Having so far refreshed the reader's
memory, we will now request that he, or
she, may do us the favor to accompany
us in a morning visit to the boarding-
house of Mrs. Taylor.

Scarcely had the breakfast-things been
removed, when a thundering single knock
resounded at the door, and, on its being
opened by Tom himself, Mr. Dennis Con
nor appeared on the steps, in the act of
withdrawing his eye from the key-hole.

"Well, Dinny the cute," said Tom,
" what mischief is in the wind now ? have
you brought any more letters to be open
ed ? or have you come to make me your
father confessor, after murdering your
worthy master ? if that's it, I give you
absolution without any farther trouble."

"Tis n't it, then," replied Mr. Connor,
"an' more's the pity ! for many an hon-
esther man nor ever he was was hanged.
He's a rayal ould villyan, I'm thinkin',
but, plase God, we'll make him say his
pray'rs afore long — we'll tach him his A
B C afther a new fashion ! "

" Why, Dinny, is he at anything new ? "

"He's at divilmintf" replied Mr. Con
nor, with strong emphasis — " that's what
he's at! but that's nothin' new. It's a
long story, Masther Tom, an' I'd rather
tell it where there's no ears barrin' your
own to hear it."

"Well, come in," said Tom, "come to
my bed-room and tell me all about it."

And, followed by his ragged acquaint
ance, he ascended the stairs.

In a very few minutes, Mr. Connor
had put him in possession of all the cir
cumstances of his last interview with his
employer, while doing which, the inter
ruption he met with from Tom's frequent
exclamations of indignation and astonish
ment, confused him not a little.

"Well, Dinny, you rascal," said Mr.
Crosbie, when the tale had been conclu
ded, " I'll forgive you all the mischief you
ever did, and all the lies you ever told,
while you were my valet, for your conduct
on this occasion. You're not so great a
scoundrel as I thought."

"I'm no betther nor my neighbors,"
returned Mr. Connor, depreciatingly,
though evidently pleased at this compli
ment from his old master — "I'm no bet
ther nor my neighbors, Masther Tom,
but I'd scorn to be a spy ! "

And he spoke this with as much pride
in the assertion, as though the feeling
that prompted it had descended to him
through a thousand noble generations.

"I'll tell you what it is," he continued,
in a more excited tone than he was usual
ly wont to indulge — " that ould thief in
sulted me — you're a gentleman, Misther
Crosbie, an' can undherstand how a poor
boy, 'ithout a fardin' in his pocket, or a
skreed on his back, has his feelin's as well
as thim that rowl about in carri'ges — the
ould naygur insulted me, I say, an' if it
was for nothin' else than that, I'll have
my revenge of him!" And he dashed
his extraordinary hat upon the floor.

"Come, come, Dinny," said Tom,
"don't be so wicked — I'll help you to un
mask the old vagabond, but we must
keep quiet. I can't for the life of me
understand his object in wishing to injure
Mr. Rochefort."

"No, sir, nor I ayther, but I'll find it
out afore twenty-four hours is over my
head, or I'll give you lave to ate me ! "

"Thank you!" said Tom; "I have
no doubt you'd made a very nice din
ner, but just at present my appetite is
rather delicate, and I'd prefer something
more tender. However, we can talk of
that another time. I think we better set
to work at once, and the first thing to be
done is to see Mr. Rochefort. So come
along." And in a few minutes they were
in the street.

As they left the house, Miss Mac Xab,
who had not yet ascended from the par
lor, in the fear of meeting her persecutor,
happened to look out of the window,
and, perceiving that he it was who had
just gone out, she cast one "long linger
ing look" after his retreating figure, and
as he reached the vanishing point in the
perspective, exclaimed with awfully im
pressive bitterness: —

"There you go, Tom Crosbie, you
heartless villain, and — that you may never
come back ! "

158

TOM OROSBIE

CHAPTER XLIII.

THE PLOT THICKENS.

" Gerald, my boy, how are you ? De
lighted I've caught you at home ! " said
Tom, as he entered the room where the
former sat writing at a table — "come,
throw aside that billet doux for the pre
sent; you can finish it by 'nd by — the lady
will lose nothing by the delay, for I'll
help you with a few metaphors when
business is concluded. Swan-like neck,
snowy bosom, golden hair, diamond eyes,
ruby lips, pearly teeth, and all that sort of
thing ; original in the highest degree, you
know, and if we're at a loss for a word or
two, {here's a jeweller's shop in the next
street. We'll make her out a sort of ani
mated Golconda, or compare her to one of
the pieces of raw beef brought up by the
eagles from Sinbad's 'Valley of Diamonds.'
There's an idea for you, you dog ! " And
Mr. Crosbie slapped his bewildered friend
upon the shoulder.

"Well, Crosbie," said Gerald, laugh
ing, when at last he was able to get in a
word, " I believe if you were sentenced to
speak seriously for five minutes, it would
be your death. Were you ever serious
since you were born ? "

" Serious ! " repeated Tom. " Sir, you
insult me by the question ! In compari
son with me, Calvin was a clown, and
Martin Luther a merryandrew ! When I
was a prime minister to the king of Ash-

antee, his majesty surnamed me the 1

need n't repeat the words, since you
don't understand the language, but in
the vernacular they signify — the ' sugar-
stick of sense,' and the 'winnowing
machine of wisdom.' What do you think
of that, sir? What are the honorary
titles and humbugs of Europe, compared
with those ? Was Sir Robert Peel ever
called a sugar-stick of sense, let me ask
you? or Lord Melbourne a winnowing-
machine of wisdom ? No, sir ! nor never
will! The majesty of England has its
gold-stick, and its silver-stick, but it never
yet has been able to find a man suf

ficiently saccharine to enable him to be
called a swyar-stick ! "

" I humbly ask pardon of your sweet
ness!" laughed Gerald; "in future I
shall consider Solomon a fool to you, and
the ' Wise Men of Gotham' a society of
numsculls. But, what's the matter with
you now ? you seem to have grown
thoughtful all in a minute ; nothing un
pleasant has occurred between you and
your 'intended,' Miss Mac Nab, I hope?"

"Oh! by the powers of love!" cried
Tom, " I must tell you about that before
we go any further." And with the most
inimitable mimicry of his unfortunate
victim's voice, look and manner, he went
over the whole scene of the morning,
until Gerald's continued bursts of laugh
ter had almost brought on a fit of apo
plexy.

" And now," said Tom, when his story
was concluded, " we'll come to business,
as the hangman said to the poor woman
as he withdrew her from the arms of her
son — ' now to bus'ness, ma'am,' says he ;
'people can't be always amusin' them
selves!' In the first place, then" — and
here he laid aside his usual devil-may-
care manner, assuming in its place a
tooe of interest, and straight forward
manly sympathy, that won Gerald's con
fidence in a moment — "in the first place,
my dear Gerald — and I know you won't
think me intrusive for thus interfering in
so delicate a matter — I must tell you that
I have discovered one or two of your
secrets, which perhaps you would rather
had not come to the ears of suclua har
um-scarum individual as your humble
servant However, that can't now be
helped ; so there's no use in saying any-
ing about it; but just let me tell you
how the matter happened."

And he proceeded to detail the circum
stances of Mr. Connor's first visit, and
how that gentleman had informed him of
certain matters, which induced him to
suspect mischief, and to consider himself
warranted in opening the note to Mr.
Franks — which note he now produced,
and placed it in the hands of his aston
ished companion.

"Read that," said Tom, "and perhaps
it may open your eyes a bit."

AND HIS FRIENDS.

159

And Gerald did read it, and it most
assuredly had the effect that Mr. Cros-
bie anticipated, for it succeeded in open
ing his eyes, not only " a bit," but to the
utmost possible width to which they
were capable of being extended. Here
are the contents: —

" Sir — If you value the happiness of
your daughter, you will, for the present at
least, suffer matters to proceed no further
between her and the person you have
chosen for her husband. The writer of
this caution, though for certain reasons
he cannot as yet appear in his proper per
son, is a -friend who is deeply interested
in both parties, and it is solely with their
welfare in view that he now acts. His
advice, however, is, that the visits of Mr.
Rochefort may be permitted to continue
as usual for a few days, in the course of
which, circumstances now involved in some
doubt, shall be investigated, and the re
sult made known to you." .

" By heavens ! " exclaimed Gerald,
dashing his hand upon the table, " the old
villain shall pay dearly for this. I will
go to him this instant. Crosbie, you will
accompany me? there is some mystery
here that must be unravelled" —

"Take things quietly, my dear fellow,"
said Tom. " We '11 walk into him before
long, with the blessing of the Lord ; but
there 's no hurry — the longer we let him
run his own course, the surer we '11 have
him at the end. He 's a nice specimen
of that respectable class called 'elderly
gentlemen,' I fancy. But, Gerald, have
you any idea of his motives for acting
towards you as he has done?"

" Not the slightest. Until a night or
two ago, I never saw him to my knowl
edge, though at times during our in
terview, there was something — an un
defined feeling — that he was not a stran
ger. However, 1 have in vain endeavor
ed to call up any memory of how,
when, or whore we ever met, if we met
at all."

"It is the strangest thing I ever heard."
said Tom ; " for my part 1 can make nei
ther head nor tail of it, but, please the
fates, I won 't be long so — it 's odd if we

do n't unkennel the old fox, and when we
do, perhaps we won't run him to earth in
a style that Melton itself might be proud
of! Yoicks! my boy! cheer up ; Le little
knows this morning the pleasant surprise
that's preparing for him! But I quite
forgot to tell you that Denny the cute is
waiting outside all this time."

"We'll have him in this moment," said
Gerald ; " but before he comes, Crosbie,
I must tell you how deeply I thank you
for your conduct in this affair. 1 trust I
may yet have it in my power to do you a
similar service."

" Thank you kindly," said Tom, with a
low bow, "you 're mighty civil, but if it's
all the same to you, I'd rather you'd
never have the power to do any such
thing. I'm bad enough, Lord knows, al
ready, without being made the hero of a
second edition of the mysteries of Udol-
pho. No, no, Gerald, my boy, nothing
of the kind! And as to thanks — just
keep them until I ask for them."

And so saying, Mr. Crosbie left the
room for the purpose of summoning
Dennis to the conference.

"Well, my mysterious friend," said
Gerald, as Mr. Connor made a graceful
obeisance at the door, "so I find that
you 've been committing felony on my
behalf Sit down and tell me all about
it."

And Mr. Connor did sit down with a
degree of coolness and at-homeishness,
plainly indicating that mauvaise honte
formed no part whatever of his charac
ter.

" Now, Dinny, you scoundrel," said
Tom, "tell Mr. Rochefort everything you
have already told me, and don't be all
day about it.''

"I won't be while a cat 'ud be lickin'
her ear," replied Mr. Connor, and without
any further preamble he plunged into his
story, which he told with a degree of
brevity quite astonishing for him.

"And you tell me," said Gerald, " that
this employer of yours does not live in
the old house where I visited him ? "

"Yes, sir; sure enough he doesn't.
If he did he 'd be mighty apt to know
what sort of a bite a rat can give, for of
all the places ever I seen, that same old

160

TOM CROSBIE

house flogs for the infernal varmint — bad
luck to thim."

"But you know where he does live,
Dinny, don 't you ? " asked Tom.

" May be I could make a guess," re
plied Mr. Connor, modestly.

" Come, then, out with it!"

" Oh, faix a snug spot he lives in — a
body might sleep there long enough afore
the rats 'ud come to ate a supper off his
nose — divle sind thim an appetite! it's
thim that 's hard to be plased. But sure
it's no wondher the poor ignorant bastes
should bite the nose off a poor boy like
me, whin I hear people say the quality
ates the pope's nose — Christ save us! "

And here Mr. Connor indulged in a
gesture indicative of his reverend horror
at the profanity of such desperate canni
balism.

"How did you discover the fact of your
worthy master's having a different resi
dence ? " asked Tom.

"Bedad, Masther Tom, the same way
a 'ttorney (sweet bad luck to thim !) once
behaved like a Christian — by chance.
That 'show it was."

" Well, let us hear it."

" Hear which, sir ? About the 'ttorney,
is it?"

"No!" cried Tom, furiously, "the at
torney be damned ! "

" All in good time ! " said Mr. Connor,
quietly; "it's how I found out the old
thief's saycret you want to hear!"

" Yes — and let me warn you to say
nothing more about either rate or attor
neys, or any other vermin whatever.
Mind that! " and Tom looked threatening.

" Well, you see, gintlejnen," began
Dennis, " the way of it was this. One
evenin' the ould naygur says to me —
'Boy,' says he, 'I want to sind you to
the other side of the city, of a message.'
'Very well,' says I, 'I '11 be there and
back ag'in afore you'd say boo.' 'You're
a smart boy,' says he, 'and I think I
may depind on you.' ' Thry me,' says I
to him, quite short, for I didn't like to
make any prommis to the ould schamer.
' Well,' says he, ' I 'm goin' to sind you
on a mighty pertickler arrand, an' you
betther mind what you're about, or by
the piper that play'd afore Moses ! ' says

he, ' I '11 make a disciple of you.' ' You'll
sup sorrow for that same word, my ould
throut,' says I to myself, 'an' may be
it's yourself, that'll be made a disciple
yit, you tundherin' ould Jew ! ' says I ;
for I did n't like to spake my mind to his
face, you see, in the regard that may be
he'd pack me off about my bis'ness, and
then I could n't have an eye afther his
villany. 'I'm goin' to sind you with
a message to a lady,' says he, ' can you
howld your tongue if she axes you any
questchms?' 'Thry me,' says I, ag'in.
'Well, thin,' says he, 'here's a letther —
can you read ? ' ' No more nor a hay-
then,' I answers him. ' So much the
better ! ' he says, as tart as you plase ;
'take this letther, thin,' says he, 'to
where I will tell you, an' ax to see Miss,
— bad manners to me but I disremimber
the name — oh, tare-an-ages ! isn't this
too bad ? "

And Mr. Connor scratched his head as
if the name was concealed among his
hair, and that it only required a little
scraping to coax it out.

" Never mind," said Tom, " no matter
about the lady's name. Go on with your
story."

Mr. Connor continued;

"Ax to see Miss Thinggumy,' says the
ould Turk, 'give that letther into her
own hand — tell her a young gintleman
sint it — and bring me back word what
answer she makes. If she axes you the
gintleman's name, tell her you don't
know.' 'Faix, thin,' says I to myself,
'that'll be nothin' but the truth anyhow.'
' Do you undherstan' me ? ' says he to me,
lookin' mighty sharp in my face. 'Of
coorse I do,' says I, 'it's as plain as a
pikestaff.' ' Very well,' he says, ' away
with you now as hard as you can lick;
the house is No. 12 Upper Baggot street,
an' if you make any mistake, I'll lave
you fit for an hospittel.' With that, my
dear, I takes the letther, an' off I scam
pers as if the divle (Lord save us !) was
afther my heels — well, gintlemen" —

"Come to the lady at once!" inter
rupted Tom ; " we do n't want an account
of your journey."

" Just as you plase," replied Mr. Con
nor, composedly; "well, the grass didn't

AND HIS FRIENDS

grow undher my feet, you my depind,
an' in less time than I'm tellin' it 1 was
at the door. ' I want to see Miss What-
you-call-her,' says I to a mighty impe-
rent lookin' chap that looked up from the
airyee. 'What's your bis'niss?' says he.
'Would you like to know?' I axes him.
'You're a low feller,' he says, spakin'
for all the world as if he was a marquis
or a countess, ' an' you betther get awee !'
' Get a what?' says I. 'A wee,1 says he,
'afore I call the poleece — you're a Hoi-
rish lower ordher!' he says. 'Come up
here, you poor ignorant baste,' says I,
'an' tell your young misthress that Mis-
ther Connor wants to hould a thrifle of
discoorse with her ;' for you see, gintlemen,
that I wanted to show him I could spake
as fine as himself if I took it into my
head. Well, bedad, when he seen I could
do it, he walks in out of the airyee, an'
in a minnit more he opens the hall door.
" ' Have you a letther ?' says he. 'May
be I have, an' may be I hav n't,' says I,
'but if I have itself, you'll not squeeze
the corner of your eye into it, so just go
at once and do what you 're bid.' At
this, my dear, the vagabone looked as if
he was goin' to ate me 'ithout a grain of
salt, so I thought I'd give him a dose
that 'ud tache him manners for the fu
ture. ' Go up at once, my good man,'
says T, 'an' here's a penny for you!'
Oh! by the pow'rs of delf! if you had
only seen him thin! He banged the
door out in my face, an' I could hear him
inside the hall cursin' like a throoper.
But I gave a knock that a'most pulled
down the house, and the thief was afraid
not to give the message to his misthress :
so in less than two minnits he opens the
door agin, an' I sees the beautifullest
craythur standin' in the hall that ever
mortial eyes looked at. That I may nev
er! but whin I seen her sweet soft eyes
lookin' too'rds me, an' nothin' betune
thim an' my bare shkin, barrin' an' ould
tattliered breeches you might play Bine-
holes in, I thought I 'd sink into the airth
with fair shame. Oh murdher-an'-Irish !
says I, what 's this for ? — the dacency of
the Connors is gone for ever ! ' Did you
wish to spake to me, my poor boy ? ' says
the beautiful young craythur, with a voice
11

like a sky-lark of a summer's mornin',
only softher an' sweether by far ; it made
my heart jump into my troath — you
need n't laugh, Masther Tom, it's not of
ten a poor boy like me lis'ens to a kind
word in a voice like that — whenever I
think of it since, it makes me feel, some
how, as if I hear it in the air, miles upon
miles above me — 1 do n't know how to
say it — but it's just as if I heard it
whisperin' among the clouds in heaven!"
And Dennis looked upwards as he spoke,
as though even then the ideal sound were
present to his imagination.

Neither Gerald nor Crosbie smiled at
this, but it was so utterly different from
anything they could have expected from
the strange being before them, that the
astonishment of both was plainly to be
seen in the hasty glance exchanged be
tween them.

Dennis went on : —

" I was ready to sink down through
the flags at my feet, whin she spoke to
me — I never felt ashamed of bein' poor
an' ragged until that minnit, but I do n't
know how it was — I could 'nt tell, if it
was to save my life, why such quare no
tions came over me, for I often spoke to
ladies afore that, an' did n't care tuppince
if they seen me as naked as a babby —
not tuppince!" repeated Mr. Connor, en
ergetically: "I wouldn't care a brass
fardin' if all the ladies from this to France
was lookin' at me, not if I had n't as
much on my four bones as one of thim
images the furriners carries about the
sthreets: (the divle a much dacency the
same furriners is throubled with, any
how!) but somehow or other I felt as if
she was one of the messengers God sends
in the night-time to the poor, to make
them forget the hunger an' sorrow of the
day ! I dare rit look at her an' spake to
her the same way I would to another ; so
I handed her the letther without sayin' a
word. She opened it in a minnit, an'
whin she did, another — just like itself,
sealed an' all — fell out of it at her feet.
But afore she stooped to pick it up she
run her eye over the first, an' I never
seen such a change in the face of a livin'
bein' as come on her's afther she read it;
I thought she was goin' to die that mm-.-

162

TOM C ROSBIE

nit. 4 Oh, by the Lord above me ! ' says
I to myself, ' that flamin' ould rapparee is
at the bottom of this — there 's some in-
farnal villany goin' on, an' if I was to be
hano-ed for it I '11 tell the thruth about
that° letther.' Well, gintlemen, afther a
little bit she began to come to herself
ag'in, and then she took up the one at
her feet; thin she looked at the other
over ag'in, an' two big tears rowled down
her cheek. ' I could n't have believed
this!' she says quite low to herself, an'
thin she turned away her head, the way
I would n't see her cryin'. Well, Mas-
ther Tom, as big a rascal as I am I
couldn't stand that, an' whin I heered
her repatin' to herself, ' I could n't have
believed it ! ' I says, ' Do n't believe a
word of it, my lady ! it 's a tundherin'
parcel of lies, every word of it ! ' 4 What
do you mane?' she asks, turnin' round
to me as quick as lightnin'. ' It 's all
lies, Miss,' says I, ' the vagabone that sint
that letther (bad luck to it!) is the big
gest blaguard from this to Kinsale ! '
Well, if you seen the look she gave me
whin I said that! Oh, murdher, it was
just as if I was afther insultin' her. ' I
ax your pardon, my lady,' says I, ' for
makin' any mintion of the baste, but I
knew there was something in that thief
of a letther that vexed you, an' so, my
lady, I '11 just tell you every hap'orth
about him.' ' I '11 lis'en to no story of
the kind,' she says, spakin' like a queen,
'•an' I 'm sorry Mr. Rochefort did n't em
ploy a more trusty messenger'" —

"What!" cried Gerald, springing from
his chair — "what new villany is this ? who
was the lady ? "

"Stay, Gerald," said Tom, "let him
go on in his own way, or we '11 never hear
the end." So he sat down, and Dennis
continued : —

" When I heered the name of Misther
Rochefort (an' I knew it well, as good
right I had, for whin my mother had the
faver, glory be to God ! he sint her money
an' other comforts by a sarvint that was
a cousin of mine, that tould him about
our disthress — though he does n't re
member it now, the Lord reward him ! )
whin I heard your name, Masther Gar-
aid, I says to myself — ' Dinny Connor,'

says I, ' if you do n't find out what 's fit
the bottom of all this, I' 11 massacree
you!" An' thin myself says back agin,
4 1 '11 do my endayvor any how.' So I
ups an' I says to the lady, 'Plase your
ladyship,' says I, 4 Misther Rochefort
didn't send me at all.' 'What!' says
she, 'didn't he give you this lettherV
' Not himself in troth, my lady,' says I.
' Thin who sent you ? ' she says. 4 A vil-
lyan of an ould Turk,' says I, ' that I have
the misforchune to be a sort of sarvint
to.' 4 What 's his name?' she asks me.
' Why, thin, upon my credit, Miss,' says
I, 4 that 's more nor I can tell you.'
' What! ' says she ag'in, 4you don't know
your masther's name ? ' ' If I do I 'm a
pinkeen ! ' says I, an' thin I up and towld
her the whole story from beginnin' to ind.
4 It 's mighty sthrange,' she says, 4 migh
ty sthrange intirely ! This letther is sar-
tinly Misther Rochefort's handwrilin','
says she, lookin' at it over ag'in. 4 May
be,' says she, ' he gave it to your masther
to send to me.' ' May be so,' says I,
' but I do n't believe a word of it, for
Misther Rochefort, if he 's the same I
mane, would n't write a word that 'ud
give offence to a flay, savin' your favor,
my lady,' says I. ' Do you know him?'
she says, quite quick; an' thin I towld
her how I knew all about you, an' how
I 'd go through fire an' wather to sarve
you. 4 You 're a good boy,' she says,
' an' I beg your pardon for spakin' so
cross a while ago.' She did, I 'd declare
it if I was dyin' this minnit — that beau
tiful young craythur, with her goold
chain on her neck, an' her silk dhress
shinin' an' rustlin' as grand as a princess,
axed pardon from a poor half-naked boy
like me! Afther that, is it any won-
dher I 'd lay down my life for her ? "

And Mr. Connor looked as proud, and
prouder perhaps, than if he had been
made an earl.

"Well, Denny," said Tom, "you're
the most provoking scoundrel I ever heard
tell a story— will you ever come to an
end?"

" Wait one moment," said Gerald ;
" how long is it since this happened ?"

" The very night afore you come to
the ould house, sir."

AND HIS FRIENDS.

163

" Well, now go on."

And then Mr. Connor proceeded to
tell him how the young lady had asked
him where he lived, and had taken
down his address, and also that of his
employer. And how she promised to
show the letter to her guardian as soon
as he came home, and that he should
make inquiries about it. And how she
had desired him to tell his master that
there was no answer to the letter, and
cautioned him for his life not to tell him
a word that had passed between them ;
and that she would send for him before
long, and find some employment for him
perhaps.

And then he told how that he had re
turned to the " tundherin' ould Turk,"
as he called him, and how he had deceiv
ed that worthy individual by telling him
that the young lady had not made a sin
gle remark when she read the letter, only
burst out crying, and said there was no
answer.

And when Mr. Connor arrived at this
point he stopped, as if he had nothing
more to say.

"Is that all?" demanded Tom.

" An' is n't it enough ? " rejoined Den
nis.

" No ; it is not enough. You begun by
saying you had found out that the rascal
ly old miser had a second dwelling-place,
and you have ended without telling us a
word about it."

" Faix, an' so I did, sure enough," re
plied Mr. Connor, " but it's all the same
— one story follies on the other, like
ducks crossin* a pond."

And when he had delivered himself of
this appropriate simile, he went on with
his second story ; the substance of which
was as follows.

It appeared that, on the night of Ger
ald's visit to the old usurer, Mr. Connor,
his suspicions being awakened by the oc
currences of the previous evening, as well
as by many other circumstances which
had taken place within the last few days,
resolved to play the eaves-dropper, and
in pursuance of that praiseworthy reso
lution, had planted himself on his knees
outside the door, with his ear to the key
hole, during the interview ; by which ro •

spectable means he had heard every
word that passed, and had come to the
conclusion that Gerald was about to be
made the victim of foul play, or, as Mr.
Connor himself termed it — " a piece of
schamin' divlemint that a tailor, savin'
your favor, 'ud be ashamed of."

It furthermore appeared that imme
diately after Gerald's departure, the in
dignant Dennis had taken it into his sa
pient head to leave the old house to take
care of itself for an hour or so, while he
should take a stroll through the town for
the purpose of cooling himself, before ly
ing down for the night among his detest
ed enemies, the rats ; and so without fur
ther ceremony off he set.

Now, somehow or other, the direction
he happened to take brought^him, in the
course of half an hour or so, to the
neighborhood of Bag-got street, and, find
ing himself there, he thought he 'd just
go as far as the house he had visited the
evening before, and take a peep at it.

Accordingly, up the street he walked,
and at the moment he arrived opposite
the door he perceived that a gentleman
was in the act of entering.

The view he obtained of this person
was only for an instant, but that instant
sufficed to assure him that he had dis
covered a secret which he considered
would amply repay him for his trouble in
coming such a distance through the rain
and wind; and the discovery was this —
that the middle-aged gentleman in a large
cloak whom he had seen crossing the
threshold, was no other than his worthy
" ould Turk of a masther."

The white hair and beard were gone,
and so was the stoop in the shoulders,
but Dennis had seen his face, with the
light of the hall-lamp shining full upon
it, and he was ready to take his oath
that he could not have been mistaken.

" Oh, ho!" thought Dennis, " this is a
mighty purty piece of business ! " And
so it most assuredly was.

" Do you mean to tell me," exclaimed
Gerald, whose astonishment at the entire
of Denny's recital knew no bounds — " do
you mean to tell me that the person I
saw and conversed with at that ruined
house is not an old man ? "

164

TOM CROSBIE

"Truth it's just the very thing I do
mane," replied Mr. Connor.

"And that his hair and beard were not
real?"

"I don't say that," answered Denny;
" they 're rayal enough I dar' say, but
the hair never grew white on his head,
an' mighty little shavin' ud' go a great
way with that beard, I 'm thinkin'!"

" By heavens ! " cried Gerald, " there is
some terrible villany here! but I cannot
understand it. My brain is every instant
becoming more and more confused.
Crosbie, what is to be done? "

" Stop a bit," said Tom ; " tell me this,
Dinny — how long have you been in the
service of this man ? "

"Four or five months, off an' on ; some
times he'd say he was lavin' town, an'
sind me home for a fortnight ; more times
he'd have me sleep there with the rats,
bad luck to thim ! "

"And you never suspected all that
time that he was anything but what he
appeared to be ? "

"No, in troth; I knew he was as rich
as a Jew, for I often seen hapes of bank
notes the height of my knee on the ta
ble before him, an' divle a much I cared
what he was while he paid me my wa
ges. But whin he began this bis'ness
about Masther Garald, an' uset to sind
me to« watch him goin' and comin' from
Misther Franks', I begin to smell a rat —
an' be my sowl I ought to know the smell
of thim purty well by this time ! So I
just took it in my head that he was no
great shakes, an' now I 'm sure of it."

" Did he ever sleep in that old house
himself?" asked Tom.

" Oh, yis, indeed ! " replied Mr. Con
nor, "what a fool my granny was !"

"Did he eat his meals there?"

" Not as much as 'ud blind a midge's
eye ever crossed his lips in the same
house, barrin' a biscuit now and thin, an'
a glass of wine."

"Did any one ever meet him there?"

" Often. Men often came there an'
wer$ closeted up with him for hour afther
hour."

" Why did n't you put your ear to the
key-hole then, Diuny ? "

" Bekase I was a fool ! " replied Mr.
Connor, "that's just the rason."

" Did you ever hear his name ? "

"Never with his knowledge."

'•'Then you did hear it?" said Gerald,
eagerly.

"I did, sir. The night I found him
out I wint an1 axed the sarvints next
door" —

"Well.well ? Quick, man ! what was it ?"

" Misther Seymour," replied Dennis.

" What!" cried Gerald, in a voice that
made the others jump from their chairs —
"did you say Seymour?"

"That's the very word," answered
Dinny.

" I see it all ! " exclaimed Gerald, " I
understand it all now! The desperate
villain ! "

" Then you know him ? " demanded
Tom, in no little astonishment.

"Know him ! Do I know the man who
has made me a beggar, and worse — a
thousand times worse — who has" — •

He paused suddenly, remembering
that he could not explain the nature of
his position with regard to Seymour
without compromising the honor of his
mother.

But Tom had already heard too much
to admit of his keeping him in the dark
as to the remainder; besides, after the
friendship he had shown in the affair,
Gerald thought he deserved his full con
fidence, and after a brief but painful
struggle, he determined he should know
everything from beginning to end.

"Crosbie," he said, "you shall hear the
entire story to-morrow, or perhaps to
night. In the meantime I will take the
necessary steps to unravel a portion of
this mystery; and Dennis, until then, do
you return to your employer; watch him
well, and bring me intelligence of any
thing that happens. But stay, one ques
tion before you go — would you know
the name of the lady to whom you took
the letter, if you heard it again ? "

" I would, sir, aa* I 'm a baste to for
get it at 'all at all!"

" Was it Aubyn ? "

"That's it!" cried Dennis, "that's the
very name, God bless it ' "

AND HIS FRIENDS.

165

"That will do now. You have done
me a greater service than you think, and
you shall not want a friend as long as I
live."

" Do n't spake of that, Masther Gar-
aid! "said Dennis; "you saved the life
of my poor ould mother whin she had
the sickness, glory be to God ! an' Dinny
Connor, for all his rags, has feelin' in his
heart!"

And the poor fellow turned away his
head to hide something very like a tear.

" Well, Gerald, my boy ! I told you
we 'd unkennel the old fox ! " exclaimed
Mr. Crosbie, shaking him by the hand.
"Don't forget to-morrow — and now I'll
go home and finish Nab ! "

So saying, he departed, followed by
Mr. Connor, who, as he left the house,
muttered to himself:

"I'm as happy as a king! an' as to
you, you thunderin' vagabond (meaning
Seymour) your bread is baked! Only
wait a bit:

" I '11 let you know

Before you go
What a beau your granny was."

CHAPTER XLIV.

THE DISCOVERY.

Scarcely had Gerald's visitors been
gone, when a servant arrived from Mr.
Franks' with a note from Jessie. It ap
peared to have been hurriedly written,
and contained merely a few words, as
follow* :

"Dear Gerald,

" What on earth have you been do
ing with yourself lately ? I suppose you
wish to make yourself out an angel
that your visits are so ' few and far be
tween.' Come to me the moment you

receive this — I have just heard some
news which may be of consequence to
you.

"Ever yours,

" JESSIE."

With all possible speed, therefore, he
Detook himself to Mount street, wonder-
ng as he went what fresh surprise was
n store for him, and conning over in his
mind the extraordinary circumstances
which had come to his knowledge within
the last few days.

He felt much happier, however, than
be had done since the morning he re
ceived Seymour's letter, for there now
opened before him a hope that all would
yet be well, and that he should be enabled
to turn the tables on this enemy of his
family.

For the previous fortnight — that is,
since the removal of Emma, and the dis
covery of his mother's conduct towards
her — his life had been one of intense
misery — misery that had been, if possi
ble, doubly increased since that interview
with him whom he believed to be an usu
rer, in which the promise had been ex
torted from him that he would give up
all thoughts of a marriage with Jessie,
unless by a certain time he should be
able to procure by some less desperate
means the money he required.

Up to that very morning there had
not appeared the slightest chance of his
doing so; he had exerted himself in
every possible way to raise the necessary
sum, but without avail; no one would
advance it in so short a time upon such
security as he could offer.

His despair, therefore, had almost
reached its height, when the circumstan
ces related by Tom Crosbie and Dennis,
restored him once more to hope; and
now as he walked along, when he thought
he had Seymour entirely in his power,
and felt that the prospect of happiness
began again to brighten before him, it
need not be wondered at if his spirits at
tained a degree of buoyancy such as for
some time they had not known.

Before we accompany him in his visit
to Jessie, however, it, may be as well to

TOM CROSBIE

explain the course adopted by Seymour
to ensnare him into the condition he had
made on the occasion of their interview
a few nights previously.

The hatred which this man felt to
wards the object of his former love, and,
through her towards her son, had raised
up within him a spirit of revenge, that,
increasing instead of being subdued by
the lapse of time, had become a perfect
monomania.

Revenge, generally speaking, is the
passion of a weak and narrow mind, as
forgiveness requires a generous and no
ble one ; but in this instance it was not so.

Seymour possessed a strong and vigor
ous intellect, and, naturally, even a kind
ness of heart; but to this overwhelming-
passion every other had been sacrificed,
every generous feeling trampled on to
gratify it, and every faculty of his mind
absorbed, until revenge had become the
very food of his life, and a raging demon
had been conjured up, that drove him
resistlessly onwards into the perpetration
of the blackest villanies.

But since Emma Aubyn had been his
companion, a gentler spirit had been
awakened. He loved the girl — with sin
cerity and truth he loved her; she was
the only being, since he became a man,
who had ever touched his heart.

Yet, though he was even still but little
past the prime of life, the love he felt for
her was that of a father towards his
child — none other ; it was a feeling that
had sprung into instant life, forcing itself,
as it were, upon him, to win him back to
nature and to peace.

A change was stealing imperceptibly
over his mind, under the influence of this
new-born spirit; every human heart
yearns for something to love — the want
of this something had made him what he
was; he had found it now, and the first
blow was eive.n to that passion that had
so long consumed him.

But the evil spirit was still stronger
than the good, it had lived too long within
him to be easily subdued, and it would
require time to effect a perfect cure.

If Mrs. Rochefort were dead, he
thought, his enmity would last no longer;

even that was a great step towards his
recovery. I use the word recovery be
cause I am now speaking of his desire
for revenge as a disease — a malady of the
mind; which, I think, any passion indul
ged in to excess eventually becomes.
But it was not until after his interview
with Gerald that he bea;an to feel re-

morse.

The young man's wretchedness for the
destruction of his hopes — the noble sacri
fice he made of his own happiness to save
his mother from disgrace — moved him
deeply and powerfully ; and he determin
ed that he would at least spare him let
the consequence be what it would.

After long thinking how best to act, so
as to prevent Gerald's entertaining any
suspicions of his motive in forcing him to
the condition he had made, the resolution
he came to was this — that when they
should meet again on the appointed night,
he would pretend that his reasons for
wishing to break off the match no longer
existed, and would then give him the
money required, which, in his own proper
character, he would demand as Emma's
fortune on the day mentioned in his let
ter, and thus having fulfilled his assumed
part as her guardian, leave Ireland for
ever with his adopted daughter.

There were other causes, too, which
had their weight in inducing him to do
justice to Gerald; but as these will pre
sently appear, it is unnecessary in this
place to mention them.

With regard to his having assumed the
character of an usurer, it had suggested
itself to him at the time when Mrs. Roche-
fort confessed to him the fact of her hav
ing spent the fortune of her ward, and it
was with this view he first thought of the
plan of appearing as a second guardian to
the girl; for he knew that if once he
could induce Mrs. Rochefort to yield her
consent on that point, it would be after
wards an easy matter to force her into
aiding him in the furtherance of his de
sign, and thus he should be enabled to
stand boldly forward and claim the money
— which he knew it would be almost im
possible for Gerald to obtain.

By these means, he thought, both

AND HIS FRIENDS.

167

mother and son would be placed wholly
in his power, and that, if he could only
manage in such a way that the latter
could be brought to apply to him — sup
posing him to be a money lender — for
the necessary sum, he should be able by
threats of disgrace and utter ruin, to bow
him down to his purposes in any way he
should think fit.

But this plan had not been matured
until the night on which Emma placed
herself under his protection; when it
struck him that the disguise he had
heretofore assumed, for the purpose of
meeting his agents and spies at the old
house, might now assist him in another
character.

It may appear somewhat strange that
he should not rather have employed some
of those agents, to act the part of the us
urer, than take upon himself the risk of
being recognized by Gerald, who, during
his father's life-time, had been in the dai
ly habit of seeing him.

But, through the whole affair, Seymour
had taken such precautions as prevented
his identity being discovered even by
those with whom he was in constant inter
course, arid he did not now choose that any
one should be made aware of his object,
or that any other than himself should be
concerned in the matter. The plan which
he adopted was this.

There was just now in town with his
regiment an officer who had formerly
served abroad with him, and whom he
knew to be a particular friend of Gerald's.
To this gentleman he went, and by an
artful pretence brought him over to aid
him in .his project. He told him the cir
cumstance of his having been in a great
measure the means of depriving young
Rochcfort of his property ; represented to
him the fact that he knew Gerald to be
at that moment in the most urgent ne
cessity for a certain sum of money, which
it would be impossible for him to raise
by the usual means; that he wished to
assist him in this emergency, but could
not openly come forward as a friend ;
that he had thought of a means by which
it might be managed; and in short, ex
plained matters so satisfactorily, that

aptain Harley, in the firm persuasion it
would be for Gerald's advantage, under
took to lend his assistance in the way he
jointed out.

Accordingly, within a day or two, he
visited Gerald, and contrived to draw from

Q the fact that he was in the most
pressing want of a large sum, which he
was willing to make any sacrifice to obtain.

Harley then told him he would recom
mend him to an old money lender, with
whom he himself had had frequent deal-
ngs, and who would, he thought, be a
likely person to relieve him from his
present difficulty.

Gerald eagerly availed himself of this
offer — wrote a note stating what he re
quired, and merely signing it with an
initial, requested an interview, which liar-
ley assured him could, through him, be
easily obtained.

We have already seen the result, at
least so far as matters have yet gone, and
with this brief explanation we will now
return to Gerald, who has just applied
his hand to the knocker of Mr. Franks'
door.

It may be surmised from the query of
Jessie's note, viz., "what on earth have you
been doing with yourself of late ?" that
his visits had not been so constant as they
should have been, considering his position as
an accepted lover. And, indeed, it must be
acknowledged that such was the fact
But, nevertheless, no blame could proper
ly be attached to him, under the circum
stances; for it is hardly necessary to say
that, in absenting himself, he had not
studied his own happiness.

The position in which he was placed,
since the receipt of Seymour's letter, was
in every respect a trying and most pain
ful one. After Mr. Franks had given his
consent to his union with his daughter,
and that there existed no farther obsta
cles to prevent an immediate marriage, he
felt that any appearance of delay on his
part must naturally excite surprise, if not
suspicion, in the mind of the old gentle
man ; and yet he could not for a moment
think of becoming Jessie's husband, while
ruin and disgrace were suspended above
his head.

168

TOM CROSBIE

The wretchedness of mind into which he
was thrown by these considerations, left
him but little calculated to act wisely in
such a dilemma; several times he was
almost on the point of confiding every
thing to Mr. Franks, but the fear that by
so doing he might lose Jessie for ever,
rose up too powerfully to suffer him to
trust the chance, and at length he had
recourse to the expedient of pleading the
serious illness of his mother, as an excuse
for absenting himself at such a time.

Nor was this story altogether without
foundation, for, in reality, the terrible ex
citement in which -Mrs. Rochefort had
lately existed, climaxed by her son's dis
covery of her conduct, had brought on a
brain fever, that placed her life in the
greatest danger. However, she was now
slowly recovering, and Gerald congratula
ted himself with no slight degree of satis
faction on the probability that, by the
time of her perfect restoration, every bar
to his marriage would be happily remov
ed, and that he should be able to claim
his bride without having incurred any
share of blame by the delay.

Taking all the circumstances into con
sideration, therefore, it was but natural
that, as he now ascended the stairs to the
drawing-room, he should feel easier in
mind and heart than he had done for
many days.

Expecting to find Jessie alone, he en
tered the room without announcement —
a thing which gentlemen should never
do, at least when visiting the sanctum of a
lady — and no sooner had he done so than
a start of surprise betokened that some
thing unusual must have met his eye.

On a sofa, with the hand of a young girl,
dressed in the deepest mourning, clasped
in hers, sat Jessie, endeavoring to soothe
the grief of her companion, who was
weeping bitterly; while on her own cheek
there still remained the traces of recent
tears. Gerald felt that it was a scene up
on whose sacredness no stranger's eye
should have intruded, and, noiselessly
drawing back, he was again retreating,
•when Jessie raised her head and saw him.

Before he had time to make a sign to
her not to notice him, his name had es

caped her lips, and attracted the attention
of her companion, so that, though delica
cy of feeling prompted him to retire from
a scene where he thought his presence
might give pain, it was too late for him to
do so without its being known by the
stranger that he had been a witness of
her sorrow. Still he paused a moment,
undecided how to act, until Jessie rose
and came towards him.

"Gerald," she said, while he pressed
her hand in such a manner as lovers only
know how to do, "I have seen you but
once for the last three days — what ex
cuse have you to offer ? Not Mrs. Roche-
fort's illness, for when I saw her yester
day she was much better."

" I will explain everything in a day or
two, dearest," he replied in a low tone,
"but don't ask me until then." And, in
a still lower whisper, he said, " who is
this poor girl, upon whose grief I have so
unfortunately intruded?"

" I cannot tell you now. Go down and
make your peace with my father, and by
the time you return she will be sufficient
ly calm to speak to you. But let me tell
you this much before you go ; it was at her
request I sent for you this morning — "

" At her request?" repeated Gerald, in
surprise.

"Yes; my father will explain why; you
may come back in half an hour."

And, so saying, she returned to the
sofa, while Gerald, with no very pleasant
anticipations of the reception he should
meet with, betook himself to Mr. Franks'
study.

"Oh! good morning, Mr. Rochefort,"
said the old gentleman, without moving
from the hearth-rug, where he stood in
his favorite position, with his coat-tails
drawn aside, and his back to the fire — "
when did you come to town ? "

" I have not been out of town, sir," re
plied Gerald, in a submissive tone.

"Oh, you haven't, haven't you? then
may I take the liberty of asking you
where you have been 1 "

" Indeed, sir," said Gerald, deprecating-
ly " my absence has been unavoidable.
1 am sure you must know that anywhcr-e
but here I could not be happy."

AND HIS FRIENDS.

160

" I know no such thing, sir ! I do n't
believe a word of it. In my time it was
the fashion for a man, if he loved a girl,
to spend at least some portion of his time
in her society — "

* Indeed, sir—"

" Fiddlestick ! sir. Do n't interrupt me !
I say, in my time such was the fashion,
and let me tell you that if Jessie took my
f.dvice, she'd have nothing more to say
to you. Do you hear that, sir? If you
neglect her so shamefully before marriage,
what may she expect afterward ? "

" But, my dear sir — "

" Make no excuses, sir! I'll not listen
to them. I suppose you would not have
come even now if you had not been sent
for."

" I assure you, sir, I was just leaving
the house to come, when I received Jes
sie's note."

"Well, I suppose I must believe you,"
said Mr. Franks, in a somewhat gentler
voice; for mentioning Gerald's being
sent for had reminded him of poor Mary
Trevor, and his wrath instantly subsided
beneath the influence of a softer feeling.

"Sit down," he said, after a moment
ary pause, "I am in no very happy hu
mor this morning, Gerald, so you must
excuse anything I have said. Come over
here close to me — I have a sad story to
tell you. And with strong emotion,
which in vain he endeavored to conceal,
he went through the melancholy history
of Mary Trevor and her father.

Gerald was deeply interested; many
times during the recital his moistened
eyes bespoke his pity for the wretched
man, and the deep sympathy he felt for
the sufferings and sorrow of the noble-
minded girl who through all her bitter
trials had performed her task of filial love
and duty so meekly and unrepiningly ;
and by the time that Mr. Franks had
concluded, he was ready to be a brother
to the orphan, if ever she should require
one. x

" I have told you," said the old
gentleman, after three or four surrepti
tious applications of his handkerchief to
his eyes, and several vigorous coughs to
clear his voice — "I have told you that

poor Trevor left in Mary's care a paper
which he received from a gentleman with
whom he returned from India. The
superscription bore the name of a person
she had never heard of, until this morning,
when Jessie happened in some way to
mention it, and it appears that, however
strange the coincidence may seem, this
paper is addressed to you."

"To me! There must be some mis
take. What was the name of the person
from whom Mr. Trevor received it ? "

"That I cannot tell you. However,
as to a mistake, you will soon have an
opportunity of convincing yourself, for
Mary has the paper here. I have not
yet seen it, but she begged you might
be sent for at once, the moment she heard
your name ; so suppose we go up stairs
and put the matter beyond a doubt."

Accordingly, Gerald, accompanied by
Mr. Franks, re-ascended to the drawing-
room, where Mary, having for the time
suppressed her grief, or at least the out
ward signs of it, was waiting with Jessie
to receive him.

"Mary, my love," said the old gentle
man, after a few words of introduction,
" I have explained to Mr. Rochefort the
circumstances under which this paper
came into your possession. You have
only to produce it, and if it really be in
tended for him, you will have no farther
trouble.

Mary took a small sealed packet from
the sofa beside her, and handed it to
Gerald.

"It should have been long since de
livered," she said, " but that my father
was unable to discover your address."

Gerald glanced eagerly at the super
scription, which ran thus: —

"To be delivered into the hands
of Gerald Rochefort, Esq. — only son, and
heir, of John Rochefort and Catharine

Austyn, his wife, formerly of , in

the county of Wicklow, and afterwards
residing at No. — Merrion Square, in the
city of Dublin. Or, in the event of his
death, to be opened by his mother, the
said Catharine Rochefort; but should
both be dead, then this paper to be de-

170

TOM CROSBIE

stroyed, as the contents can be of no ser
vice to any other person whomsoever."

And above this, in one corner of the
envelope, were written the words — " Cal
cutta, August 24th, 18 — ," which date
referred to a period of between seven
and eight years before.

"Well, Gerald," said Mr. Franks, "i
it for you?"

"It certainly must be, sir; the address
puts it beyond all possibility of doubt."

And he read it aloud.

"Then you had better lose no time in
making yourself acquainted with its con
tents. But perhaps you would rather
return home before you do so."

" With your leave, my dear sir, I will
read it here," replied Gerald, "it can con
tain no secret which should be hidden
from — "

" Me," interrupted Jessie ; " come, Ge
rald, open it at once, and let us hear
what frightful plot it is intended to re
veal. I am dying with curiosity."

" Then," said Gerald, " your curiosity
shall speedily be gratified." And he broke
the seals.

The packet contained several papers;
some of them letters in different hand
writings; others promissory notes and
bills, bearing the signature of Gerald's
father; and one, the largest, was sealed
and directed in a similar manner to the
outside envelope. This Gerald instantly
opened, and ran his eye over the con
tents.

It commenced thus —

"I, Walter Stevenson, being in
the last stage of a fatal illness, and about
to appear before my God, do make this
confession, believing it to be in all parts
true, and in the sincere hope that it may
be the means of repairing the fortunes
of a family in whose ruin, I acknowledge
with deep remorse, I was made an
agent."

The paper then went on to state, that
the dying man had for years been the
principal confederate and only confidant
of Seymour ; that the latter, for some
reasons which he never avowed, had con

ceived an intense and unconquerable
hatred against Mr. Rochefort (the father
of Gerald;) that he, Stevenson, having
been introduced by Seymour as a man
of large fortune, had frequently been the
means of inducing Mr. Rochefort to
gamble for immense sums; playing fairly
at first, but afterwards finding that in this
manner the destruction of their victim
could not be safely or speedily accom
plished, having recourse to cheating and
foul play of every description.

That between him (Stevenson) and
Seymour, there had existed an agreement
whereby the latter was to receive all
sums of money, and personal securities,
won from Mr. Rochefort; the former,
upon the perfect fulfillment of their plans,
to be paid a certain amount as his share
rf the spoils. That when Mr. Rochefort
had lost all the ready money he could in
any way procure, and had besides given
bonds and other securities to a large
amount, Seymour, whose own wealth
was considerable, began to advance im
mense sums on mortgage, which sums
quickly found their way back again into
his hands, and were again and again ad
vanced, until by degrees the entire of
Mr. Rochefort's property came into his
possession. That when this consumma
tion of his villany arrived, Seymour paid
to him (Stevenson) the stipulated wages
of his infamous agency, and insisted that
tie should instantly leave the country — •
which was also a part of their agreement.
That Seymour himself went abroad at
the same time, and that they had never
met since. That he (Stevenson) had
gone out to India, where he had but a
short time been when he heard of Mr.
Rochefort's death ; that from that hour

had never known a moment's peace
of mind, but that remorse, preying on
lis health, had gradually reduced him to
;he brink of the grave, and that now, on
lis death-bed, he made this, confession as
the only restitution in his power.

A few words of postscript were attached,
stating that the enclosed bills were some
of those obtained from Mr. Rochefort,
cept by Stevenson without Seymour's

AND HIS FRIENDS.

171

knowledge, and that the letters — which
were some of them in Seymour's own
handwriting, others copies — would prove
the truth of the above statements, and
might probably be of service hereafter in
enabling the wife or son of Mr. Rochefort
to recover the property which he had
thus been robbed of.

The paper was signed by the clergy
man who had attended the death-bed of
the unhappy man, and underneath he
had written —

"A very few hours after the above
was completed, Walter Stevenson depart
ed this life — I sincerely trust for a better
and a happier one. At his request, I
deliver this document into the hands of a
gentleman who was a kind friend to
him during his last illness, and who,
being about to return immediately to
England, has promised to fulfill his wishes
respecting it

"CHARLES B , (Clerk.}

" Calcutta, August 24t/i, 18 — ."

It may easily be imagined that Ge
rald's feelings on reading this paper were
of no ordinary description. The first, as
is always the case on any strange dis
covery of the kind, was astonishment;
the next, indignation at his father's
wrongs; but at last every other gave
place to one of unqualified delight, as he
remembered that he who had been the
cause of every misery which his family
had endured, was now wholly and hope
lessly in his power, and that he held
within his hand the means of recovering
bis birth right.

"My dear sir," he exclaimed exulting-
ly, seizing Mr. Franks by the hand, and
shaking it until the old gentleman winced
with pain — "my dear sir, congratulate
me! Jessie, congratulate me! "

And, clasping her in his arms, he gave
her half-a-dozen kisses before she could
prevent him — even if she had been .in
clined, which I greatly doubt.

" As soon as you have smothered my
daughter," said Mr. Franks, "while some
body is going for the coroner, perhaps
you'd have the goodness to inform me

upon what grounds a man should be con
gratulated on becoming a candidate for
Bedlam."

" If it is quite the same to you, papa,"
said Jessie, " I would much rather he'd
postpone the smothering, and let us have
the explanation first."

" My dear sir, my dear Jessie," said
GeraU, " I 'm the happiest man alive ! "

"Then I must say," said Mr. Franks,
" I hope I may never see any one happy
again, if my fingers are to be ground to
mummy, by way of expressing his de
light." "

" Will no one wish me joy ? " cried
Gerald — "Jessie, why don't you wish me
joy?"

" What the devil should we wish you
joy /or/" exclaimed the old gentleman
— " is it for losing your senses?"

" You forget, Gerald dear," said Jessie,
" you have not yet told us the contents
of that paper."

" By Jove ! I believe I have lost my
senses!" he replied; " but just listen to
this."

And he read aloud the entire of Ste
venson's confession.

It was now Mr. Franks' turn to become
a candidate for Bedlam. Grasping Ge
rald by both hands, and actually dancing
while he shook them, he cried : —

"Hurrah, my boy ! three cheers! The
d — d villain ! Jessie — the infernal villain !
Jessie, I say — oh, the desperate villain!
Jessie, why the devil do n't you sing ?
You have no more feeling than that ta
ble — why do n't you throw your arms
round his neck and wish him joy ? "

"I'm afraid of being smothered, papa."

"Afraid of the devil, Miss! Walk
over here this minute."

" Well, then, when the coroner comes,
remember you are the cause of my
death!"

And so saying, she approached, and,
holding out her hand, said: "Dear Ger
ald, I congratulate you with all my heart."

But her father came behind her, and
with a vigorous push sent her into Roche-
fort's arms, saying: —

" For three straws I'd horsewhip you !
standing there shilly-shallying, when you

172

TOM CROSBIE

know in your heart you're dying to be at
him! Bah! I hate such humbugging!
Kiss him, I say — the cl— d villain ! "

And Mr. Franks' thoughts flew off at
a tangent to the history he had just
listened to.

"Is this Seymour still alive?" he de
manded.

" He is, sir; not only alive, but at this
very moment in Dublin."

"In Dublin! Just wait while I get
my hat." And the hasty old gentleman
•was rushing, full puff, from the room.

" Stay, my dear sir," said Gerald,
" we '11 have him time enough — "

"Have him?" cried Mr. Franks;
"we '11 hang him, sir! up by the neck!
He shall be hanged, drawn, and quartered
— and roast, sir, roast alive ! "

" After his being quartered, I sup
pose?" said Jessie, naively.

"Leave the room, ma'am!" shouted
her father; "you're a disgrace to your sex,
and your sex is a disgrace to the world."

" And the world — ? " said Jessie, with
a provoking smile.

"Consider yourself no 'longer my
daughter!" roared the old gentleman —
"you'll pack off to the poor house before
to-morrow morning! Mary, my love — "

But when he turned toward the sofa
where Mary had been sitting, he found
that she had left the room.

Poor girl, the contrast between the
happy scene that had been going on be
fore her, and her own sorrow and loneli
ness of heart, had been too much for her
— she had retired, silently and unseen.

" There ! " said Mr. Franks, " you
have hunted that poor child away, v/ith
your disgusting conduct — throwing your
self into a man's arms before her! "

"Now, my dear father — "

"Dear granny!" cried Mr. Franks —
"hold your tongue, Miss!"

"Forgive me this one time," whim
pered Jessie, coming towards him, with
the palms of her hands together, like a
child begging not to be whipped, "this
one little time, and I'll never do it again ! "

"If you dare come near me," ex
claimed her father, "I'll — I'll pull your
nose ! "

'• Only this one little time," repeated
Jessie, coaxingly, and drawing nearer and
nearer by degrees, until she was within a
yard of him; when, springing forward
before he could make an effort to prevent
her, she threw her arms round his neck.

In two minutes a reconciliation was
effected.

"There now," said Mr. Franks, "run
away with yourself. I forgive you."

'And you won't horsewhip me?"

' No, no — there, be off."

' Nor send me to the poor-house ? "

'No, I tell you."

' Nor pull ray nose ? "

'No — unless you provoke me to it by
staying here any longer."

"Well, then, / forgive you, so there's
a kiss for you ! " And giving him one
that made Gerald's mouth water, she
rose from his knee, and left the room to
seek poor Mary.

"That's the way she always makes
a fool of me, the young rascal ! " said
Mr. Franks, when she had disappeared —
''she 's the plague of my life! " And as
he said this, his eyes were beaming
brightly with pride and love.

And then Mr. Franks sat down, while
Gerald explained to him every circum
stance of his life, up to the present hour,
not even omitting the fact of Emma's
fortune having been appropriated by his
mother.

Not one word of censure escaped the
lips of the kind hearted old man at this
portion of his companion's story; he
merely said :

"You should have told me this, boy.
Had the sum been ten times the amount,
you should have had it freely."

" I thank you, sir, from my heart, for
all your kindness," Gerald said, when
his recital was concluded — " from my
heart I thank you."

" Pooh, pooh ! my dear boy," said Mr.
Franks, "you have nothing to thank me
for ; quite the contrary, for you are about
to take off my hands a saucy, good-for-
nothing girl"

And here the old gentleman, spite of
himself, winked desperately three or four
times. "Damn it!" said he, "there's

AND HIS FRIENDS.

173

some confounded smoke in this house
that's always getting into people's eyes!
But, this Seymour, sir — we '11 hang him !
hang him high as Haman ! "

A few minutes afterwards Gerald left
the house to seek Tom Crosbie, for whom
Mr. Franks expressed the most unbound
ed admiration, desiring that he should be
brought back to dinner — and no excuse.

CHAPTER XLV.

WHICH BEGINS MERRILY, AND ENDS SADLY.

If Mr. Franks had behaved like a can
didate for Bedlam on hearing of Gerald's
good fortune, Mr. Crosbie's conduct was
such as would have instantly secured
him the stoutest iron chain and the
strongest cell in that establishment.

To say that he danced, would be to
convey a very poor idea indeed of his
gestures on the occasion; he jumped, he
capered, he kicked about Mrs. Taylor's
parlor in the most frightful manner, ut
tering the while a succession of Indian
war-whoops, enough to have terrified the
fiercest savage that ever grilled a Chris
tian ; he upset chairs, he overturned ta
bles, he knocked off a mandarin's head
with a poker, he punched Gerald in the
ribs, he threw himself into a pugilistic at
titude, and planted a ' one, two,' a la
Cribb, on the eyes of an imaginary Sey
mour, which his fertile fancy conjured up
before him; in short, he did everything
that was absurd and mad-man-like, con
cluding by a blow on Gerald's back that
almost qualified him to demand the ser
vices of old Charon.

" Whoop ! " he cried, " woo-whoop, you
dog! By the Lord, -this is the greatest
day ever came for old Ireland! Just
oblige me with a loan of twenty or thirty
thousand pounds, will you ? It 's a mere

trifle tc you now, you know ! Why, man
alive, Croesus was a beggar-man to you !
Stop a bit — there's a pack of fox- hounds
for sale at Dycers to-morrow, and Frank
Studdert's hunting-stud is to be had for
a song — I saw the most perfect thing at
Hutton's yesterday, in the way of a
light mail — there 's a splendid yacht ad
vertised in this morning's ' Saunders' — •
the best grouse-mountain in the kingdom
is to be let — the" —

" For God's sake, my dear Crosbie,"
said Gerald, entreatingly, " be serious for
a few minutes. I want your advice in
this matter."

"Oh! that 's a different thing. Imag
ine yourself addressing Solomon — now
for it! "

And down sat Tom, absolutely panting
after his exertions.

" With this paper in my possession,"
said Gerald, " I think I may boldly de
mand from Seymour the restitution of
my father's property" — .

"Think!" said Tom— "what do you
mean by think? Don't you know very
well you may ?"

" Yes ; but he may deny the entire
statement."

" How the devil can he do that, when
you have his own letters to this Steven
son ? "

"He may deny them also."

" Then, blow his brains out ! " exclaim
ed Tom ; " and, indeed, under any cir
cumstances, I dc n't see how you can
avoid that!"

" Nevertheless," replied Gerald, " I
most certainly will avoid it The law
shall deal with him."

"Law be d — d," cried Tom, indig
nantly; "justice, sir, before law, any day
— the scoundrel must be shot!"

" Not by me, Tom," said Gerald, with
a smile at his friend's notion of justice —
"you may shoot him if you have any
fancy for it, but" —

" Do n't say another word! I'll pep
per him — I '11 do him the undeserved hon
or of sending a bullet through his kid
ney. He's a dead man before this time
to-morrow. You must carry the chal
lenge, Gerald, my boy ! "

174

TOM CROSBIE

And Mr. Crosbie jumped up for th<
purpose of preparing it.

The oddity of this proposal tickled
Gerald's fancy so much, that in spite of
himself he could not help laughing heart

"Come, come, Crosbie," he said, "you
must give up this bloodthirsty notion
Sit down here again ; I have to tell you
a part of the story you have not yet
heard. Come, sit down, man."

'•I'll tell you what," said Tom," there'
no use in talking, but if you do n't let me
pepper that infernal rascal, I '11 never for
give you ! "

" Well, we '11 speak of that presently ;
but first listen to what I am about to
say."

And he went on to explain why he
had first sought Seymour, believing him
to be a money-lender; the promise that
had been then extracted from him; the
fact of Emma's removal from his moth
er's guardianship, and every other cir
cumstance of the case, up to the present
moment.

"And this poor girl, who has made
such an impression on our friend Denny,
is no other than Mrs. Rochefort's ward,"
said Tom, no longer indulging in his
boisterous manner, but sympathizing sin
cerely with the distress of mind which
Gerald had Ween unable to conceal as he
told his story. " We must get her from
the hands of this villain, Gerald; it is
evident he has been guilty of some foul
play with regard to her also. I think the
best thing you can do is to go straight to
his house this moment, and before he has
time or opportunity to defend himself,
accuse him boldly of the charges made
against him in that confession of his un
fortunate confederate."

"I will take your advice. Will you
come with me, Crosbie ?'*

"Will I? I would n't lose the meeting
for a thousand pounds ! I told you we 'd
unkennel him — and now to be in at the
death! No fear we shall 'miss our tip,'
my boy ! "

And so saying, Tom seized his hat, and
in another moment they were on their
way to Baggot street

And as they turned the corner of Hol
ies street, into Merrion square, Crosbie
said:

"Don't you think, Gerald, that we
might want Denny Connor in this affair?"

" An' av you want him, you have
him!" said a voice close behind them,
and Mr. Connor himself appeared like
magic. "Spake of the divle," said he,
corning forward, " axin' yer pardon, gin-
tlemin, for mentionin' the baste ! "

And he raised his hand to the " locus
brimmi" of his extraordinary hat.

" Why, Denny, what brings you here ? "
exclaimed Tom, with no slight share of
astonishment

" Faix," replied Mr. Connor, " I 'm ta-
kin' a walk. Sorra ha'p'orth else."

" I thought you went back to your
worthy master's, when you left us this
morning."

" So I did, sir, but I knew he would n't
be there afore night so I just come out
to look at the ladies ! "

" Well, so much the better," said Tom;
"follow us now, you may be wanting.
We have found out the lould Turk,' aa
you call him, and are going to pay him a
visit."

" Oh, thundher-alive ! is it in airnest
are, Masther Tom? downright air-
nest?"

" Yes ; come along. We are going to
,ake away your angel."

In half a second Mr. Connor's hat was
lying, like a young balloon, twenty yards
n the air.

" Hurroo! hurroo yer soul," he yelled,
meeting it with a kick as it descended;
hish! take that!" as two additional
dcks ruined its glories for ever. " Bad
uck to poverty ! whoo, yer sowl ! " And
ic inflicted the coup de grace upon the
uckless Golgotha.

As neither Gerald nor Crosbie had
any particular fancy for becoming the
entre of a Dublin crowd, they had walk-
id quickly on, the moment Mr. Connor's
ntics commenced, but that gentleman
now pursued them, capering and halloo-
ng as he went along, to the boundless
lelight of a score of ragged urchins who
'ollowed in his wake.

AND HIS FRIENDS.

175

Just as the friends reached the corner
of Baggot street, lie overtook them, and,
having received instructions to remain
within hail, he posted himself on the
steps of an adjacent door, while Tom and
Gerald ascended those of Seymour's res
idence.

He was at home, sitting alone in his li
brary, when a servant hastily threw open
the door, and announced — "two gentle
men."

Before he could stir from his chair,
they were in the room.

For a single instant, as his eye fell upon
Gerald, he changed color, but, as quickly
recovering his presence of mind, he de
manded: —

" May I ask to whom I am indebted for
the honor of this visit ? "

" It is an idle question, sir," said Gerald, '
sternly ; " the pretext of ignorance will
avail you little. You have not now to learn
who 1 am."

" And as to me," said Tom, " if you
have any particular anxiety to learn my
name, you will find it there." And he
flung a card on the table.

" What is the meaning of this outrage ?"
demanded Seymour, assuming an air of
indignant surprise; "you are both stran
gers to me."

" It is a falsehood!" said Gerald; "and,
in order to spare you the degradation of
uttering such another, permit me to in
form you at once that I am acquainted
with the entire of your villany from be
ginning to end."

Seymour passed his hand rapidly across
his forehead, on which for a moment the
veins swelled out like cords, and then,
rising from his chair, he said : —

" You force me, sir, to summon my
servants to expel you from the house."

And he approached the bell.

" By heavens ! " cried Gerald, " this is
more than I can bear." And, starting
forward, he grasped Seymour's arm.
" Look you," he said, " for the sake of
my father's memory, I would spare you
public disgrace if possible; but, so help
me heaven! if you carry on this farce
one instant longer, 1 will denounce you
to (he world for the villain that you are!

I know you, sir — you would have ruined
me as you have done my parents. Evou
now I should have been your victim, but
that the hand of Providence placed the
means of escape within my reach. You
are at this moment in my power, so that
by a word I can crush you to the lowest
depths of disgrace and infamy; but it
rests with yourself whether that word
shall be spoken" —

" What is all this ? " said Seymour, in
a low voice, while a strange look of wild-
ness was in his eyes — " why are you
here ? "

" Mr. Seymour," replied Gerald, with
as much gentleness as possible, " I will
explain to you in a few words why I am
here. Since the night when I made an
application to you, supposing the char
acter you then assumed to be your real
one, I have discovered many secrets of
your life. When I tell you that the
greater part of them have been made
known to me through Walter Stevenson,
I presume it is unnecessary to add that I
am aware of the means by which my
poor father's ruin was effected."

A deep groan from Seymour interrupt
ed him; and ere he could reach forth his
arm to save him, the unhappy man had
fallen heavily forward in a fit of apo
plexy.

His head struck against the steel fen
der as he fell ; the sharp point of a raised
ornament severed the temple-artery, and,
when the surgeons arrived, they at once
pronounced that they were too late to
save his life, though it might be prolong
ed for a day or two.

The agonizing shame at the discovery
of his crime, at the very time he was
about making restitution — the deep dis
grace that must track his future life —
the utter ruin of those hopes of peace
and happiness which had grown into life
within the last few weeks — and all this
misery hurled upon him through tho
child of her whom he had sought, by
every villany, to destroy, called up such
a chaos of contending feelings as no hu
man mind could bear.

Where was his revenge now ? The
decree of THE Avenger had gone forth

176

TOM CROSBIE

against him, and his stern heart, almost
at the very moment of its triumph, was
crushed, as with a thunderbolt.

On the morning of the second day, he
died; but not before he had made full
acknowledgment of Gerald's claims, and
directed that the entire property of which
his father had been defrauded should be
restored to him.

To Emma, he bequeathed all he him
self possessed — confessing to her just be
fore his death how he had deceived her,
and praying, almost with his last words,
that she would sometimes think kindly of
him, and remember him as one who, let
his faults and guilt be what they might,
would have been to her, if he had lived,
a fond father and a faithful friend.

She remained with him to the last —
until he was borne in his coffin to the
hearse — and when all was over, when the
grave had closed upon him forever, hers
was the only eye to weep for his untime
ly fate — the only heart to mourn that he
had passed away.

Yet there was another who might also
have wept and mourned, had not a cloud
descended upon her reason,

Mrs. Rochefort on the evening of that
day when Seymour's guilt had been dis
covered, heard from the lips of her son
the entire of what had happened. The
tidings, coming upon her then, when both
mind and body were weakened bv recent
illness, almost proved fatal; a relapse was
instantly brought on ; fearful ravings suc
ceeded for many days, and, when at
length her life was pronounced out of
danger, it was told to Gerald by the phy
sicians who attended her, that time and
change of scene would be necessary to
restore her shattered intellects.

During the whole of her long and
weary illness, Emma was her only nurse
— would suffer none other to fulfill the
melancholy duty; for there were words
spoken in the wild wanderings of the af
flicted woman, that would have blasted
the happiness of her son for ever, had
they been listened to by those who might
repeat them to his ears; and, noble-heart
ed girl that she was, she would not trust
the chance.

Even the fact confessed to her by Sey
mour, that he was not her guardian, she
concealed from him; he never knew it.
Rather than give him one moment's pain,
she kept locked up within her bosom
every discovery she had made; never
again alluding in any way to the past, ex
cept once, when he spoke to her of the
letter she had received through Denny
Connor. Then, with many bitter feelings
gnawing at her heart, as the circumstance
raked up thoughts that she had struggled
hard to crush, she told him that the let
ter was one which she had written to him,
requesting to see him ; that Sevmour had
promised it should be delivered, and that
on opening the envelope which the boy
brought her, she found the same letter
returned unopened, with a few words, as
if from him, saying that he wished to
have no communication with her in fu
ture.

But Seymour, on his death-bed, had
acknowledged to her that Gerald never
received it — that he himself, fearing it
might lead to a discovery, had detained
it for a few hours, and then sent it back
to her, having written upon the envelope
the words which for a moment had given
her such pain. The handwriting he had
copied from the note Avhich, in his as
sumed character, he had received from
Gerald, a day or two before.

All this she told him; but she told him
not of the hope tha.t was whispering to
her heart as she wrote that letter — the
undefined hope, believing he once had
loved her, that even yet that love might
re-awaken. She told him not of the ag
ony she felt when even yet that last faint
hope was taken from her — of the bitter
shame, the wreck of her woman's pride,
when she discovered that her affection
had never been returned.

She told him not that, even still, though
to love him now was guilty, she could
not root him from her heart, but that his
image was engraven there, buried in it?
inmost depths, destroying peace by day
and rest by night, and blasting the joy of
her young life with the curse of unre
quited passion.

She told him not of this — for it is a

AND HIS FRIENDS.

177

story that woman ever carries with her
to the grave; but smiled always when he
spoke to her, even though that smile
were wrung from the ruins of a witherec
heart !

And such, alas! are often the smiles
of woman!

Mrs. Rochefort, the moment she was
strong enough to bear removal, was placed
under the care of a medical man of great
skill in the treatment of diseases of the
" urind, who resided in the country within
a few miles of Dublin. Such was the
advice of her physicians. For, from some
of the ravings of her illness, they thought
that away from old scenes and familiar
faces, a cure might be more speedily ef
fected.

If they erred I know not, but, instead
of a cure, she pined by degrees away,
and before two months had passed she
was no more. For some hours before
her death her reason was perfectly re
stored, and she died in the arms of her
son — in penitence and hope.

CHAPTER XLVL

THE LAST.

A year has passed away.

It is the morning of the first of June —
a joyous, glorious morning. In the win
dows of such of the houses in Mount
street as commanded a view of Mr.
Franks', innumerable noses are flattened
against the glass, and innumerable eyes
are straining to catch a glimpse of ladies
in " blonde and white satin," and gentle
men in kid gloves and white waistcoats,
who, for the last hour, have been cease
lessly arriving.

At length, a dark green chariot* with
12

mitred pannels, deposits its uncommonly
reverend freight (fright, I had almost
written) at the door. Whereupon innu
merable tongues exclaim: "Well! I de
clare, if it's not a special license ! why,
that's a bishop ! " Then, the old dowa
ger at No. 12, who is "blood-relation to
Lord Donoughmore," cocks up her nose,
and says, "What impudence!" Miss A.
asks Miss B. " Did she ever ? " and Miss
B. replies and says to Miss A. "No, never!"
then Miss A. says, "She'd be content
with a simple marriage in a church;" to
which Miss B., with a strange smile, re
plies, "She doesn't doubt it!" The
young lady at No. 13 pouts and says,
" There now, we sha n't see the bride's
dress after all ! " Then everybody says
to everybody else, "I wonder where
they'll spend the honey-moon?" The
young gentleman at No. 14 throws out
dark hints, " that if a certain person
wasn't so deucedly hard to be pleased,
why then a certain person might be in
another certain person's place that morn
ing — that's all!" And as the certain
person says this, he runs his fingers
through a mass of fiery hair, and looks
round to see if anybody is admiring him.
Whereupon, his sister expresses her opin
ion " that a certain person had better hold
his tongue, and not make a fool of him
self! " Then the red-nosed matron at
No. 15 says, "I wonder what dress she'll
wear? "and her miserable-looking hus
band replies, " My dear, I hope she wo n't
wear the breeches!" Which allusion the
red-nosed matron very properly resents
a sounding box on the ear. One soli
tary old lady, a widow these forty years
jast, stands apart, in a window by herself,
;hinking of her own wedding-day ; and as
be memory of her young husband,
snatched from her when she was yet a
jride, came fresh upon her — awakening
eelings that time had almost deadened,
and bringing back to mind the dreams of
th, its ruined hope, its withered hap-
jiness — a tear trickled slowly down her
;heek and she moved silently away from
a scene that seemed to mock her.

Meanwhile, steal we into Mr. Franks'
drawing-room.

178

TOM CROSBriE

As we enter, the first person we behold
is a tall, black-whiskered, dashing-looking
fellow, standing in ar careless attitude in
the center of a group, who for the most
part are laughing gaily at some anecdote
which he tells them. It is our friend
Tom Crosbie.

A little apart stand Gerald and Mr.
Franks ; the old man holding his compan
ion's hand, and speaking in a low, earnest
tone, while now and then a tear glistens
in his eye — his words are of his daughter.

Scattered through different parts of the
room, fair women and civilized-looking
men are grouped in twos and threes,
awaiting the appearance of the bride — the
former wishing in their secret hearts they
were in her place, and the latter, some of
them, at least, not caring if they might
change characters with the bridegroom.

At length Jessie, beautiful as a houri,
enters, accompanied by her bridesmaids.
The tall, Madonna-looking girl on the
right is Mary Trevor ; the other — oh, bit
ter, bitter mockery! — is poor Emma.
Yet, amongst them all, whose voice so
gay, whose smiles so bright as hers ? Lit
tle do they think who listen to the one,
and look upon the other, that they come
from a broken heart !

The folding-doors are thrown open —
the assemblage pass into another room —
and the ceremony commences.

Deep, distinct, and fervent come the
responses of the bridegroom ; faltering and
low, yet from the very depths of a devo
ted heart, the answers of the bride. The
father yields up his choicest treasure —
the "plain gold ring" is pressed upon the
finger of the wife — the blessing is spoken,
and the husband's first kiss is pressed up
on the lips of her who henceforth is his
own for ever. They turn to leave the
room; but suddenly every eye is fixed on
the spot where stood the youngest brides
maid — she stands there no longer — she
has fainted.

"The heat of the room, poor thing I"
"Throw open the window — the air will
restore her." " It will be over in a min
ute." "Dear me!" "Has she been ill
lately ? " " What a strange time to faint ! "
"So sudden!" And a hundred similar

exclamations are uttered in an instant
But not one amongst all those around her
can guess the truth — not one. Yet, there
is not a day but some scene like this is
passing in the world.

It is three hours later. Many of the
wedding guests are gone, but in the op
posite windows the innumerable noses are
still flattened against the glass — the in
numerable eyes still straining with inde
fatigable patience to catch a glimpse of
anything that is to be seen. Suddenly, a
desperate commotion is visible — the noses
become more pancake-like than ever, and
the eyes seem fairly darting from their
sockets, as a traveling-chariot, whirled
along by four magnificent bays, comes fly
ing down the street. "Now we'll see
her!" is the general ciy — "Now we'll
know who's the bridegroom."

"Rawther fairish turn out, that!"
drawled forth a whey-faced ensign who
has called to pay a morning visit (i. e. to
devour luncheon) at No. 10, running his
fastidious eye over the appointments
of the equipage ; " the fellow has some
taste — the blue in the postillions' jackets
is a leetle too light, and there might be a
thought more silver, but, on the whole,
it positively is not a bad attempt — for a
civilian ! (Be it here remarked that the
whey-faced ensign is exactly three weeks
in the army, and has n't sixpence to bless
himself withal.)

" Oh, you're so severe !" replies a young
lady beside him, who " doats on" military
men ; " they talk so well, and have such
nice small waists ! "

" 'Pon my soul," exclaims the ' certain
person' at No. 14, "that's a tidy affair
enough ! Shouldn't wonder if the fellow
has got some tin ! "

" If he has n't," rejoins his sister, " I
know a 'certain person' who has got
some brass!"

"It's easy for fellows to set up such
carriages when heiresses are fools enough
to throw themselves away ! " sneers the
red-nosed matron, with a withering look
at her unfortunate worse-half — the said

AND HIS FRIENDS.

179

matron having been possessed of five
hundred pounds sterling reduced three-
and-a-hahs.

Return we again to the drawing room.

Tom Crosbie is seated on a sofa beside
Emma, who, by a terrible effort has again
called up her smiles ; he is directing her
attention to the occupants of an opposite
lounge — her fellow bridsmaid and a slight,
handsome young man, whose delicate
features and silken moustache bespeak
him the same with whom we have seen
Gerald conversing in the castle yard on
St. Patrick's day.

"My friend Calder," whispers Tom,
"appears in a fair way to treat us to a
second edition of this morning's entertain
ment"

But it is evident that he has touched
upon a painful subject, and, though he
does not understand why it should be so,
he changes it on the instant. He is not
far astray, however, in his conjecture as
to Calder, if one may judge from the
language of the eyes ; for there are looks
passing between him and his companion
which seem to tell that Mary Trevor has
found a solace for her sorrow, and that
love has again brought happiness to her
leart

Long may it continue.

And now Jessie, attired in a plain trav
eling dress, devoid of every emblem of
her new estate, comes forth from another
room where for the last half hour she has
been receiving the blessing of her father.
Quitting Gerald's arm for an instant, she
advances to say farewell to her remaining
friends. It is over. She drops her veU
to hide the tears that are rolling freely
down her cheek, and clinging to her hus
band for support, hurriedly leaves the
room. Mr. Franks descends with them
to the hall, and even out upon the steps ;
she extends her hand to him once more ;
but the old man, heedless of where he is,
and of the thousand eyes fixed upon them
from every window, clasps her to his
heart, and with a faint " God bless you !
my darling child ! " rushes back into the
house, weeping passionately.

"Very nice indeed!" cried red-nose,
very nice, upon my word! More dis

graceful conduct I never saw! Some
people have no shame!"

"What a handsome man," exclaim a
dozen female tongues as Gerald hands Jes
sie to the carriage, and "what an odious
dress!" they add, as their eyes turn
away in disappointment from the simple
costume of the bride. " Not a particle of
white. Well! Some people have taste!"

" She seems very young," remarks a
gentleman at No. 13 ; "Oh, indeed she is,
poor thing ! She has many years of mis
fortune before her ! " replies the Mrs. Kill
joy of the neighborhood. " Such chits
are getting married now-a-days ! " exclaims
a sensible young chicken about forty-nine;
I'll never marry till I'm thirty ! "

At last the carriage steps are up — the
postillions in their saddles — Jessie's maid
in the rumble — Gerald's chosen servant
for this occasion, beside her. Tom Cros
bie throws up the 'drawing-room window
to return the greeting waved to him by
Gerald. " God bless you, my boy ! " he
cries; but the words have scarcely crossed
his lips, when the servant in the rumble
springs on to the roof — waves his hat
high in the air — and in a burst of ecstasy
which can no longer be restrained, sends
forth one wild, ear-piercing hurrah !

" The devil confound you, Binny Con
nor!" exclaims Tom; " down out of that,
you villain ! Now, postillions, away with
you, for your lives ! "

Crack ! crack ! They're off! And as
Tom turns from the window to resume
his seat beside poor Emma, he finds that
her long pent-up feelings have burst forth
in an agony of bitter tears.

Leave her, Tom. It is no time for
man's rude sympathy —

' The heart of the bridesmaid is desolate now."

There dwells at a short distance from
Dublin, a lady, still in the flower of youth,
and beautiful, too, though her beauty is
as that of autumn. She has created
around her a world of her own; those
upon whom the hand of poverty has fal
len — the aged, the infirm, and, above all.

180

TOM CROSBIE

the orphan, are the objects of her bounty
and her care.

Within her neighborhood, pale destitu
tion is a stranger ; happy faces smile upon
her wheresoever she appears; the feeble
voice of age, the glad tones of young
children, are upraised to greet her; the
prayers and blessings of grateful hearts
follow on her footsteps, and their echoes
are the music that floats around her when
she sleeps. Her dreams in this life are
over, but others, and brighter ones, have
filled their place — turning her thoughts
to the life to come, and weaning her from
her earthly passion, to the changeless and
undying love of heaven !

Our story is nearly told. We will
suffer what remains to be gathered from
the following letter, received by Gerald
some fourteen months after his mar
riage.

" A Monsieur Monsieur Rochefort, &c. &c.
Faubourg St. Germain, Paris."

" Wniteboy Lodge, Co. Tipperary,
August it/i, 18 —

"Mon cher Gerald, .

(As these two words, with the addi
tion of 'Parly-voo Frougray ! ' constitute
my entire stock of French, I hope you
will have the grace to appreciate the de
licacy of the compliment.) You will per
ceive by the above "whereabouts" that
I have taken possession of the agency so
handsomely bestowed upon me by that
excellent old gentleman, your father-in-
law. To give you an idea of the pleasures
of my present neighborhood, I have only
to desire you to take a peep at any Irish
newspaper you may happen to lay your
hands on. You will there perceive that
the amusements of the peasantry are of
the most innocent and cheerful descrip
tion — such as frying a family on their
own fire, shooting an agent occasionally,
and now and then chopping the nose and
ears off a tithe-proctor. However, as yet
I am rather a popular character, owing

indeed more to the trumpetings of my
herald, Mr. Dennis Connor, than to any
conciliating movements of my own.

"But I am wandering from the subject
of my letter. When last I wrote to you,
you may remember, I mentioned the
probability of an increase to the illustri
ous house of Crosbie. That interesting
epoch has arrived. The honors of pa
ternity have descended on my head!
Three days ago I was made aware of the
fact by an old lady they call a midwife.
She rushed into the room where I was
•itting, and yelled into my ear the words,
'It's all over, glory be to God! The
finest boy, God bless it! ever was — -'an
the misthress is as well as can be expect
ed ! ' There was news, you dog ! Yours
was only a girl ! Lizzy says you ought
to be ashamed of yourself.

"However, to tell you the truth, I am
afraid that my delight on beholding for
the first time 'the finest boy ever was,'
was by no means as exuberant as it should
have been. It squalls most infernally !
Lizzy says it's the image of me. Perhaps
it is — as women are very sharp at discern
ing likenesses ; but if so, I must bear a
striking resemblance to a raw carrot ; and
as I never happened to meet with a spe
cimen of that vegetable, that could boast
'an eye like Mars,' and the finest pair of
black whiskers that ever played the devil
with an heiress, I may be permitted to
entertain some slight doubts on the ques
tion. But, be that as it may, Lizzy is as
proud of it as if it was really as handsome
as its father! She begs that, if such a
thing is to be had in Paris, you will pur
chase a handsome coral and silver bells,
and send it over. She says she must
have one from France — there is not one
in Ireland fit for her child ! In my hum
ble opinion, a lobster's claw would answer
quite as well, but as I suppose the foolish
girl must have her way this time, pray
send the thing, if you can find one. By-
the-bye, you better send a dozen, for I
am a very loyal subject, and intend that
my wife shall follow the example of our
gracious queen — in which case there will
be a christening in the family at Jeast
once a year.

AND HIS FRIENDS.

181

"You ask me in your last, what has
become of Nab ! I'll tell you. When
she discovered that I had the bad taste
to prefer Lizzy to her, she went to bed
for a month, and, when she got up, re
tired from the world for ever, declaring
that she c»uld never love again. I had
a letter from Dismal, a few days ago, in
which he tells me that the unfortunate
old maniac had joined some confounded
sect or other, and is about to bestow her
self and her hundred per annum on a
sleek young Methodist parson. I fear she
will never get on amongst her new
'brothers and sisters,' as unfortunately
she has no nose to sing through ; how
ever, for old times' sake, I must endea
vor to supply that deficiency. I have
spoken to a friend of mine down here —
a murderer by profession, though he
sometimes demeans himself by robberies
and other trifles of that nature — and he
has promised to procure me a perfect
nose of the very first process-server that
makes its appearance in this part of the
country. I hope by this means to enable
her to attain the true nasal twang, in a
very short time.

" But I must conclude, for Lizzy wants

me to sing her to sleep. So farewell for
the present, my boy, and believe me ever
faithfully and sincerely yours,

TOM CROSBIK."

"P. S. — Lizzy desires to be remem
bered to Mrs. Rochefort, and commands
me to repeat her opinion that you ought
to be ashamed of yourself — for yours was
only a girl ! "

And now, ever kind and indulgent read
er, the sooner I make my conge the bet
ter. My book is finished ; if you can find
a moral in any part of it, it is entirely at
your service : at all eventa I trust you
have found some amusement. With this
view solely have I written it, and I am
not altogether without hope that in this
view you may return a verdict in my
favor. If so, I will shortly make my bow
again before you, and I trust my next
effort for your amusement may be better
worthy of your favor ; if not, it only re
mains for me to "hide my diminished
head," and snarl at the critics for the
remainder of my life. Then, dear reader,
au revoir.

" May your shadow never be less ! *'

THE END.

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appropriately called the Family's Ready Adviser

The Reason "Wny Series. These useful works will,

when completed, supply all the " Reasons" which the human mind has discovered for
the varied and interesting phenomena of Nature ; and for events, and their consequences,
in religious and civil history. Such a series, entirely original in their plan, and executed
with the most conscientious care — embracing the very essence of demonstrative truth
and inductive reasoning — must become as widely diffused as the language in which they
are written.

The Reason Why: G-eneral Science. A careful

collection of some thousands of reasons for things which, though generally known, are im
perfectly understood. A book of condensed scientific knowledge for the million. By the
author of " Inquire Within." It is a handsome 12mo. volume of 856 pages, printed on fine
paper, bound in cloth, gilt, and embellished with a large number of wood cuts, illustrating
the various subjects treated of. This work assigns reasons for the thousands of things that
daily fall under the eye of the intelligent observer, and of which he seeks a simple and clear
explanation.

EXAMPLE.

Why does silver tarnish when exposed to

light ?
Why do some colors fade, and others

darken, when exposed to the sun ?
What developes electricity in the clouds ?

Why does lightning sometimes appear
red, at others yettow, at others white ?

Why does dew form round drops upon
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This volume answers 1 .325 similar questions 1 DO

IRISH HEIRS.

SAMUEL LOVER, ESQ.,

AUTHOR Of "TOM OR06BIE AND HIS FEIENDS,*' "HANDY ANDY," "EORY o'ifOEE," »TO. KT\1

NEW YORK:

DICK & FITZGERALD, 18 ANN STREET.
1862.

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All are familiar with the fun, humor, and wit, which are to be found in every
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We need hardly say that this entertaining and very numerous work is from
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Edited and Annotated by SAMUEL LOVER, ESQ., Author of "Handy Andy," '• Eory
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inswer by putting another question, " What does it not mean ?" These Roman ini
tials for Pounds, Shillings, and Pence, have a more extended meaning than could be
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ambition, are too often but the illuminated letters, £ S. D. In short, the golden
fleece is. branded with £ S. D.

In placing Irish Heirs and £ S. D. in juxtaposition, I have made an alliance quite
m the spirit of a work of fiction, for, unfortunately, the Pounds, Shillings, and Pence,
are not, in reality, the invariable concomitants in Irish Heirships. Irish Heirs too
often rind themselves in the position of that particular one once described to an in
quiring traveller by his Hibernian guide, who said that Mister So-and-So " was heir
to five thousand a-year — that was spent." But such are the heirs for the author.
There is nothing to be said of a man who inherits a fortune smoothly, lives a regular
respectable life, and dies decently and quietly in his bed. Out on all such ! Were
the world made up of these, what an unromantic world it would be ! As Irish Heirs
seldom have the luck to be such uninteresting persons as these who have raised my
indignation, they are the heirs after an author's heart ; and as their patrimonies mostly
departed with their forefathers, waifs and strays and money found must be considered
legitimate Irish Heirships ; and with this declaration I start with a tale of TREASURE
TROVE, as the first of the series of £ S. D. ; and, as I very respectfully present
£ S. D. to the public, I hope they will generously return £ S. D to their obliged
»nd grateful servant,

SAMUEL LOVER

CHARLES STREET, BERNERS STREET, LONDON,
January 1st, 1844.

NEW WORKS IN PRESS.

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POUNDS, SHILLINGS AND PENCE,

IRISH HEIRS

CHAPTER I.

IT is about a hundred years ago that the hero
of the following tale " lived, and moved, and had
his being." He lived in the town of Galway, mov
ed in the humbler walk of life, and had his being
from one Denis Corkery, an honest and wealthy
trader in the ancient town aforesaid, and Molly
bis wife. This son of Denis, however, was
christened Edward, in deference to his mother,
who thought it more genteel than Denis, — but
Denis took his revenge by never calling him
anything but Ned.

Ned, however, inherited in the female line, a
desperate hankering aAer all that belonged to
the upper ranks. Even when a child, his very
name sounded unpleasantly in his ear ; he would
mumble over " Corkery" to himself in disgust,
and wish he was called Burke, or Blake, or
Fitzgerald, or Macnamara. As he grew up, he
looked wistfully after every well-mounted cava-
hor who pranced gallantly up the street, and the
full-toned rumble of some grand family coach
was music to him, while the sharp rattle of a
country car was a nuisance. He would run to
the counter of his father's shop and listen eager
ly to the more refined accents of a lady or gen
tleman customer, but he showed no desire for
that place of business when vulgarians were
carrying on their traffic. These peculiarities of
the boy (whose mother died while he was young)
were unnoticed by his father, a plain pains-ta
king man, who, having scrambled his way up
ward from the lowest class, had the ambition, so
general in Ireland, to see his son possess "school
knowledge," the want of which he so much re
gretted, — and, perhaps, overrated, as men do
other things of which thev are not possessed.
Accordingly he gave him all the advantages of
the best school within his reach, whereby the
boy profited so well, that the master soon brag
ged of h s pupil, and the father looked forward
to the cultivated mind of his son with a prospec
tive pleasure never to be realized ; for all this
but stilted the boy more and more above his nat
ural level, fed the mental disease with which he
was infected, — in short, to speak antithetically,
ttrensthened his weakness. The more Ned learn
ed, the more he liked gentility ; and when, hav
ing learned just enough to make him conceited,
he retired finally from school, his father's friends
tnd acquaintance*, whim, with a prjfuse hospi

tality, the father gathered round him, were look
ed down upon for their ignorance and vulgar-
ky; and the more the youth grew, the more
repugnance he showed to engase in his father's
trading, which could open to him no better com
pany than the punch-drinking community among
whom he was daily thrown. It may be question
ed, how a boy should entertain a dislike to vul
gar company without ever having seen what was
superior; many believing that we can only ar
rive at conclusions upon this subject by compar
ison. But the more observant may have had oc
casion to remark, that, in some minds, there is a
natural dislike to every thing coarse; and exam
ples may be seen, even in the same family, of the
wide difference often existing between children
whose education has been equal, in their native
adaptation to vulgar or refined habits. On a
mind open to impressions, the slightest opportu
nities will suffice to stamp the difference between
vulgarity and good breeding. In his father's
shop, the boy had observed the contrast between
the superior orders of his father's customers and
his father's acquaintances. The stripling, fur
ther grown, on the neighboring race-ground, was
not insensible to the difference between the
daughter of a farmer on her pillion, and the
daughter of the squire on her side-saddle. The
more refined accent of the one fell on his ear
more graciously than the broad brogue of the
other, and what produced a coarse laush in the
country girl awoke but the smile of the lady.
Such things will always make their impressions
on the intelligent minds, let those who like say
nay; for occasional glimpses of refinement may
sometimes effect more results in a sensitive
shopkeeper than an academy of punctilio could
produce upon an obtuse man of a higher grade.
But, be this as it may, such an action was going
forward in young Corkery's mind, however it
got there, and soon began to produce unhappi-
ness between the father and son ; not that the
latter ever openly expressed his feelings, but the
former was shrewd enough to see, almost as
soon as the other felt, this growing repugnance
to the consequences of his station ; and many
was the accusation of " Puppy," and " Jacka
napes," hurled at poor Ned by the indisnant tra
der, who occasionally, when moved overmuch,
relieved his mind by indulging in sundry curses
on the hour that " put it into his head to rear up
his own child to be ashamed of the father thai

£. s. d. '

bore him." Now this was not fair to the youth,
for it was not true, and only aggravated the
cause of disunion.

Did the stripling wish m return he had never
oeen educated ? — No. To whatever trials or
troubles one may be exposed by education, howev
er much it may render the feelings by cultivation
more sensitive, and consequently, more liable to
be wounded, I believe none who ever possessed
the prize would relinquish it. The utmost the
young man ever ventured to retort, was the nat
ural question — if his father could expect that
education would not make some difference in
nirn ?

" To be sure, I think it should make a differ.
It should make you more knowledgeable ; but in
stead o' that, it's a fool it made o' you. And it
should make you convarsible ; but, instead o'
that, it's the divil a word you'll say to anybody,
— thinkia' no one good enough to spake to you.
And it should make you more 'cute in thrade by
rayson of fractions, and algibera, and the cube
root ; and a betther marchant, by rayson of jog-
riphy, and a knowledge o' foreign parts, and the
like of that ; but it's thinkin', I am, you turn up
your nose at a marchant, my young masther ;
and it's po'thry, and pagan hist liry, and panthe-
nions, you have crammed your numscull with,
till there's no room in it for common since, at all,
at all. What is it you'd like to do wid yourself,
I'd like to know ? I suppose you'd fancy an
aisy life, and would like to be put 'prentice to a
bishop — eh ? Or, maybe, its a jintleman all out
vou'd like to be ? Well becomes you, indeed ! —
owld Corkery's son a jintleman, and his owld
friends laughin' at him !"

If the son attempted to slip in an apologetic
phrase, as " Indeed, sir !" — or, " 'Pon my word,
father !" — he was silenced directly with a
" Whisht, whisht, I tell you ! — howld your
tongue — didn't I see you lookin' at Miss Mac-
namara the other day ? Bad luck to you — how
dar you lift your eyes to a Macnamara — the
owldest blood in the country ? The dirt on her
shoes is too good for you, you puppy !"

" Indeed, sir "

" Whisht, I tell you ! — shut your face, and
give your red rag a holiday — you're too fond o'
waggin' it, so you are. The consayted dhrop's
in you, I tell you. What am I to do wid you ?
Thrade's not good enough for you ! How gen
teel we are, to be sure ! — your sarvant, sir ! I
suppose you'll want to turn prodistint next.
You'll be of the ginteel religion, I go bail. I
wouldn't wonder ! Faith, you'll go the divil yit,
Ned. Oh, wirra ! wirra !"

The end of these frequent bickerings was,
that Ned, to escape from his father's trade, his
father's reproaches, and his father's friends, re
quested permission to go a voyage with the cap
tain of a trading ship whom the old man chanced
to know in the course of his business. This was
not quite to the taste of either of the parties, —
the father disliking it decidedly, the son only
looking forward to it as a step to something else.
The latter, by reading romantic scraps of sea
voyages, got his imagination inflamed with the
charms of nautical adventure. The former
made a long calculation that a voyage in a tra
ding ship was at least a step toward commerce.

and hoped that when his son shovld be sufficient
ly tired of "saikiring," as he called it, he might
settle down into a mercantile man.

Under these circumstances it was agreed be
tween the parties that three months should
elapse before the decisive step should be taken,
after which time, if Ned found he could not set
tle down to business at once, his father consented
to let him try the .«ea. During these three
months, therefore, Ned had more liberty and few
er reproaches than he had ever known iu his
life, — the father hoping, by such indulgence on
his part, to make the shore more agreeable, and
the sea less tempting; and Ned was not slow to
take advantage of this leave.

Among other amusements, Ned especially
loved horse-racing-; and 'a forthcoming trial of
strength between some of the best horses and
most dashing bloods in the covjitry promised rare
sport, and set the pleasure-goers on a tip-toe of
expectation. At the approaching races, one
match beyond all others excited most interest, to
be run between a pair of celebrated horses rid
den by their owners, both of sporting notoriety,
but of very different characters, — the one being
rather conceited and stand-off in his manners,
the other familiar and frank ; the former being
satisfied of his great attraction among the fair
sex, — the latter quite as anxious for, but not
quite so sure of, their smiles ; Mr. Daly being
perfectly certain he had but to ask and have fa
vors, while young Kirwan (or Kierawaun, as
the admiring peasants called him) was grateful
for as much as was granted. They were both
handsome, only that the good looks of the latter
were increased by the expression of gay good
humor that played on his sportive countenance,
while the temper of the former often militated
against more than his good looks.

On the day of the race in question the neigh
boring town poured forth the sport-loving por
tion of its inhabitants, and the peasant popula
tion were, as usual, in great force on the race-
ground. As the hour of trial drew near, so
did the ponderous carriages-and-four of the gen
try, with the gay cavalcade of the rank and
younger beauty of the neighborhood, whose
heavy saddles, studded with silver nails, and or
namented with gold fringe, marked a distinction
in rank which the plainer equestrian appoint
ments of our time do not indicate. Among
these beauties was the identical Miss Macnama
ra, to whose pretty face Ned had been accused
by his indignant father of lifting his eyes, and
may-be Ned was not there in time to catch the
first glimpse of the graceful Amazon as she
cantered up the course toward the group of car
riages and glittering cavalcade that clustered
round the winning post.

But ah ! — fleeting is the triumph of beauty ! —
even the triumph achieved over the hearts of de
spairing burghers. Before Miss Macnamara
had arrived, a newer and more commanding behe
had displaced her in the heart of the susceptible
Ned, who stood transfixed as he gazed on the
face of a young and lovely girl whose beauty
attracted universal attention, as she took up her
place beside a stern-looking man of middle age,
whose costume of somewhat heavier cut than
that of thf gentry surrounding, and bronzed via-

IRISH HEIRS

age, imparted a forefgn air to his appearance.
A servant mounted on a stout horse, was in at
tendance upon them, and many questions passed
among the assembled throng touching " who
they were," but no one knew. Ned took up the
closest, position he could maintain near them,
and while he feasted his eyes on the unknown
beauty, little dreamed of the damage he was doing
to his heart all the tim<>. It was that sort of
entrancement which woman a\one can achieve,
and which tongue or pen can not tell, and those
can only know who have felt ; therefore we shall
Bay nothing about it, but leave it to the imagina
tion or sympathy of the reader to guess or feel
how Ned was suddenly enslaved.

A shout disturbed him from his trar.ce ; — it
was the appearance of the racers, who paced
before the assemblage of the ilite as they passed
onward toward the starting post. The usual bus
tle of the moment prevailed — the admiration of
the horses, the expression of hope« for one and
doubts of another, the excitement of betting, the
watchfulness of the start; and then, as the
changes of the race round the plain were per
ceptible, the intenser interest of the brief strug
gle, till the last breathless moment of suspense,
when the straining steeds, urged to their utmost
energies, are seen coming up to the goal — the*
sod resounds beneath their rapid stroke — the
thunder increases — the very earth trembles —
they seem to fly ! — they are past ! ! — a shout
rends the sky ! ! ! — the race is over.

Brief pleasure ! — 'not so the pain for those who
have lost their money. Such were races then —
as they are now — only they were somewhat hon-
ttter.

That race being over, the most interesting
contest of the day was next in succession. The
company had not long to wait ; — a cheer anoun-
ced the approach of Mr. Daly, who, mounted on
a splendid horse and exquisitely dressed, ap
proached the principal group of spectators. He
paraded up and down for some some time, mani
festly pleased to exhibit himself and his horse,
and a furtive glance cast i«to the principal car
riages betrayed his desire to know how much he
was admired.

While he was thus amusing himself, a thun
dering shout, mingled with roars of laughter,
disturbed his serenity, which was soon overcast
by an expression of the darkest anger as he saw
the cause of the cheers and the merriment, which
were provoked by the appearance of young Kir-
wan, cantering up toward the group of rank
and beauty on a shaggy little pony without a sad
dle, while he him'self was attired in a coarse
frieze jacket, tied round his middle with a straw
rope, while on his head, instead of a hunting cap,
a peasant's caubeen, with a gad* for his hatband,
holding a dhudeen,] was rakishly stuck on one
side. From under this hat Kirwan's sportive smiles
displayed his white te Hh, as he rode laughing
up and down along the line of carriages, whence
answering mirthful recognition was showered up
on him, while his rival horseman could not con
ceal his rage at thus having his trim attire ridi
culed as it were ; he approached Kirwan, and

* A peeled oiser twisted.
t Stump of * u'pe

said with as much calmness as he could con
mand,

" Do you mean this for a joke or an affront
Mr. Kirwan ?"

" A joke, to be sure."

" It is a very bad one, then, sir."

" Sure an affront would be worse."

" It may be so," said the other, putting spurs
to his horse, intending to gallop to ihe starting
post ; but the horse, an ill-temperet animal, in
stead of obeying this summons as it was meant,
plunged violently, and engaged in an angry strug
gle with his rider, who finally conquered, how
ever, and rode him to the post.

This was all Kirwan wanted ; — he knew the
horse and rider were both ill-tempered, and hit
grotesque dress was assumed for the purpose of
provoking the fury of the animal through the
vanity of his master, and thus, with a horse of
inferior power, but gentler nature, securing the
winning of the race. After making a few jokes
with the ladies, who were yet enjoying his ab
surd costume, he cantered his pony after his
angry rival, and on arriving at the starting post,
alighted, and sprang into the saddle of the racer,
which was there held in waiting for him. After
some false starts, arising from the sulky horse of
Mr. Daly, " Whip, spur, and away !" were
successfully answered to, and off went the com
petitors. But the tustle between Daly and his
steed were fatal to his hopes. If there be a time
when horse and man should, as the Mexicans
imagined, be one animal, it is in the race ; if
they go not together, they go not at all. For a
time the race was contested, but the temper of
Daly's horse, once roused, was irretrievable, and
the brute, bolting at the last turn, Kirwan won
in a canter.

The shouts of Kierawann ! Kierawaun ! ! were
deafening, and Daly made the best of his way to
the stables.

Immediately after this race, while Ned was
bestowing his attention on the fair unknown, the
gentleman with whom she rode addressed some
words to her, and afterward to their attendant,
and she at once cantered off the course, followed
by the servant, while he of the bronzed v'sage
followed in an opposite direction, in the wake of
the crowd, which, as soon as the heat was over,
rapidly cleared the course, and hurried to an ad
joining field, where cock-fightin? occupied the
intervals between the races. The cock-pit was
very simple in its construction — no regularly
leveled platform for the combatants, nor inclined
planes of seats for the spectators. The fairest
portion of a pasture ground was taken for the
field of battle — a circle, marked by fresh-ciu
twigs stuck in the earth, around which gentle
and simple crowded, and got a sight of the sport
as best they might, — the gentle mostly mounted,
it is true, who thus overtopped their neighboring
pedestrians ; but often, as a late arriva) on horse
back placed the new-comer beyond the point of
view, he would dismount, and leaving his horse
to the care of some gilly, push among the mass
of the peasants, who made ready way as his pres
ence declared him to be of the upper classj while,
if "the handlers" within the ring caught sight
of such a personage, they urged the populace to
give place by strong representations of their

£ s.

umworthiness to see the sport before their bet
ters.

« Back out o' that, Dimpsy, I tell you !— Is it
stoppin' his honor o'Menlough you'd be ?"

Dimpsy made himself as small as possible, and
the Blake came forward.

" Cock you up, Shaughnessy, and is it you 'ud
see the cock-fight afore the quality ?— Make way
for his honor, Misther Lynch."

Shaughnessy squeezed back, and Mr. Lynch
pressed forward, while another handsomely dress
ed candidate for the front row followed in his
wake.

The handlers shouted, " Way for his honor
the honorable Misther Daly— hurra ! for Dun-
sandle ! way I bid ye !"

While such exclamations were ringing on
every side, and the crowd swaying to and fro,
Ned had obtained a foremost place amid the by
standers around the ring, and observed, conspic
uous among the horsemen, him of the foreign
aspect.

His attention, however, was more forcibly ar
rested by the presence of a blind man, who
struggled hard to keep a foremost place in the
ring, and whose endeavors for such accommoda
tion every one of the peasantry seemed willing
to aid, while kindly expressions toward his piti
able state were mingled with merry allusions to
the utter uselessness of one deprived of sight oc
cupying a front rank to see the sport. But at
the same time that this mingled pity and merri
ment went forward, there seemed to exist a de
gree of respect toward the man, quite at vari
ance with pity or jesting, and difficult to account
for, but for the leathern pouch at his side, whence
some ivory-tipped tubes of box-wood protruded,
and showed cause for the affectionate attention
of the peasants. He was a piper ; and who, in
the Land of Song, would not stand well with the
minstrel ? — one, ever prized in Ireland, through
the most endearing associations, either as the
traditional transmitter of ancient bardic effusions
at the wake, the mirthful stimulator of nimble j
feet at the fair, the contributor to love or fun
in musical plaint or planxty ; or, perchance, the
exciter of sensations darker and more secret, by
the outpouring of some significant strain which
had hidden meaning in its phrases, and bore hope
and triumph in its wild cadence.

All the influence arising from such causes
Phaidrig-na-pib* held pre-eminently ; and " Stand
fast, Phaidrig," and " I'm with you, Phaidrig,"
»nd " Hold by me, Phaidrig," were among the
ejaculations which greeted the piper, as offers
of assistance were made to him on all sides.
The "dark"f man was pitied, though the blind
witness of cock-fighting might make food for
mirth. But, though he could not see, he took

eep interest in the savage spori, and would bet

n the fate of the battles, inquiring only who was

he owner of the birds, and what their colors ;

on knowing these his knowledge of the various

, oreeds of the cocks would decide him in backing

the combatants, and mostly he was right in his

•elections.
The ring was now crowded to suffocation, and

* Patrick of the Pipes.

t A ph«^se applied to the blind.

a movement between the handlers promised •
commencement of th" encounter, when a fresh
commotion in the crowd indicated another strug-
gler from the rear to the front. He was caught
sight of by the officials within the ring, and
" Room" was called for hi* honor Misther Bod-
kin ; but the serried mass seemed too compacl
to admit of another being. " Arrah, boys, is it
keeping out Misther Bodkin you'd be ?"

" Faix, and if he was a needle instead of a
bodkin, 'twould be hard for him to get in here,'1
said Phaidrig.

" Sure he's like a needle in one respect, any
how," returned the handler — " he has an eye in
him ; and as you have not, you might give him
your place, and stand behind."

" Sure, if I'm blind, that's a rayson I should
have a front place," says Phaidrig, "as a man
with eyes has a better chance of seeing."

The crowd paid the good-natured tribute of a
laugh to Phaidrig's pleasantry upon his own cis-
fortune, and the handler sought another person
to displace for his honor Misther Bodkin, who at
length got into the front, and the battle begun.

The usual hasty offers and acceptances of
wagers on the contending birds rang in rapid
succession among the mounted gentlemen in the
crowd, and those who held the front standing-
places in the circle. It was the first time Ned
had ever seen a cock-fight, and his attention
was distracted for a time between the fierce con
flict of the birds and the sounds of triumph 01
dismay which followed the blows or the falls of
either, and the bets which were offered or doubled
in consequence ; but all these gave place at last
to observation of the blind man, whose excite
ment surpassed that of all others as the fight pro
ceeded, and who appeared *" his* exclamations
to know, as well as those who could see, the
vicissitudes of the battle ; his sense of hearing
seemed to give him the power of distinguishing
between the strokes of the combatants, as an
occasional exclamation of " Well done, red
code !" sufficiently proved ; and the crow of each
bird seemed as familiar to his ear as the voice
of an acquaintance.

The fight between the first pair of cocks was
over, and a fresh pair produced: as they were
brought into the ring, one of them challenged,
and on hearing his bold, clarion-like defiance,
Phaidrig's countenance brightened, as he exclaim
ed, " That's the cock for winning — I know his
shout — 'tis the Sarsfield breed."

" That is not the name I give the breed,"
said a handsome cavalier, of noble appearance,
who was mounted on a splendid horse.

" But that is the breed, my lord," said Phaid
rig, nowise daunted by the voice of the noble
man; "sure I know it, egg and bird, for long
ago — and what better name could a bowld breed
have ?"

Phaidrig's answer wa.° relished by the crowd,
who evinced their pleasure by a low, chuck jig
murmur, over which the voice of the nobleman
was heard rather reprovingly to the piper, telling
him " his chanter* was too loud."

" Sure the nob'e Clanrickarde should be th
last to turn a deaf ear to the name," retorte

•The principal pipe of the set

IRISH HEIRS.

Phaidng, " when one of the fair daughters of
De Burgo was wife to the bold Sarsfield."

" Put down the cocks," said Lord Clanrickarde,
anxious to terminate the parley.

As the birds were set opposite to each other,
the strange cavalier exclaimed, " Five guineas
on the blade bird."

As the Pretender was known to be often des
ignated in Ireland under the sobriquet of the
" black bird," every eye was turned toward the
«tranger as he uttered the words, and angry
glances, as well as those of admiration, were
tent on him, — the angry ones openly, from the
tonsciousness that those who gave them were
backed by authority, — the others, timidly and
.furtively, as indicating an unlawful desire.

A stern horseman beside the stranger, in an-
iwer to his offered bet, said, " The black cocfc
fou mean."

" The black bird !" returned the stranger.

" The cock !" repeated his neighbor.

" A cock is a bird, sir, I believe," the stranger
returned, coldly, and then repeated his bet,
" Five guineas on the black bird !"

" Done !" said his stern neighbor, more influ
enced by the spirit of political opposition than |
cock-fighting. I

This altercation had so far operated on the
handlers, that they paused in their duties, and the
battle did not begin until the word "Done" had
been uttered ; then the birds were let loose, and
rushed eagerly on each other.

An interest was imparted to the contest be
yond that of the mere sport, from the words by
which it was preluded ; and the spectators saw
in the two cocks the champions, as it were, of
two parties ; and hopes and fears, almost super
stitious, were attached to each stroke of the
combatants, whose blows were exchanged fierce
ly and rapidly, for both the birds were high game.
At last the black received a double stroke of
his adversary's spurs, which brought him to the
ground, and a cheer of triumph rose from the
surrounding gentry, as the handlers rushed for
ward to disengage the birds."

" Two to one on the red !" cried several gen-
tlemen, and another cheer arose on their part,
while a breathless silence reigned amid the crowd
of peasants, foremost among whom Phaidrig-
na-pib bent his head over the ring in the act of
eager listening.

" 'Twas only a body blow, you say," muttered
Phaidrig to a neighbor.

" Yes," whispered the other.

" Then, no matter," saff the piper ; " he'll
aide his time and hit his match in the head. I
Know the breed well — they always strike for the
Head."

The birds were again set in opposition. The
•lack went in boldly, and made a vigorous dash
•t his enemy.

" Well done ! — he's strong yet !" muttered
Phaidrig.

A bold bout now ensued between the birds j
their wings flapped fiercely against each other,
and some ugly blows were exchanged, but it was
evident that the double stroke the black had
received was telling against him; he bled pro
fusely, and exhibited symptoms of weakness, yet
«u'l his courage failed not, and he continued to
2

exchange blows, until another heavy stroke from
the red brought him down, and a fresh shout of
triumph rose from the gentlemen.

"Behold the fate of 'your black bird' now,
sir !" said he of the stern visage to tjie stranger.

" A battle is not lost till it is won, sir," was
the answer.

A dead silence ensued, during which the han
dlers were counting time, for the victorious red
cock, having disengaged himself, was left to
tread the field in triumph, while his sable adver
sary lay drooping on the ground, which was
stained with his life-blood.

For a few seconds -he red eyed his stricken
foe, and stood as if on guard, in expectation of a
fresh attack ; but when he saw his head grad
ually droop, he seemed at once to understand
that so bold an adversary must be beaten, or he
would return to the assault, and with an air of
conquest he stepped proudly toward him, and
standing right over him, flapping his wings, and
raising his head to its proudest height, he crowed
his triumph over his fallen foe.

The sound acted like magic on the dying bird.
The trumpet of victory could not more have stir
red the heart of a vanquished hero. It was
manifest the cock could not have struck another
blow, if his enemy had not crowed over him ;
but the insult roused him at his last gasp, and
the defenceless position of his foe placed him
within the reach of vengeance. And vengeance
was the work of an instant ; he made one con
vulsive spring from the ground, and his spurs
clashed together through the brain of his exult
ing adversary, who dropped dead under the ex
piring victor. A wild shout rose from the peas
antry, and vexation was depicted in the counte
nances of the gentry.

" Is he dead ?" asked the owner of the red
cock.

" As a stone, your honor," answered the
handler.

" And there goes the black now ;" said the
other handler, as the gallant bird stretched him
self in death. " 'Tis a uily such a bit of game
should ever die !"

" Give him into my hands here, for one min
ute," cried Phaidrig-na-pib ; whose request was
granted by the handler.

Phaidrig pressed the bird to his heart, and in
his native language vented a wild out-pouring of
eloquent lament for the " black bird," in which
many an allusion of an exciting character was
caught up by the populace; and Lord Clan
rickarde, not approving of the temper they ex
hibited, very judiciously put an end to the cock
fight, by saying it was time to run the last heat
of the race.

He gave example to the gentry by his own act
of galloping at once to the winning post, and was
followed by a crowd of horsemen, most of whom
cursed the unlucky chance of the fight. The
peasantry drew off in another direction, in the
train of Phaidrig-na-pib, who, " yoking" his
pipes, poured forth the spirit-stirring strain of
" The Blackbird," and the shrill chanter, as it
rang across the plain, to such admirable music,
but questionable loyalty, was —

" Unpleasing most to noble oars."

£. s. d.

Cljc 33lacfcl)irtr.

(With spirit, hut not too fast.)

CHAPTER II.

AFTER this day of excitement, the night brought,
with its darkness, silence, also, over the town of
Galway ; and, to judge from the quie't within its
lyirrow streets, out of doors, one might think it
brought peace likewise; but it was not so.
Could the interior of manj of its ancient domi-
cils be seen, the excitement of more than wine
•would have been apparent, and the turn the
fcock-fight assumed brought from its lurking-place
many a feeling laid by, as the possessor thought,
for ever. But such feelings, like our great
grandmothers' state suits, were too often laid by
only to be brought out on favorite occasions, and
•ometinjes,more unfortunately, were left as heir

looms. And though it is long since we have
laughed at this custom of our grandmothers, the
other we have likffed to it has, unfortunately,
long survived 't, and is now only left off because,
thank Heaven, it is worn out. Party will lose
its pattern as well as silk, and time crush the
stiffness of creeds as well as brocades ; hoops
and wigs will flatten and lose their beauty in
spite of buckram and powder, and other high
things, as well as high-heeled shoes, be cor tent
to come down to a reasonable level.

But, to return to Galway ; many a dinner and
an after-bout of drinking the town saw that
day, comprising the proudest names and the
humblest. A sporting occasion, such as the one
lust mentioned, is sure to spread the board, even
in our degenerate times, which are as nothing,
if we may believe chronicles, to those of ou»

IRISH HEIRS.

•athers, when the " pottle-deep" potations were
in vogue, and a more indiscriminate hospitality
sxercised. It will not be wondered at, therefore,
iliat, at a later hour of the night, many a hot
headed blade had to traverse the dark town, more
ready to give than take an affront, and the better-
humored ready, at least, for " sport,'' which,
after dinner, in all times, meant giving somebody
else annoyance, and bears the same definition to
this day.

Ned Corkery was one of the out-of-door people,
who was returning, after a dinner, to the parent
roof, where he expected a reprimand for staying
out so late, when his attention was attracted by
a lantern, borne by a gentleman, on whose arm
a lady leaned; and, as Ned passed, the light of
the lantern, flashing on her lace, discovered the
features of the beautiful girl who had so smitten
him on the race-course. He paused as they
passed ; they were followed by a blind man and
his dog, and Phaidrig-na-pib was easily recogni
sed. Ned followed the light of the lantern with
longing eyes, knowing it showed the fairy foot
of the sweet g»irl where 10 pick her steps ; and
when a projecting abutment of one of the pon
derous old edifices with which the town abounds
to this day screened the lantern's gleam, he
could not resist following. A thought of his
father's additional anger for every additional
minute came over him ; but the desire to know
whero that matchless girl lodged was a superior
consideration, and he pursued the magic lantern
— to him, a magic lantern indeed ! for, strange
and wild were the shapes which, through its
agency, his future life assumed.

He had not followed far, when the party stop
ped, in consequence of a servant saying he had
dropped some money, and begging of the gentle
man to lend him his lantern to search for it.
The request was granted, and, after a few sec
onds, the man joyfully exclaimed, he had found
the money, and, laying the lantern at the gentle
man's feet, ran off. He who had conferred the
obligation, remarked that he thought the man
might have been civil enough to hand him the
lantern he had lent ; but how much greater was
his surprise, when, as he stooped to take it, the
lantern was pulled suddenly upward, till it
swung from a projecting beam above ; and a loud
laugh from a distant part of the street showed it
was a practical joke which had been played off
upon the unsuspecting stranger, the servant of
this " sportive" party only having feigned the
loss of money, and, while he aj^ected to look for
it, tying to the ring of the lantern a string, which
was pulled by the remote jokers ! The gentle
man was very indignant, and shouted loudly
some opprobrious names, meant for the persons
who had treated him so scurvily ; and, at the
same moment, Ned advanced, requesting him to
be calm, as he would recover the light for him.
The stranger thought this might be some fresh
test, and intimated as much ; but Ned assured
him he would scorn conduct so " ungentlemanly,"
•nd requested immediately that Phaidrig would
stand beside the heavy porch of an old doorway,
and enable him thereby to clamber upward.
The suggestion was obeyed ; the youth sprang
upon the shoulders of the stout piper, laid hold
of the projecting entablature of the ponderous

masonry, and twining his legs r "-nd one of th<
pillars which supported it, thus c Jibed his way
to the top of the pediment, whenc he was ena
bled to reach the beam where the la^em swung.
As he was about to lay hands on it, the string
which the distant party held was relaxed, the
lantern lowered, anjl Ned near tumbling. A fresh
laugh was raised, and another curse uttered by
the impatient gentleman ; but when Phaidrig
was told what* had occurred, he called his do^,
and placing him on his shoulders, and stooping,
that the animal might gain a spring from his
back, cried, " Sei/e it, Turlongh."* The dog
obeyed the command, sprang at the lantern, tnd
laying hold with tooth and limb, clung to it;
but the string was sufficiently powerful to haul
up both dog and light to the beam, which fresh
trick was accomplished ; but Ned was enabled to
catch the rope, and seizing the dog, drew him,
and with him the lantern, to the platform on
which he stood, and, spite of the tugging of the
party who still bellowed forth their laughter, held
fast, till he was enabled to cut the cord, and re
gain the light. This he lowered to '"is friends
beneath, and began to descend himself, when he
heard the rush of the defeated jesters coming
forward to make good the capture of the lantern
by downright assault. He hastened his descent,
therefore, and sprang to the ground, just as he
heard a voice from the assaulting party exclaim,
as the light flashed on the face of the stranger,
" 'Tis he, by Heaven ! — down with the traitor !"

" Misther Daly, I know your voice," cried
Phaidrig-na-pib, " take care what you're about !"

" Ha ! you rebel rascal !" cried another voice,
" you there, too ?" .

"That's Misther Burke," said Phaidrig;
" you'd betther not brake the pace, gintlemin, or
see what the mayor will be saying to you to
morrow morning !"

There was a momentary parley among the
bloods ; but an angry voice (it was Daly's) was
heard above them all, saying, " By Heaven, I'll
take him on my own responsibility !"

At the same moment, his sword flashed in the
lamp-light, and the stranger, knowing the disad
vantage in a fight a light is to him who holds it,
extinguished it promptly, and drew his sword.
His daughter clung to him.

" Nell, release me," he said, in a /ow voice,
as he freed himself from the obedient girl, who
now eagerly seized the arm of any other protec
tor, and that arm was Ned's. He felt the might
of giants, and the courage of heroes, at the
touch.

" Seize him !" again shouted the enraged Daly.

" Beware, sir," returned the calm but deter
mined voice of the stranger, who stood on his
defence. It was only in time, for his blade en
countered that of his assailant. The clashing of
the swords was the signal for a general fight.
That between Daly and the stranger was brief, for
the latter was an able swordsman, and, in the daik,
had the advantage, as being superior in feeing
his adversary's blade. A few passes convinced
Daly he had enough to do, and a few more madi
him quite sure the surgeon would have some
thing to do next, for he received a severe thrus

•Anglice, "Thunderer"

£ s. d.

in the sword nn. His friends, on finding he
was wounded became savage, and rushed on
more fiercel' tout they were held at bay ; for the
blind man'? Keen sense of hearing enabled him
to strike with his heavy stick with wondrous pre
cision ; and, as soon as the dog heard his voice
engaged in the fray, the snaypish whining which
he had uttered on the top of the portico in his
desire to get down, was changed for a fierce yell,
and springing into the midst of the combatants,
he gave the first on whom he alighted an un
pleasant memento of the night's amusement.
Then, cheered by the voice of his master, he bit
at their legs, and gave such terrible annoyance,
that the odds were lessened against the little
party which yet held the portico ; but still num
bers were against them. Fortunately, however,
they were enabled, from their position, to keep
a close front, the portico in their rear forming a
defence for the lady, and leaving her protectors
at ease upon her account, certain she could re
ceive no injury amid the storm of blows which
were falling thick and fast. Ned had wrested a
sword from the first assailant who had fallen foul
of him, and though his position in life debarred
him from wearing one, he nevertheless knew its
use, his genteel propensities having urged him to
learn fencing from an old sergeant, who had seen
service in the Netherlands. Ned poked away
fearlessly, and pricked one of the party pretty
smartly, so that the bloods, finding themselves so
itoutly resisted, and two of their set wounded,
were fain to beat a retreat, venting curses, and
threatening vengeance. It may be imagined
there was no desire to follow them ; the moment
the road was free, the little party who held the
portico hurried down the street in an opposite
direction, when, to their dismay, two men, bear
ing lanterns, led by a gentleman who seemed
hurrying to the scene of action, appeared coming
tound an adjacent corner, the leader exclaim
ing—

" Peace in the king's name ! keep the peace !"

" By Jakers, that's the mayor !" said Phaidrig.

" Then strike out the lights, and let us force
our way past them," cried the stranger, with
more of anxiety in his manner than he had yet
exhibited. " You take the right hand one," said
he to Ned — " I'll manage the other."

With this determination they advanced, and
the demand of the mayor to " stand in the king's
name," was answered by each lantern-bearer
being attacked. He who fell to the stranger's
share was overpowered instantly, and the heel
of his heavy boot went crash through the lantern ;
the other was yet tustling with Ned, when the
stranger turned to his assistance, but, in enga
ging in this service, he himself was collared b\"
the mayor; whereupon Ned, who had got disen
gaged, bestowed such a hearty blow under the
worthy mayor's ear, that the portly dignitary
measured his length beside the first lantern-
bearer, over whom he tumbled, as the other was
in the act of rising; this left the third quite
helpless, and after laying him sprawling, and
extinguishing the light, the adventurous little
party ran for it, the blind man leading at a smart
iroi, his dog keeping close to him a little way in

dvance.

" Take care of yourself, Phaidrig," said the

stranger, as he hurried after with his daughter,
beside whom Ned kept up his guard at the othei
side.

"Never fear me," answered the piper, " with
the help o' Turlough, I could thread the darkesl
lane in the town without spoiling my beauty —
mind, a sharp turn to the left here — that's it,"
and they dived down a narrow alley, as he
spoke. " Divil a light we want as far as finding
the way goes, only the young misthress will slop
her purty little feet ; but dirt rubs out aisier than

the grip of the mayor's bailiffs Whisht !"

— and he paused a moment — " by the powers
they are afther us hue and cry — hurry ! hurry !"
He quickened his pace, and after one or two
more windings, which were executed in silence,
the dog stopped before an entrance, and began
scraping at the door fiercely.

" Knock, Phaidrig," said the stranger.

"No, your honor — no — the knock might be
heard by our pursuers, and the scratching can't
— but will give them within notice."

The result proved Phaidrig right; a step was
heard stirring inside the house, and soon after
the drawing of a bolt and an open door admitted
the fugitives to a timely sanctuary, for the shout
of pursuit was heard at the entrance of the
" close," and the portal was barely shut and
barred, when the heavy tramp of men was heard
rushing past, the hunters little suspecting that
the thickness of a plank only was between them
and the prey they sought.

The party within made no move till the tramp
of the pursuers died away in the distance, then
Phaidrig, with a low chuckle spoke. "Close
work," said he, " as the undher millstone said
to the upper when there was no corn."

" 'Twould have been grinding work, sure
enough, had we been taken," said the stranger.
" You tremble, Nell," said he in a gentler tone
to the girl.

She only answered by a long-drawn breath.

" All safe now, my lady," said Phaidrig; " put
four little hand on my arm, and I'll lead you —
for we must have no light."

She obeyed his summons, and was led by the
blind man into an apartment, where the low
embers of a fire gave a aint glimmer, and
where the sound of rushing waters was heard.

The rest of the party followed.

" CouW you get the boat ready soon 1" said
Phaidrig.

He who had opened the door answered in the
affirmative. •

" Then we had better cross the river, your
honor," said the piper ; " for it misht come into
their heads, them haythens of bailiffs, to go
searching the neighborhood, and once we are
over the wather into the Cladagh, we are safr ,
for it's more nor a mile round by the bridge, and
they could never catch us, even if they got the
scent. Bad luck to the mayor, though he's a
worthy man ! why did he come out at all 1 it was
no harm pinking the bloods, for that's as com
mon as bad luck, but knockin' down the may
or will make a stir, I tell you, in Galway, where
they are so proud o' their privileges — there is no
standin' the consait of the mayors of Galway,
ever since Walther Lynch hanged his s<w>- -gel
ready the boat, Mike."

IRISH HEIRS.

The stranger now addressed Ned in terms of
thankfulness for his first polite assistance, and for
his gallant bearing in the riot, and concluded by
expressing his regret that he should have been
involved in such a serious brawl, with hopes it
would be of no material injury to him.

"Faix, he's in throuble, I tell you," said
Phaidrig. " Sure it was himself that gave the
mayor the poltlwge that upset him — faix, my
young masther, you have a delicate taste, con
sidering your youth and inexperience, that
nothing Jess than a mayor would sarve you."

'•' 'Twas in my defence," said the stranger ;
" and I regret? young sir," said he to Ned, " that
my circumstances are not such as to offer you
protection adequate to the risk you have encoun
tered for my sake."

Ned made a flourishing speech here, declaring
he never was so happy in his life — that to ren
der a service to a gentleman — and — a lady — and
Ned stammered as he dared to allude to the love
ly cause of his dilemma.

" Indeed, sir, I thank you," said the girl in a
sweet voice.

Ned felt more than rewarded, even if he fell
into the power of the offended magistrate.

Phaidrig here quitted the chamber, to " hurry
Mike with the boat," as he said ; but as he left
the room, another person entered, and approach
ed the stranger and his daughter, with whom he
conversed in an under tone ; and even the glim
mering light cast by the fire, enabled Edward to
pee that his bearing toward both indicated the
most intimate familiarity between the parties.
In a few minutes the father was silent, and the
conversation continued in low whispers between
the lady and the young cavalier, while the father,
as if lost in thought, threw himself into an old
chair that stood before the fireplace, and, as if
unconsciously, began to stir the dying embers
with the toe of his heavy riding-boot. A bright
flame flickered from the smouldering heap, and
revealed fo Edward the person of young Kirwan,
whose attitude was expressive of the most devo
ted attention, as he still continued to converse,
in whispers, with the attentive girl.

Edward felt anything but comfortable, as he
witnessed the courtly address of the handsome
Cirwan to the lady. The folly of such a feeling
was apparent to himself, yet still he could not
conquer it ; the influence that had been cast over
iim by his admiration of the morning, and the
idventure of the night, seemed to himself as ex
traordinary as it was unreasonable. Why should
he be angered that the gay and gallant Kirwan
should pay his court to a lady of his own rank,
immeasurably above a trader's son, and to whom
\e might not address a phrase beyond that of the
umblest courtesy ? His heart could only an-
wer with a sigh ! This being, whom he had
leen but twelve hours since, with whom he had
lot exchanged twelve words, and to whom he
dare m t aspire, nevertheless had filled his heart
with passion ; the pang of hopeless love was
there, aggravated by the seeming favor in which
another was held, and poor Ned became the
prey of a jealousy as intense as it was absurd.

With a painful watchfulness he marked how
closely they talked together, while Kirwan held
Uie lady's hand all the time. He would gladly,

at that moment, have engaged the favored cava
Her at the sword's point !

Phaidrig now returned, and announced the
boat " ready." Ellen's father rose, and taking
Kirwan by the hand, said, '< Here we part for
the present. You shall know where to find me
—farewell !"

" Farewell !" returned the other, with an en
ergy of manner, and hearty shaking of hands,
denoting between the parties deep interest, and
warm fellowship.

" Allow me," said the stranger, " to recom
mend to your care this youth, whose brave &?•
sistance makes me so much his debtor, and places
him in some jeopardy for the present. You, 1
am sure, will give him shelter."

" Willingly," said Kirwan.

Ned recoiled from the thought of accepting
safety at such hands, and replied, that he did
not fear returning at once to his own home.

" Baidershin .'" said Phaidrig, "how bowld
we are !" Then addressing the stranger, he ad
ded, " If your honor will be advised by me, you
will take him over the river with you, for, 'pon
my conscience, the sweet town of Galway is no
place for my young masther to-night."

" Be it so," said the stranger; " and now for
the boat." Kirwan offered his arm with courtly
grace to Ellen, but her father drew her arm
within his own, and said, " A truce to compli
ments now. You shall hand her to her carnage,
when we see you at "

Ned could not catch the name of the place
the stranger said. Ellen, and her father, hur
ried from the chamber, and Phaidrig, taking Ned
by the arm, the party proceeded in silence and
darkness, along a passage, through which a cur
rent of cold air was felt, and the roar of a rush
ing torrent heard ; a small door was reached,
which opened directly over the rapids that hurry
the foaming waters of Lough Corrib to the sea,
below the ancient bridge. The sheet of white
foam was visible in the darkness, and made the
boat, some feet below the door, peiceptible, as it
plunged on the eddying current.

" Let the heaviest go first," said Phaidrig,
" 'twill steady the boat." The stranger going
on his knees, and laying hold of the threshold of

.e door with his hands, let himself down till his
eet touched the gunwale of the boat, where, ta-
(ing his seat, he called out to the piper to take
care of his daughter.

"Now, my lady, steady — don't be afeard,"
said the piper — " don't be angry with my rough
fist for taking a sharp grip o* you ; give your
other hand to the young gentleman at the other
side."

Ellen silently obeyed the instruction, and a
thrill of pleasure shot through Ned's heart as he
held firmly the delicate hand of the girl, in as
sisting to lower her to the boat where her
father received and placed her in safety beside
him.

" Now, young master, in with you," said Phai
drig.

" Had not you better go first ?" said Ned. " 1
may assist you from above."

" My own grip is worth all the assistance in
the world," said Phaidrig, — " obliged to you, all
the same. I go bail I'll not leave go of the

JL 8. d.

threshjld till I ftcl a good hotflt with my fool in
the boat."

Edward lost no time in obeying, and the piper
followed in safety. " Off with you now, Mike !"
<aid he.

The boat swept down the current as he
•poke.

" Where's the dog !" cried Ellen anxiously.

A splash in the water followed her words.

" There he goes," said Phaidrig ; " his own
Dowld heart and strong paws would put him
over a wilder stream than this ; the dog who
can't swim is only fit for drowning."

The boat now plunged over the boiling waves
:.i the rapid, and Elten instinctively held her
father with a close embrace as they hurried
through the hissing foam, which soon, however,
became less and less as they swept onward, the
waters gradually darkening as they deepened,
streaked only here and there with long lines of
surge, and the heavy gurgling of a strong
current succeeding the roar whicli had appal
led the ear of Ellen.

They were soon enabled to pull the boat
shoreward from out of the current ; and, as they
touched the strand, Turlough was waiting, ready
to receive the party, snortin?, and shaking the
waters of Corrib from his brave side ; a few
minutes more placed them all under the shelter
of a fisherman's cottage, and while horses were
being prepared for the stranger and his daugh
ter, the former repeated his thanks to Ned, sha
king him heartily by the hand, and commending
him to the care of the fisherman. The latter
promised safe keeping of him for the present,
and undertook to communicate with Ned's
friends in the town, on the morrow, swearing
" by the hand of his gossip," that he would
have good care of the youth, for " his honor's
take."

The nags were soon ready, and Ellen was
lifted to her saddle by her father ; but, before
parting, the gentle girl presented her hand to
Edward, and expressed a fervent hope he might
incur no injury from his generous conduct.

Edward stammered an unintelligible reply,
and ventured to press the little hand. The next
instant the horses were in motion ; the rapid
clatter of their feet up the stony path died
away in the distance, and Ned, with a sinking
heart, retired to the fisljer's hut. Burning with
curiosity to know who these gentle folk's might
be, he thought the fisherman would inform him,
and asked a question with that view ; but the
fisherman, returning him a glance that had in it
much of displeasure, replied : " They did not
tell me who they were, sir, and / asked him no
questions." Ned felt the reproof keenly;— it
seemed there was some mystery about the stran
ger, and then, for the first time, Ned began to
consider in what an awkward adventure he had
become involved.

CHAPTER III.

THE next morning the fisherman, at Edward's
'equest, went into the town to communicate with
woahy Mister Corkery, who already had heard

an exaggerated account of his son's ad venture, so
that the real truth, though bad enough, lifted a
weight of horrors from his civic heart, which had
sunk to the lowest depths of despair at the thought
of the city's peace being broken by a boy of his,
and the daring hand of Corkery lifted against
the mayor, and that the mayor of Galway. When
lie found, however, that Ned had not murdered
six men, as was reported, and only tripue.il up the
mayor (though that was dreadful), lie vas moie
comfortable, but desired Ned to lie quiet, and he
would write to him in the evening. All that day
the trader worked hard at a letter which was a
mighty task to him, and at night the fisherman
returned, and bore to Ned his father's epistle : —

" Deer Ned,

" Mi hart is Sore, and the mare's
hed kut, and His Wig will nevr doo a Dais gud,
the Barbr tells me, fur sartin — his blew and gool
kote all gutthur. 0 Ned, to tutch a mare is a
foalish bizniz, — i no foalish aut to bee spelt with a
YEW, but I kan't make a YEW to know it from an
EN. Yew must get out off this kounthry for sum
tim — praps the sailorin bizniz is the best now til
The storee is past and gone, and when y unfort-
nate tale is not tuk up by the foals, but let too
dhrop, wh is the prair of y offended but afek-
shint father, " Denis Corkery."

" i send 5 ginnys by the barer, for the rod to
Dublin, wher McGuffins ship iz — ax for the in-
dusthery, thatz hur nam — you will see hur on
the blind K.

" lite gool duz for the rod, so the ginny's a
lite.

" my hart is hevvy, Ned.

" I wood go see yew ned, but Am afeerd they
wd watch and trak me, for y« mares i iz on mee.

" Beewer ov bad Kumpiny.

" Yours, D. C."

Ned, in obedience to orders, prepared to start
for Dublin ; he wrote an obedient and repentant
letter to his father, hoping forgiveness, and
promising good behavior for the future. In the
dead of night, when the slumbering majesty of
Galway's civic dignity rendered it most conve
nient to make a start, Ned set out for the me
tropolis, and, before dawn, had put several miles
between himself and danger. Dublin was reach
ed in safety, and as swiftly as Ned could accom
plish it; and on the Blind quay, sure enough, he
found the good brig, Industry, and the exemplary
Captain McGuffin, who was to sail with the next
tide for London.

Before Ned was over the bar, it was all over
with him. Sea-sickness contributes much to
feelings of repentance, and Ned began to enter
tain flattering notions of the susceptibility of his
conscience, which his stomach was more entitled
to ; he wished for nothing so much as death, and
hoped the Land's End would have made an end
of him; but he survived the Channel, and, after
doubling the North Foreland, found his appetite
again. On passing the Nore, he was as fresl'
as a lark, and while tacking up the Thames
nearly created a famine on board. After this,
Ned liked the sea well enough ; in short, it suited
him perfectly.

In some respects, he felt that, under certain
circumstances, he could IOTC it ; but the captain

IRISH HEIRS.

of the trader was a sober, steady man ; and the
monotonous life on board of a merchant-vessel,
whose voyages were confined to the British
waters, had not enough of excitement and in
terest for a spirit like his. Nevertheless, he
served nearly eighteen months in this way,
patiently looking forward, however, to better
things some day, on board of a nobler craft,
whose wings might be spread for longer flights.
During all this time, many a fond thought revert
ed to the fair girl of the race-course, whose
image was as fresh in his memory as though he
had seen her yesterday. But, notwithstanding
this youthful love-sickness, he employed himself
diligently to become as good a sailor as circum
stances could make him, and, for a mere coast
ing mariner, was a very smart fellow. Ever, on
his return from sea to Dublin, which was the
port whence the vessel traded, Ned found a letter
waiting for him, in which lamentations for his
" foolish bit of consait" in the streets of Galway
continued to be made, with recommendations to
keep away for some time yet, as it was " not
forgotten to him." Sobriety, industry, and fru
gality, were recommended, with this assurance,
that

" Early to bed, and early to rise,
Make a man healthy, wealthy, and wise ;"

and, furthermore, this solemn fact was put for
ward, that —

" A pin a day, is a groat a year."

On the receipt of such letters, Ned generally
muttered, that he wished his father would send
him a little less advice, and a little more money.
But in uttering this wish, Ned was unreason
able. The old ma-n, though frugal, was not par
simonious ; and allowed his son quite enough to
enable him to enjoy himself reasonably on shore,
when the duties of his ship did not demand his
presence on board ; for it was no part of his in
tention that Ned should be screwed down to all
the hardships of a sailor's life, though he did not
wish to make that life too fascinating to a young
fellow of naturally an erratic turn. He remem
bered that Ned, when in port at Dublin, must see
some friends there, and it would never do for a
respectable citizen of Galway to let his son ap
pear in the " slops'' of a captain's mate. — No,
no; Ned was well supplied with the means of
casting his marine attire, and assuming a lands
man's garb befitting his station ashore ; and from
his innate tendency toward his gentility, his
clothes were rather of a smarter cut than he had
guile a right to indulge in, and certainly far finer
lhan he would have dared to assume in Galway,
where his father's eyes, to say nothing of
neighbors', were as good as sumptuary laws.
Considering the old man rather objected to the
pursuit of the maritime profession for his son, it
may be wondered at he did not make him feel as
much privation as possible, in the hope of indu
cing a distaste for it; but, on the other hand,
when it is remembered that an only son was
forced to seek shelter on board ship, to save him
self from the consequences of a mischance ; that
he was forced to fly his native town, and that
without even the paternal embrace, who can
blame a father for having yearnings of compas

sion for his absent boy, and seeking tc make his
exile as bearable as it might be ?

Truth, however, compels us to say that Ned
thought much more of the beauty of the race
course than of his father ; and the decking of his
person in something of a superior costume, was
insensibly influenced by the desire to see himself
look as well as possible for her sake, though, in all
human probability, he should never see her again.
But this is no reason why an ardent imagination
is not to think of an object by which it has been
excited ; and, in truth, there was seldom a day
in which Ned's heart did not wander to the rec
ollection of the day he first saw her — that event
ful day, which brought love in the morning,
pleasure at sundown, and jealousy before mid
night.

He was not mad enough to suppose, in his
wildest moments of dreaming, that the cr»nts of
that day could ever " come to anything ,'' but
still the recollection of them clung about his
heart, and though he dared not hope, he could not
forget.

How many a night, on his cold and dreary
watch, did the memory of the parting pressure
of the fair girl's hand return upon him ! At
such moments he would pace the deck, and,
looking upward at the stars, inwardly exclaim,
" Oh, that I could see her once again ! — Yet
why indulge in these foolish yearnings? — As
well might one of those stars be mine, as that
lovely being!"

Perchance a shooting star darted across the
heavens as he spoke, and as its brightness van
ished, Ned, indulging the superstitious fancy of
his country, would curse his stupidity for not
wishing for her while the star was falling.*

At length it chanced his ship was ordered to
HamburghiandNed was delighted at the thoughts
of making a foreign port, which, in good time,
was achieved ; and, after discharging cargo, he
lost no opportunity, while lying in port, to see
all he could of this far-famed city. The remar
kable and picturesque costumes of the surround
ing neighborhood — the grotesque old houses
which towered over its canals, which, like so
many veins of wealth, carried commerce into the
heart of the town, — its ancient churches, its
dancing-halls and theatre — all these, and more,
filled Ned with wonder, and fed that greedy de
sire which youth always has for novelty.

But exploring different quarters of the city was
his principal pursuit; and in doing this, he had
occasion to remark the absurd custom of the
Hamburghers in the profuse use of carriages in
streets so narrow and so crooked, that their
vehicles could scarcely get on, from the mutual
impediments they presented. In one of these
frequent "jams," just as one coach was passing
another, he caught sight of a face that set his
heart all in a flame : it seemed the face of the
beautiful girl of the race-course, and he sprang
forward, in hopes to assure himself it was so ;
but the coach became disentangled before he
could look into it, and drove on ; — he pursued it,
but could not overtake it, and 't soon turned
into a gateway, which, when Ned reached, was
closed. He lingered about the place for some

*The superstitious say that if you express a wish be
fore a shooting star vanishes, it will be realized.

X s. d

time, provoked and disappointed ; he could not be
satisfied whether his notion was true or not ;
he could not even ask to whom the house belong
ed, for he was ignorant of the language ; so he
w-as forced to retire in a state of excited imagi
nation, which not only deprived him of sleep that
night, but kept him on the alert for several days,
as he became possessed more and more with
the idea, that the beautiful girl was in Ham
burgh.

Ful1 of this notion, he looked into every car
riage he saw, frequented the theatre and other
public places more, and made a point of going
to " The Maiden's Walk," at the hour it was
most frequented. Just as he was one day enter
ing upon it, the truth of his surmise was reali
zed ; he saw the idol of his wild passion at the
opposite side of the canal, going to church, as he
thought, from the servant who followed her, with
a prayer-book hanging upon one arm suspended by
a silver chain, and a brass stove suspended from
the other. The canal lay between them, and he
looked out for a boat, and perceiving one lying
opportunely near a neighboring stair, ran toward
it, and, sprang into it, almost like one who was
crazy, astonished the phlegmatic German by his
urgent signs for speed, which the boatman, who
was smoking his pipe, not being willing to obey,
Ned seized the oars himself, and pulled vigor
ously across the canal, on whose opposite bank
he sprang, without paying Mynherr, who was at
once stimulated to activity ; and a double chase
ensued — Ned after the girl, and the boatman after
Ned : it made quite a sensation on the Maiden's
Walk to see a handsome young fellow hunted by
a pursy boatman, hallooing after him a " thou
sand devils," and swearing for his denier. Ned
heeded not; he had caught sight of the last fold
of his fair one's skirt, as she went round a cor
ner, and for that corner Ned made all speed ;
but when he reached it, out of breath, no lady
was to be seen, but the fat boatman was close at
his heels, saying a great deal to Ned, which it
was well for the boatman Ned did not under
stand ; bat guessing the cause of his pursuit,
and remembering he had forgotten to pay him,
he threw him a groot, and continued his search.
The boatnv caught the coin, and looked at this
increase ' the sum demanded with wonder
(though was only a penny), and raising his
eyes to heaven, ejaculated an aspiration to the
Deity, with the remark, " What extravagant rob
bers are the English !"

Ned searched every church in the neighbor
hood, in hopes of finding the object of his wishes,
but in vain ; indeed, it was useless, for service
was over in all. So the lady had been returning
from, not going to, church, as her pursuer
thought. Ah ! lovers are very liable to make
mistakes !

The theatre he now thought the most likely
place to see her, and here he constantly resorted.
It was the last place he would have gone to,
otherwise, for, not knowing the language, the
entertainment could not be very amusing, though
indeed, for that matter, any one might under
stand the greater part of it as well as the Ham-
burghers, for it consisted, principally, of practi
cal witticism, such as cuffs and kicks, smart
boxes on the ear, hearty cudgellings, alternated

with hugs and kisses. Nevertheless, all this
buffoonery our hero sat out, night after night in
the hope of seeing this phantom of beauty, which
seemed to appear only to elude him. At last
his perseverance was rewarded. One night, aa
he was talking to an obliging stranger, who
could speak English, and had been explaining
some passage in the play, he saw the lovely girl,
listening to what appeared to be courtly compli
ments paid to her, judging from the gracious
manner of the handsomely dressed person from
whom they proceeded, and the half diffident,
yet smiling manner in which they were received.

Ned was breathless ! — there was the beauty of
the race-course ! — she, for whose sake he had
engaged in a street riot, angered his father, and
was forced to fly his native town, and for
whom he would have made far greater sacri
fices.

There is nothing, perhaps, so totally subver
sive of self-possession as the unexpected sight of
one we love. It paralyzes by the too great in
tensity of its nervous excitement. It smites the
heart to its very core, and the stream of life is
arrested in its course ; — we cease to breathe ; —
every function of life seems suspended, but that
of sight ; — the eye usurps, as it were, the power
all other organs have lost, and we can only
gaze.

Ned was disturbed from this state of fascina
tion by a tap on the shoulder from his obliging
neighbor, who had acted interpreter.

" I say, sir, that's the star you sail by, I reck
on," said the new acquaintance, with a know
ing toss of his head toward the quarter where
Ned was still gazing in admiring wonderment.

Ned could neither speak nor withdraw his
eyes.

" Hillo !" added his friend, " dumb-foundered
— eh I If you can't speak, you'll never win a
woman."

Ned attempted a faint smile.

" Where did you see her before ?"

" Before ?" echoed Ned.

" Ay — before. No one ever looked at a wo
man for the first time, as you did at her," said
the other, sharply.

" I saw her in Ireland."

" Ireland ? — ho, ho — shouldn't wonder ! — but
it's rather a hot place, I should say, for Count
Nellinski."

" A count ?" echoed Ned, in surprise.

" Oh — counts are common enough in Ja-arma-
ny .'" returned his informant, with a laugh.

" She is going," said Ned, looking up at the
box, and rising to follow her example.

" And you are going, too ?" said the strangei.

« Yes."

" I don't care if I do the same — the play is
dull work." Ned hurried to the entrance, and
watched eagerly for the appearance of the beau
tiful girl, but in vain, and after some time per
ceived his new acquaintance standing near him

" Can't see her, eh ?" was the question he
put, while a provoking smile played across his
countenance.

Ned answered in the negative, with a chagrin
ed air, upon which the other laughed outright,
saying, he was watching at the wrong er.trance,
for that the game was flown by another.

IRISH HEIRS.

Ned was half inclined to be angry at the
seeming enjoyment the other look in his disap
pointment, till, with a voice of the most cheery
kindness, the stranger slapped him on the shoul
der, and said,

" Never fret, man !" — I know the hotel she
stops at, the Kaiser -hoff ; see her there, if so be
you want it. Come along and sup with me —
the Weinkeller furnishes good tipple and victual
—come !"

So saying, he drew the fielding arm of Ned
within his, and they bent their course to a cele
brated cellar, the^i of great repute in Hamburgh,
where the best company in the city, both natives
and strangers, resorted to drink Hock, of which
wine this cellar contained the choicest store,
whence the government drew a large revenue.
On thei, entrance, Ned saw but a confused mass
of people, for the demise tobacco-smoke in which
they were enveloped rendered a clear perception
of any distant object difficult ; and, as soon as
they could find a seat, he and his companion had
a flask of right Johannesberg set before them,
which Ned at that moment was most willing to
enjoy, as he considered himself under the influ
ence of the happiest fortune in having met, in
the person of a stranger, one who gave him the
means of once more seeing the lovely being who
so enslaved him.

The stranger filled his glass, and spoke ; —
" My service to you, Mister—, — what's your
name, if I may make bold to ask ? — mine is
Hudson Finch, at your service."

" Mine is Fitzgerald," said Ned, who was
ashamed to give so vulgar a one as his own to
so dashing a gentleman ; but he blushed as he
spoke, for the ghost of the departed name of
" Corkery" rose up reprovingly before him. But
he swallowed his shame and a glass cf Rhenish
together, to the health of Mr. Finch, who re
turned the like civility to Mr. Fitzgerald, with
the remark, that it was a good name. Ned
thought, at that moment, that good names, like
other good things, had the greatest chance of be
ing stolen.

Finch now pointed out to him several persons
among the company worthy of note, with amus
ing anecdotes of almost every one he indicated.

" Do you see those two in yonder corner ?"

" Smoking and drinking so hard ?" asked
Ned.

" The same. Now, I would wager a trifle
those two poor devils are spending here to-night
every stiver they are worth."

« Why do you guess so ?"

" They are young graduates in law : — now
how do you think they live ?"

•"' By their profession, I suppose," said Ned.

" No, but by their processions."

" How do you mean ?"

" These younger graduates, sii, have scarcely
enough to keep life and soul together. There is
not a Haringsfrau in all Hamburgh who does
not know the whole tribe ; for pickled herrings
and beer are what they mostly live upon, and the
* God-send' of a procession alone can enable
them to show their noses in the Weiiikdler."

" But you have not yet explained to me about
these same processions."

" Why, nir, these proud citizens of Hamburgh
2

love processions almost as well as beer and to
bacco, and the smallest occasion is seized upon
to get one up ; sometimes to present an address
to somebody, for nobody knows what ; and as a
procession is nothing without good company,
these younger members of the learned profession
are regularly engaged and paid to make the
thing look respectable, and render the compliment
greater."

" And is this well-known ?"

" As well known as the Bank ?"

" Then how ridiculous to have recourse to it,
when all the world can see through "

" Through the ' humbug,' you were going to
say ? — My good sir, is not the world itself one
great humbug ?"

"I confess that's new to me," said Ned,
simply.

" Because you are nt v to the world," was the
other's prompt reply. " How many forms, laws,
customs, names, et cetera, et cetera, are bowed
down to — how many things are in a flourishing
existence round us, which are rank humbugs —
which are known to be humbugs — admitted to
be humbugs — and yet are not only permitted to
exist but respected ? Oh, my dear young friend !
Monsieur the WORLD has a very large nose ; and
whoever, whichever, or whatever, can lay hold
of it, Monsieur the WORLD, follows as tamely as
a lamb."

This outpouring of contempt for the world
made Ned think Mister Finch a very clever man.
He remarked, however, that he thought the Ger
mans more prudent than to spend their money on
one expensive entertainment, when they were
forced to live mostly, as Finch said, on pickled
herrings and beer.

" My dear fellow, that is a part of their game,"
said Finch. " They must have good clothes, and
be seen sometimes rubbing skirts with gentility,
or they would lose their employment.

" Oh ! I perceive," said Ned.

" For instance, those fellows who are so jolly
over there, I .'•aw this very day in a funeral pro
cession, looking as if their hearts would break.
The deceased was a tailor, whose kith and kia
prided themselves on having law students among
the mourners. Very likely they got a new suit
of clothes on the occasion ; — but, hold — look over
there — do you not perceive ?"

Ned looked in the desired direction, and was
delighted to see his bronzed friend of the race
course — the Count Nellinski himself. Ned would
.have given the world to speak to him, but the
count was engaged in earnest conversation with
a military man, of iron aspect ; so earnest, that
Ned felt it would have been intrusion to attempt
a word with him : therefore he continued to listen
to Finch's lively raillery, though, truth to say,
he did not comprehend much of it, so totally was
his attention absorbed by the father of the lovely
Ellen.

This distraction of mind, however, did not long
continue, for the count soon after rose, with his
companion, and retired. Ned looked hard at
him, in hopes to catch his eye as he passed out,
but the count seemed too absorbed in his own
thoughts to heed external objects. Ned consoled
himself with the hope that he should see him OB
the morrow, at the Kaiser-hoff.

£ s. d.

As no object now intervened to disturb his
present enjoyment, Ned did the duty of the hour
like a man, and, after a jolly supper and a merry
drinking bout, the acquaintances separated, Ned
thanking fortune over and over again for the
chance she had cast in his way ; but the slippery
jade was laughing in secret at Ned all the time,
for she was at that moment but playing him a
scurvy trick ; for when, after a night of feverish
dreaming, in which a German supper, strong
Rhenish, and love, strove for mastery, Ned rose
with a hot head, and hotter heart, and, making
himself as smart as he could, set out for the
\aiserhoff to inquire after his enchantress, he
neard, to his utter dismay, that the Count Nel-
iir.ski and his daughter had left Hamburgh that
morning.

CHAPTER IV.

WHKN we have made up our mind to some
great pleasure, and feasted by anticipation on the
sweets imagination spreads before us — when thus
hope forestalls reality, we purchase our joys in
a very dear market. How bankrupt in heart we
feel, after thus drawing on the future, to find our
check returned with the answer, "No effects !''
It was thus with poor Ned, when he inquired
•with the most " galliard" air he could assume at
the Kaiserhofffor his fair one and her father, and
found they were gone. His look became so sud
denly changed, so utterly blanked, that even the
slow-going German could not help noticing his
disappointment.

Ned was transfixed with dismay for some
seconds, and stood in sorrowful silence before the
ioor of the hotel, till catching the cold eye of
the German fixed upon him with something like
a smile upon his countenance, a sense of shame
came over him, and he walked down the street.
But he could not leave it ; — there he stayed, look
ing at the house where she had been, while a
quick succession of fond imaginings whirled
through his head, and drove the blood rapidly
through his heart. The gentle speeches he
thought he should have made to her, and had
almost gotten by heart (he went over them so
often in anticipation of the interview) recurred
to him, and seemed to mock at his fond yearnings.
"Hard fate!" he muttered to himself; "cruel
disappointment ! at the instant I thought I should
address her once more — once more touch that
dear hand — at such a moment to have my hopes
dashed, and made the very sport and mockery of
circumstance. 'Tis hard ! alas ! 'tis doomed —
doomed — I am never to see her again — never.
Yet why should I seek it 1 the daughter of a
count — cursed infatuation ! — No, not cursed ;
call it fatal, but nothing can be cursed that
springs from such an angelic cause ! O Ellen !
Ellen ! — I know my own unworthiness — I know
the hopeless folly of my passion, but I can not
resist its fatal influence; the deadly, yet darling
poison is in my heart, and naught but death or
you can assuage the pain. With these and other
such exclamations he wandered up and down the
street, and after some time wished he could even
enter the apartments she had last occupied.

" Were it only to pace the room she trod," said
he ; " to see the table where see sat, to touch
the chair she occupied, to look in the mirror
•which late reflected that lovely face, to stand in
the deep recess of the window where she had
stood — even this were a sad pleasure : — I wil
return to the hotel and try if I can not accomplish
it." Acting upon the words, he retraced hia
steps to the Kaiserhoff, and by means of some
few words of English, understood by an attendant
of the house, and s*ome pieces of silver on the
part of the lover, he contrived to be shown the
apartment whence the Count ii'ellinski and his
daughter had so recently departed. It was yet
in that state of litter which the room of a hotel
always exhibits after the " parting guest" has
retired, ere the order has been restored which
may welcome the " coming" one. Edward's
imagination occupied the deserted chamber with
its recent lovely visitant, as he cast his eyes
around ; — she had reclined on tnat couch — that
little quaint table of marquetry was for a lady's
use — there was a pen upon it — she might have
used it ; hr would have taken it, but the eyes of
the attendant were upon him, and he felt ashamed
of erjifsing a weakness which, nevertheless, he
did not blame himself for entertaining. Oh ! that
exposure, how many love fooleries does its terror
prevent ! Peeping from behind the cushions of
a large easy chair was a little glove, which Ned
determined to have, but still the presence of the
attendant was a check upon him ; feigning ex
treme thirst, he asked for a glass of water, which
the attendant retired to procure ; and the instant
Edward was free from observation, he pounced
upon the elove with hawk-like avidity, and drag
ged from beneath the cushion a morsel of music-
paper also, whereon a few notes were pricked
down, to which a few words were attached. Ned
paused not to read them, but thrust glove and
music inside his waistcoat — seized on the pen,
and perceiving in a far corner a few flowers
which seemed a discarded bouquet, ran to secure
them ere the attendant could return ; and when
he had sipped a mouthful of the water which was
presented to him, in an instant after hurried from
the house in the pride of his plunder, and it is a
question if he would have exchanged these tri
fles for all the plate in the Kaiserhoff. He did
not feel quite secure of his booty till he had
turned the corner of the street, and then hasten
ed to his quarters to deposite his treasure in safe
ty. There he folded up his flowers — not a leaf
was permitted to be lost ; — he dated the paper
with the purloined pen — he drew forth the glove
and kissed it passionately, between fond ejacula
tions, — kissed it on the inside where the dear
hand had been. O Ned ! Ned ! how desperately,
irretrievably over head and ears in love wert
thou ! So intent was he in his love-sick occupa
tion, that he did not hear the entrance of his
hostess into his room, and the first notice he had
of her presence was an exclamation behind his
chair, as he imprinted one of his wild kisses on
the little glove.

" Mein Gott .'" exclaimed a fat squashy soil
of voice, which, when the words were uttered,
went on with a guttural chuckle, while Ned turn
ed round, startled and looking as foolish as if he
had been caught robbing the good woman's cup-

IRISH HEIRS.

board. The situation was absurd enough (Ned
thought it disgusting), that while his imagination
was filled with the form of a sylph, and rapt in
the secret idolatry of love, he should be startled
by the presence of a fat f ran, and have his sweet
visions broken by the laugh of derision.

He thrust the glove into his breast, in the
vain endeavor to conceal it from the landlady ;
but she only laughed the louder, pointing first in
side his waistcoat, and then to her own fat fist,
on which she impressed a great smacking kiss,
and shook with laughter a?airi, exclaiming in
the intervals of her cachination, " Mein Gott !"

On Ned desiring to know what this interrup
tion meant, she pointed to the door, and said,
" Herr Finch;" at the same moment ascending
footsteps were heard on the stairs, and Ned's ac
quaintance of the Weinkellur soon made his ap
pearance. As he entered the room, the landlady,
still laughing, repeated the piece of pantomime to
ward Edward, and bestowing another smack on
her hand, and gurgling up " Mein Gott .'" retired
and shut the door.

" Hillo !" said Finch, " what insinuation is
this, my friend 1 have you been kissing your
landlady ?"

" Kiss her?" exclaimed Ned, with a curl on
his lip as though it were on the brink of a cup
of rhubarb.

Finch laughed outright at the expression of
nausea which the insinuated gallantry had pro
duced, and asked if Ned thought he had so poor
an opinion of his taste.

" But did you prosper in the other affair ?"
continued he. "Have you been to the Kaiser-
hoff?"

" Yes," said Ned, with a sigh.

"What! sighing?" said Finch; "a sigh is
the worst wind that blows, — 'tis the very wind
of the proverb that ' blows nobody good :' — was
she denied ? or was she cruel ?"

" She is gone !" said Ned, with an air of des
pondency worthy of a criminal going to execu
tion.

" Pho ! is that all ?" said Finch. " Can't you
go after her 1"

" I know not where they are gone to," said
Ned.

" And what have you a tongue in your head
for ?" replied Finch.

" But even if I did," returned Ned, " I can not
follow them ; and after all, if 1 could — what'*
the use ?"

"What's the use?" cried his friend, in sur
prise ; " what's the use of following the girl ynti
love ?— what a question !"

" Oh !" sighed Ned, " if you knew all ; — were
you but aware — " he paused, and looked wist
fully into Finch's face, as though he would make
him his confident. Young, inexperienced, and of
an ardent nature, he longed to have some one to
whom he might unburden his heart, and this
seemed the only chance for it. Extending his
hand to Finch, who took it cordially, he exclaim
ed. <• It seems .to be my destiny that my love and
friendship must be of the mushroom nature — both
the growth of one night."

" But not so soon to perish, I hope," said
Finch, shaking his hand warmly.

Ned returned the genial pressure," and contin

ued, " I know not how it is, but I feel myself
drawn toward you in a most unaccountable
way, and if you will have patience to listen,
I will tell you all about this romantic afl'air."

" I will listen willingly," said Finch ; " but
don't be so down in the mouth, man," he added,
slapping Ned on the shoulder, " ' Faint heart
never won fair lady.' "

Taking a seat after uttering this cheering ex
hortation, he threw himself back, and showed
he was resigned to tile operation Edward pro
posed.

Our hero made it as little painful as possible ;
passing over, for obvious reasons, much about
himself and family, and banishing the name of
" Corkery" beyond the pale of history, sta
ting, however, that his rank in life, as the son
of a trader, presented a barrier to the pursuit of
a lady of condition — how that lady was first en
countered, the street broil, his subsequent ban
ishment and irrepressible 'ove were recountec
as briefly as they might ,e, and the listener
seemed infected by the spirit of romance which
appeared to have presided over the whole aflair,
for when Ned concluded, Finch expressed not
only admiration of his spirit, but even went so
far as to encourage his hopes.

" You do not mean to say I have a chance ?"
exclaimed Ned, whose flashing eye betrayed that
his feelings were at variance with the doubting
nature of his question.

" And why not ?" returned Finch. " You are
young, full of courage, and fit for enterprise ;
the world offers plenty to do for all such. Look
at the Low Countries at this moment, for in
stance ; the theatre of daring achievements that
lift bold men above the heads of ordinary mor
tals. Glorious graves or living laurels may be
had there, and fortune, too, if you have luck on
your side."

" I would dare a thousand deaths a day !" ex
claimed Ned, " to win her ; — even to deserve
her ; — but where could I get a commission ? — I
have not friends, and to serve as a volunteer re
quires more money than I can command."

" Money ."' returned Finch — « ah ! — you have
said the very word that has more magic in it,
lad, than all else besides — if you had money
enough, you need care for nothing besides — the
£. S. D. — the pounds, shillings, and pence, reign
triumphant over all else."

" True !" said Ned, with a sigh.

" Well," returned Finch, " money is to be
made, and adventure found in other places than
in Flanders. The sea offers reward as well as
the land. The Indies, for example, afford scope
to the enterprise of the navigator."

" Would to Heaven I had but the opportunity
of engaging in such a venture !" cried Ned, en
thusiastically.

" Well," said Finch, " there is no knowing how
I myself might help you in that particular ; I
have sailed East and West myself." Here he
launched forth at some length on the subject, em-
belishing his recital with some piquant bits of
sea stories, which came up to all Ned fancied of
nautical adventure, and set him quite •Agog to re
alize those dreams in which he had sometimes
indulged, and which he found, from his friend's
narrative, were not beyond reality. Finc^'J spok«

£. 5. a.

with contempt rf paddling about, as he called it,
in muddy channel seas. He talked of " the blue
waters ;" and certain lofty phrases of " Indian
skies," " waving palm-trees," and "soft savan
nahs," quite tired Ned's brain. In truth, his
new acquaintance was a dashing fellow — there
was a fine free tone about him above the narrow
prejudices of those to whom Ned had been ac
customed ; there was that in him which approach
ed nearer to the romantic than he had yet witness
ed, and he began to hope the world was not such
a hum-drum place as, of late, he began to fear
it was. Under his present circumstances, he
felt the society of his new friend the greatest re
lief; he diverted his thoughts from the absorb
ing theme which unmanned him, by his good
spirits and the profusion of entertaining anecdote
with which his memory was stored, till Ned be
gan to entertain a regard, as well as admiration
for him, and every spare moment he could com-
' mand was given up to his society.

All this time Captain M'Guffin was loading "The
Industry" with her cargo, and Ned Corkery with
reproaches ; for his attention became quite alie
nated from the interests of the brig, for which
the recitals of the dashing Finch had engender
ed a thorough contempt, and the worthy M'Guf-
fin's displeasure might have assumed a harsher
form, but that Ned was the son of a wealthy
. man. £. S. D. have their collateral as well as
direct influence.

The moment approached, however, which was
to separa 'e Ned from the sober reproaches of the
master. Meeting Finch by appointment, one
day, an unusual brightness illumined the coun
tenance of his friend, who shaking him warmly
by the hand, announced that he had some good
news for him.

" I have heard of your charmer," said he.

Ned listened breathlessly.

" The count has travelled south, and if I
don't mistake much, is on his way to Dunkirk,
or, perhaps, Courtrai ; but I would venture a bet
he is at either of the places, where it won't be
hard to find him."

" Of what avail is that to me ?" said Ned,
sorrowfully. "To hear they, whom I wish to
see, are hundreds of miles away, without the
power of following."

" Wait, lad ! don't jump to your conclusion
so fast ; suppose I put you in the way of following
— of seeing your ' lady love' — mayhap of win
ning her ?"

Ned could only gasp forth an amatory " oh !"
and clasp his hands.

" Listen, then, imprimis, as lawyers begin peo
ple's wills, imprimis, you must leave that clum
sy old brig, and the fusty M'Guffin. Who could
do any good with such a name as M'Guffin 1"
cried Finch, contemptuously.

Ned was delighted, he had thought of chan
ging his.

" I will pive you a birth on board the prettiest
craft that ever floated, and take you with me to
Dunkirk ; there you will be nearer your game
than here, and you may have some days' leisure
to play it too ; and when, under my advice, you
make the most of an interview with your charm
er, return on board, and it will go hard with me
if I don't show you the way to fortune."

At all times the promise held out to a
man of being put in the way of making the first
step in the course Ned's friend pointed out is most
tempting; but under the peculiar circumstances
such promise was made, the temptation was irre*
sistible. At that moment Ned would have
followed Finch to the uttermost end of the
world, and with all the enthusiasm belonging to
his country and his time of life, he made a wild
outpouring of thanks to his friend with a hearty
acceptance of his offer.

"Then to-morrow evening," said Finch,
flinging forth his hand to our hero, in a fashion
which says, " Trust me."

"An' 'twere this moment!" returned Ned,
grasping the offered gage of friendship, and in
the warm pressure which his heart prompted ex
pressing more than he could have spoken.

" Enough !" cried Finch, and they parted.

What a tumult of thought and feeling passed
through Ned's head and heart, after the separa
tion ! that which in the enthusiasm of an excited
moment, seemed easy as the volition of flight to
a bird, had its difficulties and objections present
ed when about to be brought into action. He
was going he knew not where — nor for how
long : — of time nor place could he tell his father,
and though implicit obedience was not a virtue
Ned exercised pre-eminently, yet the natural af
fections, which were strong in him, forbade he
should take the step on which he had determin
ed without writing to the old man. A letter
was accordingly composed for the exigency of
the momejit, saying that, desirous of seeing the
world and making his fortune, he was bound to
foreign parts, hoped to be forgiven, and all that
sort of thing which irregular and erratic young
gentleman who have the use of their limbs, in
dite to men of slow habits who go upon crutches.
This letter was intrusted to the care of the de
serted M'Guffin, enclosed in one to himself; and
Ned, seizing the occasion of the sober master's
absence from the " Industry," transferred his
chest from that simple brig to the knowing lit
tle craft, " Seagull," which, immediately after
weighed anchor, and a flowing sheet soon put
leagues of water between Ned and his "in
dustry,"

The breeze, at first so favorable, soon chop
ped about ; but the adverse wind only served to
make Ned more in love with the boat. Un
like the brig, that lifted her heavy head out of
the sea, and flopped it in again, as if she were
half asleep, the lively Seagull clove the waves,
dashing the spray right and left aside of her
graceful bovfs, answering her helm with the del
icacy of a hair-trigger, coming into the wind
as fast as if the point whence it blew were a
magnet, and she had a needle in her bowsprit,
and away again on the opposite tack, as thougJi
she were gifted with an animal instinct, and
doubled, like a hare before greyhounds.

" Come down," said Finch, " we need not stay
here ; we'll make ourselves comfortable below,
and then turn in." The evening was spent
agreeably, accordingly; Ned liked the skipper
more and more, and wondered how his father
could have had the barbarity to send him to sea
in such a heavy tub as the " Industry," while such
craft as the " Seagull" swam. He turned in, and

IRISH HEIRS.

dreamed of " blue waters, waving palms, and soft
savannahs." In the morning he partook of the
nicest breakfast he ever saw on board a ship, the
next day's sail was all that could be wished, and
the next and the next day were more pleasantly
passed by Ned than any other days of his life ;
they made Dunkirk, and fresh enjoyments were
before Ned ; he was happiest < C the happy. He
remembered the couplet of the song, which
says —

" — he talked of such things,
As if sailors were kings ;"

and Ned thought there was no if about it, but
that no king could be happier than he ever since
his foot had been on board the " Seagull."

The port of Dunkirk, at that time, was a stir
ring scene of action ; the fortifications, which by
the treaty of Utrecht had been destroyed, and the
extensive basins, capable of receiving forty sail
of the line, which had been filled up, were now
being rebuilt and cleared out ; and already the
docks were capable of affording accommodation
to a considerable armament, preparing for a de
scent upon England, under the command of the
renowned Marshal Saxe, and for the purpose of
re-establishing the house of Stuart on the British
throne.

The bustle of workmen, the shouts of sailors,
the drum, the trumpet, and the cannon, all con
tributed to the martial din and tumult of the
place, which perfectly astounded Ned, who, not
withstanding, was less influenced by the thought
of the mighty game which was preparing to be j
played than by the hope he entertained of seeing !
his beloved one. Inquiry lay within so small a
compass in Dunkirk, that Finch was soon ena
bled to ascertain what persons of note were in
the place, and Count Nellinski was not among
them. The marshal had gone to Courtrai ;
and there Ned was recommended to repair, in
search of his darling object. Finch stoutly
avowing his belief the game would be found in
that quarter, he gave Ned several hints as to his
mode of proceeding, placing in strong array his
own knowledge of the world in general, some
little insight into the circumstances of the partic
ular case, and, beyond all, his conviction that a
coup de main, where a lady is in the case, does
wonders. " Be bold," he said ', " tell her at
once you love her, the first moment you have an
opportunity, and that you entertain hopes of being
soon in a position to claim, her hand; draw a
little on futurity ; and if the woman likes you, she
will put it in bank in her heart, and then you'll
have something to draw on. Remember my axiom
— 'tis that good old one I have often repeated to
you — ' Faint heart never won fair lady.' "

Along with such advice he furnished his friend
with a passport and copious directions, and Ned
set out on what he could not help confessing to
himself was a wild-goose chase, spurred by the
strongest stimulus that can inspire the heart —
love j and upborne by the most enduring power
that can sustain human exertion — hope ; both
the bright companions of life, but brightest in
youth*

The time which fortune had thrown in our
hero's way was not the most favorable for trav
elling ; the frequency of military posts, the scru
pulous examination of passports, the suspicion

with which the most trivial circumstances in con*
nexion with a traveller was regarded, rendered
the wayfarer liable to many discomforts, and not
unfrequently to danger; for sometimes stiaggling
parties of soldiers roved up and down, who,
taking advantage of the exigencies of the times,
made the public cause but an excuse for private
rapine, by vexatious and rude interruptions,
which enabled them to raise pecuniary contribu
tions from defenceless parties whose ill luck
threw them into such unwelcome company, and
whose only chance of permission to proceed on
their journey was giving a bribe ; the loss of theii
money being, in most cases, preferred to the loss
of their liberty, more particularly in the hands of
such unceremonious captors.

It was Ned's evil fortune to fall in with one
of these marauding parties, in company with some
fellow-travellers with whom he had left Dunkirk.
When stopped and questioned, and, at last, de
tained by the soldiery, one of the party, a sturdy
burgher, protested loudly against the proceeding;
swearing lustily that it was not care for the pub
lic cause, but the mere desire to mulct the pas
sengers, by which it was prompted ; and though
he paid for leave to pass, he grumbled ominously,
and some muttered words of making it a matter
of debate in his town-council, and having it
strongly represented at headquarters, caught the
ears of the soldiers ; while he further averred,
that, though scarcely a day passed without hun
dreds of such stoppages, he never heard of a
single instance of their daring to take a prisoner
before the authorities ; clearly proving that it was
a piece of knavery, aad nothing else.

This was so generally known, that the depre
dators lost no occasion of pulling up any really
suspicious person, to give a color to their pro
ceeding ; and as it happened that Ned, speaking
nothing but English, and his passport not being
what they chose to consider satisfactory, wa»
just the man for their purpose, they rebutted the
accusation of the burgher by making a prisoner
of Ned, whom they feigned to believe a spy ; and
he was therefore parted from his companions and
despatched to Courtrai, under a guard. This
was but an inauspicious commencement of his
voyage of discovery ; and the miles which he had
yet to traverse toward the town were passed by
oar hero in melancholy forebodings, which grew
darker as he entered the strongly-guarded gate
of the fortress, and saw the fierce looks which
were cast upon him as he was pointed out for an
English spy. He was forwarded directly by the
officer in command of the gate, under a special
escort, to the provost-marshal ; and after a brief
charge made by his captors, who made matters
appear as bad as they could against him, the
more to glorify their own vigilance, and one
word of which Ned could not contradict, as he
did not know what they were saying, he was
thrust into a dingy cell, lighted by one small
window with a strong iron grating ; and as the
guardian of the den was about to close the
door, he cast back a significant look, and, putting
his thumb under his ear, with an ominous twist
of his mouth and a smart click of the tongue at
the same moment, he slammed the door on his
prisoner, whom we must leave, for the present,
to his hempen meditations.

S. d.

CHAPTER V.

FRENCH Flanders, whose greater portion was
won by the valor of the British arms, had been
reconquered in subsequent campaigns.

The genius at' Maurice, Count de Saxe, had
retrieved the fallen fortunes of the French, and
the victories of the illustrious Marlborough were
remembered with impatience, as the more recent
successes of this later master of the art. of war
swept away the result of the British hero's con
quests. With an inferior force, he now held in
check the army of the allies ; and though unable
to maintain a pitched battle, the judicious dis
tribution of his battalions prevented his adversa
ries from concentrating, and forcing him to a
general engagement. Until his presence might
be required, he had retired from Dunkirk to
Courtrai, where he was better able to enjoy the
pleasures he loved. Of these, the theatre was
one ; and though a dramatic company attended
his camp, which he might command at all times,
he preferred Courtrai to a mere seaport town, as
in the former a more distinguished audience
might do .A>nor to the exalted efforts of the artists
whom it was his pleasure to patronise. Among
these the exquisite Adrienne le Couvreur stood
pre-eminent. It was she who first inspired the
count with the passion for the drama, which, in
her hands, could enchain the imagination and en
gage the passions. Her imbodiment of the poet's
conceptions, showed a power in the histrionic art
which he did not conceive it possessed ; and the
fascination became the more potent from being
unexpected, and was enduring as it was sudden.
The admiration her talents excited made him
desire to have the acquaintance of one who so
often charmed him in public, and in the society
of this gifted actress he found new charms ; her
conversation was an enjoyment he constantly
courted, and she obtained sufficient influence
over the soldier to urge him to the study of ele
gant literature ; his mind, hitherto absorbed by
authors who could only extend his knowledge in
the art of war, was thrown open to the contem
plation of those who move our hearts to the bet
ter purposes of peace, and embellish social life
with the adornments of poetry and the fine arts;
and thus endowed, through her influence, with a
new and more exalting power of enjoyment, he
more and more esteemed his beautiful benefac
tress. Profuse in his expenditure, his patronage
of Adrienne was munificent; and on one occasion
she had the opportunity of proving that his liber
ality was not unworthily bestowed. When,
under adverse circumstances, he was combating
for the dutchy of Courland, Adrienne, then in
Paris, pawned her jewels and plate, and sent a
considerable sum to replenish the military chest
of her patron.

Here a was fresh cause of admiration on the
part of the count, whose sense of such noble
conduct raised her still higher in his opinion, and
the fair Adrienne became such a favorite, that
she was admitted to the freedom of friendship
with the noble marshal, and might venture to
say or do what few would, have dared to one in
his exalted position.

Whenever the exigencies ot war, on his part, j
or of the Theatre Fran$am on hers, permitted, |

her presence was always requested by the count;
to add the lustre of her dramatic art to the
many other courtly pleasures with which he al
ways sought to adorn his camp, thereby rendei-
ing an exile from the capital more bearable to
the young nobles who followed his standard.
One of these occasions had now arrived ; hos
tilities, on a large scale, were laid by, and tha
marshal awaited with impatience in Courtrai
the arrival of the renowned Le Couvreur ; for
the pleasure of the theatre was held in dearer
anticipation at that moment from his being de
barred from active exercise, in consequence of a
wound received in early life and neglected, and,
often causing pain and inconvenience, now PX-
hibiting some of its unpleasant symptoms. The
count, for the greater ease of his wounded limb,
was in dishabille : habited in a roqueluire, and
wearing on his head a silken cap, in which a
small aigrette of heron's feathers was quaintly
fastened with a jewel. He was surrounded bv
maps and books, plans of fortifications, and other
evidences of an active commander, and poring
over a projected movement, which he measured
with hand and mind, balancing all in the scale
of contingency, when the arrival of mademoi
selle Le Couvreur was announced. The com
passes were flung aside, all thoughts of the cam
paign were abandoned, and the joy at the sight
of his lovely and welcome visiter put " grim-vis-
aged war to flight." How the hours glided by
— what amusing anecdotes the actress brought
from Paris ! The tittle-tattle of that brilliant
place was served up to the marshal with the
piquant sauce of the fair Adrienne's manner;
even court plots and state intrigues were at her
fingers' end, and the king himself did not es
cape.

" There is one thing, however, he did that I
love him for," said she ; " he created you a mar
shal : I need not tell you how / rejoiced at that
well-deserved proof of his majesty's favor. I
have not till now had the opportunity of ma
king my congratulations ; pray, marshal, accep?
them !"

She then asked, in that womanly spirit whicn
enjoys the outward signs of triumph, to see the
baton which the king had presented.

Saxe smiled at the fond folly, and said, " Is it
not enough to know that I am a marshal, without
looking at the bauble which represents the rank T
it is not half so fine as many of the insignia yon
wear upon the stage."

" But more real,'5 answered Adrienne; " and

that makes all the difference "

" Some of the dignities of real life are quite
as unsubstantial as your pasteboard crowns," re
turned the marshal. " What, for instance, is
my coronet of Courland worth 1 It is dear tc
me, for one reason, certainly ; the struggle to
win it proved there was yet a noble and disinter
ested friendship left in the world."

He fixed his bright eye significantly on Adri-
enne as he spoke ; she only answered by a smile
and with an inclination of the head.

" But I repeat," continued the count, " what
are many of the dignities, the triumphs, and
the honors, of this world, more than a theatric
pageant, only not so amusing, and a little longer
sometimes; while the world applaud or hiss bt

IRISH HEIRS.

turns, and on which the curtain falls at last
when Death « rings down ?' "

" Go on ! go on !" said the actress ; " rally as
much as you please ; but I hold my opinion : —
the triumph, or grief, or joy of this world, must
be more touching than that of the theatre, be
cause it is real."

" Ma belle .'" answered the marshal, with
ready courtesy, " all is real when you are oil the
stage."

" Ah !" returned the lovely woman, " if you
reply by compliments, I must give up the argu
ment ; but though I can say no more, I will see
the baton."

The marshal's principal attendant was sum
moned, and at the lady's desire the staff of of
fice was produced. It was beautifully wrought,
studded, or to use the ancient heraldic phrase,
seme with fleurs-de-lis in gold and enamel. The
fair Adrienne snatched the glittering emblem of
military domination from the hand of the atten
dant, and when he had left the room she kissed
it passionately, and exclaimed, " May victory
hover wheresoever 'tis raised ! but the wish is
needless — it must, in the hands of Le Mu.re.chui
de Saxe."

" You can beat me at compliments," said the
marshal, " though you disclaim them."

Adrienne rose, and assuming a military stand,
waved the baton in the air, and with the hap
piest mimicry imitating the (fount's manner, gave
ft series of the most absurd commands. The
count laughed, half at the close imitation of
himself, half at the nonsense she was talking ;
while the admiration of her beautiful arm, as it
waved to and fro in all the accustomed grace of
the highest study, cast an attic enjoyment over
the scene, and almost made farce sublime.

"Sit down !" cried the count, when his laugh
ter permitted him to speak : " sit down, lady
fair — what nonsense you do talk. If Hercules
was absurd holding the distaff, Venus makes as
poor work with the truncheon."

The' lively tete-a-tete was soon interrupted
by the announcement that Mons. de Deven-
ish, the commandant, waited the marshal's
pleasure.

" Ma foi !" exclaimed the count, surprised,
and consulting his watch, " que le temps fuit ! it
is indeed the hour I appointed;" and turning
to the servant, he desired him to make his
compliments to the commandant, and say he
should be charmed to see him : the servant re
tired.

" Now," said the count to the lady, ' you will
hear some very droll French spoken."

" I am used to that," said Adrienne, with a
Btnile, alluding to the marshal's own foreign ac
cent.

" Ah ! but I am an angel compared with Mons.
de Devenish; he is an Irishman — one of the
many thousands who, brave as Caesar, and lov
ing fighting in their hearts, are not allowed to
draw a sword for the king of Great Britain, un
der whose crown they live ; and therefore they
help to win victories for other countries. I have
known De Devenish many years; he was an
officer in the first regiment I ever raised, and
lias been in many a hot place with me ; he has
elevated himself by his own merit to be com

mandant of this fortress, and a more deserving
officer never held command."

The entrance of the commandant cut short
any further praise or comment the count might
have felt inclined to make, and after returning
the marshal's salutation, he begged to present
to him an officer who had entered the chamber
with him. His aspect was stern, and his arm ia
a sling spoke of recent encounter ; and when
the commandant introduced him under the name
of Captain Lynch, the marshal seemed to receive
him with peculiar courtesy.

'•' Charmed to see you, captain," said the mar
shal ; " you have strengthened the brigade* won
derfully ; what dashing fellows you have brought
from Ireland — are they all such handsome
strong straight dare-devils ?"

"I believe, marshal, we are pretty fairly pro
vided with natural gifts."

" You have got hurt — how's that ?"

"A sharp affair, marshal," answered Deven
ish, taking up the conversation ; " and in a quar
ter I would not have expected, which made me
take the liberty of bringing the captain with
me, to give all the information you might de
sire."

The marshal withdrew to a table at the fur
ther end of the room, and after asking Captain
Lynch some few brief questions, he turned to
Devenish, and with an outspread map before him,
began to gauge distances with a pair of com
passes.

After a pause of a few minutes, he exclaiui
ed to the commandant, " I tell you 'tis im
possible ; the Duke de Grammont is here —
Mons. de Luttaux there. The Duke de Biron
could not be forced — St. Sauveur commands an
impenetrable point — the Count de Longauni
would not permit an enemy to steal a march —
'tis impossible anything of moment can have ta
ken place."

Devenish ventured certain suggestions, which
the marshal listened to with an attention which
showed in what respect he held the comman
dant's judgment, but still he maintained the opin
ion that any serious movement of the enemy was
impossible.

While this conference of so much moment was
going forward, Lynch's attention was arrested
by the occupation of Adrienne, who, still hold
ing the marshal's truncheon, used it for a play
thing to provoke her dog into activity. Yes :
while the interest of kingdoms was in debate,
the staff of honor, presented by a proud poten
tate to an illustrious soldier, was made the toy
of the moment in the hand of a woman !

Lynch's mind was not of the mould to derive
enjoyment from the piquant frivolity of such a
scene : the staff of honor made a plaything for
the amusement of a lap-dog, to his earnest na
ture only conveyed a sense of displeasure, and
an expression of pity and sadness passed across
his countenance while he watched the gambols
of the lady's pet, pursuing in bounding circles
the baton which the lovely woman waved above
his head. Even the beauty of person and grace
of action before him, to which, under ordinary
circumstances, he was not insensible, became

*The Irish Brigade— one of the most distinguished i»
the French army of the period.

X 5. d.

neutralized by the wound his sense of propriety
received. The impressions of the man were less
vivid than the feelings of the soldier ; and the
truncheon, which in his mind was associated with
thoughts of honor and victory, and whose indi
cation he would have followed with alacrity
though the path led to death,— that type of com
mand to be degraded, as he considered it, cast a
deeper shade over his stern and massive features
the longer he looked. His attention was with
drawn from the displeasing incident by a word
addressed to him by the marshal, who having
finished the discussion of the important topics on
which he was engaged with the commandant,
turned the conversation upon the passing trivi
alities of the time.

" I hope you and mademoiselle, your fair
daughter, enjoyed the ball the other night, cap
tain ; — by-the-by, what a charming person she
is. She was called by common consent in the
salon, La belle Irelandaise."

Lynch bowed, and thanked the marshal for
his flattering speech with a formal courtesy.

" I hope she enjoyed our comedy, too."

" Extremely, sir."

" No doubt she can appreciate the wit of Mo-
Here, for I know she speaks French charmingly.
Has she ever lived in Paris ?"

" No, count ; she has passed most of her life
in Ireland."

" Then how has she acquired so pure an ac-
zent ?"

" An old priest was her instructer."

"Ah, truly, I forgot that; all your priests get
their education in France. We send you
priests, and you supply us with soldiers. We
have the best of the bargain," said the mar
shal, laughing. " So a priest has taught her
French 1"

" Yes, count, and something better, I hope,"
replied the father, seriously.

" Oh, doubtless," returned the count, with a
corresj»ond:ng suavity of voice : " but still she
enjoyed our comedy," added he, with a misch'iev-
ous twinkle of his dark eye, and one of his mer
riest smiles.

" Certain]-." replied Lynch ; " we say in Ire
land, sir, that we may "be 'merry and wise,'
and I think it quite possible."

" I'll go farther than that," said the marshal ;
" I think it very unwise not to be merry when
one can. But now I can offer to mademoiselle
a higher entertainment. Our camp is honored
with the presence of the first artiste in the
world," and he looked to Adrienne as he spoke :
" and I doubt not, mademoiselle has tears to
bestow on tragedy, as well as smiles to reward
comedy. I hope for the honor of seeing you
and your fair daughter, captain, among our audi
tory."

" Thanks, marshal ;— but my daughter has left
Court rai."

" For shame, captain ! Beauties are not so
plenty here, that we can spare so fair a face. I
hope mademoiselle returns soon : besides, remem
ber what an intellectual banquet is before her in
seeing Mademoiselle Le Couvreur." He waved
his hand towards Adrienne, and bowed courte
ously. She returned the salutation with a smile,
and retired.

" I hope your daughter is within recall," «on.
tinued the count. "Where is she ?"

Captain Lynch hesitated for a moment, and
muttered something about the marshal's too
flattering courtesy.

"I insist on knowing," said the count, with
his most winning air. " I positively command
her presence here, to grace our revels; — wherf
is she ? Answer, captain, or dread a general
issimo's displeasure : if your fair daughter is thus
spirited away, I swear you shall not have a for
lorn hope to lead, or a post of danger to defend,
for the rest of the campaign."

Lynch smiled at the nature of the marshal's
threatened punishment, and in reply to the re
iterated questions of where his daughter had
gone, he replied, " To Bruges ;" but in despite
of the entreaties made for her return, the captain
respectfully declined the honor of the marshal's
pressing invitation, and soon withdrew in com
pany of the commandant.

They had scarcely retired, when the count or
dered the immediate attendance of his favorite
emissary, Lerroux.

A swarthy man, of powerful frame, overhang
ing brow, and quick dark eye, soon made hi»
appearance. The moment he entered, the count
addressed him with something of reproach in hia
manner.

" How is it that $ou never told me Mademoi
selle de Lynch had left Courtrai ?"

" I did not know it, monseigneur."

" Then she has fairly given you the slip ?"

" But I will learn where she is gone, if mon
seigneur desires."

" I know it without your help ; — so you see I
have done without you this time — prenez garde."

" Pardon, monseigneur. — And what is mon~
seigneur's pleasure ?"

" We must have the lady back to Courtrai ;
we have no beauties to spare here — eh, Ler
roux ?"

" Monseigneur is right."

" She is too charming a person to stay at
Bruges while I am here."

" At BRUGES ; — thanks, monseigneur. — Bui
what address ?"

" Plague take thee, rascal; am I to find ovt
everything that belongs to thy business ?"

" Pardon, monseigneur ! am I to go to Bruge*
then ?"

" Yes : you know how to find out where any
body is anywhere, and can discover the addres*
of mademoiselle. She is too handsome to be
spared from Courtrai, and we must make som*
excuse to get her back. Her father is wounded,
that is a good plea to draw her from her re
treat."

" Admirable, monseigneur ."'

" You can make it serve, I think."

" Without doubt, monseigneur."

" Contrive it in your own way ; — but of cour«>
7 know nothing about it." He threw him a pur»«
of gold as he spoke, and smiled.

Lerroux answered with a vile leer and !&•»
chuckle.

"Lose no time."

" Not a moment, monseigneur."

" And you shall not lose money — for t'^-re V
I another purse if you bring back the lady.'

IRISH HEIRS.

" Morueigneur is too good !" said the wretch,
with a cringe, as he retired from the room, and
left the marshal to his alternate reveries of love
and war."

CHAPTER VI.

THE commandant insisted on the presence of
Captain Lynch at his quarters on their retiring
from the marshal's presence. The latter pleaded
his wound as " reason fit" why it were wiser to
betake him to the retirement of his own lodging
and the repose of his own bed ; but the command
ant pleaded ancient friendship, with that oft-used
clause, " the length of time since they had met;"
and Lynch being an Irishman, the social disposi
tion of his nature backed his friend's request, and
yielded to the commandant's wishes, on the
promise of the latter that Lynch should " do as
he liked ;" which meant, that the commandant
would not enforce his guest to drink till he was
tipsy. In the course of their walk, Mons. de
Devenish, for so we must call our French-Irish
commandant, alluded to the beauty of the cap
tain's daughter, and the universal admiration she
created.

" Even the marshal," said he, " though used
to the blaze of charms in the French court, has
been attracted."

" I wish he were not," returned the father.

" And why not ?"

" Because I desire not such distinctions for my
child. The admiration of wolves for lambs is
something like that of your count-marshal for a
captain's daughter; it is disproportionate, and
any superstructure on so false a base, must fall ;
and in falling, whom would it crush ? — the
woman. The brilliancy of a warrior's reputa
tion, and a courtier's manner, are an over-match
for the natural weakness even of the most sensi
ble girl ; and I would not willingly expose my
child to the trial : — not that I fear or doubt her
good sense and her innate love of all that is hon
orable, not only in reality, but in seeming ; nev
ertheless, I should shrink at the idle whispers of
a clique commenting upon the courtesies of a
man of the count's gay reputation to my
daughter."

" My dear friend," answered Devenish, " you
think like a man who has lived in the hermit re
tirement of our native land, and is unused to the
world."

" And you, my good commandant," returned
Lynch, " think — or perhaps I had better say,
don't think of such matters, with the carelessness
that long habit has engendered while living with
these demoralized foreigners."

" It is possible," said Devenish ; " but I hope
I am not contaminated."

" Certainly not," replied the captain ; " but
your feelings en such matters are blunted : and
jo strongly do I feel on this subject, that I am
going to ask of you the favor of supplying me
with some trusty messenger, to convey to my
daughter a letter to warn her against any sur
prise that may be attempted to draw her to
Courtrai."

u Surprise !" exclaimed Devenish, in wonder.

" Ay, surprise," repeated Lynch ; " there
was something in the manner of the count I did
not like — it jarred upon me; and I would ask
the favor at your hands I have named."

" You shall have it, my dear friend."

" My wound, and the duties I have to perform
here," said the captain, " are obstacles to my
own departure hence at this moment, or I would
instantly go to Bruges and see my girl ; but a
letter in safe hands must serve my turn for the
present. You say you can furnish a trusty mes
senger ?"

" Depend on me," replied Devenish.

" Thanks !" said Lynch ; " it is enough."

Their brief and confidential colloquy brought
them to the quarters of the commandant, where
a few officers had been invited to share the hos
pitality of his table, and were already awaiting
their host. He pleaded the commands of the
marshal for this breach of etiquette on his part,
and ordered dinner to be served directly.

Most of the men were Irish, for Devenish
loved to have his countrymen about him, and the
after-dinner hilarity was mingled with various
anticipations of the proposed descent on Great
Britain, in the cause of Prince Charles, and its
probable result on Ireland. Lynch promised the
most devoted adherence to the cause, on the part
of all Ireland, — stating his personal knowledge
of the feelings of the country, in the cause of
their legitimate king.

" More fools they !" said Devenish — " pass
the bottle, boys."

" Call you devotion to a sacred duty folly ?"
said Lynch, in whom a romantic and enthusiastic
nature produced a deeper love for a sinking
cause.

" I call it folly," returned Devenish, " to ad
here to a family through whom poor Ireland lost
all, and got nothing. They adhered to the royal
cause in Charles the First's time, and little
thanks they got — only were murthered entirely
by Cromwell for it after, and had not even pit;
from Charles the Second. Still, for all that,
nothing would serve them but to stick to dirty"
James, with desperate fidelity ; and much good
that did them, — only got them murthered over
a<rain by black Billy, arid made the world just
one big barrack for Irishmen to go live abroad
in, for they dare not stay at home."

" And are we not as badly off' under George ?"
asked Lynch, gloomily — " and is it not worth a
struggle to make Ireland a land where her sons
may live and die in honor, and not be forced
to live in exile, if they would not live as
slaves ?"

" Ah, Lynch, leave your indignant eloquence
like a good boy, and pass the wine, — there is poor
O'Donnell eyeing the bottle with a longing look,
that is quite heart-breaking."

" I am of your opinion, commandant, respect
ing the expedition," said O'Donnell, filling his
glass. " The wit spoke truth, who told Louis that
he would never see mass performed in London,
unless he had three hundred thousand soldiers to
serve it."

" We have yet to see what the expedition will
do," said Lynch.

* Kine James is still remembered in the devoted land
he abandoned by this complimentary sobriquet

£. s. d.

" And they are making all haste in tlieir prep
arations," added Blake.

" Yet I have no expectation from it," said the
commandant.

" Though Saxe commands it ?" replied Lynch.
. " Ay, even Saxe. — And, by-the-by, I am not
sure if he won't be held by the leg here — that
wound of his is troublesome sometimes — I know
it of old — for I was with him when he got it."

" By the way, that was a desperate affair, I
believe ?" inquired O'Donnell.

" Faith, you may say that."

" An extraordinary escape, was it not ?" in
quired another."

"Incredible, almost," replied Devenish, who
was requested, by all present, to give the partic
ulars cf the encounter, as none of them had ever
teard the details.

"It is upward of twenty years ago," said
Devenish, " and as one might forget a little or
so in that time, I dare say you will imagine the
half of what I shall tell you invention ; but I
give you my honor, the most fertile fancy could
not invent half the wonders of that night's work.
You see it was when I first joined the count's
regiment, — the first which his father allowed him
to raise, and with which he certainly performed
wonders in a former campaign, — it was then that
the regiment was ordered to Pomerania, to join
the Prussians, and the count sent olf the lads
before him, that they might be in for the first of
the fun, he himself intending to follow in a few
days ; but as he could move faster than a whole
regiment, they were sent ahead, he reserving
only six of his officers, and about twelve servants,
well armed, for his escort, though we had to cross
part of an enemy's country."

" Did he dare such a thing with only eighteen
men ?"

" Dare ?" said Devenish ; « of all the dare
devils I ever saw, — and I have seen a few in my
time, — the count surpassed, when he was young.
He knows better, now ; for, indeed, the bit of
advice Prince Eugene gave him one day, was
needed."

" What was that ?" inquired Blake.

" When the general officers were praising the
young count one day, at Bethune, for some of
Ms daring vagaries, Prince Eugene waited till
they were all done, and then he took him down
a peg, with these remarkable words : — ' You
mistake temerity for courage,' said he; ' but do
not confound them, count, for connoisseurs know
the difference.' "

" But you are forgetting the story, comman
dant."

" Well, we were but nineteen people in all,
well mounted, and armed to the teeth ; and we
pushed our nags pretty smartly, till night brought
us, after a hard day's ride, to a small place call
ed Crachnitz. Here there was but a shabby lit
tle inn, which could not afford sufficient accom
modation for our party. We were obliged to
distribute our horses in various stables up and
down the village, reserving those of the inn for
the officers' chargers, and the servants to sleep
in. We stationed a couple of scouts to be on
the look-out, to avoid a surprise, and then the
count ordered supper, with as much nonchalance
as if he were safe at home in his fr.thcr's pal

ace. Well, just as we were sitting down to
supper, in rushed our scouts, to tell us the ene
my were pouring into the town in great force.
What need of force, you will say, to take nine
teen men ? but as we afterward heard, the ene
my supposed us to be a much stronger detach
ment, having heard that marshal Count Fleming
travelled with the Count de Saxe ; and so some
thing to the tune of two hundred dragoons
entered the town, while six hundred cavalry
were posted outside, to prevent escape, and make
our capture sure ; for if they could have carried
off the count and the marshal, it would have
been as good as taking three thousand men.

"The count immediately gave orders to barri
cade the door and lower windows — to pierce the
wainscot of the hall, and place a couple of men
in each of the side rooms, which commanded
the passage, who could thus, under cover, pour
a fire upon the first who should enter. The
count and the rest of his suit withdrew to the
stables, which we could better defend, and 'where
we saddled our horses, to be ready to run when
we could no longer fight. We heard the clat
ter of the dragoons, as they galloped up the
street, and drew up round the inn. A violent
knocking at the door succeeded ; and on the re
fusal to open, the officer in command threatened
to force it. The threat was soon put into exe
cution ; the door was battered down with the
butt-ends of fire-arms. And while all this din
was going forward outside, within, the stillness
of death reigned — where the Grim King was
soon to reign himself. A light was so disposed,
that the hall was visible to us, while those who
should enter could see nothing.

" The four men in the two rooms, with guns
ready pointed through the loops, awaited the
forcing of the door, to deal slaughter on the first
who should enter. Bang ! bang ! fell the blows
on the portal, and the creaking planks told how
fast the work went on. At last came one grand
crash, and in fell the door ; a rush of dragoons
is impeded by a slight barricade of furniture in
the hall ; the moment they are checked, four
deadly shots are put in from the side rooms. We
then, from the other end of the passage which led
to the stables, hurl a murderous fire upon the as
sailants, whose own dead bodies became an ad
ditional rampart for our defence. The dragoons,
treading over their fallen companions, are press
ed forward from the rear, — they are met with
the bayonet, and slaughtered helplessly ; a pati
ic seizes the assailants, and the hall is abandon
ed — literally barricaded with dead. An esca
lade was attempted at the same time, however ;
and just as we had cleared the hall, the tramp of
the dragoons was heard in the apartments above,
where the windows were undefended. The count
was the first to rush up stairs in the darkness.
He had a pistol in one hand, and a sword in the
other. The first man he met fell by the former ;
and then h< laid about him so vigorously with his
steel, that several were killed by his own hand,
before we could back him. A desperate strug
gle now took place ; it was pitch dark ; we
could not see where we struck, and the greater
part of the conflict consisted rather of wrestling,
and knocking our foes on the head, with the
butt-ends of our pistols. Al jast, we drrve them

IRISH HEIRS.

toward the windows, and threw them out — by St.
Patrick 'tis a fact ! — we threw them out by hand-
fuls ! A- second attack was made, and a second
time repulsed ; and the enemy, finding the de
fence so complete, concluded a greater number
were in the house than was anticipated ; there
fore, the officer relinquished further assault, till
daylight would enable him to use his numbers
with advantage ; and as he considered himself
sure of his prey, he only placed strong parties
round the inn, and ordered the men to rest on
their arms till morning, when he might summon
the count to surrender. When we found our
selves unmolested, a little council of war was
held, and the first thing that we perceived, with
surprise, was, that not one of us, except the
count, had received so much as a scratch ; — he
got a pistol wound in the thigh, but he treated it
as nothing, and we proceeded to debate what was
best to be done. ' We must make daylight
ilirousk them while it is night,' said the count ;
' for if the dawn should show the paucity of our
numbers, the game is lost.' The difficulty was,
now, the want of horses ; for you remember the
Btables of the inn could only accommodate those
of the officers. It was, therefore, agreed to wait
till the enemy might be supposed to be drowsy,
and surprise the post, which, we perceived, had
been established behind the inn. One great dif
ficulty now existed ; — though we had powder,
we had expended every ball, and a rummage was
made through the house for anything we could
substitute ; any bit of brass or iron was a treas
ure. I crammed a nail for some fellow's coffin
into my pistol, and the count was busy in cutting
the buttons off his coat, to ornament some other
gentleman's uniform, when a bright thought, as
I imagined, struck me. ' Count,' says I, ' we

say in Ireland that nothing can kill the d 1

but a silver bullet. So suppose we club our dol
lars, and cut them up into slugs ?' ' A most
characteristic invention,' replied he ; ' / never
knew an Irishman who could not get rid of his
pay faster than any other fellow in the world.''
Lausjhing at the count's reply, we acted on my
advice, however, and chopped up our dollars in
to slugs, determined to pay the enemy ransom in
a new fashion. When all was prepared we
mounted our horse.' opened the gates of the
court-yard quietly, and making the servants on
foot steal cautiously forward, till they should get
sufficiently close to the enemy to enable them to
reach them as fast on foot as we should on horse
back ; and having contrived this combined attack
of infantry and cavalry on so grand a scale, at
the proper moment the count yelled out 'Charge !'
and every man shouting enough for a dozen, to
make believe we were in force, rushed forward for
death or liberty. This sudden and furious as
sault upon the guard, who thought themselves in
such security, that they had alighted from their
horses, and were lying round a watch-fire, took
them completely by surprise; and such as escap
ed our fire, and the edge of the sword, fled pre
cipitately, and our servants picking the best of
their horses, we set off at full gallop, and never
drew rein till we arrived at Sandomir, the next
morning, Which we accomplished without the
loss of a man, or a wound among the party, ex
cept that of the count.

" Now," said the commandant, when he had
finished the story, " remember you asked me to
tell you that; for, 'pon my conscience, I would
not volunteer to tell so marvellous a thing and
hope to be believed."

His brother-soldiers, while they acknowledged
the affair to have been a wonderful feat, still
avowed their belief that, favored by darkness, a
small determined party might keep fearful odds
at bay ; and many instances were remembered
round the board.

" By-the-by, commandant, was Burke with
you in that affair ?" inquired O'Donnell.

"He was, poor fellow !" said the commandant,
with an expression of true regret on the last
words. " He had not long come from Ireland
then, and was one of the four picked men
who held the hall. He was my servant for
many years, and much as I valued him, I did
not know all his worth till I lost him.^Miave
never had such another. You remember him,
O'Donnell ?"

" I can not forget the strange scrape he got
into the night he mistook the pass-word."

The commandant laughed at the recollec
tion.

" Tell us, commandant," was the general re
quest.

" O'Donnell knows it," said Devenish ; " but
as there are some here who do not, I will tell
you; and it has the great merit of not being
long. It was one night when I wished to make
a communication with one of our outposts, com
manded by a brother Pat, that Burke was the
the only disposable person I had for the purpose.
He had to pass a line of sentries ; and as it was
not long since he came from Ireland, he did not
know a word of French, so the only thing I
wished to impress on his understanding was the
necessity of remembering the pass-word. As it
happened, our glorious marshal here furnished
the same in his own ever memorable name —
Saxe — ever memorable but in the case of poor
Burke, who forgot it, though he swore he never
would, nor could if he tried — ' for your honor,'
says he to me before he went, ' how c«uld I for
get that word ? Sure, I can remember a mil
ler aisy enough, and a miller has sacks — isn't
that right T ' Quite, Burke,' said I ; ' remem
ber a miller and sacks, and you can't go wrong
— that one word will pass you to-night all
through the camp. Now you must remember,
Saxe did not command us, and that Burke had
never heard of such a person, and depended on
his mnemonic system for remembering the
charmed word ; but whether it was thoughts of
home, or the ' girl he left behind him,' that were
busy with my poor Burke, or that his high-trot
ting horse shook the word out of his head, I
won't pretend to say, but when he was challen
ged, the lively ' qui vive ?' of the sentry was an
swered by Burke singing out ' BAGS ;' and as
you may guess, Burke was laid hold of.

" ' Let me go, you thief?' cried Burke — 'Bags,
I tell you !'

" He was taken before the officer of the guard,
who asked where he came from. Burke tipped
him a knowing wink, and cried 'Bugs;' but
the officer seemed as stupid to Burke as the sen-
tinel.

£ s. d.

" < What brings you here ?' asked me officer.

" 'Sags ." said Burke, with more emphasis than
before.

" The same answer to two different questions
roused the Frenchman's indignation ; but the
wanner he got, the more did Burke repeal
« Bags !' and cursed in his own mind the officer's
stupidity; and though he rang the changes on
' Bags' in every possible intonation, it was nol
'.ill the next day that my inquiries after my ser
vant set him free. Many a laugh was had al
Burke's expense on the subject of the pass- word ;
and for a long time after, if I ever wanted him
to be particular not to forget anything, I had
only to say ' Bags' to put Burke on his mettle."

" What a smart soldier he was, too !" said
O'Donnell.

" And as brave as a lion," added Devenish.
" In sjiort, he was a noble fellow. Though in
the ranm, he had a heart that would have done
nonor to a marshal. I knew his history, and it
was touching. He loved a girl passionately,
who treated him, nevertheless, with coldness ;
yet I firmly believe, that, to the end of his life,
she was the dearest thing in his memory. Too
daring a devotion to what the poor fellow con
sidered the cause of his country obliged him to
fly from it, and never was there a more home
sick exile at heart; but his pride, in. both cases,
was so unflinching, that word or look would
never betray to strangers that he regretted the
girl and the land that were lost to him for ever.
He fell, at last, on a hard-fought and victorious
day, and a lock of jet-black hair, and a wither
ed shamrock, were found enclosed in a small
case of green silk, together with a gospel, sus
pended by a riband from his neck, and resting
over the pulseless heart, which in life never
throbbed with an unworthy emotion.

" The incident suggested to one of our lads,
who was as ready with his pen as his sword, a
song which has often been sung round our
camp Ire, and which, if O'Donnell pleases, he
can g./e us now."

The manly voice of the soldier was at once
raised in accordance with the wishes of his com
rades, and though he could not boast the perfec-
rions of an accomplished singer, what was
wanting in a.t was more than made up in feei
ng-

ST&e Soltrler.

Twas glorious day, worth a warrior's telling-.
Two kings had fought, and the fight was done,

When 'midst me shout of victory swelling,
A soldier fell on the field he won.

He thought of kings and of royal quarrels,
And thought of glory without a smile ;

For what had he to do with laurels ?
He was only one of the rank and file.

But he pulled out his little cruiskeen,*

And drank to his pretty colleen.t
" Oil darling !" says he, " when I die
You won't be a widow— for why ?—

Ah ' you never would have me, vourncen."t

A. raven tress from his bosom taking,
That now was stained with his life-stream shed

* A dram-bottle.

t A. term of endearment

t Girl.

A fervent prayer o'er that ri.iglet making,
He blessings sought on the loved one's head

And visions fair of his native mountains .
Arose, enchanting his fading sight ;

Their emerald valleys and crystal fountains
Were never shining more green and bright ;

And grasping his little cruiskeen.

He pledged the dear island of green ; —
" Though far from thy valleys I die,
Dearest isle, to my heart yiou art nigh,

As though absent I never had been "

A tear now fell— for as life was sinking,

The pride that guarded his rnanly tys
Was weaker grown, and his last fond thinking

Brought heaven and home, and his true k>ve, nlglk
But with the fire of his gallant nation,

He scorn'd surrender without a blow '. —
He ir.ade with Death capitulation,

And with warlike honors he still would go ,
For draining his little cruiskeen,
He drank to his cruel colleen,

To the emerald land of his birth —

And lifeless he sank to the earth,
Brave a soldier as ever was seen !

The applause which followed O'Donnell's song
was still ringing round the table, when a servant
entered, and addressed some words to the com
mandant.

Devenish, ever since his holding the important
station he filled at Courtrai, always made it a
rule to examine English prisoners himself on
their capture, to avoid the misunderstanding that
might arise from question and answer being con
fused by an imperfe'ct knowledge of language
between parties, and now he was informed an
officer was in waiting, having an English pris
oner in charge. The commandant desired he
should be brought before him ; and in another
instant, Ned was standing in the presence of the
dinner-party.

Though his air was somewhat sad, there was
nothing of the downcast craven about it, as he
looked toward the commandant at the head of
tiis table; but when he heard himself addressed,
not only in English, but with the accent of his
native land, his face brightened as his heart told
iim he was not so friendless as he thought him
self. After answering the commandant's first
question, he cast his eyes round the table, and
;hey met those of Captain Lynch. A mutual
ook of surprise and pleasure passed between
them; and as the captain rose and advanced
toward him with open .hand, saying. " Well
met, my young friend," Edward exclaimed,
What! Count Nel "

The captain suddenly stopped him by seizing
is hand, and, with significant pressure, saying,

Captain Lynch is glad to see you — how came
you to be a prisoner ?"

A few words of explanation sufficed to show
:hat Edward was clear of any charge that should
imit his liberty, and the commandant pronoun
ced him free, and requested him to take a. seat
at the table, so that, by one of those sudden turns
of fortune which are so surprising, he was trans-
erred at once from a prison to the table of tl e
commandant, and instead of " supping sorrow,1'
drinking most excellent wine, the first glass of
which he filled at the courteous soldier's request
that he would pledge him.

" I am happy to have the pleasure of seeing
you, sir," said Devenish, with thai ait of high

IRISH HEIRS.

breeding, warmed with heartiness, that so much
characterized the Irish gentleman of the period,
* and I hope you will make yourself comfortable.
We owe you a little extra civility, in considera
tion of the rough treatment you first had at our
hands : but if you have seen something of the
chance rubs of travelling in a country under mil
itary occupation, I trust, before you leave us, we
will prove to you that soldiers can be very good
fellows as well as sturdy."

Ned, who never before had sat in as good com
pany, feeling that inevitable abashment which
being made the subject of address in such pres
ence always produces in a young man of his sta
tion, made a somewhat hasty and hesitating
speech about the honor he considered he enjoyed,
and the good fortune of an apparently unlucky
chance affording him the pleasure and honor of
such a distinguished society. So far, his native
tact enabled him to say what was quite right
under the circumstances, though given with a
diffidence which betrayed a shyness, showing a
want of intimacy with the high-bred, but by no
means awaking a suspicion of vulgar habits.

" As for the pleasure, sir," said Devenish (po
litely leaving the honor unnoticed), " I believe I
may, without flattery, opine that the apartments
of the commandant are more agreeable than
those of the prevdt marechal. I hope you will
look over the little accident that befell you :
these French fellows, you know, — these fascina
ting foreigners, — have a very taking way with
them as they say of the robbers in Ireland."

Ned assured him he felt more than repaid by
the consequences that ensued from his capture.

" I hope you have not been taken much out of
your way, mister — by-the-by, your examination
was conducted in so very Irish and after-dinner
a fashion, that we never inquired your name ; —
may I beg the favor ?"

" Fitzgerald," answered Ned.

" A good name, sir, — I had some cousins of
that name myself. May I ask, are you connect
ed with the Kilkee family ?"

Ned, feeling much puzzled to be asked about
his Fitzgerald relations, answered in the nega
tive.

<« Or the Knight of Kerry ?" continued Dev
enish.

A negative was still returned ; and then po
liteness forbidding the commandant to inquire
farther, he returned to the question of " hoping
that our hero had not been taken out of his
way."

So far from that, Ned declared Courtrai was a
place he intended to visit.

" Then no bones are broken after all," said
Devenish, who having performed the courtesy
of conversing with a stranger introduced to
his table under such peculiar circumstances join
ed in the general conversation of his guests.

Ned was delighted to escape from the inquiries
en the subject of his genealogical tree, which
was anything but a tree of knowledge to him, as
far as Filzgerald was concerned.

" What a strange meeting this of ours," said
the captain. " We last met in a quiet town on
the remotest shore of Europe, and here we come
together a^ain on the theatre of its most stirring
incidents.

" True, sir," answered Ned. " And /et in
that qukt town, you may remember, we met in
strife better befitting the seat of war."

" I don't forget it," answered his friend, sig
nificantly ; " and anything I can do for you here,
pray command me. — May I ask what your object
is in visiting Courtrai ?"

Here was poor Ned puzzled again with the
very second question put to him. He dare not
tell to him who asked it the real object of his
visit ; and a second time within a few minutes
he felt the painful difficulty of not being able to
speak the truth. He said at last, that having a
few days to spare, the natural curiosity of per
sons to visit strange places was his motive ; and
then trying to make a virtue of speaking truth
enigmatically, he added, that doubtless there was
that in Courtrai which he should be glad to see.

The captain assured him there were places of
much greater note in Flanders, Courtrai being
principally remarkable for its manufactures, not
for the outward beauties which are attractive to
the traveller, and recommended his young friend
to leave Courtrai as soon as possible, as he should
only lose his time there.

How dismally those words sounded to Ned.
Despair stared him in the face ; he scarcely no
ticed anything that took place afterward till the
party broke up. Then, as the commandant po
litely offered the guidance of his own servant to
conduct him to an hotel, Lynch declared it was
needless, as he would give his young friend ac
commodation in his own quarters.

Despair fled at the words : the enthusiast saw
Fortune smiiing again ; and the lover's heart
jumped at the chances involved in the proffered
invitation.

CHAPTER VII.

ON retiring from the hospitable board of the
commandant, with what surprise did Ned find
himself walking down the street arm in arm with
a count — or a captain, as he chose to be called
there — and a passing wonder was experienced by
Ned, how any man could wish to conceal his
rank — that is, when it was a high one. But the
wonder was momentary ; superseded by the ec
static idea of seeing his enchantress in a few
minutes ; nay, of being under the same roof with
her; but ah! what was hi? disappointment,
when he found, on reaching the soldier's barrack-
room, his fond anticipations unfounded ! — " How
many tricks hath fortune played me to-day,"
thought Ned — and he sighed at the thought.
Hitherto, with the timidity of true love, and »
young heart, he had not dared to breathe he.
name; but his impatience would no longer re-
main within boumb, and he hazarded a timid
question after her health.

« I thank you, she is well," said the soldier 5
" and may God keep her so — and in safety !" he
added, and seemed, in uttering these last words,
as if he thought aloud. Then relapsing into
silence, a shade of deep reflection settled on his
brow, and he did not speak for some minutes.
Suddenly he addressed Ned, asking him, that, as
there was no immediate business to detain hiir

30 *

at Courtrai, if he would object to visit other
towns, better worth seeing. Ned raised no ob
jection, merely saying he should be on his return
to Dunkirk in some few days.

" You can do that, and oblige me too," said
Lynch ; " and also see the person after whom
you have asked so politely — my daughter."

Ned could hardly answer for the breathlessness
of delight, but he stammered a hasty assurance
of his happiness to oblige in the particular re
quested.

" Then you can carry a letter to her, for which
purpose I require a trusty messenger, and you
have already proved how stout and sure a friend
yon can be ; — but if you would oblige me, you
must start to-night."

Ned assented with alacrity; and the captain,
writing a short letter, which he placed in Ned's
aands, took down a sword from the wall where
it hung, and presented it to his young friend.

" You can ride to-night in perfect safety, with
a detachment cf dragoons going to strengthen
Bclem ; but, as you will have to proceed thence
alone by the canal to Bruges, and in these rude
times, may meet blustering people, it is a? well
to be provided with the means of defence."

Ned, after expressing thanks for the gift,
buckled it to his side, and they proceeded imme
diately to the quarter where the cavalry was al
ready mustering for the march, and Edward be
ing presented to the officer in command by
Lynch, was allowed to join the party, riding one
of the troop-horses. . As he departed, a single
but deep and earnest ' farewell' was bestowed by
the stern soldier.

The night-march was rapid and fatiguing ;
but Ned, with the excitement produced by the
novelty of the scene, and, beyond all, the promis
ing nature of his mission, would gladly have
borne twice as much; the

" Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war"

were around him ; the martial clang of arms,
and rapid tramp of steeds, rang through the
darkness. The glitter and flutter of gold and
steel and plume, that dazzle by day, were not
there, but snatches of moonbeams struggling
through the clouds, lighted them more pictur
esquely than sunshine, and rendered the scene,
if less brilliant, more romantic.

As soon as he reached Belein, notwithstanding
all his fatigue, he sought not repose, but lost no
time in embarking in the first-passage-boat which
proceeded to Bruges. In the boat, however, ex
hausted nature sought the repose she needed,
and he slept for some hours, until the clatter of
dinner aroused him. Here was another novel
scene to Ned ; smoking, eating, and drinking,
all going on together, the women joining in the
latter pretty freely ; and the custom being that
the wine bill should be defrayed by the men,
.travelling bachelors undergoing a sort of tax up
on celibacy, by paying for the wine of other
men's wives and daughters, Ned found the Flem-
ioh fair sex had a tolerable capacity for the con
sumption of the article. There was but one
person on board who could speak a word of
English, and only a few broken scraps were at
his disposal. This occasioned Ned to attach
himself to the company of this person, though

there was something in the man from which ha
was instinctively inclined to shrink, a sort of
bird-of-prey look that was repulsive, yet through
the desire to ask a question, so natural in a
young traveller, our hero overcame his prejudi
ces, and submitted to the companionship. Ned
found he was well acquainted with Bruges ; and
as they approached the town, the magnificent
tower of the town-hall (the carillon), the lofty
steeple of Notre Dame and other spires were
named to our young traveller by the obliging
stranger, to whom Ned fancied he had done
great injustice by his antipathy.

" You can tell me, then," said onr hero, " in
what part of the town I can find this address ;"
and he produced the letter he was bearing to
Ellen.

Ned saw an extra brightness flash in the
swarthy stranger's keen eye as he glanced at
the direction ; but it was momentary ; and he
calmly answered, he should be happy to show
him the house, warning against trusting to any
paid guides through the town, as they were the
greatest villains unhanged. Ned remembered
the captain's parting words and his gift of the
sword, and was therefore readier to give credit
to the stranger's admonition.

" / till show good 'ouse to Monsieur" said the
friend, whom Ned thankfully followed ; and the
stranger led him to the Singe d' Or, where he
proposed they should have soam Icetel refraish
togezzer, and that he would conduct him after
ward to the place he sought for ; he then left
Ned, on some pretence, saying he would be back
by the time the 'refraish' was ready, which,
having been ordered with all speed, Ned expect
ed to make its appearance in some twenty min
utes ; but when an hour elapsed, and the stran
ger returned not, Ned fancied he had forgotten
him and the ' refraish' altogether, and therefore
determined to delay no longer the delivery of
the letter ; demanding a guide, he issued from
the inn, and after traversing some intricate and
inodorous by-ways, his conductor indicated with
his pointed finger that the house he sought lay
up a street into which he had just turned. Ned
saw a carriage with the door open, and a figure
standing, as if in attendance, which struck hin
to be the hawk-eyed stranger of the passage-
boat — the next instant a lady issued from the
house ; it was Ellen ; and the stranger assisted
her to the carriage ; — a thought of treachery
flashed across Edward's mind, and he ran with
all speed to the spot, where the stranger was
employing his utmost haste to shut up the steps
and close the door. But Edward arrived in time
to present himself before Ellen, who grew alter
nately pale and red on beholding him, and saw
in his excited look some occasion of unusual mo
ment — while his urgent appeal to her to stop
was met by the swarthy stranger's passionate
exclamation that there was not a moment to de
lay ; this he urged, speaking rapidly in French
to Ellen, with much gesticulation.

" I fear there is treachery here," cried Ned,
eagerly ; but he was interrupted by the French
man, who, with some contemptuous gesticula
tion toward him, gabbled a torrent of talk to
Ellen, which Ned could not understand, as the
stranger spoke his own language. But our here

IRISH HEIRS.

trould not be thus put down ; for, laying hold of
the door, and shoving the intruder aside, he put
!iis head into the carriage, and said,

" Dear lady — if this "rascal is trying to per-
euade you that I am not your father's authorized
messenger, he is a liar !"

" Sacre !" exclaimed the Frenchman, who,
with gnashing teeth and eyes flashing fire, drew
his sword fiercely, and with such evidence of
reality in his evil intention, that Ned had his ra
pier out in time to parry the furious thrust of
his assailant, whose fierce and rapid lunges, urg
ed with great personal power, lashed to its ut
most exertion by rage, placed our hero's life in
imminent jeopardy. Ellen screamed ; and, open
ing the carriage door, was about to rush between
the combatants, when a rapidly-returned pass
from Ned laid the base Lerroux dead at the
feet of the lovely creature he would have be
trayed.

Eilen would have fallen to the ground but
Edward caught her in his arms, and bore her in
to the house, where the attention of the rapidly-
asnembled domestics recalled her from her
swoon. Her first words, on recovering, were to
urge Edward to immediate flight, but his answer
v/as handing her the letter of her father, and
saying, " I must not go until I know if there is
any other duty I can perform."

She glanced over the letter, and exclaimed,
!< Oh ! from what peril you have preserved me !
—but you have slain a Frenchman, and are in
'he hands of his countrymen, in arms — Fly ! for
Heaven's sake, fly !" — Then wringing her hands,
ihe exclaimed, " Alas ! alas ! am I doomed al
ways to involve you in trouble ?"

She looked with so much gentleness at Ed
ward as she spoke, that a thrill of delight shot
through his frame, and he exclaimed, with an
* emotion to which no woman's ear could be insen
sible, " Think not for a moment of my danger;
I would gladly lay down my life for you !"

The sound of commotion in the street without
now became audible, and increased more while
they spoke ; and when Ellen moved to the window
and looked out, she suddenly withdrew, alarm
impressed on every feature. " They are gather
ing fearfully, — it is impossible you can escape
by the front ; the court in the rear opens on the
canal, and a boat is at the stair. Hasten, Ernes
tine !" she exclaimed to a fair-haired girl, her
attendant ; " put this gentleman across the ca
nal, and you will escape immediate interruption.
Lead him at once to the nearest gate, — get him
out of the town, for Heaven's sake, — and when
once you gain the suburb," she added, address
ing himself to Edward, " you can procure the
means of escape, and neglect it not for an in
stant, as you value your life. Fly ! I beseech
vou."

*c Lady !" said Edward, " I have a word in
^it mte for you."

" There is no time."

" I can not leave without."

Ellen rapidly waved the attendants from the
room, and closed the door.

« Be brief."

" I may never see you again, but I can not
leave you without telling you, that a mad pre
sumption has entered my heart, — Oh, do not

start — I am going. I hope and believe I shall
yet have fortune, and one day might hope — Oh,
say, if ever I come back, where may I hear of
you ? Do I presume too much ? — Oh, be not
angry with me ?" he exclaimed, imploringly,
dropping on his knee at her feet, and taking hei
hand.

" Against one who has been my preserver,'1
said Ellen, trembling, " gratitude forbids I should
entertain anger ; — but this is folly, and may cost
you your life."

"Then answer— where shall I hear from
you ?"

" To save your life I must speak," said Ellen.
' At the Convent of the Assumption, in this
city, you are likely always to hear of me."

" A convent !" exclaimed Edward, with a look
of horror.

A louder murmur rose from the street as
he spoke, and Ellen's pallor and tremor in
creased.

" If you really respect me," she said, " fly."

He ventured to press the hand he held to his
lips, and rose, and uttering a passionate farewell,
hurried from the room. On the stairs Ernes
tine was waiting for him, and beckoned him rap
idly to follow her. To run down the court,
jump into a boat, and cross a canal, was the
work of a very few minutes, and a f*.\v more
found them thridding back streets tow«iu -one of
the gates. As they hurried along, a chime of
bells rang out, and an expression of alarm over
spread the girl's face, as she beckoned Edward
to greater speed, and ran forward to the gate
that was now in sight. They ran till they were
out of breath, and reached the guarded portal
only to learn that the gates were closed for the
night, and none must pass.

CHAPTER VIII.

ERNESTINE could not avoid betraying in her
countenance alarm and anxiety, which might
have been enough to awaken the suspicion of
the sentry had he been a reasonable man ; but,
as he was a conceited fellow, he attributed the
changing color of the damsel to the result of the
impertinent love-glances he cast from those bold
eyes, which he fancied capable of conquering
any woman alive, and, as he ogled the fair
Flemish most unequivocally, the girl:s agitation
was set down to kis grenadier gallantry.

Ernestine through all her alarm saw this, and
with womanly readiness determined tc make use
of it; she pouted her ripe lips into the prettiest
form of entreaty, and bent the most love-like
gaze of supplication from her blue eyes as she
urged every ingenious plea she could think of,
to be permitted to pass the wicket. It was in
vain ; — to every appeal the grenadier only chuck
ed her under the chin, and told her to " try
again," till at last Ernestine, seeing he was
making a jest of her, left off calling him "cruel,"
which she hoped would have made him kind, and,
saying he was an impertinent fellow, turned
away from the gate in bitter disappointment that
all the powa'er and shot of her coquetry had
been thrown away, and in much anxiety respect-

£ s. d.

ing the safety of the young gentleman who had
been put under her charge. For some time the
girl seemed absorbed hi thought as she retraced
her steps with speed across the bridge and down
the main street from the gate, till turning into
one less frequented she relaxed her speed, and,
Icvwng round to see that none were near to ob
serve, she stretched forth her arms in the action
of swimming, with a look of inquiry to Ned,
who having answered by a nod of assent, she
hurried forward again. Ernestine's pantomimic
question arose from a little plot she had contriv
ed for placing her charge iu some place of safe
ty within the city, as she could not get him out
of it ; and as the only one she knew was m a
public part of the town, and not far from where
the fatal affray took place, the difficulty lay in
getting the fugitive there without observation.
This she feared was impossible by crossing any
of the bridges — at least it was perilous, and as
the house she intended for his sanctuary had a
water-gate which opened on one of the canals,
her plan was to go round by the bridges by her
self, and leave Edward to lie in some momentary
place of concealment, till she could advertise the
inmates of the house of her intention, and give
a signal to Ned from the opposite side of the ca
nal, which, as he could swim, would present no
other obs^cle than a wet jacket between him
and secu.«cy.

The understanding between Ned and his guide
had been so perfect by the mere intervention of
gesture, that no further explanation was required
for the present to comprehend one another's
meanins, — he understanding she expected him to
swim, and she quite satisfied he could do so;
therefore she trotted on, and he after her, through
a multiplicity of intricate win lings, which re
minded Ned of his native town in their high
flavor and narrowness.* They soon debouched,
however, from these labyrinths of nastiness into
the broader and more frequented part of the
town ; but the relief to one sensr gave alarm to
another, for the eye became painfully alive to
passing groups, whose upraised voices and ges
ticulation showed they were moved by some
event producing popular excitement, and many
of the military were among them. Ernestine
hurried across one thoroughfare thus occupied,
and cast a furtive glance backward to see that
Edward followed unmolested, and, when assured
of this, she took no further notice, but led onward
with unslackened pace through the quieter inter
secting street till she reached the opening on the
next highway, where a sight was before her
enough to shake a stouter heart ; for a party of
soldiers were at the moment bearing over the
bridge the body of Lerroux on a litter, and seem
ed excited even to ferocity.

Ernestine grew white with terror, and, turning
suddenly back, absolutely dragged Edward after
her till they reached a low-browed arch leading
up a dark entry, to the farthest extremity of

* There are many points of similitude between Bruges
and Galway. The heavy portals forming the entrance
to quadrangular buildings— the narrow passages through
successive arches, not over sweet— and the Spanish look
of the women with their ample cloaks, are singularly
Jke. This may be accounted for by the axtwsbe in
tercourse subsisting between Spain and Galway in an
cient times.

which they quickly retired, waiting in silent attz-
iety until the receding murmurs should tell them
the savage crowd was past. They listened
breathlessly, but the noise increased rather than
diminished, and to their dismay, the mob turned
down the street to which they were so close.
Ernestine trembling from hand to foot, leaned for
support on Ned, who grasped the handle of his
sword in readiness to sell his life dearly, if need
might be. On poured the stream of the growl
ing and swearing multitude, past the little entry
which reverberated to their heavy tramp, and
whence the fugitives could see from out the
friendly shadow the grim faces that were passing.
The numbers grew less and less — the murmur
faded into distance, and soon the tramp of some
following straggler alone disturbed the quiet
street. Ernestine ventured to peep out, and,
beckoning Edward to follow, they emerged from
their hiding place, and again dared the streets,
over which the shadows of evening, now falling,
favored their retreat, which the careful girl still
contrived should lie through the most quiet ways.
At last they arrived at an open square, whose
odor proclaimed it at once a fishmarket, and
whose proximity to the water showed the fitness
of the locality. Hurrying to the quay, Ernestine,
after casting a few inquiring glances about,
thought a barge moored to the bank the most
favorable chance that offered for her purpose,
and, stepping on board, she was soon joined by
Edward. She pointed to a house nearly opposite,
with a water-gate opening directly upon the
canal, and gave Edward to understand that he
should remain in the barge until she could get
round by a bridge to that particular house, to
which, as soon as he saw her, he should swim.
She then departed hastily, and Edward cast a
glance across the water to measure the distance
of his aquatic short cut.

Not far from his promised asylum stood a
building of such quaint and peculiar beauty, that
Edward, even amidst the reasonable anxiety of
his situation, could not avoid remarking it. Its
graceful pinnacles yet sparkled in the sunset,
and the elaborate beauty of their form was more
remarkable from being wrought in brick, whose
makers and layers in olden time must have far
surpassed all modern workmen, judging from the
exquisite specimens still to be seen in Holland
and Belgium. But though its pinnacles were
still bright, the greater mass of the building was
sinking into shadows, relieved only by the small
squares of glass in its ample windows catching a
light here and there, which, reflected in the canal
beneath, broke the massiveness of shadow, which
would otherwise have been heavy, and made one
of those pictures which only such amphibious
places afford.

He withdrew his eyes now and then from the
sparkling pinnacles to cast a glance at the little
water-gate in search of Ernestine, and had not
long to wait, for the assiduous girl had used all
speed to accomplish her object ; and Edward soon
saw her standing within the recess of the oppo
site arch, and waving a handkerchief by way of
signal. Letting himself down gently by a rope
from the barge's side into the water, to avoid the
noise a plunge would have made, he struck out
boldly across the canal, and Ernestine received

IRISH HEIRS.

the dripping fugitive with smiles and testimonies
of admiration, and led him immediately up a
winding stair, at the head of which a fat old lady,
the picture of good, living, was waiting to receive
him. She shook him by the hand with an air of
elaborate politeness, and said, " Velkim, velkim."
She then talked an immensity in her own lan
guage, with a word of English here and there,
1o Ned, who was shaking the weight of water
from his garments in the hall, while the fat old
lady poured a torrent of directions to Ernestine,
who was running up stairs, after having received
them, but was recalled to get a fresh supply of
orders. Off went Ernestine again, and by the
time she was near the top of the house, the old
babbler must have her back for some fresh
order, — .and this was repeated several times, till
the girl's patience was exhausted, and, affecting
not to hear the recall still screamed after her, she
pursued her way up stairs to get fresh clothes for
Edward.

The old lady then told him she could speak
English, though he would scarcely have found it
out without her saying so, for her few words,
badly pronounced, were so crushed between her
native gutturals, with which she made up her
conversation, that no dictionary in the language
would have recognised the disfigured creatures as
acquaintances, and they could only be classed
among the vasrants and vagabonds that go wan
dering over the world without a claim on any
society ; few and shapeless as the words were,
however, she made it intelligible that she acqui
red a knowledge of English from her second
husband, but that it was to her third that Edward
was to be indebted for his clothes.

" But yaw are vet, naut moche, I dink," said
Madam Ghabblekramme.

Ned shook his head, and the skirts of his coat,
and said, " Very."

" Bote it vos so droi here — very — diz zummer."

" Maybe so, ma'am," said Ned ; "'but the
canal is very wet, I assure you."

" Ah no — cannaut — dis year rain not moche."

" The little that was of it, ma'am," said Ned,
" is very penetrating however."

The feet of Ernestine were now heard patter
ing down stairs, and she soon made her appear
ance bearing a bundle of clothes.

Madam attempted a long talk with Ernestine
about the clothes, which the girl strove »o cut
short by hurrying toward a side room off the
hall ; but madam held her back by her skirt as
she gained the door, and said that as the garments
had not been worn since her poor dear good man
had died, that they must want airing. To which
the girl replied, with an exclamation of wonder
at madam's absurd care, that they were certain
ly more dry than those the young- gentleman had
on him. Edward, seeing the tendency to discus
sion on the old lady's part, lost no time in follow
ing Ernestine into the room; where the girl, de
positing the clothes in a chair, gave him a sig
nificant nod to make the most of his time ; and,
notwithstanding the old lady's attempt to estab
lish a parley at the portal, Edward contrived to
get the door shut sooner than his hostess thought
consistent with that politeness to the fair sex
which she constant1}' preached, and of which she
considered herself a most deserving ftbject.
3

She kept talking to him, however, through the
door all the time Ned was effecting his change,
which presented two difficulties, the first to drag
! off the wet garments which clung to him, and
the second to keep the ample folds which had
encased the rotund proportions of the late Herr
Ghabblekramme from falling about his heels ; no
possible buttoning would do it, and he was ia.p
to hold them up with his hands, which the cap;
cious sleeve and heavy ruffles of the portly
burgher rendered nearly useless. It was as
much as Ned could do to get one hand free to
open the door, at which the fussy old lady besran
to knock impatiently, and when she entered, her
desire to give Ned a second shake of welcome
by the other almost produced a catastrophe which
it would have given us pain to record. Ernestine
saw our hero's difficulty, and, while she laughed
at it, promptly set about its removal ; huge pin?
were put in requisition, and at length the app-Ii
cation of a scarf round his middle set Ned's mind
at ease and his hands at liberty, whereupon his
fat hostess shook them heartily, and remarked to
Ernestine, how slender the youth looked in the
burgher's clothes.

'• Augh !" exclaimed she in German, " Ghab
blekramme was a fine man — but to say the truth,
the youth is good-looking." She then led the
way to another chamber where the supper table,
handsomely provided at all points, was laid, and,
after some words to Ernestine, the latter depart
ed, and Edward was left tete a tete with the old
lady, who did not seem in the least to regret that
he did not answer one word, but appeared the
happier that she had all the talk to herself,
in which she never relaxed for one moment.
There were a good many pictures in the room,
most of them daubs done to order ; among them
were three portraits of the three former lords and
masters of the extensive domain of female love
liness that now stood before Edward, and this
she contrived to make him understand by point
ing to them and saying, as each was indicated —

" Dat is mine von ; dat is mine doo ; dat is
mine dree. Mine von vos gooder ; mine doo vos
beaster ; but, mine dree vos pigger. Dem is his
goats ;" and she pointed to Ned's coat and nether
garments as she spoke. She then indicated sev
eral portraits of herself at different periods of
life ; and by reference to these and those of her
husbands, and afterward calling his attention to
various composition pictures which hung round
the room, gave him to understand that she and
her former lords had sat as models for the prin
cipal figures. It would seem the tastes had
varied at the different periods of these pictures
being painted. In the earliest, the pastoral pre
vailed — Madame figured as a shepherdess. In
the second, the mythology was laid under contri
bution for the subject; and here, as Daphne,
she was escaping at the very moment of meta
morphose from a bloated Apollo, who seemed
very much blown with his run ; while the tree
into which she was changing was by far the least
wooden pnrt of the picture. In the third era
scriptural subjects prevailed, and this inountr ,n
of " too solid flesh" had done some of the .nost
renowned beauties of sacred history the f ^or of
being their representative. In some ri the ac
cessory seraphic groups, too, she wo'iid iudica'e

34-

X 5. d.

the handsomest, and say, " T)at is me ; — but
here is 'noder — very goot indeet :" and she
pointed to the largest picture in the room, the
subject being Tobit and the Angel. " Dat is
troot to ebbery potty ebbery time (which was the
old lady's way of expressing always') — Ghab-
blekramme vos Tobit — de hangel is me." Ned
found it difficult to resist laughing, and commen
ced a voluble praise of the picture to escape such
a breach of politeness, remarking how very nat
urally the fish was represented.

" Oh, yais," said madam, " ebbery ting from
nature — de veesh vrom de market — ver goot —
after bainter baint him, de cock made him for
zuppers ; — ebbery ting from nature, ebbery time,
in goot vorks ; — Ghabblekramme vos Tobit — de
veesh vrom de veesh — and de hangel is me."
Ned could no longer resist a smile, which she
perceiving, she requested him to remember that
she was much more beautiful then than now;
and by certain applications of her hands squeez
ing in her present redundancy, and her pointed
finger referring to departed dimples, and cutting
certain figures through the air indicating various
lines of beauty, she endeavored to convince her
guest that she was the remains of a Venus,
somewhat enlarged.

" But dat is all mine goot humor, — I am so
grabble (agreeable, she meant to say), it is bleas-
ant to live mid me, I do adsure you ;" and she
gave Ned a tender glance as she spoke.

" All mine von, mine doo, mine dree, zay I vos
so grabble ; dere is mek me happy-not, only von
ting, — I am 'vraid zum day I vill grow too tick :"
she was eighteen stone if she was a pound, as
she spoke the words.

Ned would have given the world to have
laughed out, and screwed his mouth into all sorts
of shapes, to keep in the rebellious merriment
that was producing internal convulsion.

" I zee," said the old lady, " you laughs at
mine bat vorts of Hingelish ; but you naut know
notten Deitch — zome pettersdan you." Leaving
the room as she spoke, Ned was left to his own
observations of the chamber, which had much
in it indicating wealth. There were an Indian
cabinet and screen, jars and beakers of china, !
idols of marble and gilded metal, and monsters j
in porcelain of the direst forms of ugliness, rich
cornices and mouldings, hangings of that stiff
damask which we only now have a notion of
through old pictures, and tall-backed chairs of
walnut wood and cut velvet inviting to sedenti-
ry ease. Everything in the room bore an aspect
curiously coinciding with the figure of the mis
tress. The cabinet was square-built and thick,
and one open drawer, crammed with a medley
of things, gave some idea of the surfeit under
which the rest were laboring; while another
empty one seemed protruded by the poor cabinet
itself to get a mouthful of air. The jars were
of the most rotund forms, the dragons seemed
bursting, the idols were bloated, and the very
chairs seemed stuffed as full as they could cram.

His further observation was interrupted by the
n. 'urn rf his hostess, followed by a stout-built
fra.-. bearing a tray holding several dishes ; up- j
on wu'ch, as they were laid one bxy one on the !
table, ttK- lady who feared she would grow " too '
•tick" look,. «j with an evj of affection little in

keeping with such an apprehension, and, when
all was ready, she motioned Ned to a chair, and
then, flopping down into one herself, squeezed
as near the table as her good humor would allow
her, and commenced operations. After helping
her guest, she set to herself, and though Ned, aa
might be expected from his youth and hardy call
ing, could play a tolerably good knife and fork,
or was, in Irish parlance, a capital " trencher-
boy," he was a fool to his hostess, who made as
tounding havoc with both eatables and drinka
bles. No sooner was one dish cleared, than an
assault was made on another ; and, though Ned
did all he could to keep a lady in countenance,
he was forced to give in long before she relaxed
in her labor of love. Heavens ! how she did
gobble and swill ! it was almost sublime, and,
somehow or other, she contrived to talk all the
time. At last she seemed to have done, and
spoke to the servant, who partly cleared the ta
ble and retired, and the interval was made use
of by Madame Ghabblekramme to pull a large
handkerchief from her pocket and rub down her
face, which began to give some dewy evidence
of the exertion she had gone through. She pull
ed a second handkerchief from another pocket,
and before making use of it, said, " I am zo par-
tic, ebbery time, mid mine ankleshift, — you zee
I habben von — to make mine nose — and 'nudder
vor to zweep mine face."

The servant returned 'bearing an enormous
dish of salad, — a perfect stack of vegetable pro
duction, which Ned declined meddling with,
though assured by his hostess it was an excellent
thing after a hearty meal ; but she remarked on
his continued refusal to taste it, that perhaps he
was right, as he was " too tin" to eat salad ; —
" Bickos," added she, " I take him vor to kip
minezelf tin." Then plunging her weapons
right into the whole dish of vegetables, she be
gan to gobble salad in a style that might have
shamed a Neapolitan bolting macaroni ; and, as
she paused sometimes to take breath, would pant
forth this assurance to Ned: "Augh! — dat is
goot vor me '." But, as everything in this world
must come to end, poor Madame Ghabblekramme
finished her salad at last, and sighed as she fol
lowed the dish with her eyes as it was borne
away by the attendant frau. The table, how
ever, was replenished with dishes of fruit ; and
burly, round-bodied, jolly-looking bottles, filled
with good wine, and long-stemmed glasses, orna
mented with spiral lines of white, sparkled gayly
on the board. In making free with these, NcJ
had a better chance of coping with the old
lady, though it is not unlikely, if she had a mind,
she could have put Ned under the table. The
curtains being drawn, and the chamber well
lighted with a 'plenty of wax candles, which
stood in handsome candelabra of bronze gilt,
resting on richly-carved oaken brackets, and the
servant having retired, they were now left to
themselves, and another avalanche of talk fell
upon Ned. She told him she was very rich, vnth
good houses, and good plate ; " gelt and siiber,
— and blenty," — and she " so grabble," that it
was easy to live with her, — and Bruges was a
very good town to live in. On asking Ned if he
did not f hink so, he answered, that it was impos
sible he could judge, a? he nau but just arrived

IRISH HEIRS.

To tliis she replied, that he might stay in Bruges
as long as he liked, where he might consider her
house as his. She told him then something of
her hist Dry, assuring him that when young she
was extremely handsome, and even now that she
had a more delicate skin than many a girl, and
held out her arm to Ned that he might prove it
by touch. He, young in the world, and never
having had the opportunity of observing to what
absurd lengths vanity can be stretched, did not
attribute the old lady's absurdity to its true cause,
but began to think she was a little mad ; and,
instead of being inspired with disgust, entertain
ed pity for her, which gave such a softness to his
manner, that the old dame entertained a notion
she was making a conquest, and began to look
round the room to see if there was a spare cor
ner for Ned's picture. To Ned's great relief,
their conversation was interrupted by the arrival
of Ellen, attended by Ernestine, though the
pleasure he experienced on beholding her, which
at first chased every other idea, was a little dash
ed when he rose at her entrance ; for the feeling
of the fat burgher's clothes slipping oft' gave him
such a notion of his own ridiculous figure, that
it shocked him to be seen in such a plight by his
charmer. She, crossing the room with exquisite
grace, approached Madame Ghabblekramme to
make her salutation, which the old lady did not
seem inclined to receive a bit too well, for it dis
turbed her in the pursuit of an agreeable idea.
Ellen then turning to Edward begged him to be
seated, with an air of the gentlest courtesy ; he
was glad to obey, being conscious he looked less
ridiculous sitting, as he could stow away some
of the extra folds and flaps and skirts of Myn-
kerr's voluminous garments behind him, and
show a better front.

" Vat vor you kummen here ?" inquired Mad
ame Ghabblekramme, rather gruffy, cranching
an apple while she spoke.

" I came to thank you, my dear madame," re
plied Ellen, in the sweetest manner, " for the
protection you have afforded this gentleman."
As if she thought the ceremonious term of "gen
tleman" cold, she then said, — " my friend ;" and
then, as if she feared she had said too much, ad
ded, — " my father's friend."

Edward bowed low as she uttered the words,
and felt himself elevated in the scale of cre
ation, to have won such a name from her lips.

" And I am glad to tell you," she continued
to Edward, " that I have interested the good
Father Flaherty in your behalf, and he has prom
ised to see you into a sure place of safety, and
get you unharmed out of the town."

" He is 'nuff safe vere he is," replied Mad-
aine Ghabblekramme, tartly ; " ve vaunt naut
Vader Flart."

"Remember, dear madam, that, in case of
need, he ccvLd place him in sanctuary."

" Sanctujt — fittle ! de yhung mans is fer goot
rere he is; vaut a vright you iz, mine loaf, to
night ! you iz a vite as mine dabble-clout ;" —
and she laid her hand on the table-cloth as
she spoke ; " vy iz you naut all rosen liken to
me?"

"'I have been frightened, madam, this even
ing."

" Yais, — you looks liken to dead ; you iz

alfays too tin, bote now you looken like a skel
ter."

'• Not quite a skeleton, madam," said Ellen,
smiling.

" Yais, — skelleter ; — you never had proper-
shins." £

Edward, whohadnitherto listened with amaze
ment, became indignant at what he thought an
attack on the symmetry of the young lady's legs,
not being able to comprehend that old Ghabble
kramme meant proportions, when she said " prop
er-shins."

Ellen only laughed, and the old lady continued :

" You can laughen, mine tear, — bote you iz
no peauty, doegh you link zo, — maynbe; — young
foomins links it peauty to be tin, — but de mans
knows petters. Now you looken, mine tear !"
and taking a knife in her hand and holding it
upright on the table, she said ; " Dere ! you are
just liken to dat — stret before, and stret behind;,
and vairy tin."

Ned could hardly keep his emper ; but the
gentle smile of Ellen calmed him by its sweet
ness, and when he saw Ernestine laughing be
hind the old woman's chair, it taught him to re
gard the old lady's speeches as they did. As h«'.
looked at Ernestine, he saw a dark figure em
erge from behind a screen, and gently approach
the chair of Madame Ghabblekramme, as shi
continued : —

" Yais, mine loaf, don't you be konsetted ;—
if you aff hearen as I aff hearen de mans' talk
of de foomins, you vould know petters : a poor
tin tread of ting is not grabble to de mans, I do
adsure you ! — de talken of poor tin tings, as —
cane chairs, mine loaf; — as teal poards, mine
tear !"

By this time, Father Flaherty, for it was he
whom Ned had seen advance, laid his hand on
the back of Madame Ghabhlekramme's chair,
and overlooking thffcnountain of conceit beneath
him, exclaimed in a rich brogue, after she had
uttered the words, " deal poards and cane chairs,"
" Arrah, then, Madame Ghabblekramme, acnsh-
la, did you ever hear of such a thing as a feath
er-bed ?"

Ned could " mind his manners" no longer, —
he burst out laughin?, and even the trained
courtesy of Ellen could not repress her mirth.
Ernestine, thoush she could not understand a
word, gathered the meaning from the result of
the father's speech, and ran out of the room to
enjoy herself at freedom in the hall.

" Yais, — Vader Flart, — I know vat is vedder
bet; — dere is vedder bet in mine 'ouse."

" All the town knows that, ma'am."

" And you taken avay must not — dis yhnng
mans, — vor I aff a vedder bet vor him dis ncight,
so kumfitab."

" It would be too much indulgence, mn'ans, for
a youth. I must treat him to sackcloth wid
ashes in my own little gazebo."

" No, no !— not must be, Vader Flart !" Thea
turning to Edward, she said, " You vill not go,—
you vill not go to zackclout, and leaf your vedder
bet, — you rill not leaf your vedder bet ?"

She said this so tenderly, that Ned, remember
ing its allusion to herself could not repress a
smile, though he answered respectfully, that,
much as he thanked her for the offer of her hos-

£ s. d.

pitality, he was bound to go wherever Mademoi
selle and the good Father desired.

" Den you are bat mans, Vader Flart, to taken
avity mine vrent."

Ned hurried from the room -with the father,
who came provided with a ]yoper disguise ; and
in the side chamber off the hall, where Ned
made his first change, he assumed a clerical hab
it, more suited to his size than the garments of
(he fat burgher.

" 'Pon my word, you are a good figure for the
part, young gentleman," said Father Flaherty to
Ned, when he was dressed ; " only your hair has
a very unsanctified twist about it ; however, we
can shave your head if necessary."

With this prospect of losing what it must be
confessed Ned was a little vain of, and which, as
he hoped to see Ellen again before he left Bru
ges, lie particularly wished to preserve, he left
the house closely tucked under the sheltering
wing of Father Flaherty, who kept humming
snatches of Irish tunes as they wended their way
through the now silent streets.

Passing in front of the Hotel de Ville, they
walked close beside a soldier, keeping guard be
neath its massive and lofty tower ; and the padre
remarked, it was little the sentry knew who was
close to him ! Striking across the ample square
in its front, the chimes of the carillon rang forth,
and Edward recognised in the plaintive melody
the very notes he found written on the music pa
per he made prize of at Hamburgh. With those
who love, every circumstance that relates to their
passion, culminating to the one dear point, in
creases its force, aud so the merest trifles become
important. Thus it was with Edward on hear
ing the chime ; — he stopped suddenly and listen
ed, and the sweet tones of the bells, as they
rang out their liquid melody high in air, seemed
like aerial voices speaking to him of his love.

" What ails you /" said tlfc priest.

" Oh those bells !" exclaimed Edward in ec-
stacy.

" Why, then, is it stoppin' you are to listen to
the clatter of those owld pots and pans !" ex
claimed the priest, dragging him onward.

What a savage Ned thought Father Flaherty,
and what a simpleton he thought his protege.

" Sure this is twice as purty a tune as that
owld cronan," said the priest, lilting a bit of an
Irish jig, which quickened their pace by urging
them to step in time to it, and brought them the
sooner to the end of their walk.

Ned thankfully refused the hospitable offers of
refreshment on the part of the padre, as his sup
per had been so substantial ; and after the ex
citement and fatigue . of mind and body he had
experienced, he began to feel the need of rest,
and the kind-hearted priest showed him to his
sleeping-room.

Now that he was alone and in security, the
eventful circumstances of the last few hours
crowded rapidly upon him, and despite his need
of rest, kept him wakeful : the thought that he
had sacrificed a human life, though in self-de
fence, and what was to him still dearer, in de-
ience of her in whose cause he would have laid
down his own a thousand limes, weighed heavily
upon him, and he prayed Ion? and fervently, ere
he lav down to sleep, for pardon, of his unpre

meditated guilt : his conscience thus soothed,
poor Edward flung himself on his bed, and ex-
hausted nature yielded to that benign influence1
which can alone restore her — profound jleep.

CHAPTER IX.

IT took some hearty shakes by the shonlder ta
rouse Ned from his sleep the next day, when, at
rather an advanced hour, Father Flaherty told
him it was time to rise. Resuming his clerical
disguise, he descended from his dormitory, and
joined the worthy father at breakfast, after
which they quitted the house, and proceeded
toward the cathedral of Notre Dame. The
gigantic outward proportions of the building
struck Edward with amazement ; but when he
passed into the interior, a sense of solemn admi
ration made him stand still and silent before he
advanced many steps.

There is a reverential feeling, produced by the
aspect of a large gothic interior, which even
long habit can not overcome, and whose first ex
perience is almost oppressive. The cold vast-
ness into which we at once are plunged on pas
sing the portal has a chastening effect, and we
pause; the lessened light permitted through its
painted windows is subduing, yet enticinar, from
the teinted harmony it sheds. The eye, raised in
involuntary wonder up those lofty yet slender
shafts that bear the over-hanging pile above, is
lost in the complex beauty of the fretted roof.
With slow and respectful steps, we move toward
the centre qf the aisle ; we stand beside one of
those apparently slender columns, and perceive
it is a ponderous mass of masonry, to which the
artifice of sculpture has imparted the seeming
of lightness, and the presence at once of beauty
and power commands our homage. We look
through that Ions vista of columns, that stand
like misrhty sentinels guarding the approach to
the altar, shedding its glories of gold and mar
ble and pictured art from afar, through the open
arch of the elaborate screen, whose slender fila
gree supports, as if by magic, the gigantic organ
above, whose melodious peal, should it then be
waked, first bursting like thunder through the
vaulted pile, and then fading to the faintest echo
throush the solemn vastness, fills the heart with
a reverence bordering on awe, and lifts the mind
above this world.

With what dumb-stricken admiration did Ed
ward first behold the cathedral of Notre Dame,
where the gorgeous ceremony of a high mass in
creased his reverential wonder ! Imagine a
young man from the remote shores of Irelanu,
where the humble chapel of a friary was all he
had ever seen in the service of that religion,
whose exercise was there and then little better
than felonious ; — imagine him, for the first time,
entering a temple of colossal proportion and
elaborate beauty, and witnessing a high mass, in
all the pomp of a dominant religion, with its
srorsreous altars, its massive wax-li?hts, the odor
of incense flung from silver censers by numerous
acolyte?, before the train of bishop, priests, and
deacons, clad in the utmost splendor of sacerdotal
robes, amid the organ's plaintive note or full-

IRISH HEIRS.

toned peal, — the wail of choral voices or their
exulting burst, as they were subdued to the pen
itential spirit of the Conjiteor, or rose to the tri
umphant out-pouring of the Gloria in excelsis —
imagine this, arid think with what emotion
Edward knelt at a high mass in Bruges ! Though
the service in word and act was the same, yet
the difference in extrinsic circumstances might
well suggest the internal question — " Can this
be the same religion in which I was reared ? Is
this the poor frightened faith, which hides in
holes and corners in my native land ?" And
theft the wish arose that those who sat in
high places in Galway could only witness the
splendor of the rites which appealed so pow
erfully to his own weak points. His passion for
the lofty was flattered to its utmost bent by the
"pomp and circumstance" he saw before him ;
his father's apprehensions of the superior " gen
tility" of the protestant religion were no longer
valid, for from that moment Ned was firm in the
faith of Rome. It is not saying much for our
hero, that such influences held sway in a cause
where deeper and holier motives should operate ;
but it is our business to tell the truth of him,
and not make him out to be either wiser or better
than he was.

The service being over, Edward was conduct
ed by Father Flaherty up a lofty winding stair,
which led to a small chamber that seemed to be
cut out of the thickness of the wall, and was de
sired to remain there until the priest should re
turn to him. "And here is a book for you, my
son," added he, handing him one of prayers.
" You had better occupy your mind with good
and holy thoughts while I am away, and chastise
the proud spirit of humanity, — for though I don't
want to be too hard on a poor fellow in distress,
yet I must remind you, my son, that you must
not forget you killed a man yesterday." Here
upon Edward expressed such contrition, and gave
such manifest evidence of his sense of guiltiness,
that the kind-hearted priest felt more inclined to
comfort than to blame, and spoke words of hope
to him.

" There, there, that will do now. You killed
iha man, 'tis true, but it was in a good cause —
yet there is blood on your head, no doubt ; but
then, if you killed him, he was a blackguard, and
no loss to king or country agra ! so don't fret.
Not but that I would put a good round penance
on you, if you were staying here in quiet and
safety ; but considering that you will have to run
some risk before long, and might be taken off
sudden, you see, I must not let you die in your
sin, my poor boy, but must hear you make a
clean breast of it, and give you absolution before
you face the danger of the road : so while I am
away, working out a little plan o'my own to get
you out of the town, stick to that book like a
gcod Christian, and chastise the proud spirit of
humanity."

Leaving Edward with these words, the father
went to make arrangements for an escape from
?he town ; and an opportunity was offered by a
procession of The Host being about to take place
through one of the gates; and he conceived the
stratagem of clothing Edward in the habit of an
acolyte, and making him the bearer of one of the
banners carried on the occasion, and thus eluding

the vigilance of the guards. During his absence.
Edward really did apply himself to the sacred
book, the only interruption to his holy commti-
nings being the chimes of the carillon, which in
the calmness of the day and the stillness of the
high place where he sat far above the noise of the
town, he could distinctly hear. He felt it was
sinful to wander from the sacred duty in which
he was engaged; but as every thought of her iu
his mind belonged more to heaven than earth,
the lapse, perhaps, was pardonable. When the
chime ceased, he again applied himself to the
book ; and his attention never wandered from the
sacred page until withdrawn by the reappearance
of the kind padre, who came at once to confess
and shrive and liberate him. Of confession there
needed not much, for, to say truth, in knowing
that he killed a fellow-creature, the priest knew
the greatest of Ned's human offences ; and as
there was —

'' Short time for shrift,"

he briefly received absolution of his sins, and was
made ready for " rope or gun," as the case might
be, in the gauntlet he was about to run for his
life. He was then habited in a white surplice
to represent an acolyte, and bade by the father to
follow him. As they descended tiie long wind
ing stair, the soft-hearteJ priest often paused to
give Ned some fresh direction how he was to
comport himself, and told him to be " nowise
afear'd, nor mrniik" though, in truth, the good
father himself was infinitely more nervous about
the matter than Ned. On reaching the church
below, the persons to form the procession were
assembling ; and Father Flaherty, after a few
minutes' absence in the vestry, returned in the
sacerdotal habit suited to the occasion, and pla
cing Edward next him, joined in the line, which,
emerging from the church, carried before it
homage through every street. The doffed hat
and bended knee and downcast eye of humility
showed the fugitive what an admirable means it
was of escaping not only interruption, but even
observation ; and a fresh wonder was revealed
to him in the reverence the Romish faith obtain
ed here. Encountering in their course a hand
some cortege, where stately coach and prancing
steed had place, the pageant made way, and the
servants of the church held their road.

At last the sate came in sight, and Father
Flaherty began to exhibit symptoms of anxiety,
while Ned was perfectly collected. The father
was praying devoutly, mingling at the same time
certain admonitions to the fugitive ; and they
were so rapidly alternated, that the good father
sometimes looked to Ned when his addresses
were meant for heaven ; and he raised his eyes
to the skies, when he said something appertain
ing to his friend. For instance, winking at Ned,
he exclaimed, "Holy Virgin, purissima! pul-
chcrrima ! — howld your banner straight. Holy
saints and martyrs ! — you'll be shot if you're dis
covered. Mind your eye when you come to the
bridge, and don't look at them. — Guardian an-
eels ! — they've no mercy — but show a bowld
face."

The sudden outburst of a bold strain from
trumpets and drums now arrested their attention ;
and as they topped the middle of the bridge, they

38.

beheld a military column advancing, and close
npon the gate. For the first time Ned felt some
what nervous; — to be stopped just at the gate
was awkward ; but his apprehensions were but
momentary ; for the instant the advancing troops
perceived the sacred procession they halted ; the
serried masses filed right and left on each side of
the road ; and a? the procession of the Host pass-
rd uninterruptedly through the gate, it was met
with a military salute as it progressed through the
jpened ranks, and when it reached that portion
of the column where the standards were carried,
the ensigns of a king were lowered before the
banners of the cross.

CHAPTER X.

WE must now transfer our readers to the cabin
of the Seagull, where, four days after his escape
from Bruges, Ned was cracking an after-dinner
bottle of most exemplary claret with Finch, lux
uriating in repose and safety, rendered the more
enjoyable from the fatigue and dangers he had
undergone in making .his way to Dunkirk. These
fatigues and dangers., as well as his doings at
Courtrai, he detailed to his friend while they sip
ped their wine ; and the sparkling eye of the
skipper, as he listened to the romantic recital,
showed the ardent love he bore adventure. He
congratulated his young friend on his having
" done bravely," as he said, and foreboded bright
ly of the future. When Edward ventured a
doubt of this, reminding him that Ellen would
not have listened a moment to him but for the
danger in which he stood, Finch met his doublings
with a laugh of derision.

" Tush, man ! what a young hand you are at
such matters ! If she meant to crush your hopes,
would she have gone to the old fat frau's house
to see you 1 — answer me that."

" Consider," replied Ned, " that my life being
endangered on her account, she came to see after
my safety."

" Nonsense, I say !" returned Finch. " Your
safety could have been attended by the old priest
just as well, and take my word, if she was angry
with you, you never more would have had a sight
of her by her own act and will. I tell you, make
money, lad ; be rich, and the lady may be yours.
Say no more about it for the present j you need
rest, so turn in, and take no care."

The working of the windlass, and the song of
the sailors, as they lifted the anchor, were now
heard.

" Hark !" said Finch, " they are weighing?,
so I must go on deck now ; to-morrow we shall
talk more about this — good night."

Ned prepared to turn in with good will, and
as the Seagull was standing out of the harbor
before he got into his berth, the ripple of the
water along her side helped to lull him to sleep ;
for sweet to all who have ever known it, is the
music of that sailor lullaby. When he rose the
next morning, the gallant boat was bounding
gayly over the waters, and most df the day was
passed in talking of his aflairs to Finch, who
won more and more upon Edward as the intimacy
increased He could start no doubt for which

Finch could not find a satisfactory answer; no
adverse circumstance for which he did not at
once name a countervailing expedient : there
seemed in him such a fund of ready contrivance
for the exigencies of every occasion, that he pass
ed upon Ned for a marvel of sagacity, and he
willingly rendered to his words that ready sub
mission which in early youth is so easily yielded
to those who have a command of glib language,
and can adroitly make use of common -places,
which pass as good as new on the uninitiated.
Ned felt very happy ; he glided through the hours
of the day as smoothly as the Seagull through
the waters ; and when the black cook had com
pleted his work in the caboose, and that dinner
was announced, he wondered how the time had
passed, and could scarcely believe it was so late.
The table still exhibited that superiority which
Ned had at first remarked, and when, after en
joying its good cheer, it was cleared, and that he
and the skippers were left to themselves, he ven
tured to remark, that either the owners of the
Seagull were much more liberal than those under
whom he had the chance to serve, or their trade
must be far superior, to afford such enjoyments —
" Unless," said Ned, suddenly catching a thought,
" unless you have a private fortune of your
own/'

"No fortune but what I make by the trade,"
answered Finch; " but then that trade is a glo
rious one ! and the more a man knows of it the
better he likes it." He then enlarged upon the
subject, and while discussing with his young
friend seductive wines, and spirits, and liqueurs,
discussed also some important questions of a fis
cal nature ; in the course of which, all govern
ments were shown up to Ned in the light of sel
fish and crafty tyrannies, whose only objects were
robbery and oppression of the people, whose state
would be too wretched for endurance but for the
existence of free-hearted souls like the skipper,
who endeavored, by a generous and daring inter
vention, to. counteract the baneful influence of
the harpies who snatched from the labors of the
industrious three fourths of their honest earnings,
by making them pay four times the original price
of an article, which the skipper, in the spirit of
philanthropy, was willing to supply them for
only twice the cost. Ned was fascinated by the
glowing manner in which the skipper represent
ed the case, yet, when all was done, he could
not help saying, with great simplicity, " Why, as
well as I can understand what you have been
telling me, the traffic you speak of is very like
what they call smuggling."

" That is the name the land-sharks give it,"
returned the skipper ; " but we call it ' free
trade.' "

" Well now, isn't it odd," said Ned. « that
often as I've heard the phrase « free trade,' I never
knew what it meant before 1"

"Not odd at all, my lad. You are too yo^ng
to know much yet, and the more you iearn in
my school, the better you'll like it. Besides, in
stead of your paying your master, your learning
shall line your pockets with gold, boy; and
then — ah ! I see your eye brighten ! — then youi
heart's desire may be realized. Yes, when once
you command the influence of what I call the
magical letters — the £ S. D. — then you may

IRISH HEIRS

ask and have the girl cf your heart. But even
without this inducement, the romantic adven
tures we sometimes turn up — 'splood ! 'twould
make a fellow ol" spunk a free trader, for the .
mere sport of the thing." A commendatory
BJap on the shoulder served for sauce to this .
speech ; and the bright eye of the dashing skip
per beamed upon Ned, as if he saw in him some j
future hero of free trade.

Ned went to sleep that night, his head heated
with wine and the inflammable conversation of
his friend ; but in his dreams, the glories of
" free trade" always presented themselves in the ,
shape of " smuggling," and he saw his fathei s
honest shop, and his father's honest face, and a j
frown upon it ; he tossed and tumbled, and awoke
rather feverish ; but a walk upon deck in the
fresh morning breeze, before which the Seagull
was bounding over the bright waters, cooled his
blood, and the activity of waking life dispelled
every sad thought the visions of sleep had crea
ted. In truth, he must have been a determin-
ately gloomy fellow, who could be sad on board
the Seagull, for a merrier set of fellows never
stepped on deck than her picked crew, which
was chosen by the skipper himself, whose skill
in selecting the men suited to his purpose
amounted almost to instinct. He made it a rule
never to have an ill-tempered man in the crew : if
he chanced to make a mistake in his selection,
which was rarely, he always got rid of the sul-
ker ; the consequence was, that the duty was
done with a spirit and heartiness which was
quite beautiful. It was this same quick percep
tion of men's qualities, that made him pitch up
on Ned ; he had lately lost his mate, and among
his crew he did not know one exactly suited to
fill the place ; and he fancied he saw that in Ned
which promised, in the service, a bold, active,
and enthusiastic participation, without which
the daring risks of a smuggler's life could never
be surmounted. He was not long in proving
his neophyte. Ned was soon engaged in running
some goods under very trying circumstances, and
acquitted himself so well that he won the praises
of the skipper, who handed him over a purse
T.dth no contemptible number of gold pieces, as
his share of the night's work. Ned would have
refused them, but his friend was peremptory.

" The money is your right, lad ! — the owners
consider ih<U short reckonings make long friends ;
and after each successful turn of traffic, every
man in the craft has his purse the heavier for it."

" Yet I have a scruple of conscience about it,
somehow," said Ned. " I am not quite satisfied
this smuggling is right."

" It is not right to let it be known" said Finch,
** that is the only harm to avoid. Bless your in
nocent heart ! If you but knew the worshipful
men ashore who are engaged in it, you would be
soon reconciled to the practice. I tell you, lad,
the outcry and scandal raised against it is only
a got-up concern by those to whose interest its
suppression tends — those in high places — and
men of sense know it is so ; and therefore, while
they would avoid the publication and penalty of
their doings, nevertheless dare to do what they
are convinced is not morally wrong in itself, and
brings those who have hardihood to venture,
large profits. Could you but see the smooth

and silky man who reaps his thousands a yeai
from the Seagull — a sanctified man : — goes li
church three times on Sunday ; — a most worship
ful man on 'Change : — an upholder of church
and king ; whose adversary, Charles Edward,
he would gladly hang — though he thinks it no
harm to get on the weather-side of his mai-ity's
exchequer: — so take cash and counsel, *nd be
the richer and wiser.

Ned never had so much money in Jl his life
at once, and there is something in > je chink of
a purse full of gold amazingly attractive, as a
young fellow chucks it up and down in his hand,
with the internal complacent feeling of " this is
mine." Ned had some qualms at the notion of
beiii?, after all that could be said for it, engaged
in an Hlegal traffic ; for though he had been
humbly, he had been honestly reared. So far
the pursuit was repugnant to the earliedt lessons
he had received, and next, his acquired notions
did not exactly chime with it — he was not sure
that it was genteel, and there is no doubt he
would have declined engaging in a contraband
trade, but for the hope it held out of sudden
wealth, whose first instalment was in his hand.
Not that Ned loved money for money's sake : — we
believe there are few souls base enough to be actu
ated by this wretched motive ; but he saw in it the
means to realize the fond dreams in which he
had dared to indulge; to 'fulfil aspirations that,
however wild, were those which the noblest
spirit might entertain. And thus gold may be
come precious in the eye of the enthusiast for the
sake of what it may win. Refined in the fire
of love, and bearing an ethereal impress, it ranks
above the mints of kings and purpose of com
mon traffic : — it becomes the coin of the realm
of romance, and we may wish for its possession
without being sordid.

Thus Ned was fairly enlisted — the bounty-
money was in his hand, and he became a hearty
contrabandist. Having made the first plunge,
having gone through the trial with the tdat, the
golden harvest being suddenly reaped, with the-
increasing favor of the fascinating skipper, be
fore whose plausible words all objections melted
away insensibly, a few months discovered him to
be, as Finch anticipated, one of the most ready,
quick-witted, and daring followers of the " free
trade." He soon became mate of the Seagull,
and won so fast on the confidence and good-will
of his chief, that the latter let him do very near
ly what he liked ; and to such a height did this
esteem increase, that on one occasion, when a
severe indisposition obliged the skipper to stay
ashore, the craft and her cargo were entirely
trusted to Ned, who won fresh reputation by the
skill which he displayed in the conduct of the
venture.

Ned's berth on board the boat was a picture
of neatness, and a touch of his quality might be
felt from the shelves of books with which it was
stored. Histories of adventure, both real and
fictitious, lives of remarkably daring person?,
romances and books of poetry abounded there.
A few works on navigation also, with which
science Ned had made it a point to become 'w til
acquainted, and instruments necessary for its
practice as well. All these little possessions he
had ample means to purchase, and had handful:

£ s.

of money tc squander beside in all the pleasures
that might tempt a young man on shore, if by
such pleasures Ned could have been *empted ; —
but he loved, and the poetry of passion preserv
ed him through many a trial. Besides, his main
object was to accumulate as much money as pos
sible,- -not that his present profits, liberal as
they wt"e, would have soon realized a fortune ;
but they i/ade a handsome beginning, and Finch
held out tlu hope of soon being able to purchase
a vessel for i.imself, in which Ned shouU hold a
share ; and " then, my lad," he was wont to say,
" then sha'n't we have the wind in our sails ? —
wait a while ; — once let us possess our own craft,
and a couple of years shall make us good
matches for ladies even as charming as yours."

In one of their runs across the North sea, af
ter having made a safe landing of their cargo,
Finch told Ned he had entered into an engage
ment to remove secretly from England a couple
of his countrymen, who, becoming obnoxious to
government, from being engaged in making en
listments for foreign service in Ireland, were
obliged to fly; and, dreading the vigilance of
the servants of the law at the ports, which were
strictly watched, offered a handsome sum to be
taken off at some convenient and secret place
along the coast, where they might embark with
less risk of discovery.

" One of them I know," said Finch — " his
name is O'Hara, an officer of the Irish brigade.
I promised to meet him at a little inn that lies
some miles inland, and while I am absent, you
can stand out and keep a good offing, away from
all observation from the land, and be back about
the same time to-morrow, and hang about that
point to the westward, where I know there is a
iiltle creek will suit our purpose."

All their measures being preconcerted, signals
agreed on, and other necessary arrangements en-
lered into, Finch doifed his sailor's guise, and
assuming the landsman's attire, became at once
the dashing looking fellow, who so won upon
Ned at Hamburgh. A boat was lowered,, which
rowed the skipper to the shore, and afterward
returned to the Seagull, which stood out from the
land, while Finch pursued his course to the ap
pointed inn to meet the fugitives, who so anxious
ly sought the shelter of his friendly vessel. A
walk of some two or three miles brought him to
a farmhouse, where, by the offer cf a guinea,
he obtained the loan of the farmer's horse for
the next twenty-four hours. The good man
proceeded at once to the stable to saddle his nag,
which was soon ready for the road. Finch, as
he was going to mount, addressed the farmer,
saying " By-the-by, my friend, as you know noth
ing of me, had I not better leave you a deposite
for the value of your horse ?"

" Na, na," said the farmer, "yow'll bring un
back, I's not aveard."

Finch was pleased with this exhibition of good
faith, arising from an honest nature which could
not sucpect guile in another; but willing to pur
sue his strain of doubt regarding himself a little
fartl^r. he continued, "How do you know I
wont steal your horse, and that you'll never set
eyes on me again ?"

" IVhoi," said the blunt fellow, with a faint
gleam of fun lighting up his habitually quiet

eye, and casting a glance at Find, from tt,p to
toe, " whatever mischief yow'll be after, I don't
thing its stealing off a 'orse yow'll be 'anged
vur."

Finch laughed at the rejoinder, and applied
his heel to the side of his steed with a galliard
air, as if he expected " Dobbin" was to prs.rtce
off in a corresponding manner, but as his heel
was unarmed (for spurs are not articles in much
requisition on board ship, though we have heard
of " horse marines"), Dobbin only grunted, and
stirred not a peg.

The farmer had the laugh against Finch once
more, and said, " Ah — yow beant up to our hon
est country ways ; that be an honest beast yow're
a riddin on ; he waunt do nothin' onless he be
convinced its roight, and I'll give you an argn-
rncnt for un." So saying, he went into the
house and returned with a heavy thong-whip,
which, before presenting to Finch, he cracked
loudly, and Dobbin picked up his ears directly.

" I towld 'e so," said the farmer, chuckling,
" I towld 'e he'd listen to reason."

Handing the whip to the rider with these
words, the latter was not idle in reasoning Dob
bin into a trot, though it can not be denied that
Finch was very much shaken in his argument ;
however, on they went wrangling over ten miles
of ground, both right glad when the discussion
was over. Calling for the hostler, and giving
the beast into his charge with a good-natured
admonition to take good care of him, Finch en
tered the comfortable little inn, and, seeing the
door of a snug parlor open, he at once took pos
session, and ringing a small bell that stood on a
table, a plump and merry-looking girl answered
the summons.

It is an established rule in travelling, that a
bar-maid is fair game for flirting ; indeed, it
would seem, that there is something in the genus
to inspire the propensity ; for the stupidest fel
lows, who can not exchange a word of the most
distant pleasantry with a lady, are elevated into
wits at the sight of a bar-maid.

Finch was the sort of man who does as the
world does, so, just to avoid being remarkable,
he chucked the buxom girl under the chin, swore
she was very pretty, asked her name, and what
he could have for supper.

" Jenny, please your worship, and chickens."

" Very good, Jenny," replied Finch ; " I'll
have the chickens first, if you please — and
Jenny !"

" Yes, your worship."

" Send me Boots here, with a boot-jack and
slippers."

" Yes, your worship/' and Jenny vanished ;
but Finch heard her merry clear voice in the
house, calling for Ralph to " go to the room and
take boots." She came bustling backward and
forward preparing the table, and never made an
entrance or exit without some interchange of
merry talk with Finch, who inquired every tim«
when Boots would make his appearance. At
last, after the fifth asking, when Jenny was
bustling out of the room Finch called her back,
and requested her to put her " pretty little foot"
on the toe of his boot, and he would do without
the lazy, good-for-nothing fellow, who seemed
determined never to come. Jenny obeyed. And

IRISH HEIRS.

as she stood close to Finch, he took occasion to
lean on her for support, and then affecting to
lose his balance caught her hand to save himself
from falling, declaring he was the most awkward
fellow in the world, and still keeping hold of her
fingers, which if he had not squeezed he certain
ly must have tumbled to the ground.

" Ha' done ! do !" said Jenny.

" My dear, this confounded boot is so tight,"
and he clung closer to her for support.

At the moment a great lout, bearing a boot
jack under his arm and slippers in his hand, en
tered thn room, and exclaimed, "'Ere be the
jack, your worship."

" Thank you," said Finch, " but / prefer the
boot Jenny — you're not wanted."

Boots stared, and left the room, and after a
great many trials Finch contrived to get off his
boots, and Jenny managed to get out of the room,
protesting his worship was the funniest roisterer
she ever met.

Finch was joined at supper by a gentleman
who rode over to the inn to inquire for him. The
visiter was brother-in-law to O'Hara, whose sis
ter had come over to England to see him in
safety out of the country ; and whose agency,
with that of her husband, was of importance to
one, who being watched, could not conduct his
measures of escape in person without imminent
risk. It was agreed that O'Hara and his com
panion in flight should join Finch at dinner at
the inn the next day, and the visiter, after a
hasty supper, departed, for he had far to ride that
night.

The next day, accordingly, the entire party
assembled at the little inn, and O'Hara, after a
hearty salutation of Finch, introduced to him the
friend, who was going with him to join the Irish
brigade in Flanders, " to strike," as O'Hara
said, " a blow for the rightful king." O'Hara's
Bister and her husband were with them, and there
was evident effort on all sides not to be sad —
there was even a forced merriment among them.
O'Hara's handsome companion seemed to be
most unconcejMed (except Finch), and showed
his fine white^eth in many a laugh, as joke or
repartee passed round the board. It was the
woman whose smiles would have given most pain
to an acute observer. There, beneath an out
ward show of much cheerfulness, the torture of
an aching heart might be seen. While she
openly expressed thankfulness that her brother
was so near the moment of escape, it was plain
that the thought of parting was little less painful
than the thought of death ; but she went through
her task heroically; — with that most difficult of
all heroism, that passive endurance of pain, in
which the gentle fibre of woman puts the strong
er nature of man to shame. She never winced
for a moment; nay, she even joined the mirth,
for mirthful they were, at least in seeming.
Yes, they laughed — they even sang. Finch
dashed off snatches about fair winds and flowing
sails ; O'Hara, like a soldier, did something in
the " love, war, and wine" fashion ; and to
please the skipper, who professed an extravagant
admiration of Irish melodies, the gentlewoman
raised her voice in song, while her heart was
steeped in sadness.

Oh, how hollow was all this—what a mockery
6

— how false ! what a deceitful thing is the human
heart. Not only does it try to deceive others,
but how often does it deceive itself!

The first check to the cheerful aspect of the
party, was Finch looking at his watch, and say
ing, " ' Time and tide wait for no man.' We
must soon be at the shore ;" and with good taste,
wishing to leave the party alone at the last
moment, he said, he would go order the horses to
be got ready, and left the room ; O'Hara's com
panion followed the example, and on reaching
the stable-yard, was struck with the sudden
change in Finch's aspect; his eyes being fixed
with an expression of much anxiety toward the
horizon that lay seaward. In a moment he
spoke. " Go back to your friends," said he,
" and hurry them — I would we were afloat — the
weather looks threatening, and we are on a bad
coast."

In the meantime, the sister and her husband
were in the room with O'Haia, interchang
ing those last words of parting, which make
parting so precious and so painful, — impressing
on each other the many fond remembrances
which, hurried over in a moment, are remember
ed through our lives; those half-uttered wishes
that we understand before they are half spoken,
and are replied to by a glance; or some promise
exacted, which is better ratified by a pressure of
the hand, than by the solemnity of an oath. In
this endearing intercourse were they engaged, as
their friend returned, to deliver Finch's message.
O'Hara's sister grew pale at the words.

" Remember, Honora," said her brother, ta
king her hand gently, " remember your promise
— you told me you would behave like a soldier's
sister."

" And have I not kept my word, Charles ?"
she answered, gently.

" You have, indeed ; but will you do one thing
more for me ?"

" Name it."

"You will think my request foolish — absurdly
weak ; but you know there is another beside you
very dear to me — and — ''

" Yes ; what shall I say to her ?"

« All that is kind at all times. But 'tis not
that I would ask" —

" What then ? do tell me ?"

" It seems a childish weakness — at such a
time as this it appears like trifling — but there is
one song I wish you would sing me before I
leave you — that erne I love so dearly .'" said O'Ha
ra, with more of sadness in his manner than he
had yet betrayed.

" Do not ask it, Charles ; it is more than you
can bear— more than either of us can — remember
how much it touched us both last night — how
much more will it on this — when we are to part
for so long a time."

"Soon to return, I hope, in triumph, sister,"
he exclaimed with energy ; " but I would hear
that song once more before I part."

" It will make you too sad."

" No, no — sing to me — pray do ! Let me take
away that song and story of my native land fresh
upon my ear — my outward ear. In my memory
it will dwell for ever."

Nerving herself to the utmo«t, hi? sister raised
her voice, rendered more touching by the erne-

tion against which she did her best to struggle,
but whith, nevertheless, tinged the strain with a
peculiar air of sadness. Wedded to the melody
were these simple lines which told the tale of
many a broken heart in Ireland, a tale of whose
truth 0 Kara himself was but too painfully con-

<£|jm.

£ s. d

The flower of the valley was Mary ma chree,
Her smiles all bewitching were lovely to see,
The bees round her humming, when summer was gone,
When the roses were fled — might take her lip for one.
Her laugh it was music— her breath it was balm ;
Her heart, like the lake, was as pure and as calm,
Till love o'er it came, like a breeze o'er the sea,
And made the heart heave of sweet Mary ma chree.

IT.

She loved- and she wept ; for was gladness e'er known
To dwell in the bosom that Love makes his own ?
His joys are but moments — his griefs are for years,
He comes all in smiles — but he leaves all in tears.
Her lover was gone — •

Here the voice of the singer, whose eyes be
trayed how deeply the subject of the song and
the circumstances of the hour affected her, began
to falter, but by a great effort she controlled her
emotion, and continued —

Her lover was gone to a far distant land,
Arid Mary, in sadness, would pace the lone strand ;
And tearfully gaze o'r the dark rolling sea,
That parted her soldier from Mary ma chree.

The soldier's head drooped as the stanza stole
to its conclusion, and at the last line he hid his
face in his hand, while the voice of the singer, no
longer supported by the artificial exertion of sus
taining the strain, was audible in stifled sobs.

O'Hara, dashing the gathering mist from his
eye, wrung the hand of the beloved singer with
convulsive fervor, and said, " God bless you — I
am ready to go now."

Scarcely had he spoken, when a rapid knock
at the door and Finch's voice outside were heard.
He was invited to enter, and, on opening the
door, he said, with more of energy in his manner
than he was usually betrayed into, "Pray, gen
tlemen, delay no longer — I like the look of the
weather less and less every moment, and it be
hooves us to be off the coast without delay ; as
it is, we must ride hard for it."

O'Hara turned to his sister — one glance pass
ed between them. Oh, how much of affection
and agony were mingled in that look ! his lip
was pale and slightly quivered ; he did not dare
to say more than a parting Irish blessing as he
folded his sister for the last time to his heart,
and, after uttering t1 >t beautiful benison of,
"God be with you," I .ielded her to the arms
of her husband, on v ,se shoulder she drooped
her head as her beloved brother left the room.
Nestling to her husband's heart, her eager ear
watched for every sound ; — she heard the hurried
tread of the parties leaving the inn — in another
minute the clatter of horses' feet told they were
speeding to the shore, and then, the struggling
emotions that ha 1 been so long pent up in her
bosom had vent, and the little parlor of the inn,

that so lately rang with song and laughter, echo-
ed to the deep sobs of a bursting heart.

The husband sought not to interrupt hei sor
row, but permitted its first out-pouring to have
vent ere he attempted to sooth. Then he gen
tly pressing her to his heart he spoke words of
comfort, and with kind patience awaited her re
covery from the prostration attendant on the vio
lence of her emotion. Her head still rested on
his breast, and thus for a long time she wept in
silence — till suddenly she started up, as the heavy
sough of the wind swept past the window where
she sat, and shook it in its frame. For the first
time she became conscious a storm was rising,
and she listened to her husband's wish that they
should leave the inn at once, and seek the retreat
whence they came, before the weather should
break. Their horses were soon at the door;
and when the acclivity of a neighboring hill ena
bled her to get a glimpse of the sea and the
threatening sky that hung above it, her tears
ceased, for the chill of fear froze the fountain of
sorrow. Strange optiation of our passions !
Had it been a calm, she would have wept
throughout her homeward way — tears would
have dimmed her sight to the soft sunshine, which
had indicated safety; but a dry eye was bent on
the lowering elements which threatened danger ;
and sorrowing for the past, gave place to fears
for the future.

CHAPTER XI.

OTHER eyes as well as those on shore were
cast about, anxiously regarding the prognostics
of the weather, and raising no favorable augury
from the aspect of the darkening horizon, which
seemed closing in on all sides, like some mighty
net, which soon should make its sweep upon the
waters, and gather within its deadly coil shatter
ed barks and shipwrecked men. Ned had stood
in for the land, according to his orders, before the
lowering sky had given warning okthe approach
ing storm ; or, with such a coasr under his lee,
he would not have run the pretty Seagull into
such a point of danger ; and would have trusted
to Finch's judgment for knowing why he did not,
and acquitting him of blame for disobedience of
orders. But there he was, as fortune would have
it, and he should make the best of it. Already
the wind had so increased as to oblige the top
masts to be struck, and sail taken in ; and, that
not a moment might be lost in getting Finch on
board, Ned despatched a boat to the creek before
the appointed time, and beat off and on a* near
the point as prudence would permit. Alternate
ly looking to the weather and the shore, to watch
the increase of evil omens on one sido, or the
signal that should announce Finch's arriira1. on
the other, Ned paced the deck of the Searvll im
patiently, and passed at every turr. an t tpcrien-
ced mariner, who had never quitted the same
place for nearly half an hosrj and Itana.g over
the bulwark, with his weatner-beaten cheek
resting on his sinewy hand, kept eying the
weather with a steady gaze, as if he looked upon
an enemy, and was measuring the strength with
which he should soon have to contend.

IRISH HEIRS.

Ned paused as he reached the mariner on his
aext turn, and said, " Dirty weather, Mitchell."

" As ever I see," was the curt answer of the
man, who still kept his gaze fixed on the point
lie had been so long observing.

" And the change so sudden too — "

" Can't say I liked the looks 'o the morning,
sir."

" I wish you had told me so."

" Not my business, sir," replied he ; " besides,
I never likes croaking ; I never know'd it lucky
yet — them as looks out for squalls is the first to
catch 'em ; they're bad enough when they comes
without invitin' of 'em, as I think growling often
does."

" Do you think I was wrong in standing so
far in ?" inquired Ned, anxiously.

" Can't say you was, sir ; for, as you say, the
change was sudden for sartin, and the weather
deceitful — besides, there was the skipper's or
der."

" True," said Ned ; " but as the craft was in
my cnre, I should be sorry to have run her blind
ly into danger."

" No, no, sir ; don't you think that ; the weath
er was deceitful, that's sartin, and might deceive
an older seaman than you ; for I will say, Mr.
Fitzgerald, you are, for your years, about as good
as ever I see. You'll excuse me for saying so
to your face ; but it's true, and I wouldn't only
you was a blaming of yourself. But as you have
hailed me on this here matter, I would recom
mend another reef taken in, sir."

" She carries what is on her well, Mitchell ;
dosen't she ?"

" Yes, sir, for the present, and maybe for the
next half hour; but remember, six hands are
away in the boat, and we mayn't find it so easy
by-and-by to take in canvass, sir, if it comes to
blow as hard as I expect before they come
back."

Mitchell's advice was acted upon, and, as it
proved, most wisely, for every ten minutes in
creased the violence of the wind, which howled
"louder and louder through the shrouds; the sea
tumbled in more heavily, a(fcl the increasing line
of surf along the shore gave rise to the conjec
ture that the boat would find it impossible to put
back to the vessel. Ned kept a sharp look out
to the land with his glass, which he was forced
to wipe from time to tin-?, so thickly was the
spray flying about.

'•'If they do not appear in five minutes more,"
said Ned, "it is impossible they can put through
that surf, and after waiting that time I will put
out to sea."

" I would, sir," said Mitchell ; " for it will be
a foul night, and a foul coast under our lee, and
it will be as much as we can do, as it is, to
weather the head ; thof, if there be a thing that
swims can do it, the Seagull can."

" Oh, we are safe enough yet, Mitchell."

" Yes — I don't say we are not, sir ; but we've
nothing to spare, I reckon."

The next five minutes were anxiously passed
in watching the coast, and just as they were on
the point of expiring, a black speck emerged
from out of the fringe of foarn that whitened
the whole shore ; and, riding over the white
7rests of the wave.- that rolled in with increas

ing violence every moment, the bold boat was seen
putting her head to the storm, and pulling gallant
ly against it. How anxiously Ned watched them !
Calling Mitchell to his side, he gave him the
glass, and said, he feared they would never be
able to reach the Seagull with such a sea and
tide making aeainst tnem. "We must run iu a
little farther, Mitchell."

" Wait awhile, sir," said the old seaman ;
" don't be in a hurry, they may make better way
when they get more clear of the shore, and if
we go in farther, we shall never weather the
point to the southward."

" But we Can't let them be lost before our
eyes."

" Sartinly not, sir; we must all sink or swim
together."

" If we can not make sail, could we not ride
it out at our anchors ?"

" Ah, master !" said Mitchell, " I know what's
a comin', and iron was never forged, nor hemp
twisted, that would hold a ship this night."

As he spoke they saw a flash from the boat.

" 'Tis a signal, they can not make way to us,"
said Ned ; " we must run down to them."

" Then we shall all have a squeak for it," said
Mitchell.

The way that six stout rowers could not make
was soon skimmed over by the Seagull, that flew
through the water before the storm which gath
ered thicker and faster every moment. Sweeping
swiAly toward the boat, she approached it as
near as safety would permit.

"'Bout ship .'"shouted Ned to Mitchell, who
had gone astern.

Down went the helm, and the Seagull, turning
her head gallantly to the storm, swung up into
the wind, leaving the boat but a few oar strokes
under her lee.

It was a service of danger to get on board
with such a sea running, — stout oars and lusty
sinews bent to the work — a rope was hove from
the Seagull and caught —

" Lay fast hold of that rope when you spring,"
said Finch to O'Hara. " Steady now ! — wait
till the boat lifts close to the ship's side, and lose
not that moment to jump on board."

It was done, and in safety by O'Hara, and the
next instant down swept the boat into the trough
, of the foaming sea. Again she lifted, and O'Ha-
! ra's companion, without waiting for the rope,
| seized the favorable opportunity to spring to the
j chains, where Ned himself was standing to assist
j in getting the unpractised strangers aboard.
Less lucky than O'Hara, the bold stranger slip
ped his foot, as he sprang, and though he caught
the shrouds with one hand, the pitching of the
vessel, and his own impaired equilibrium, were
swinging him back again into the hissing surge
below, but that the powerful g/asp of Ned re
covered him, and in another instant he was
standing in safety on the deck, and Ned beheld
in the man whose life he had saved young Kir-
wan.

Even in that instant of commotion and of
peril, the thought that Kirwan was going where
Ellen was, brought with it a pang to Edward's
bosom, that suspended all other considerations,
and it was only the voice of Finch, who had
now sprung to the deck, shouting to him an<?

44-

£ s d.

givin? orders, that recalled him to the business
of the moment.

After issuing some few prompt orders, placing
Mitchell at the helm, and seeing the craft beat
ing out to sea, as close to the wind as she could
iun, Finch went below to rid himself of his
landsman's guise, and assume a habit fitter for
the rough work of the night he should have to
go through. He took down O'Hara arid Kirwan
with him, requesting them to remain below, as
they would not only be exposed to unnecessary
danger and discomfort on deck, but be in the way
of those whose exertions were but too needful and
urgent that night to bear interruption ; " for I
will not conceal from you, gentlemen," said
Finch, " that we have an anxiqps night before
us ; the weather threatens to be worse even than
it is, and we have a bad coast under our lee."
Finch returned to the deck immediately, where
an unpromising gloom sat on every seaman's
brow, as they looked toward the dreaded head
land that was now barely perceptible in the dis
tance ; for the evening was suddenly overshad
owed by the storm, and premature night set
tling over the sea, added fresh horror to a scene
already sufficiently appalling. They soon lost
sight of any land-mark, and swept through the
boiling surge by the guidance only of their corn-
pass. The gale was rising now to a perfect hur
ricane, and the increasing turbulance of the sea
made every timber, plank, and spar of the Sea
gull " complain" as she strained, even under her
diminished canvass, through the fierce elemen
tary commotion which she faced so gallantly ;
riding over the overhanging waves that threat
ened to engulf her, and dashing back their fierce
assaults from her bows, as the lion flings the
dogs of the hunter from his crest.

An intervening bank lay between her and
the headland which was the ultimate danger, and
this more immediate peril became a source of
anxiety as they approached it. When a calcula
tion of their run induced them to believe they
were in its neighborhood, the flash of a gun
a-head was observed, and every eye was strained
to watch for a repetition of the signal of distress,
for such it was undoubtedly. At the expiration
of a minute it recurred, and Finch, as he saw it,
exclaimed to Ned, who stood beside him, " We
are all right yet ! — the flash was on our lee bow
— and see, 'tis a large vessel — it can be but the
tail of the bank we are near, and with our light
draught of water we shall pass it in safety."

" With such a heavy sea running we might
strike," said Ned.

" We shall soon know," replied Finch, " and
escape at least the pain of suspense."

Again the flash broke through the gloom ; and
it was almost on their beam.

" Huzza !" cried Finch, " the bank is passed !"
He walked among the crew, and cheered them
by remarking, so much of their danger was over,
and expressed the fullest hope they should weath
er the head yet.

Another signal of distress flashed from the
stranded ship, which was now astern of them ;
anj it was an unhappy response to Finch's
speech of encouragement ; for it is enough to
shake the nerve of the stoutest, when, at the
u:ercy of the tempest, you witness one of the

fatalities of -which you yourself i/iay be the
next victim. Yet boldly and unflinchingly the
gallant crew of the Seagull did their duty
through the darkness and peril of the night;
with that seaman-like skill, and heart of daring,
that can best elude or readiest meet danger ;
which gives security in the tempest, and victory
in the battle.

On sweeps the Seagull ! — the darkness grows
denser ! — the hurricane grows fiercer ! Scarcely
can the speaking trumpet carry Finch's order's
to his men, through the roaring of the wind.
Higher rise the watery mountains, deeper rushes
the boat down the yawning gulf before her; heavier
is the buffet of each sea that smites her, and makes
her tremble throughout from stem to slern ;
groaning at the instant she receives the shock,
and then as she writhes with heavy pitching
over each billow, the straining of her timbers
producing plaintive sounds, like the painful
whine of some living tiling. Well may she
complain for the lash of the tempest is upon h;r i
She bounds under each blow — she flies — but the
tempest is merciless, antl lashes more and more,
and madly and blindly she rushes onward through
the darkness of that terrific night !

Land as well as sea bore the marks of that
memorable visitation; cattle were killed, and
trees torn up by the roots: rivers burst their
bounds, and the gathered produce of industry
was swept away ; the inundations rendered roadj
impassable, and many bridges yielded to the
pressure of the streams they spanned. Few
were the sleepers in London that night, for ter
ror kept them wakeful ; — houses were unroofed
and chimneys blown down, and loss of life and
limb were among the accumulated midfortunes of
that dreadful storm. Every hour brought tidings
of the havoc made among the shipping; the
shores were covered with wrecks, and many a
merchant who held high his head on 'Change,
drooped it under th£ ruin which the tempest
made.

But while there was individual wail for pri
vate loss, and much of public lament, too, for
this sweeping destruction of national property,
still it was overpowered by the rejoicing which
later news created. The tempest had utterly
scattered and demolished the threatening navy
which had been preparing, at such an enormous
cost to France, for the invasion of England.
Her marine had for the present received a blow
which must require a large amount of time and
treasure to repair, and the house of Guelph sat
easier on its newly acquired throne. The loyal
ists had further cause for rejoicing. Anson hatj
returned from his voyage round the world. His
ship, the Centurion, had happily made her port,
before the tempest had burst, and had brought
back from the plundered possessions and ships
of Spain a larger amount of treasure than had
ever hitherto been taken.

The name of Anson was in every mouth. He
had returned not only with the reputation if an
able circumnavigator, but the glory of a con
queror. If the grumblers made long faces at
the loss which had fallen on the merchant inter

IRISH HEIRS.

est, the upholders of things as they were an
swered that the coffers of the Bank would be
filled with Spanish gold and silver; and the treas
ure, immense as it was, was magnified by the
ever-exaggerating voice of rumor. If, on the
one hand, the destruction of our shipping was
lamented, the triumphant reply was, that the na
vy of France was annihilated.

But while joy-bells rang, and public feasting
was held, the bitter wail of those whom that
tempest had bereaved made mournful many a
house in England. The noisy triumph of the
hour soon passed ; while the low wail of sorrow
was heard for many a day.

CHAPTER XII.

A FEW days after the dreadful storm we have
recorded, a certain merchant sat in a dark little
counting-house in the city of London, anxiously
looking over his books. He was a staid looking
man, somewhat beyond middle age ; whose thin
lips, small eyes, scant hair, and low forehead,
bespoke a poverty of nature" ; and the pinched
cut of his snuff-colored garments accorded well
with the character of his countenance. His
spare neckcloth was tied simply, and smoothed
down in a plain fall in front, without the least
particle of border, — an excess in which Mister
Spissles did not indulge even on a gala day.
Snuff he did indulge in, — or it should rather
be said he took, for it was not for indulgence he
used it, but merely to give him the opportunity,
when he was asked a question which he did not
like to answer hastily, of taking out his box,
tapping it leisurely, dipping his fingers into it
slowly, and making three solemn applications of
his hand to his nose, that he might thereby gain
time to answer the aforesaid question in a man
ner the most advantageous to himself. He was
sparing of everything — even his words — though
they were worth nothing, unless they were writ
ten, and this, it would seem, was his own opinion,
from the fact that he was quite regardless or
forgetful of them himself, unless the inexorable
" black and white" held him bound, or refreshed
his memory.

IVIr. Spigsjles was consulting his books after the
" terrible night," to see what amount of risks he
Iiad on the water, when a thrifty neighbor, as
fond of money as himself, entered the counting-
house. A fter the exchange of formal salutations
between them, Mister Gripps remarked the sad
visage of his neighbor.

"Ay, brother Gripps, and well may my visage
be saddened as I look over the sums that I have
trusted to the winds and the waves, which, may- j
hnp ere now, have dispossessed me of the same."

" And yet, methinks," returned Gripps, " you
should rejoice rather that so much of thy ven
tures have come to port, when such a many of
thy neighbors have been despoiled by the tem
pest." "

"Tlanks to Providence, truly, friend Gripps,
I am a fa.»-.r?d man, doubtless, but still much is
abroad. Ye^, His will be done, — ' the Lord
chasteneth whom he loveth,' and these visita

tions may oe for our good ; for, alas ! not only
hath the tempest of the winds and the waves
smitten us heavily, but alas ! the internal tem
pests of the factious and disaffected threaten us
full sore."

" Verily !" said Gripps, " the adherents of the
scarlet one waxeth bold : only think, as I passed
by the Belle Sauvage just now, there was much
ado about another discovery made of arms for
the Papists."

" Have they seized those concerned therein ?"

" No," said Gripps ; " they know that a chest
of basket-hilled swords and a cask of scull-caps
hath arrived from Birmingham, and were on the
road into Doisetsrire, and them have they
seized."

" Ah !" exclaimed Spiggles, devoutly, « would
they could seize those who sent ar.J whose who
were to receive ; what matter for the arms in
comparison with the hands that were to wield
them, — of the scull-caps, with the Papist-heads
they were to cover ; would they were over Tem
ple-bar for ornaments !"

" But still it is well," answered Gripps, " to
keep the arms from the hands of the ungodly,
that would work evil in the land."

" Truly, brother Gripps."

" And the nets of the godly are compassing the
knaves round about. Just now have I seen twe
Irish rebels, in the pay of France, taken to New
gate. They were cast upon the coast by the
hand of Providence, in the late storm, and were
then fain to endeavor to escape, in the packet
from Harwich, into Holland ; but the king's ser
vants, who watch the ports narrowly, seized them
there, and they were sent up by order of my
Lord Carteret, under care of two messengers."

" Heaven be praised !" piously ejaculated
Spiggles ; " these Papists would devour us with
good will, but Heaven favors the godly and the
righteous ; — the church and the state are under
especial care from on high — yea, from above !
But how heard you all this, brother Gripps /"

" From my friend, Alderman Spiers, who
looketh for news and salvation, as tliou knowest :
he told me, moreover, it was a smuggling ship that
cast them up, as pieces of her wreck which floated
ashore did betoken."

" Ah ! the vile and ungodly ones, that would
defraud the king's revenue," said Spiggles ;
" Heaven be praised, they are smitten as with a
rod!"

" A well-known and dangerous ship was the
same," added Gripps.

" Heaven be praised !" again ejaculated Spig
gles.

"Well-known for her malpractices, though
they never could take her."

" But the storm encompassed her round about
as with a net." said Spiggles ; " the finger of
Providence pointed her out for destruction ; prais
ed be His name fur smiting the unsodly !"

" She was entitled the' Seagull,' " added Gripps.

" The < Seagull ?' " involuntarily echoed Spig
gles, — looking more pinched ami miserable 'Jian
before.

" Yes, the < Seagull' — dost know anything of
her ?"

Misfer SpiggVs began to take snuff, and after
his usual manoeuvres, answered, "Why, yes —

£ s. d.

I think— as well as I can remember, I have —
that is, 'tis like a dream to me — "

« Well, Heaven be praised, she is a wreck at
last," said Gripps, " what can honest dealers like
me do, >vliile such rogues are let to live ?"

"True, neighbor — true," answered Spiggles,
wiUi a long-drawn sigh.

"Art not well, neighbor?" inquired Gripps,
observing the increasing pallor of his friend.

« To say truth, brother, I am but ill at ease
since this storm ; I have not only my own proper
risks at sea, but much of my money is out on
bottomry, and the borrowers are not men of
substance, so that if the ships reach not their
port, my loans are in jeopardy."

A lank-haired clerk now entered the counting-
house, and whispered to his master, who grew
paler than before, and telling his neighbor a per
son on private business sought an interview,
Gripps departed, and to his shuffling step of de
parture, succeeded the firm tread of the approach
ing visiter, who soon stood before the pallid
Spiggles, in the person of Hudson Finch.

Neither spoke a word for some time, for both
were startled at the other's appearance. The
gallant skipper had been used to enter with a
light and dashing air, and as far as a smile could
take a liberty with the parchment features of
Spiggles, it did, to welcome the man who was a
valuable friend ; but now both looked haggard ;
a gloom and anxiety were on Finch's brow, where
brightness and daring were wont to sit, and his
usually trim attire was changed for the coarsest
guise of a storm-beaten sailor. Spiggles was the
first to speak. " It is true, then ?" said he.
" What is true ?"

« The ' Seagull' " said the merchant.

"What of her?" said the skipper.
« Ts lost," faltered Spiggles.
"Yes," said Finch, sadly, "do you read it in
my face ?"

" I heard it," said Spiggles.
" Zounds ! but ill news speeds apace," return
ed Finch. " How did you hear it ?"

Master Spiggles had again recourse to his snuff
box, and the impatience of Finch, in driving new
questions at him before the preceding one was
answered, gave the cautious merchant additional
time to treat the headlong seaman's inquiries as
he pleased. After some further conversation,
Spiggles began a long lament over the amount
of his loss, but was suddenly cut short by
Finch.

"Hang the money!" cried he; "it is not that
loss I mind ; of money there is plenty more to be
had ; it is not the money, but the boat I lament
— there never was such a beauty swam the
sea. Other craft we can buy, but never such
another as the pretty Seagull." He said this
with an expression of grief befitting the loss of a
beloved friend.

" Captain Finch," replied the merchant coldly,
* I shall never have such another vessel at all."
"What!" exclaimed Finch, eying him sharp
ly. "You don't mean to say you are going to
give up so thriving a trade ?"

"Even so, Captain Finch. It hath pleased
Providence to open mine eyes to mine iniquities,"
cried Spiggles, with a sniffling whine, " and I will
trash myself from my abominations."

" That is as much as to say, you are so rich
you don't want any more," said Finch.

"Nay," said Spiggles, "I am not a rich man;
it is the inward yearning after righteousness."

" Well, my good sir," said Finch, cutting short
his cant, " I neither want to pry into your ac
counts, earthly or heavenly, but as I have been
a useful friend to you, I hope you don't mean to
turn me adrift now, when your own turn Ls
served; and if you intend to abjure the traffic, I
hope you will give me the opportunity of repair-
ing my present mishap, by getting afloat again."

"Your skill is too well known, captain, to let
you want for employment."

"It is rather a bad introduction to a new em
ployer, though," said Finch, " to say, ' Sir, I have
just lost one craft, will you give me charge of
another?' no — that won't do. I don't want you,
Mister Spiggles, to have anything to answer for
in a new venture, if your conscience is against
it ; but, as I have been a faithful and profitable
servant to you, I only ask you to lend me a cou
ple of thousand pounds, to put me afloat nund-
somely again, and I will repay you, with interest,
within a year."

Spiggles opened his little eyes as wide as they
could open, at the mention of two thousand
pounds, and assured Finch he had not the money,
nor a tenth part of it at command.

A mingled expression of indignation and con
tempt crossed Finch's countenance, as he said,
" That is, in other words, you won't."

" Can't, captain."

"Fudge!" cried Finch. "You talk of con
science ; how can you reconcile, I say, to your
conscience to throw off one. who has been the
making of tens of thousands for you, and who
now stands before you a ruined man ? how, I
say, can you reconcile the refusal of what is a
small sum to you to retrieve his fortunes — a small
sum, were it even to be given ; but when it is only
a loan I ask — no, I am sure you can not mean to
refuse it."

" Could I even spare it, Captain Finch, my
conscience would equally reproach me for aiding
another in evil doing."

" Come, come, Gaffer Godly, that won't do.
You can't humbug me, though you can the world ;
we know each other. You would not like to
have the world know all I could tell of you."

Mr. Spiggles took snuff again, before he an
swered. "You would find it difficult to prove
an/thing against me, Captain Finch."

" More perhaps than you would like," said
Finch ; " but fear not, I would scorn to use so
base a means to raise money, though I wrre
starving. Once for all, will you lend me even a
thousand ?"

" I assure you, Captain "

" Even five hundred ?"

"Not only do I disapprove of the illegal traffic
in which you indulge, but I have heard you" have
gone so far as to ai.l the king's enemies — flying
rebels ; and I own I am loyal to my church and
my king."

" Pooh ! pooh ! put a stopper on that Sngo,
you old hypocrite !" cried Finch, losing all pa
tience. " Church and king, forsooth ! much you
care for either. Your icligion you. can put off
and on like your coat, and like it 'twill be ai-

IRISH HEIRS.

ways of the sleekest outside ; and your lovalty
teaches you to cheat the king's exchequer. Church
and king, forsooth ! If you could make a thou
sand pounds by selling both, you'd do it. Reli
gion and loyalty, quotha ! Your false oaths at
the custom-house are good proof of both ! And
yet you talk of virtue — you, you forsworn hypo
crite, with a string of perjuries hanging round
your heart as thick as beads on a blackamoor."

Spiggles grew more ghastly as Finch poured
forth his fierce invective, and opened a little
window that looked into the putward warehouse
to call his clerk, but Finch interrupted him.

" Don't be afraid, you paltry coward ; I'll not
harm you." Do you think I would soil my hands
with such contemptible carrion — faugh ! I leave
you to your religious meditations, you perjured,
pilfering, stingy, old sinner; and in the middle
of your prayers, don't forget my blessings on
you !"

He shook his clenched fist at the shrivelled-up
Spiggles as he spoke, and as lie showed his teeth
in a fiendish grin as he uttered the word " bles
sings," there was something more appalling in it
than if he had used all the curses in the world.
He strode from the counting-house, trembling and
pale with passion, and thrusting his arm inside
that of Ned, who was waiting for him at the door
of the warehouse, hurried through the narrow
lane without uttering a word, and did not speak
until they reached the thoroughfare, as if his
" great rage" could not get vent in a smaller
space.

Then he copiously anathematized the miserly
hypocrite who cast him off; but getting cooler
when they cot over a couple of miles of ground,
as they walked westward the indignant Finch
snapped his fingers, swore he did not care a curse
for the old hunks, and that all would be right
yet. "I have another port still under my lee,
lad, and though it is not the haven where I had
most right to expect shelter, mayhap 'tis there
111 fiiufit."

In this hopeful expectation they pushed on
ward toward the neighborhood of Charing cross,
and turning into a tavern, Finch walked straight
into the bar, where a very pretty child was drag
ging her doll about in a quart pot, by way of
carriage.

« Hillo— is that Polly ?" cried Finch.

The child turned up her pretty blue eyes in
wonder at hearing her name uttered by one whom
she did not know.

"Where's mother?" inquired Finch.

The child only put its finger in its mouth, and
kept gazing as before. The mother entered at
the moment; and the instant she espied Finch,
uttered a glad exclamation of surprise, and seiz
ing Finch by both hands, poured forth voluble
assurance of how delishted she was to see him.

« I im.st shake hands with you, captain !"

" You may as well give us a buss, mother !"
fad Finch, kissinsr the buxom landlady.

"You are as merry as ever, captain; though,
bless my heart, you don't look as you used, sav
ins your favor."

"Can't return the compliment, as th°y say,
Mrs. Banks, for you are looking better than ever
I saw you."

"And am better, captain, thanks to you; I

have thriven ever since the day you lent me the
, money and got me out of trouble. I've got on
| ever since ; oh, you've been the saving of me
I and my oqihans." She stooped and took up the
| child, and bid her kiss the gentleman, for that he
was the best friend her mother ever had.

The child put its little arms round his neck,
and pressed its ruby lips to the bronzed cheek
of the sailor, who seemed touched by the inci
dent.

" And I can give you back nil your money
now, captain," continued the widow ; " ay, and
more too," added she, in an under tone, " if you
want it ; for indeed, captain, you do look bad ;
don't be angry with me — but if a hundred
more" —

She stopped, for she saw Finch's lip quiver ;
he could not speak, but catching her in his arm«.
he gave her another hearty kiss ; and as the
landlady wiped her eye, which glistened with the
dew of pure human sympathy (though it was in
the bar of a tavern), Finch recovered himself
sufficiently to say, " Bless you, Mother Banks !
you were always a good soul ! I hope your house
is not so full but you can let me have rocm."

" If a lord was in your way, he should turn out
for you, captain. The house is yours, and all
that's in it !"

" Avast, mother, avast ! — a woman's palaver
always bothers me ; so say no more — show my
friend and myself to a room; and, as soon as
may be, let us have a dinner of the best ; and a
rousing bottle from your pet bin !"

Mrs. Banks showed them the best room in her
house; and as for dinner, protested she only
wished she could melt down gold and silver for
their dinner, and give them distilled rubies for
wine — or words to that effect, as the lawyers say.
"There!" cried Finch to Ned, as Mrs. Banks
closed the door, " there, in a poor widow have I
found the friendship which the man whose for
tune I have mostly made, refused me. Oh, Ned,
Ned ! how unequally, and 'twould seem to us how
unjustly, are the riches of this world divided!"

Finch's spirits rose rapidly after he found him
self under the roof of Mrs. Banks ; her hearti
ness and gratitude chased the hateful recollections
of Mister Spiggles from his mind, and the inno
cent kiss of the unconscious child that was told to
love him, acted like balm upon his spirit ; a spirit
easily excited, but as easily soothed. Indeed, it
was Finch's misfortune that he was too sensible
to immediate impressions; he was capable of
doing either a bad or a good action. But what
ever his faults were, they were attributable ra
ther to a headstrong nature than a bad heart, and
were far outnumbered by his good qualities.
Among these, generosity stood pre-eminent ; and
a loan of money, in an hour of need, to pour
i Mrs. Banks, had saved her from destruction ; pxi
I it was, perhaps, the inward consciousness that
' the kiss of her innocent child was not quite un-
j deserved, that made it the sweeter ; for how much
dearer is every enjoyment we have earned.
Finch's misfortune (to go a little farther into his
character) lay in not having a fixed principle
about anything; and this want, in conjunction
with an excitable nature, often allowed him to
be betrayed into that, in heat cf blood, which, in
cooler moment?, he would not btve committed,

X 5. d.

and in cooler moments often regretted. He was
fond of pleasure, whose road, though generally
smooth has some rough places in it, which, with
out careful driving, may overturn those who fre
quent it, and Finch had had some upsets in his
time. Now, in these cases it is found that the
warnings arising from experience do not always
act as corrective?, but rather embolden ; and that
when people have been flung very often and es
caped unharmed, they get so used to the matter,
that they think nothing about it. And so it was
with Finch. He had been so long following the
bent of his will merely, that he neglected any
other form of guidance, and, of course, his horses
sometimes ran away with him, and consequently
an occasional break-down was the result ; but as
his energy and activity always put him on his
legs attain, he heeded not the momentary bruises
he received, which, as they healed, hardened and
became insensible to future pain, as the culprit
often flogged, loses all terror of the lash.

Asking pardon of the reader for this slight di
gression from the immediate story, to afford a
general idea of the class and " manner of man"
to which Finch belonged, we shall now pro
ceed.

Finch, as his spirits rose, opened to Ned the
bright prospects the luture presented to him ; and,
as they sat at the window, looking upon the busy
thoroughfare before them, he suggested every five
minutes a new plan to be "up in the world
again." His fourth proposition was just on the
point of being broached (making exactly twenty
minutes that they had been at the window) when
his thoughts were interrupted by a singular arri
val at the door of the tavern. Two coaches
drove up, having their roofs occupied with four
sailors each, while their interiors were empty;
and as an altercation commenced between the
drivers and the tars, which seemed to excite the
indignation of both the disputing parties, and the
mirth of bystanders, who rapidly gathered to
listen, Finch threw up the window to hear what
was going forward. He found the dispute occa
sioned by the sailors desiring the coachmen to
drive them " back again," while the coachmen
swore they wouldn't, for that their horses were
tired, and that they had driven them back and
forward the same road three times, and what
could they want more 1

"What's that to you if you're paid," said one
of the Jacks.

" Well, I don't like it," said coache<>.

" Well, no matter whether you like it or not ;
you've sot the bounty, and are under orders, and
must sail, so weigh and be off."

" Can't you get another pair of coaches 1"

"We see none here," cried the sailors.

"There are plenty to be had," answered the
coachman.

" Well," said a more reasonable tar, " let them
drive us to one of their anchoring grounds where
the craft lie, and let these lubbers go into dock
ar.d be piid off, if so be they like it."

"But I like this craft," says another; "she's
none o' your fair-weather cockle shells; she
pitches as if it blew a trifle, and 'tis a'most as
good as boing at sea."

The crowd laughed at the sailor's choice of a
coach, b-it the coachmen turned to them anl said,

"Ah! you may laugh, but if you knew what a
plague we've had with them; and they won't
even sit inside."

" Why, you lubber !" said the principal spoKes-
man, " would you have us stay below while we
can come on deck 1"

The absurd answer of the seamen always
turned the laugh against the discomfited drivers,
and the arrival of another coach similarly laden
to the former ones, strengthened the party of tlie
Jack tars. Indeed, this coach was stronger in
attraction to the crowd, for amid the sailors on
the roof sat a piper, who was playing away for
the bare life the most rollicking of tu^es. Hither
to Finch and Ned had enjoyed the scene in si
lence, but now the latter involuntarily exclaimed,

"By the powers 'tis he!"

" Who 1" inquired Finch.

" There, there !" said Ned, pointing to the pi
per, and made no further answer, but, rushing
from the room, ran down stairs, and in another
moment Finch saw Ned clambering to the top of
the coach, and after addressing a word to ihe
piper, beheld the most cordial marks of recog
nition pass between them. This put an end to
the dispute between the drivers and their strange
fares, for as Phaidrig-na-pib — for it was he-
said he would go into the tavern with his friend,
the sailors agreed to go wherever he went, so the
coaches were discharged with ten times the
amount of their proper fare ; and as the crowd
saw the sailors showering money into the hands
of the drivers, they cheered the open-handed
liberality, whereupon some of the Jacks dipped
their hands into their pockets again and present
ed them full of coin to the crowd, many of whom
were not loath to take advantage of such a wind
fall. The thoughtless sons of the sea, however,
were soon housed in the tavern, the crowd dis
persed by degrees, and after Ned had seen the
sailors comfortably stowed in a room below, he
conducted Phaidrig up-stairs, and introduced him
to Finch, who, he had no doubt, would be as glad
to hear, as himself, by what chance the blind
piper had come to London.

" I'll tell you how it was," began Phaidrig.

" Stop," said Ned, " perhaps you would like a
glass of something before you begin."

" Bless your sowl, not at all ! them divils of
sailors keep me dhrinkin' mornin', noon, and
night, so that in throth its refreshing to have a
mouthful o' nothing. Faix I'm so full o' spirits,
that I'd be afeard to blow out a candle for fear
my breath would take fire. But to come to rny
story. You see, one fine day there put into Gal-
way bay three ships, and soon afther came a
power o' sailors on shore with handfuls o' strange
money, that no one could tell the value of, not
even the sailors themselves, for I hear broad pieces
of silver and even goold was scattered about like
dust, and maybe the townspeople didn't sweep it
up. Well, sir, the sailors was mad for divarsin,
and a> coorse coortin' and dancin' comes undher
that d nomination, and as music is wanted for
the fai Uistical toe, to be sure they couJa not do
withoul me, Phaidrig-na-pib was in request — and.
maybe I tey didn't pay the piper. By dad, I wan
a rich ITKVB in a few days and paid off all the in
cumbram:es on my estate."

"Have you an estate then >" inquired Finch.

IRISH HEIRS.

rather surprised, for Finch, be it known, was an
Englishman, and had never met an Irish piper
before.

" To be sure I have," said Phaidrig. " Haven't
I the estate of man ujxsn me, and what more
troublesome estate is there to manage ?"

"True," said Finch, with a smile. ' "But
what were the incumbrances you spoke of!"

" It was all in consequences cf a legacy was
left me." said Phaidrig.

"AM" said Finch, anticipating, "and you
rank your own trifle of property in going to law
•with the executors I suppose?"

"Not at all," said Phaidrig. "In the first
place I could not sink my property much more
than it was by nature, for it is undher wather
nine months in the year, being in a bog, and as
for the executioners, or whatever you call them,
I never heerd o? such people at all ; but not to
bother you with such bits and scraps o' nonsense,
ust let me tell you how I got here."

* 1 ne sailors, as I towld you, kept me busy,
mornin', noon, and night, and at last the captain
himself came ashore one day, and heerd me, and
swore nothing would content him but that I
should go aboord and play for him, and by dad,
he pulled out some goold pieces and popped them
into mv hand, not that I went for the sake of the
money, but that he praised my playing powerful,
and I remarked he liked the fine awld airs. His
name was Talbot — and he took me aboord sure
enougn, and the way he came into Galway-bay was,
that having taken some Spanish ships jrizes, and
the weather turning bad, he made for Galway-
bay, until the storm was passed! and the word
was that the prizes was so rich, that Captain
Talbot never touched the private goods of the
people at all, only the cargo of the ship, although
the people wor so rich that they had diamond
rings on every finger, and goold-hilted swords,
and diamonds in them too; but not a taste the
captain would take av them, and was so pleased
with the great haul he made that he gave a pres
ent of twenty goold pieces to every sailor and
sarvant in the ship. Well, I stayed aboord for
two or three days as happy as a king; when one
mornin', as I got up, afther a pleasant night
aboord, I began to stagger about and couldn't
keep my feet. ' Ow wow !' says I, ' I'm dhrunk
yet,' and was going into bed again, when I no
more could get into it than if it was the eye of a
needle, and I was catching at everything in my
way to lay howld of it, but nothing would make
me stand ; and with that I heerd them laughing
at me all round about, and my head began to
reel, and I began to feel quare a bit, and down I
fell on the flure as sick as a dog. To make a
long story short, they had put to sea in the night,
and that was the cause of my staggering and
qualmishness all the time I was blaming the
dhrink for it. Well, I was so bothered with the
sickness for five or six days I couldn't take a bit
or sup, or handle the pipes at all, so that the^
captain was disappointed of all the music he ex-"
nected to get out o' me while he was sailing from
Galway to London, but when I got well, I paid
off the old score, for I worked a power and didn't
lave a tune in the bag I didn't give them, and I
got such a fnvorite with them that they made me
put up with them here in London, and they pet
4

me like a first child ; and that's the way you see
the Irish piper came to London."

"And how do you like London?" askec
Finch.

" Oh, it's a fine place, sir."

" How can you tell, under the deprivation oi
sight ?"

" Don't I hear it ? Can't I tell what crowds
are passing up and down, and what a power 01
wagons and carriages there are in it ! — and aii
the dilferent bells that are ringing tell me 'tis
full o' churches. Sure fifty ways I know it's &
big place."

" How would you like to live here, Phaidrig 1"
inquired Ned.

" Not at all — the air breathes tliick to me, and
wants the sweet smell of the mountains."

" When do you mean to return, then, to Ire
land ?"

" When these divils o' sailors will let me —
and faix I'm beginning to get tired o' th*>m — and
would be long ago, only for the thunde, ..ng lies
they tell, that divarts me. And one chap, a new
friend they have picked up to-day, bates all the
rest hollow ; I give it up to him for the biggest
liar I ever met, and I have met a few. and, in
deed, am not a bad hand at it myself, on an oc
casion — but this fellow — Ow, ow !"

" Who is he ?"

" One of the sailors out o' the great ship come
home lately ; I forget her name, but the comman
ders name is Anderson."

"Anson, I suppose you • mean," said Finch.
" Commodore Anson."

"That's it," said Phaidrig. "Well, if you
were to hear this fellow tell cf all their doings."

" He can scarcely tell more wonders than the
reality, I believe," said Finch ; " they say An-
son's sufferings, and dangers, and triumphs, arc
beyond the wonders of fairy tales."

" Faix, the fairies are fools to the fellow J
spake of, if the half cf what he says be true."

Finch suggested to Ned that they should join
! the party of sailors, doubting not that it would
be good fun. Ned chimed in with the propo
sition, and Phaidrig undertook to make them wel
come on his introduction. They at once acted
! on the suggestion, and found the jolly tars " tos
sing the can" gayly. Phaidrig was hailed witli a
shout of delight, and his friends heartily wel
comed him ; and, having been accommodated with
seats and glasses, Finch and Ned were on as
good terms with the lads of the ocean in five
minutes as if th^y had been shipmates. Finch
essayed immediately to draw out the principal
romancer, of whom Phaidrig had spoken, and
found it no difficult matter. - Every sailor is
ready enough to talk about his ship ; and when
a man had such a ship as the " Centurion" to
brag of, he had reason to speak the more. He
rattled away about the disasters and triumphs of
the circumnavigation right willingly, every now
and then bolting out some tremendous fiction,
whereupon Phaidrig would make his pipes give
out a little querulous squeak, that made every
one laugh but the story-teller, who only swore
the more stoutly to the truth of all he said thf
more doubt was cast upon it. He was one of the
principal people engaged in the attack on the
shores of South Awerica — he was the first to

Jb s. d.

land — he made the Dons run — five and twenty
of them, and the Governor at their head, all with
his ouni hawl.

Phaidrig's pipe gave a plaintive cry, as if it
was calling for mercy.

" What's that you say ?" cried Jack. " D — d
if I didn't, though : and I would have tlirashed
twice as many if trey were there !"

On went the narration again. The town was
burnt, after being emptied of its treasure, and
the triumphant boats rowed back to the ship, all
but sinking with the weight of gold they carried;
again they are afloat on the great Pacific ocean;
again they traverse the mighty waste of waters ;
again sickness attacks them.

" Then," said Jack, " we knew that unless
we could make an island, we were lost ; and, by
hard work, we did make an island at last."

" You made an island," cried Phaidrig ; " well,
that is the best thing you towld ye,t !" — and Phai
drig made his pipes give a screech, while he
shouted with iaughter. "I suppose you'll tell
us you made the world, next."

"Put a stopper on that chap's lingo, will
you !" cried Jack.

It was now explained to Phaidrig that " ma
king" an island, in nautical parlance, meant ar
riving at an island.

"Oh, that's it, is it?" said Phaidrig; then
that's the way you sailoring gentlemen arrive at
your wonderful stories, I suppose — by making
them."

The story-teller swore he would carbonado the
piper if he didn't take care ; but the rest of the
sailors overruled him in this, swearing Phaidrig
was a treasure, and the best fellow in the world,
and that he had the privilege of saying anything
he liked.

" Well," continued Jack, " we made the isl
and — mind, you piper-chap — we made it."

" Ay, ay !" cried Phaidrig.

" And then," cried Jack, with enthusiasm,
" how we did enjoy the fresh water and vege
tables — and such vegetables ! You will hardly
believe it, now, but as true as I'm here, there
was little round loaves growing nat'ral on the
trees, and as .good bread as I'd wish to eat."

" I hope it was ready butthered," said Phai
drig.

" No, it wasn't — you old piperly humbug. But
If we hadn't butter, we had milk on the trees,
though. Now, what do you say to that 1"

" As far as milk is consarned, sir. ' said Phai
drig, " all I'll say is, that ' Kerry cows have long
horns.' "*

" It was not from cows we had it, I tell you ;
but trees — out of nuts ; there we found nuts that
eave us more than a pint o' milk a-piece."

" That's the hardest nut to crack I evei met . '
said Phaidrig.

" It's true though, so hold your jaw ; they call
'»"n co-cc nuts."

Co?;-«:ow would be a fitter name for them,"
laid Phaidrig.

" Well," continued Jack, " after making all
right and tight for sea, we made sail for China,
and stood for ten days or so." —

* A saying in Ireland, applied to an incredible story.
Kerry boing a remote corner, it would be more difficult
to detect any exaggeration promulgated as to Us won-
ieiful productions : hence the saying.

" And why didn't you go on !'-' cried Phaidrig.

" So we did go on, you nincompoop."

'•' Why, you tell me this minit you stood, and
how could you go on while you were standing I"

It was again explained to Phaidrig that tha
sea-phrase to " stand" for a place, meant to ga
toward it.

" Wei1'., you have quare ways of talking," said
Phaidrig ; " and if a plain-spoken man can't make
you out, it's your own fault, with your contrary
words."

" Well," continued Jack, " we made China ;
you know now, I suppose," said he to Phaidrig,
rather testily, — "you know now, old blowpipe,
what I mean when I say we made China.

" 0 yis," said Phaidrig, mischievously, " you
mean you made cups and saucers."

" No, I don't, old double-tongue," exclaimed
Jack, while the sailors laughed at the continued
quibbling by which Phaidrig annoyed him —
" No, I don't ; — but it's no use talking to you :
only don't vex me too much, that's all — mind
your eye !"

" I wish I had one to mind," said Phaidrig.

The cheerful spirit of the man, jesting on his
own misfortune, touched even the impatient sto
ry-teller, and he joined in the chorus of laughter
which followed Phaidrig's last rejoinder. Phai
drig's spirit of jest was fully satisfied in making
the man join in the laugh against himself; and
when the noisy mirth abated, he begged Jack to
go on, and said he would not annoy him any
more, if he could help it.

"In China," continued Jack, "we did the
grand thing. i^They wanted us there to pay port
dues, and all that sort of thing, in going into
harbor, but our commodore said he'd see 'em far
enough first — farther than any of us would like
to <ro, I reckon ; and told 'em the king of Eng
land never paid no duty at all, but took all he
could get, and more too, which stands to reason,
or what would be the good of being king of Eng
land 1 So we got all the 'commodation in life
we wanted, and didn't pay a rap to the long-
tails; and then, all being ship-shape again, we
put to sea. The commodore said nothing to none
of us, thof all of suspected there was something
in the wind, by the long walks the commodore
used to take, all by himself, up and down the
quarter-deck, with never a word to nobody ; and
sure enough we were right. We were nigh a
fortnight at sea before he broke his mind to us ;
but then, ordering all hands to be turned up, he
tipped us the lingo. ' My lads,' says he, ' wouldn't
you like to go back to old England with your
pockets well lined ?' says he. { Ay, ay, sir !'
says every man in the ship. 'Well, then,' says
the commodor«^ 'there's the rich Spanish galleon,'
says he, 'a sail ins. from Manilla to Akkypulky
and that's what I'd like to take.' The commo
dore's speech was hailed with a shout. ' Re-
member, my lads,' says he, ' I never want to de
ceive you ;' — we shouted again ; — ' the ealleon is
strong,' says he, ' and we are wasted oy sick
ness ; our numbers are few, and that few are
weak; we have only half our complement of
hands ; but, at the same time,' says he, ' an't we
able to lick twice as many Spaniards, mv boys ?'
We shouted louder than ever. 'That's enough,'
says the commodore, ' we'll take the galloon ;

IRISH HEIRS.

JEeep & brigl.t look-out, let every lad have his eye
opea.' And sure enough we" had. Then you
might see the officers sweeping the horizon with
their glasses every half hour, and night and day
a man at the mast-head. Well, about noon one
day, a sail to the southward was reported from
the top : up ran the officer of the watch with his
bring-'em-near ;* and when the commodore hailed
him from the deck, to know what he made her
out to be, he answered 'twas all right — a large
ship, running to the southward. My eyes ! what
a sliout did rise when we heard the news ; we
were all as nimble as monkeys; and, with a
' will O,' we made all sail in chase. When we
had every inch cf canvass drawing, and were
going well through the water, ' Let the men have
their 'dinner,' says the commodore; 'they have
work before them.' Dinner we had soon, ac
cordingly, thof the thoughts of making so rich a
prize almost took away our appetites, so we made
short work of it. All this time we were nearing
the galleon, that did not seem to notice us for
some time, but soon we saw that she was alive
to it, for she crowded sail and seemed inclined
to show us her heels; but all of a sudden,
'bout she comes, and bears right down on us.
'Twas such a comfort to see we were not in for
a long chase, and maybe lose her in the night,
after all, but to settle the matter out of hand at
once; so we cleared the decks, and made all
ready for action. Now, you see, it's a custom
with these Spanish chaps to lie down when an
enemy comes up to them to deliver a broadside,
thinking they have less chance of being killed
crouching than standing; and then, when the
broadside is over, up they jump and work (heir
guns ;f — it's a dirty dodge, but so it is : so the
eornmodore passed the word round the ship, that
instead of firing a broadside into the enemy, we
should give her our guns one after another, as
we brought them to bear when we neared her,
and so we did ; so that the lubbers were lying
flat, waiting for a broadside, while we bore up to
her, going bang, bang, into her with our star
board guns as we ran past her, and then, going
about, we had our larboard broadside ready by
the time the Dons were on their legs ; so that we
exchanged with them, after giving them thirty guns
before we got any answer. We had rather the
advantage in metal, but they had twice our num
ber of men— five hundred and fifty to little more
than two hundred, weakened by sickness too ; —
but what o' that ? — they were Spaniards, and we
were Britons ! The Spaniard mounted thirty-six
guns on his lower deck, besides twenty-eight
lighter ones on his gunwale quarters and tops ;
they call them ' pidreros' " —

" Pattheraras, we call them in Ireland," said
Phaidrig.

" Don't stop me, and be d — d to you ! !"
shouted Jack.

" Twenty-eight pidreros, and they peppered
our decks pretty well ; but as most of our hands
were below fighting the heavy guns, they did not
do us much damage, while our heavy mettle
was pounding them in their vitals; they were
Dnly scratching our face while we were digging

* Telescope.

t Such is described to be the Spanish mode of fight
ing, by the writers of the day.

them in the ribs; and their hanis were so na
tnerous that every shot of ours was killing more
on their crowded decks, than theirs among our
s-I are crew. They did not fight badly, hcwever
— but at last down came the flag of the Nostra
Signora de Cabudmiga — that was her name ;
those Spanish chaps, men, women, and children,
?hips and all, have such confounded long names,
— and her commander Don Jeronimo de. Montero
— there's another o' them, came aboard the Cen
turion — now there's a tidy name — and delivered
his sword to — Commodore Jlnxon — that's short
and sweet too — so there's how we took the

Koslra confound her, I can't say her name

right over again."

" Bravo !" cried Finch — " well fought — and
her treasure, they say, was a million and "

"Avast heaving, messmate — we're not come
to the treasure yet, theie was worse danger than
the battle, after the enemy struck. Just as we
were conque^irs — up walks the first lieutenant
to the commodore to congratulate him on his vic
tory — as he pretended — but it was to whisper to
him that the Centurion was on fire below, close
to the powder room. That was the time to see
the cool courage of the noble Anson — not a word
of alarm was whispered on the deck, and the
commodore went below as unconcerned to all
appearance, as if he was going to dinner, and by
his example kept the men so steady and quiet
below, that the fire was extinguished in a few
minutes. As it turned out, the danger was
really less than it appeared, for some oakum had
caught fire by the blowing up a small portion of
the powder between decks, and the smoke and
the smother made matters seem worse than they
were — but a moment's confusion might have
blown gold and all, friends and foes, into the
deep ocean, and no word would have been heard
of Anson's glory."

" A brave tale, i'faith," said Finch.

" Stay, there. is one thing more I have to tell,"
said Jack. — What I told you, partly is credit to
ourselves — what I'm going to tell you, is to show
how Providence watched over us all the way
home — our sickness diminished, we had good •
weather round the Cape, and prosperous winds
home, and just as we were entering the Channel
it fell thick and hazy, and this we were ungrate
ful enough to call bad luck, when, as it turned
out, it was our salvation, for in that very fog we
passed unseen right through the middle of a
whole French fleet."

"Providential indeed," said Finch.

"Yes," said Jack thoughtfully—"! will say
Heaven was special kind to us all through,
though we had some sore trials and sufferings."

" But how amply rewarded you are by the tre
mendous treasure you have brought home I
Near a million and a half I hear ; you must have
prodigious prize money."

"Why, yes — pretty picking," said Jack.
" Every man before the mast got three hundied
pounds on account the other day, and we have a
heap more to get still — so call for what you like
—I'll pay for all."

« No d — me ! you shan't," cried another of
the revellers — " I'm not a Centurion man, and
didn't sail under a commodore ; plain Captain
Talbot was my commander, and my ship only a

£ S. d.

privateer, but as far as prize money goes I
pouched eight hundred guineas to my share, so
I'll pay — you can pay for me when you get the
lest of yours !"

" Eight hundred ?" exclaimed Finch.

«Ay — eight hundred hard shiners !" cried the
sailor — "there's a sample," said he, thrusting his
hand into his pocket and dragging out a fist full.

Finch exchanged a look with Ned, and said,
« that's the trade !"

"And though a commodore didn't command
MS," added the tar, " we had a pretty lightish
fight of it, as I could tell you, if so be you'd like
lo hear it.

" I should, of all things," said Finch, who,
wishing to ingratiate himself with these roving
gentlemen, knew the surest road to a sailor's
heart was through his story. The sailor popped
a fresh quid in his cheek, hitched up his trousers,
and put himself into an attitude — in short,
"squared his yards" to tell his stdfy, when, just
as he had got over the preliminary sentences, his
yarn was suddenly cut short by a very sharp sound
of hooting in the street ; and as the noise grew
louder the whole party rose and ran to the win
dows to see whence the hubbub arose. A dense
mob of people preceded a carriage, which was
guarded by some strange-looking soldiers, whose
singular uniform seemed matters of special dis
like to the populace. They wore gray jackets
turned up with red, and there was a very un-En
glish cut about them altogether. They were, in
fact, a body of Swiss, resident in and about Lon
don, who, in the absence of the greater part of
the regular troops abroad, in the prosecution of
the king's foreign wars, volunteered to do military
duty, and were imbodied accordingly; and this
seeming confidence in foreigners in preference to
Britons was a most odious measure, and render
ed the king very unpopular with the great mass
of his subjects. The crowd seemed inclined to
impede as much as possible the 'progress of the
guarded carriage which contained prisoners., who
were on their road to examination at the Cock
pit, where the Privy Council then held their sit
tings. Reproaches were showered on these Swiss
guards, and terms of disrespect, loudly shouted
against the king and his ministers, by the growl
ing crowd, which pressed more and more on the
guard, who seemed half inclined at last to use
their bayonets.

" Kill Englishmen if you dare !" roared the
crowd.

" Down with the Hanoverian rats !" was thun
dered from another side.

" Why won't the German good-for-nothing
trust his own people ?" cried a third party.

" Down with the badsjers !" was echoed round
about — alluding to the gray regimentals of the
Swiss.

At this moment the carriage which bore the
prisoners came within full view of the window,
and Ned recognised Kirwan in one of the cap
tives. For an instant he almost rejoiced that
the man whose presence in Flanders he so much
feared was retained in England; but in an in-
Btant his better nature triumphed over the selfish
thought, and he called Finch's attention to the
carriage, at the very moment that he, too, had
iaugbt a glimpse of O'Hara. Exchanging a

significant look with Ned. Finch made a rapid
and impassioned address to the sailors, .saying
tlje prisoners were friends of his, and as innocenl
as babes unborn ; winding up with an appeal te
their feelings as " men and Britons" if they
would allow free-born Englishmen to be dragged
to slaughter, like sheep to the shambles, by a
pack of beggarly foreigners.

"Will you who have thrashed the Spaniards,
let a parcel of hired strangers make Britons siaves
in their own land ?" cr> .J Finch.

" No, no ! !" was indignantly shouted r/3" the
thoughtless and generous tars, who, headed by
Finch and Ned, made a rush from the tavern,
and, further inflaming the crowd by their fierce
invectives and daring examples, a bold dash was
made at the carriage, the doors dragged open,
the guard overturned right and left, and Kirwan
and his companions in bondage were freed in an
instant, and hurried through the rejoicing crowd
by the posse of sailors down the narrow streets
of the favoring neighborhood ; and, while the
tumult raged wildly behind them, and all pursuit
was successfully retarded by the mob, the two
men, so late in deadly jeopardy, sped securely
onward toward the river, where they effected as
embarkation in safety ; the broad Thames was
soon placed between them and their pursuers,
and the obscure haunts on the Surrey side of the
river gave sanctuary for the present to the res
cued prisoners.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE storm which had so nearly made an ena
of the persons most prominently engaged in our
history, which dealt such heavy blows on the
mercantile interest in England, as almost to
amount to national calamity, had not inflicted
such smarting wounds as those nnder which
France suffered. She had been for months pre
paring a great blow against Britain, which the
winds in one might had paralyzed. And as this
threatened movement was known to all Europe,
its defeat was bitterly felt by the sensitive nation
that looked on it so hopefully.

But still they could attribute their failure to
the elements in that case ; but another occurred
which was more difficult to support with patience.
Admiral Roquefeuille, having made a junction
of the Brest and Rochefort squadrons, sailed up
the British channel with the intention of making
an attack by sea, while Saxe should make his
descent by land, and, having run up channel as
far as Dungenes, the British fleet hove in sight,
bearing down upon him. The lateness of the
hour, and state of wind and tide, prevented th«
gallant old Norris from at once closing in actiot
with him, and Roquefeuille took advantage of llu
night to get away in the dark, and return tt
port, while Norris had the credit of clearing the
channel of the enemy without firing a shot.

But the extreme vigilance which our fleet anc
cruisers were obliged to exercise for great na
tional purposes, gave facility to minor adven
turers who dared the channel, and the safety
which could not be obtained by the guns of a
line-of-battle ship, traF secured by the insignifi-

IRISH HEIRS.

cance of a fishing-boat. Under cover of such
protection, Kirwan and O'Hara reached the coas
of France in safety, in a few days after their res
cue in London ; and at Gravelines joined Lynch
who was deeply engaged in the interests of
Charles Edward, and in constant communication
with the prince, who kept quiet at this little spot
under the name of the Chevalier Douglas. His
hopes had been fearfully dashed by the disasters
of the storm. His cause, which had hitherto
been so popular, fell into disrepute; for that
great element of popularity — success — seemed to
be denied to him, and the unfortunate Stuart was
blamed for all the failures. Some few faithfu]
and untiring friends still clung with desperate
fidelity to his cause, and his small house was the
rendezvous of these devoted adherents, where
the prince was still cheered by their hopefulness,
and assisted by their advice. Of the latter he
stood much in need; for the chevalier was de
plorably deficient in judgment, and allowed trifles
to attract or annoy him when greater interests
might have been expected to engross his mind at
that important moment.

Lynch had been on a mission to Paris, to make
interest among the friends of the prince in the
capital, and, through them, to endeavor to influ
ence those in power in his favor ; but he found
the cabinet as much disgusted with the failure
of their last grand effort as the people in gene
ral, and, so far from having the interests of
Charles Edward discussed in council, their best
energies were employed to send a sufficient force
into Flanders, which was seriously threatened by
the Dutch, who seized this favorable opportunity
to join England in the war more heartily than
they had yet co-operated.

A little council of four sat in the small house
of the chevalier at Gravelines. The prince
himself, Lord Marshal, Drummond of Bochaldy,
and Lynch, just arrived from Paris. After he
had laid his statement of how matters stood in
the capital, Drummond asked him if he had seen
Marshal Saxe.

" Yes," said Lynch.

" And what said he ?" nquired Charles ; " he
seemed to be all heart and soul in the cause."

" Yes, sir," answered Lynch, " as he would be
heart and soul in any cause that promised daring
military achievement. The marshal is essen
tially a soldier, and loves war for war's sake."

" I am quite of Captain Lynch's opinion,"
said Lord Marshal.

" Then he," pursued Charles, " does not seem
to care about following up the expedition ?"

" His attention is now turned toward the Low
Countries, sir, where the French will soon take
the field under his command — that is, if the mar
shal's health permits him to leave Paris ; for he
is reduced to a state of great exhaustion, and
when he allowed me the honor of an audience,
he was m bed."

" Hi« debaucheries, I suppose, have reduced
him to <w helpless a state," said Lord Marshal.
" 'Tis a pity so great a man should be such a
slave to pleasure."

"Tush!" exclaimed Charles. "What were
life without pleasure ? I vow to Heaven I would
rather be on a sick bed in Paris, than stuck up
in a vile corner like this, where one earthly en

joyment is not to be had — I am einuyc to death.
I have neither hunting nor shooting ; I have aot
had a gun in my hand for two months."

This was said with a petulance and levity that
was shocking to the devoted men who heard it ;
and glances were exchanged among his follow
ers, that, if Charles could have read their eyeSj
should have made him blush.

" 'Tis very hard the king refuses to see me,"
continued the chevalier, in the same tone of
complaint ; " if he would even permit me to re
side in Paris — the Duke de Richelieu promise tc
intercede for me in this particular, — did you set
him ?"

" I did, sir," said Lynch.

" Well ?"

" He strongly recommends a continuance of
quiet residence here for some time."

"Plague take it!" cried Charles. "The deuce
a thing there is to do here but buy fish."

" Is there not such a thing as ' mending our
nets ?' " said Lord Marshal, pithily.

"Pshaw!" said Charles, pettishly, "my pa
tience is worn out."

" I think we shall not have so long to wait
before we see clearly, one way or the other,"
said Drummond. " Much depends on this cam
paign. Let the arms of France be successful
again, and our cause prospers beyond a doubt.
Let victory remove the remembrance of recent
disasters, and they will be ready to back your
cause again, sir."

•' I agree with you, Bochaldy," said Lord Mar
shal.

' And even then," said Lynch, " though the
French government should not give all the aid
your highness may reasonably expect, still their
uccess makes your success. You remember,
sir, the Irish merchant at Bordeaux, of whom I
spoke ; he is ready to advance money, and if we
watch the moment of England's defeated arms
abroad, a well-arranged descent on the shores of
Scotland and Ireland at that time must be,suc-
cessful."

; You always tell me I may depend on Ire-
and."

" Sir, she has been always faithful to the cause
of your royal house, and is so still."

" And all Scotland would die for you," said
Drummond.

" So be not impatient, my prince," added Lord
Marshal. " Await the result of this campaign."
"Then I will join the army," cried Charles
Edward, " and share in the campaign myself;
or I must have something to do."

" Oh, my prince !" exclaimed Lord Marshal,
eddenjng to the forehead with shame for his
master's folly, "think not of so rash a step.
Consider, sir, your position. For God's sake,
hink not of raising your arm in battle on the
ide of a foreign power, against the people ovei
whom you seek to rule !"

" It seems I am never right," said Charlef ,
icevishly ; seeming'quite insensible to the noble
ebuke his faithful servant gave him, and, rising
uddenly, he left the room.

He retired to his own chamber, and employed

he remainder of that day in writing to his father

litter abuse of the devoted and high-minded exile

who sought to direct his folly. And the men who

£ s. d.

had abandoned home and country, and were
ready to sacrifice their lives for him, were the
objects of this ungrateful trifler's anger, because
his humor was thwarted by their good sense.
He also wrote to Paris, to obtain permission to
join Louis's army in Flanders ; but the king felt,
as Lord Marshal did, the indecency of such a
proceeding, and positively forbade his presence.

Lynch, after the prince retired, had some far
ther conference with Lord Marshal and Bochaldy,
who were much better able to concert measures
fr their master's good in his absence ; and when
.,e future chances in favor of the Stuart cause
were canvassed by the three adherents, till no
topic was left untouched, Lynch bade them fare
well, as he was going to join Dillon's regiment —
so called after its gallant colonel, than whom a
more devoted adherent of the Stuarts did not ex
ist. Repairing to his own lodgings, he rejoined
Kirwan and O'Hara — the latter bearing a com
mission in the Irish brigade, the former about to
join, less perhaps with the love of arms than of
Lynch's fair daughter ; for it is more than proba
ble that to be near Ellen was one of the objects,
if not the principal, which made Kirwan quit
Ireland. For the present, however, he was not
likely to see her ; for, as the army was about to
take the field, it was now concentrating on the
frontier, and the following day Lynch and his two
countrymen set out for Douay.

CHAPTER XIV.

IT was a beautiful morning in spring, when the
active inhabitants of two neighboring villages in
the province of Hainau, adjoining French Flan
ders, had just finished their morning meal, and
were outgoing again to the fields, to continue the
healthful industry with which the morning open
ed, when the blast of a trumpet attracted their
attention, and the peaceful peasants were star
tled at the sound; for who could live in that
province and not know that any day might bring
the horrors of war to their door, and, though the
little villages of Fontenoi and Antoine had hith
erto escaped that perennial scourge of the Lower
Countries, the sinking heart of every inhabitant
foreboded that their hour was come at la>t ; and
the happy hamlets, which hitherto had known no
greater excitement than a wedding-feast or a
christening, were about to have a burial-service
celebrated on a large scale. The implements of
husbandry, which had been cheerfully flung over
the shoulders of sturdy men as they went a-field,
were suddenly cast downward again, and the lis
teners to the trumpet leaned thoughtfully on spade
and hoe, as they caught the first glimpse of the
party whence the warlike warning proceeded,
and some squadrons of French horse were seen
approaching! Women and children now crjwd-
ed the village streets, as the cavalry ride in and
dismount, and appropriate houses and stables to
their use, as they are billeted by the proper offi
cer ; and when houses and stables can hold no
more, the horses are picketed and the men bi
vouac. When all is, so far, settled, the peasants
go lo work, but they can not work with that

heart-free spirit which makes toil pleasing. The
demon of war •

" Casts his shadows before."

and all is darkened beneath if. The women in
the villages are busy with ordinary cares : they
are preparing "sops for Cerberus," and h<-pe to
soften the hearts of the men of war by roast ir,g
and boiling. So far, so well. But, in another
hour, the engineers arrive, and, shortly after, a
group of officers of the higher rank gallop jito
the town — rapid orders are given, and the officers
depart swiftly, as they came, and then a terrible
work of destruction commences. Whole families
are turned out of their houses ; the engineers set
to work, the rafters of the cottages are sawn
through — in tumbles roof after roof, and each .
house is made the platform for a piece of artil
lery. Yes, the smoke of the happy hearth thai
curled in the golden mist of evening, and invitea
the weary traveller from afar, was to be replaced
by the repellant vapor of the cannon's mouth.

" The war clouds rolling, dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun,
Shout in the sulphurous canopy."

The hospitable village that afforded welcome and
healthful fare, and wholesome slumber to the
wayfarer, was preparing to hurl destruction on
all who should approach it. The homes that
heard the first fond whispers of bride and bride
groom, and the after holier blessings of fathers
and mothers on their children, were soon to
hear the roar of cannon thundering above their
ruins.

When this work of destruction began, the men
ran back from the fields, while the women and
children stood in the streets into which they were
turned, and looked on — some with horror, others
with the clamor that bereavement will produce
in the most patient. Here was a woman, in si
lent despair, looking on at her dwelling tumbling
into rubbish ; there was some youthful girl,
struggling with a swarthy pioneer, endeavoring
to stay the upraised axe, about to fell some fa
vorite tree. The men, returning breathless from
the field, add to the clamor in a different fashion ;
but curses or prayers are alike unavailing — the
work of destruction goes on.

Far apart, sitting by the road side, was a wo
man, whose tears fell fast, as she held her baby
to her bosom — the fountains of life and of sorrow
were both flowing. The unconscious baby smiled
ever and anon, and looked up with its bright eyes
at the weeping mother, while an elder child, who
could just lisp its thought's, was crying bitterly as
she told her little grief— that the soldiers had
trampled down all the pretty flowers in the gar
den. An officer approached this group, and at
tempted words of consolation. It was Lynch}
for the advanced cavalry of France was a por
tion of the Irish brigade.

"Do not cry so bitterly," said Lynch, to the
weeping woman.

The woman only answered with her sobs.

" Do you not see the other villagers are get
ting away their furniture, and making the bes»
they can of it ?"

The woman looked u;: gently through her
tears ; for, thouarh she conid gather no comfor!
from his words, there was charity in fhe sound

IRISH HEIRS.

et & i voice, and even that to the wretched, is

" 1 ou would find reEef in going to help your
husba.id."

" I have no husband to help," said the wo
man. ,

« What ! a widow ?" exclaimed Lynch.

•» No, thank God !" replied the woman. « But
my husband is not here ; Pien^t is gone some
miles away to see his mother, who is dying, and
[ don't know what to do. I think less of the
destruction of our house and the loss of all, than
thf thought of what poor Pierrot will think, when
he comes back, and sees his house, in ruins, and
won't know what has become of his wife and
children . Oh, if Pi errot were only here I wouldn't
mind it ; but what shall I do all alone ?"

" Show me which is your house," said Lynch,
touched by the woman's agony, " and perhaps I
way be able to preserve it."

" You can't," replied the woman, sadly ; "there
it is !" added she, " there — there, where they are
dragging up the cannon now."

Twas true ; the artillery had arrived, and they
were mounting the guns on the ruins of the
houses. A dragoon rode up and handed a note
to Lynch, saying, as he made his salute, " From
Colonel Dillon, sir." Lynch, after glancing at
the brief contents of the missive, turned his eyes
toward the weeping woman, with much sadness
and pity in their expression ; he looked as though
he wished to speak, but, feeling he could give
her no comfort by his words, he hastily told the
dragoon to lead him to Colonel Dillon, and gal
loped from the spot, heartily wishing he had es
caped the scene of suffering he had witnessed.
He soon reached a rising knoll, where Colonel
Dillon and some other chiefs were issuing orders
to numerous officers, who, arriving and departing
in rapid succession, were scouring over the bro
ken ground that lay between the villages of
Fontenoi and Antoin'e and the wood of Barri on
the opposite side of the narrow little valley, di
recting the operations that were going forward
with speed and energy across the entire line of
this point of defence. Spade and mattock were
busily plied in thousands of hands, and deep
trenches were cut across the pass, and trees felled
and made ready barricades, behind which. cannon
was judiciously placed, to sweep, with cross fires,
the intermediate points where an enemy miirht
dare to force a passage. Thus went on the day ;
every hour makins the approach to the bridge of
Calonne more terrible ; and there were the engi
neers constructing a We du pout which soon
bristled with cannon, and gave the French com
plete command of the passage of the Scheldt ; for
Saxe chose to fight with the river in his rear,
thus giving himself the means of throwing the
river between him and the enemy, in case the
day shoukl go asainst him, and hence the power
ful work constructed to hold the bridge, which
afforded retreat, if retreat were needed. And
now the sentle slopes which rise from the banks
•)f the " lazy Scheldt," began to show upon their
crests battalion after battalion crowning the
heights and making a brave array of the French
force; and soon the hill sides, whitenin? with
their tents as though a sudden fall of snow had
taken place, show that the am y of Louis is en-

camped. Ere long a burst of trumpets and salu
ting cannon is heard, one universal shout arises
where the lilied banners iloat : these sounds an
nounce the arrival of the king and the dauphin,
the chivalry of France is to fight under the eyea
of their monarch and their prince, and all is ea-
thusiasm.

" Where is the gallant marshal 1" inquired
the king, as he missed the presence of Sake, in
the crowd of chiefs who surrounded him.

"Sire," said the Count D'Argenson, "the mar-
shal is so reduced by sickness, that the fatigue
of superintending the preparations of to-day have
obliged him to retire to rest."

" What trumpets are those ?" said the king,
as ,;e caught the distant sound of the warlike
blast coming from afar.

" Those of the enemy, sire," said D'Argenson,
looking across ihe Scheldt, and beholding the
distant columns of the English advancing.

" They are welcome," answered the king ;
"we shall measure our strength to .Borrow."

But the English seemed not inclined to wait
for the morrow, for a smart fire opened on their
side, the French outposts were driven in, and the
Marshal de Noailles paid a tribute to the ready
gallantry which the English always exhibit to
join battle. And now, not content with driving
in the outposts, and taking up their position, they
even commenced a cannonade against the French
lines, although the evening began to close ; and
it was deemed advisable to consult Saxe on the
subject. The marshal was no way disturbed by
the news. "Let them fire away," he said, "the
Duke of Cumberland is young and precipitate ;
he bites against a file ; he little knows what I
have prepared for him ; he has no tune this event
ing to force a single point, and must wait till to
morrow to find out the trap into which he is run
ning his head. So never mind this demonstration
to-night — they will soon stop."

The event proved the truth of Saxe's word.
The cannonade soon ceased, and the Duke of
Cumberland called a council of war. He held
the chief command, though the Prince de Wai-
deck had some share cf authority at the head of
his Dutch troops, and burned for military glory
which had been so brilliantly won by the English
prince at Dettingen ; but the ardor of these two
young men was held in check by the old Marshal
Kcenigsec, who commanded the AuEtrinns, and
was intrusted by .the states-general for the very
purpose of overruling the temerity of the fiery
young princes.

On the English side the arrangements were
soon made. On the left, the Prince de Waldeck
promised to seize Antoine. The Duke of Cum
berland undertook all the rest with his British
and Hanoverians.

In the French camp all was gayety. The king
field a banquet in his pavilion, surrounded by his
:hiefs. He was never known to be more lively;
the discourse ran on battles and feats of arms,
and Louis remarked, that since the fight of Poic-
tiers no king of France and his son had been to
gether present in battle. The remembrance of a
sht so fatal to the French chivalry was looked
upon as an evil orr.en by many, and rather dark*
ened the end of the festive evening.

On retiring to his quarters Dillon met Lynch,

£ s. cL

who, at his colonel's request, was awaiting ]
him. Unusual gloom sat on Dillon's brow ; he j
grasped Lyncli's hand with fervor as he told him
he wished some parting words with him before
the morrow's fight, as he knew that fight would
be fatal to him, and, he feared, disastrous to the
cause they both loved.

Lynch endeavored to dispel such gloomy fore
bodings.

" I fear they are too true," replied Dillon. —
" Only think of a French king, by way of in
spiring his soldiers, refreshing their memories
with Poictiers on the eve of a battle !"

" 'Twas less felicitous than Frenchmen gen
erally are in their allusions, certainly," said
Lynch ;— " but what of that ?"

" Let it pass," returned Dillon ; " but for my
self I feel — I know I am to die to-morrow, and
would bid you, my stanch friend and faithful
adherent to the Stuart cause, farewell, and to
request you to bear to the prince my dying wishes
for his prosperity, and the assurance of my fidel
ity to him to the death, for I shall fall to-morrow
in making my best charge for the regaining of
Ms crown."*

" My colonel — my friend !" exclaimed Lynch —
« why this — "

" Say no more, my dear Lynch," said Dillon
— " such presentiments as mine are always ful
filled. I shall fall— but it will be at the head of
my gallant regiment, and I prophesy it shall be a
charge that England will long remember, and
make the wise regret the cruel laws that make
Irishmen exiles and enemies."f

The friends then parted with a " Good night"
and " God bless you," and Dillon offered up his
soul devoutly to God before he slept ; for"he felt
his next sleep should be that of death.

Night and slumber now wrapped the two
camp£ in darkness and in silence, save the pale
glimmer of the stars, or the faint ripple of the
river which reflected their light. But this re
pose was of short duration : drum and trumpet
startled the quiet dawn, and the first rays of
sunrise glittered on the ready arms of both the
powers.

The kin*of France was one of the first to rise
in the camp, and Count d'Argenson sending to
Marshal Saxe for his last orders, the marshal re
plied that all was ready for his majesty to en
ter the field. The king and dauphin, each fol
lowed by their splendid suites, wound down the
slop crossed the bridge, and entered on the
jeld of battle, of which, to obtain a better view,
many of the followers of the court climbed in
to tree to feast their Parisian eyes with slaugh
ter.

* Though the gaming of a battle in Flanders could
mt immediately rep.ace the Stuarts on the throne of
England, still every success against England was look
ed upon by the exiled Irish as favorable to their cause ;
Hnd the brigaded Irish in their gallant aid to France were
not actuated by love for the French, but by a desire to
favor the Stuarts, whom they regarded as the legitimate
race of their sovereigns ; and, though fighting under
the banners of Louis, it was the feeling for their own
exiled king, and their own persecuted faith, that inspir
ed them, and whetted their courage — it must be owned
not unnaturally— against the English of that day.

T George the Second, on hearing of the terrible and
triumphant charge of thn Irish Brigade at Fontenoi, ut-
lered these remarkable words : " Curse on the laws that
deprive me of suck soldier*."

Saxe was in such a state of exhaustion, tlinl
he was obliged to be carried through the ranks
in a litter made of osier, to give his final orders,
and the soldiers, looking with fond admiration on
their glory-loving general, who made a sick
couch serve for a war chariol^hailed his presence
with applauding shouts. Around him rode a
brilliant staff, and, as he had completed his ar
rangements, he«pointed toward the enemy as va
rious generals and commanders departed for
their respective posts, and said, " Gentlemen, I
have but prepared for you the road to victory —
alas ! I can not lead you myself, but you need
not the guidance. None know better how to
follow the road to glory !"

The English guns open as he speaks, and the
generals ride to their respective posts. The
Count de la Mark gallops to Antoine where he
is received by the brave Piedmontese with cheers.
The Marshal de Noailles embraces his nephew,
the Duke de Grammont, ere he departs for his
post ; but he quits the embrace of his uncle for
the embrace of death ; he is struck by a cannon-
shot, the first victim of that sanguinary day.
The old man hides his face in his hands, but the
soldier triumphs over the mortal, and dashing a
tear from his eye, he bows to Saxe and cries, " 1
will take his place, count. Let .Fontenoi and
vengeance be mine !" The marshal puts spurs
to his charger and rushes to the defence of Fon
tenoi, on which the English and Hanoverians
make a joint attack ; the slaughter is terrific,
never was seen a fire so rapid and so terrible ;
the valor of the assailants is only to be equalled
by the bravery of the defenders ; but the village
is one blaze of fire, sweeping destruction on aL
who dare approach. No living thing exists be
fore it — the English retire, the French shout in
triumph, the taunting sounds stings the brave
Britons, and again they assault the village. So
rapid has been the French fire that the ammuni
tion is nearly exhausted ; aid-de-camp after aid-
de-camp is despatched for a fresh supply— it does
not arrive — the English continue the assault,
every ball in Fontenoi is exhausted ; but they
still have powder. "Let them fire with powder
only, then !" cried the brave old marshal ; " we
must keep up the appearance of defence at
least." On, press the English- -Fonrenoi is al
most theirs, when a fresh suppl, ">f ammunition
arrives ; the fire is no longer a mockery, and the
English are mowed down — they are too much
weakened to hope for success — they retire till a
reinforcement arrives.

The Duke of Cumberland in the centre passes
through the village of Vezon under a tremen
dous cannonade, and, though not more than fif
teen or twenty men can march abreast, still, un
dauntedly, they press through the fire and file
oflf to the left, formins line with the cool precis
ion of a parade, while the iron shower makes
wide gaps in their ranks which are instantly fill
ed up, and rapidly a column of undaunted Brit
ish infantry forms and advances across the bro
ken ground of the centre ; they are suddenly
checked — the ground is escarpc — an enormous
trench is before them. Old Koenigsec whispers
the duke, he dreaded his attack was rash, and
that he told him so. The duke makes no an
swer, but rushing to the front, exhorts the men

IRISH HEIRS.

to remember Dettingen, and, dashing through
the trench himself, he leads his gallant guards
forward, who drag with their own nervous arms
six guns across the trench, and again move for
ward at the command of the duke.

Four battalions of the French guards now
confront them, and the picked infantry of both '
armies prepare for deadly conflict. The Scotch i
guards under Campbell and Albermarle, the
English under Churchill — a descendant of the
great Marlborough. When fifty paces interpose
between the combatants, the English officers ad
vance, and with a courtly air take oflf their hats
and salute the French guard. The Count de
Chabanes, the Duke de Biron, and all the
French officers, return the salute. Such were the '
chivalrous customs of that time, that even an '
invitation to fire was made, which seems absurd
in these more matter-of-fact days, when " Up,
guards, and at 'em," was the pithy and uncere
monious phrase of Waterloo; but, in the polish
ed day of Fontenoi, the gallant Lord Charles
Hay exclaims, " Gentlemen of the French
guards, fire I"

The gentlemen of the French guard would
have been shocked to do anything so rude, and
Count d'Auteroche replies, " Fire yourselves,
gentlemen — The French, guard never fire first .'" i

The English take them at their word, and
when they did once set about it, they certainly ,
fired in good earnest, for nearly the whole front i
rank of the French guard fell. The incredible |
number ot 380 killed and 485 wounded was the
result of that first volley, to say nothing of offi
cers, nearly all of whom bit the dust ; indeed
Fontenoi presents a more fearful list of leaders
killed than any other action on record ; such
was the heroism on both sides with which the
men were led to assault, or inspired to resist
ance.

The second rank, appalled by the utter anni
hilation of the first, look back for support; they
Tee the cavalry 300 toises behind them, they wa
fer, but throw in their fire ; it is fearfully re
turned by the English, and when Luttaux and
D'Aubeterre at the heads of their regiments at
tempt to support the guards, they arrive but to
witness and join in the rout. Luttaux bit the
jdnst. The Dnke de Biron had his horse shot
under him. On press the victorious English, and
the Duke of Cumberland pours fresh masses in
to the field. An impenetrable body of 14,000
men is firmly established. The duke looks to
the right, and expects to see Ingoldsby driving
the enemy in before him — alas ! he only receives
a message from Ingoldsby asking for fresh orders,
as he has hitherto done nothing, being kept in
check by the skirmishers, and intimidated by the
batteries. The Duke of Cumberland curses him
for a coward, and swears he shall be tried by
court martial for it — and he kept his word. This
is a fatal mistake. The duke must either dare
all, and pass between the batteries on his right j
and left, 01 retire ; he chooses the desperate re- !
solve to hazard all, and the invinciblr British •
bayonets drive all before them, though #cross-
fire of batteries rips up the English ranks, and j
carries fearful slaughter into the advancing coi-
umn, but still it does advance,

Sake is alarmed for the fate of the day, and the

thought of defeat lends him strength : he calls
for a horse, and mounts, but his weakness pre
vents his carrying a cuiras, and a sort of buck
ler of quilted taffetta is placed before him on
the pommel of his saddle. For some time Saxe
permits it to remain there, but he soon cries
"Curse such mantua-making," and, -flinging it
down, dashes into the hottest of the fight in a
light, open dress. He retrieves the disorder, but
sends the Marquis de Meuze to the king request
ing him to retire. The king refuses, and deter
mines to remain in the fight. At the moment his
suite is scattered by the broken regiments rush
ing back upon them. The body-guard, of their
own accord, without waiting for orders, interpose
their columns between the king's person and the
fugitives. Saxe heads the second column of
cavalry himself, and makes another charge upon
the unflinching column — the cavalry are flung
back from the serried bayonets, as a broken
wave from a rock — the column is unshaken, and
Koenigsec already congratulates the Duke of
Cumberland on his victory. And so it might
have been, had the Dulch then advanced ; but,
alas ! for the Prince de W.aldeck, his fame is tar
nished. After the first assault on Antoine,
which he undertook to secure, he retired, and
never attempted to do more. Saxe rode amid
a tremendous fire all along the centre British
line, to reconnoitre their state with his own eye.
They were firm, but quite unsupported by nny
other portion of their troops ; charge after charge,
nevertheless, they resist, and the marshal saw
nothing for it but to prepare for a safe retreat
for the king. To this end he ordered Fontenoi
and Antoine to be abandoned, which bravely
held out against a third attack of the English,
who, from that quarter, were in vain looked for
by the Duke of Cumberland, as the Dutch
were as vainly expected from Antoine. The Count
de la Mark would not obey the order to retire
from Antoine ; and Fontenoi was held also.
Again Saxe orders the French infantry to
advance and revenge their comrades — " Men of
Hainau, you fight on your own fields, drive hence
the enemy ! Normandy, remember your an
cient chivalry ! you conquered all England
once, shall a handful of Britons resist you ?" —
thus inspiring regiment after regiment with his
words, he ordered them to charge, calling on
their leaders by name as he passed them. Saxe
watched the result of the charge — the English
were still invincible. The Prince de Craon fell
as he led his troops to the charge, and the regi
ment of Hainau was swept from the field by a
terrible fire of musketry and cannon ; for the
English had some few guns with them which
they used with great judgment ; and as their
musketry was fired in divisions, it kept up a
continued slaughter among the French which
drove them back in utter disorder. Saxe now
gave up the day for lost — the English column,
though it did not advance, was master of the
field. It remained motionless, and showed
front everywhere, only firing when it was at
tacked.

Seeing this state of things, a rather noisy
council was held round the king, and Saxe de
spatched fresh orders to have Fontenoi and
Antoine evacuated, tolling Count de la Mark to

£ s. d.

refuse at his peril. Just as these orders were
despatched, the Duke de Richelieu, the king's
aid-de camp, arrived at full gallop.

" What news J" cried Saxe.

"That the day is ours, if we only wish it !
The Dutch are beaten, and the English, too, at
Fontenoi — the centre only holds out. Muster
all our cavalry and fall, upon them like foragers,
find the victory is won."—

" I am of that opinion," said the king to the
Marshal.

" Then we'll do it," said Saxe ; " but first
shake them -with some cannon. Pequingny,"
cried he to the duke, " advance four heavy
pieces. D'Aubeterre, Courten, head your regi
ments ! Ride, Richelieu, to the household troops,
and bid Montesson charge ! Jumillac, head your
musketeers ! let the movement be concentrated.
Dillon" — for the colonel was among the knot of
oilicers round the king, — " Dillon ! let the whole
Irish brigade charge ! — to you I commend its
conduct. Where Dillon's regiment leads the
rest will follow. The cavalry has made no im
pression yet ; let the Irish brigades show an ex
ample !"

" It shall be done, marshal !" said Dillon,
touching his hat and turning his horse.

" To VICTORY !" cried Saxe, emphatically.

" Or DEATH," said Dillon, solemnly, kissing
the cross of his sword, and plunging the rowels
in his horse's side, that swiftly he might do his
bidding ; and that the Irish brigade might first
have the honor of changing the fortune of the
day.

Galloping along the front of their line, where
the brigade stood impatient of the order to ad
vance, Dillon gave a word that made every man
clench his teeth, firmly plunge his foot deep in
the stirrup and grip his sword for vengeance ; for
the word that Dillon gave was talismanic as
others that have been memorable ; he shouted
as he rode along, " Remember Limerick !" and
then wheeling round, and placing himself at the
head of his own regiment, to whom the honor of
leading was given, he gave the word to charge ;
and down swept the whole brigade, terrible as a
thunderbolt, for the hitherto unb-oken column
of Cumberland was crushed under the fearful
charge — the very earth trembled beneath that
horrible rush of horse. Dillon was among the
first to fall ; hi received a mortal wound from
the steady and •« -11-directed fire of the English
column, and as he was struck, he knew his pre
sentiment was fulfilled ; but he lived long enough
to know, also, he completed his prophecy of a
glorious charge, — plunging his spurs into his
fiery horse, he jumped into the forest of bayonets,
nnd, laying about him gallantly, he saw the
English column broken, and fell, fighting, amid
a heap of slain. The day was won ; the column
could no longer resist ; but, with the indomitable
spirit of Englishmen, they still turned their faces
to the foe, and retired without confusion ; they
lost the.field with honor, and in the midst of defeat
it was some satisfaction to know, it was the bold
islanders of their own seas who carried the victory
against them. It was no foreigner before whom
they yielded. The thought was bitter that they
themselves had disbanded a strength so mighty ;
bui the} took consolaiion in a strange land in the

thought that it was only their ou n right arm could
deal a blow so heavy. Thanks be to God, thesa
unnatural days are past, and the unholy laws
that made them so are expunged. In little more
than sixty years after, and not fifty miles fron.
that very spot, Irish valor helped to win victory
on the side of 'England; for, at Waterloo, Erin
gave to Albion not only her fiery columns, bnf
her unconquered chieftain.

CHAPTER XV.

THE battle of Fontenoi may be said to have
decided the campaign it opened. Town after
town rapidly fell into the hands of the French;
and though gallant defences were made here and
there on the part of the allies in detail, no gen
eral movements could he effected ; and the
greater part of French Flanders was once more
under the dominion of Louis. Nevertheless,
while plumed with victory, he offered peace;
but whether England thought the offer insincere,
or fancied that at such a moment favorable terms
would not be obtained, she rejected the pacific
overture, and France and England continued bel-
ligerant powers. This circumstance was consid
ered by the adherents of Charles Edward most
favorable to his views, as it was hoped the suc
cesses in Flanders would be followed up by stri
king a home blow at Great Britain, and his parti
sans flocked to Paris, whither the prince himself
had been now allowed to proceed ; and although
yet refused a personal interview with the king,
he resided in the vicinity of the capital, and was
in constant communication with those about the
court who were favorable to his interests. Hert
he could pursue the amusements he so much re
gretted at Gravelines, and awaited his happj
hour with better temper than on the seacoast,
the interregnum being agreeably filled up by the
pleasures of the chase, and the charms of a so
ciety which, though small, was brilliant, and of
fered a foretaste of St. James's in the observance
of courtly etiquette and homage to his rank. Not
only some of the haute iiablesse, and many gallant
cavaliers, but fair and stately dames, made the
small country house of the handsome young prince
an enviable residence. And pre-eminent amid
the beauty which graced it was Ellen ; no longer
the inmate of the cloister at Bruges, but mingling
in the gayeties of Paris, under the protection of
Madame de Jumillac. To none were the little
meetings of the mimic court of Charles Edward
more agreeable than to Ellen, whose personal
charms won homage from all the cavaliers, and
whose sweet manners almost reconciled her tri
umph to her own sex. As the daughter of one of
the most active and devoted of the prince's agents,
he, too, was studious in his attentions to her ; and
wherever the fair daughter of Captain Lynch ap
peared — at masque, or ball, or theatre, she attract
ed universal admiration. Madame de Jumillac
particularly loved the opera ; and one night, as
she and her fair protegee had taken their seats to
witness the representation ofdrmide, an unusual
commotion was observable among the audience ;
whispers seemed to pass from box to box, and

IRISH HEIRS.

eyes were eagerly direr tcJ toward a conspicuous
place near the stage which was yet unoccupied:
the pit catches the movement from the boxes,
and are equally anxious gazers at the vacant
place. The overture commences; and though,
of course, that strict silence which the severe
etiquette of the French theatre most fitly enjoins,
immediately ensued, still it was manifest the au
dience were inattentive ; and the vacant seat
near the stage carried it lullow against the
crammed benches of the orchestra. In a minute
or two the door of the box opens, and, ushered
with profound reverence to his seat, appears an
officer in brilliant uniform. It is the victorious
marshal himself, just arrived in Paris — it is the
temporary idtol of the people, the glorious Count
Maurice de Saxe, and all etiquette is forgotten
by the audience. The pit rises en masse, and
loud v ivats ring through the house j the powerful
orchestra is drowned by that burst of popular ad
miration — sweeter music to the hero's ears than
if Apollo himself led the hand. The musi
cians themselves have lost self-control, and the
bewildered leader can scarcely keep them togeth
er, while -axe returns repeatrd obeisances to the
applaudir.g audience. At length order is re
stored, and the last few bars of the overture are
audible. The curtain rises, and an impersona
tion of Glory appears, and sings a species of pro
logue; some lines occur in the verses which sin
gularly apply to the hero of Fontenoi, and the
actress, catching the enthusiasm of the moment,
directs her gaze upon the marshal as she pours
forth her strain of triumph ; and finally, as she
completes her heroic roulade,, she advances to the
box, and presents the laurel wreath she bears as
one of her attributes, to the marshal. Again the
pit simultaneously rose ; and so taken by surprise
were all by this impromptu of the actress, that
even the courtly boxes were urged to a breach
of decorum ; and vivats from the men, and white
handkerchiefs waved by fair hands, hailed the
conquering count, who seemed sensibly touched
by the enthusiastic welcome. Again and again
he bowed to the audience; and when, after some
minutes, order was restored, he might be seen
making slight marks of recognition, as his brilliant
eye wandered round the house, and, piercing the
deepest recesses of the farthest boxes, caught some
smile or glance which oc^'ty cast upon him. Bnt
suddenly his attention seemed particularly arrest
ed; and he makes a salutation in which there is
more of devotion than he has yet manifested ;
his glances wander no rni re — he continues ga
zing on the same place, and all eyes, by degrees,
turn to see who has enthralled the volage count.
It is the box of Madame de Jum iliac that is the
point of observation. It can not be Madame who
has made the conquest, she is passie ; it must be
la belle Irlanilaise. Yes; the unaffected graces
of the beautiful Irish ffirl put the overdone Pari
sian belle* into the shade ; and the coquettes of
the capital are indignant, while Madame Jumil-
lac, in the second-hand Iriumph of a chaperon,
whispers to F.llen with a smile, " My desr, you
have conquered the conqveror."

Ellen would have ?ivm the world to escape
from the theatre.' A hcst of disagreeable emo
tions crowded upon her: and the natural repug
nance of a wftnuui to ?peak of herself as the

object of an unbecoming admiration, prevented
relief in words. No woman of delicacy, even to
one of her own sex, chooses to admit that she
has inspired aught than an honorable passion ;
and therefore Ellen preferred keeping to herself
the knowledge of the marshal's atrocious oi tempt,
through his emissary at Bruges.

She knew that Madame de Jumillac was a
woman of honor and reputation, and that under
her protection she was in security, and that
speaking as madame did, she only made a sport
ive use of the phrase, which, in that age of gal
lantry, meant nothing; for where so much of
gallantry, not to use a stronger phrase, was then
tolerated, the tribute of open admiration to a la
dy's charms might go much further, without be
ing blamed, than in modern times. Ellen, there
fore, sat patiently under the disagreeable trial to
which she was exposed, though the blushes with
which the concentrated observation of the whole
theatre suffused her cheek were sufficiently pain
ful, without the deeper and hidden feeling of
maiden indignation. Still, with all her desire to
conceal her emotion, Madame de Jumillac saw
the triumph of the moment was not pleasing to
her whom most it concerned ; and she attributed
to the recluse nature of her early education this
shrinking from what a court-bred belle would
have enjoyed.

" My love, do not think so seriously about it,"
said Madame de Jumillac.

" Seriously, madame !" replied Ellen, echoing
the word ; " how could I think seriously of such
folly ?"

" But it makes you uneasy : pray be tranquil,
child, or all our friends will laugh at us."

" But it is such folly," said Ellen.

" My dear, such follies may sometimes be
made to serve good purposes. Remember the
marshal's enormous interest at the court at this
moment, and how signally he may benefit the
cause of your exiled king."

These words gave a new turn to Ellen's
thoughts. She felt how much truth there was in
the observation ; and in her devotion to the cause
of the royal Stuart her personal feelings were
sunk. In that devotion she had been early in
structed by her father, than whom a deeper en
thusiast in the cause did not exist ; and the seeds
thus sown, taking growth in a heart full of affec
tion and sensibility, produced that unalloyed at
tachment, which can supersede all selfish con
siderations — an attachment to which the tendril
nature of a woman's heart and mind conduces,
and has furnished so many examples of heroic
self-devotion.

The thought of enchaining the marshal to the
Stuart cause in the rosy bondage which Madame
de Jumillac hinted, thus entered Ellen's mind for
an instant ; but that sanctuary was too pure to
permit it to remain there longer; its temporary
admission was obtained through the generosity
of her disposition, in preferring the cause of her
king to her own, but the disnity of her nature
revolted at the idea, and she 'almost blushed for
herself, that any cause could have made her har
bor a thought repugnant to hcnor. In thus
speaking of honor, of course the won! is used in
| its most refined sense; for Ellen Lynch was too
I strongly fortified in virtue to fe->l anv evil ton-

«£ s. d.

sequences to herself from the attentions of th
most accomplished roue in the world. She had als
.sufficient confidence in her own powers of attrac
tioa (of which every day gave evidence), and re
liancr on a sufficiency of woman's wit, to hold a
licru in her chains, if she had looked upon coquetry
as allowable ; but her simple dignity of nature, am
•A deep sense of moral rectitude, were above the
practic',1 of what she held to be wrong ; and even
for a cause in which she would willingly have
laid down her life, she could not stoop to a course
of conduct which would have forfeited her own
self-respect. She was so absorbed in thought,
that the pageant on the stage passed before her
eyes as unseen as though she gazed on vacancy ;
her whole mind was preoccupied in anticipating
circumstances that chance might combine to force
ner into intercourse with the marshal, and form
ing thereupon resolutions as to how she should
act ; and after much consideration, her final de
termination was, that prudence made it advisable
to appear unconscious of any cause of anger
against the count, should they meet, and that she
must rely on a punctilious politeness to protect
her from any advance that could offend.

This, perhaps, was the most delicate course
she could have adopted in her present situation.
Her father was absent at Bourdeaux, concerting
measures with an Irish merchant, named Walsh,
in the cause of Charles Edward ; and confided,
as she then was, to the protection of a lady mov
ing in the court circles, and the wife of an offi
cer in the army, it might have placed madame in
an awkward position, had Ellen spoken the real
state of her feelings, and the cause ; to say noth
ing of the repugnance already alluded to, which
she entertained against speaking of such matters
at all.

Besides, she expected the return of her father
swn, and, for a few days, she reckoned it impos
sible any evil could result from the silence she
had determined to observe.

As soon as the first act was over, the mar
shal's box was crowded with a succession of
visiters, some few really glad to interchange
words of kindly greeting; the many proud to be
seen as of his acquaintances, thus deriving a re
flected light from the star of the evening. One,
however, remained longer than the rest, and took
a seat beside the count — it was Voltaire. They
seemed mutually pleased with each other's com
pany, and ere long the eyes of the philosopher
were turned toward the box where Ellen sat. It
was the first time she had seen him, and she was
forcibly struck by the intellectuality of that face,
where keenness of perception and satire were so
singularly marked, while he was as much attracted
by the expression of simplicity with intelligence
which characterized the beauty of the Irish srirl. It
is difficult to say wh:eh had most pleasure ; she, in
gazing on distinguished ugliness, or he in admir
ing the beautiful unknown.

" What are you about there, Sir Poet ?" said
Saxe, noticing the rapt gaze of Voltaire.

' I am not a poet at present," answered he,
" but an astronomer. I am making an observa
tion on that heavenly body."

" Heavenly, you may well say !" ejaculated the
marshal.
«*Your Cynosure," said Voltaire, slyly.

" I should rather call her Venus," returned th«
count.

"I should think Mars," said Voltaire, eyins
the marshal, "would like to be in conjunction."
"Or Mercury either," rejoined Saxe, with a
glance at the poet.

" You are getting too close to the Sun, now,"
answered Voltaire.

" We shall be dazzled in the light of otr own
metaphors, so we had better return to the earth
and common sense ; who is she ?"

"The daughter of a captain in the Irish bri
gade."

" Mafoi ! those Irish are victorious every way.
We have heard wondrous rumors of them at Fon-
tenoi, from the Stuart party here." •

" The fact is," said Saxe, in a whisper to the
historian, " they won the battle ; but for Heaven's
sake don't say I said -o, or, you know, it would
not be relished in France."

' Don't fear me," said Voltaire, " I won't make
either an^dit or history of it.* But reverums d nos
mentions — the lady is very charming; I wish we
dad a brigade of such."

" A brigade !" cried Saxe, in surprise ; " why,
there are not as many such to make it in all the
world!"

" Parbleu ! count ! you are positively entete on
this point."

I'm over head and ears in love with her !" said
Saxe ; " I confess it ; and the worst of it is, she
is a piece of snow."

" From the top of a mountain in Ireland," ad
ded Voltaire with a sneer.

" Provokingly pure, on my honor," said Saxe.
" But snow melts when it is no longer on the
;op of the mountain," said the scoffer.

" Would I were the valley it would fall upon !"
said Saxe.

'• I should think the air of Paris sufficiently
warm to thaw your frozen beauty."

" She's not so easily melted, I assure you."
" She's a woman" said the leering Cynic, who
lad no faith in any virtue.

" By my faith, she has more of Diana aboul
ler than ever I met yet," said Saxe.

" 'Tis most natural," returned Voltaire, " with

our love of sporting, that you should liken youi

air one to the hunting goddess ; but, marshal, if

mistake not, you admire the chase more than

ne chaste."

" The difference is but a letter," said Saxe.
" How can you say letter, in your present state
if mind," said Voltaire ; " you should say billet-
doux."

• Hold ! hold !" cried Saxe, " I can not play at
jeu de mots with you ."

Here a fresh visitor entered the box, and made
his salutations to the count in the most obsequious
manner. He was one of those useful persona
whom nobody likes, yet nobody can do without :
who is always abused in his absence, but whose
presence seems always welcome. Who, by a

* The historian of Precis ctu Siecle Louis XV. kept his
word. He behaves shabbily to Ireland in the account
of the battle. It is from other sources we hear of tho
memorable charge of her gallant brigade. Poor Ire
land ! she has so often been grud?ed her due by writers
on all sides, that an Irishman is the more pardonable in
picking up a crumb for her, when he can, from the liter
ary banquet.

IRISH HEIRS.

species of ubiquity, is present at every party,
where every one votes him a bore, yet smiles at
his saying, and asks him to forthcoming fetes and
suppers. He had the singularly appropriate name
of "Poterne." The marshal was delighted at the
sight of him, shook him by the hand, and invited-
hun to a seat. Even the great Voltaire gave him
a pleasant nod of recognition.

" Charmed to see you, my dear Poterne," said
the marshal. « As usual, I find you in the midst
of fashion."

"And as usual, count," returned Poterne, with
a monkeyish grin, "I find you worshipping beau
ty," and he made a grimace, and looked to Hie
box as he spoke.

" By the by, Poterne," said the marshal, in a
confidential whisper over the back of his chair,
" 1 wish you could find out for me where Madame
de Jumillac sups to-night."*

" I can tell you already," said Poterne, with a
knowing look. "I thought you would like to
know, so I found out and came to tell you."

" Mv dear Polerne, you are a treasure !" ex
claimed the count, squeezing his hand in a fit of
momentary friendship ; " where ? where ?"
" At Madame de Montesson's."
" Bravo !" exclaimed Saxe, " I can invite my
self there."

"You need not do even that," said Poterne,
with a shrug. " / managed all that — the whole
thing I imagined, d. I' improvise, and I have just
come to tell you that Madame de Montesson
hopes for the honor of your company."

" You are my good genius, Poterne !" said
Saxe in ecstasy; "pray bear my compliments to
Madame de Monlesson, and say how happy I am
in accepting the honor she proposes, and add
that I will bring with me the wit of Voltaire to
season my stupidity."

The " fetch and carry rascal" departed to do
his mrssnire, content with being seen in close
converse with the great man, as the payment of
his dirty work.

u Mwi ami," said Saxe to Voltaire, "you must
come with me to supper. I depend on you to en
gage Madame de Jumillac in conversation, while
I talk to her protegee. You alone can serve me,
fur she is given to virtue and letters, therefore
yon must make a diversion in my favor."

" I will prevent sport being spoiled as much as
possible," answered his friend.

Again the door of the box was opened, and a
tervant in the livery of the theatre made his ap
pearance, but remained in the back-ground.

"Well?" was the brief exclamation of the
floidier.

Thr> servant stil remained within the shadow
e. me back of the box, and exhibited a small note.
" Give it me," said the marshal, without leav-
fau« his seat.

The servant advanced, and placed the missive
Si, his kamls ; Saxe broke the seal and read—

" Glory waits you !
" Supper at 10.

" Quai d'Orfevre. " CKLFSTINE.
"A Monseigneur

" Le tres illustre

"Le Marechal Com''- de Saxe."
* The " prti's soupers" of this period were brilliant
liings, anil matters of course after the opera.

It was a note from the actress who haJ per
sonated "Glory" in the opera, and this verv
brazen invitation to supper so displeased even
Count de Saxe, who was not very particular, that
he tore a slip from the note, and, borrowing n
pencil from Voltaire, wrote,

" Glory should not seek a soldier, —

A soldier should seek Glory."
And twisting up the paper, handed it to the &ei-
vant for answer. He made a low obeisance and
retired ; and as he was hastening back along the
corridor to the stage, he was met at the head of
the staircase by Adrienne le Couvreur, who ar
rested his further progress. She had been in the
auditory of the theatre, and all unseen had wit
nessed the presentation of the laurel branch to
the marshal by Celestine, who was a very pretty
woman, and a desperate coquette, and had avow
ed her determination to rival the tragic queen
with the gallant marshal. This demonstration
had put Adrienne on the qui vive, and a little
ruffled her temper; but when she saw the ser
vant of the theatre hand a note (for with all his
care to keep in the shade, the vigilant eye of
Adrienne saw him, and her suspicions told her
his mission), her jealousy and indignation were
no longer under her control, and instantly hurry
ing from her box she rushed down stairs to inter
cept the servant, and was successful in her
manoeuvre.

" Give me that note, sir," said Adrienne.

'•' What note, Madame ?" faltered the messen
ger, his eyes wandering from side to side as if he
dared not meet the vivid glance which was fixed
on him.

" You dare not look me in the face, and repeat
that question," said Adrienne quickly. " That
note in your hand behind your back."

"Vraiment! madame!" said the messengei,
holding forth his empty hands with a seeming
candor.

"Then you have put it up your sleeve." said
Adrienne. " You can't impose on me — I know
all about it — it is an answer to a note you
bore from Mademoiselle Celestine to Marshal
Saxe — "

" Really, madame !"

" I must have the note. I do not expect it for
nothing — here," she said, drawing forth her
purse, and handing the servant a couple of
Lonis d'or.

"Madame !" exclaimed the fellow in a depre
catory tone, "consider my honor!"

"Well, sir, tell me the price of your honor."

" Pardon me putting a price on my own honor,
madame," said the fellow, with an air that was
very whimsical, " but I think a note from a field-
mtirshal is worth five gold pieces."

"There!" said Adrienne, handing the money.

"And now, madame, consider my chaiartor, I
1 ray you ! For pity's sake order a couple of these
jentlemen to force me to deliver the note," and
tie pointed to some of the servants of the lobby
who were standing near and laughing.

" You are a gentleman of the nicest punctilio '."
said Adrienne, smiling, and giving the order he
requested to the attendant1?, a mock scene of
forcing the note from the messenger was none
through, who with a tragic air wrung liis hands,
and swore he was in despair, while Adrieniie

£ s. d.

seized the billet, and gave another louts d'or to
the attendants for their service. Hastily untwist-
in^ the chiffim, she read the count's answer with
infense delight, and observing one of the principal
persons in the stage direction passing at the mo
ment, she addressed him and requested the fuvor
of being allowed th'e advantage of his private
key, and being passed at once to the stage. This
little favor was immediately granted, and La
Idle Adrienne, flushed with victory, and medita
ting vengeance, trod the boards with lofty dignity
seeking for her would-be rival. Soon she espied
" Glory" at the front wing, surrounded by many
subordinates; and entering the ring', that at
once made way for the approach of so distin
guished an artiste, she made a most dignified in
clination of her head to Celestine, and handing
her the billet open, said, " Allow me the honor to
return Marshal Saxe's answer to your obliging in
vitation," laying great stress on the word obliging,
and making a low courtesy as she spoke.

Celestine might be seen to grow pale, even
through her rouge. She bit her lip, and could
not refrain from bursting into spiteful tears,
which contrasted strangely with the emblems of
triumph with which she was decorated.

Adrienne, with a scornful curl upon her lip,
said scoffingly, " What a glory to be sure ! This
is not French glory," she added, to the wonien
who stood by and enjoyed the scene; "'tis a
glory of the Dutch school."

The words were received with a titter, for
Celestine being rather a full-blown beauty, and
the Dutch behaving so dastardly at Fontenoi, the
words bore a double application; and, satisfied
with having raised the laugh against the van
quished Celestine, Adrienne returned to her box,
first having despatched a messenger with another
note to the marshal.

He was much surprised to see a second theatri
cal messenger hand him a second billet, and ex
changed a laugh with Voltaire as he broke the
seal. The note ran as follows : —

"I am glad you are not too fond of Glory.
Come sup in peace and quietness with

" ADRIENNE."

" Embarras de richesse !" exclaimed Saxe, with
a shrug, to his companion, who, lending his pen
cil again, the count talcing a leaf from a pocket-
book wrote a few words to Mademoiselle le Cou-
vreur, regretting he could not accept her invita
tion for that evening, having a pre-engagement.

To that engagement he looked for much grati
fication, and with the eagerness of a new passion
longed for the moment that would enable him to
make his compliments to Ellen, and as soon as
the opera was over, he lost no time in seeking his
carriage, and driving with the poet to the hotel
of Madame de Montesson. He had but just
alighted when his quick eye caught sight of Ellen
in the carriage that was drawing up to the door,
and waiting till she was going to alight, he step
ped forward, and offering his hand with an air of
the most courtly attention, "he assisted Ellen from
the coach, and ushered her into the hall with the
most respectful assurances of his preat delight in
naving the good fortune to meet her in Paris.

It was lucky that Ellen had, by anticipation,
prepared herself for the occasion, as it gave her
an ease and composure of manner most calcula

ted to serve her under the circumstances, and
which rather took the count by surprise; foi
where he expected a certain amount of apprehen-
siveness and timid reserve, which his practised
address was to reassure and overcome, he found
a calm but faultless politeness which puzzled hiia
excessively, and induced him almost to believe
that Ellen could not be aware of the nature of
his design at Bruges. On entering the drawing-
room where Madame de Montesson had arrived
but a few moments before, the count, after pay
ing his compliments to madame, followed to
where Ellen had taken her seat close beside
Madame de Jumillac. The proximity to her
chaperon prevented the immediate adoption of
any urgent strain of compliment which he might
otherwise have attempted, and he waited till the
announcement of supper would give him the op
portunity of mcnopolizing her attention out of
inconvenient ear-shot, when his friend should
have drawn off the elder lady to a distant corner
of the table. In the meantime he addressed po
lite inquiries after her father, and took occasion
to flatter Ellen's nationality by high praise of the
Irish brigade. Of this Ellen took immediate ad
vantage, by turning the conversation into a chan
nel the farthest removed from that into which the
count could wish it to flow ; she spoke of the
death of Colonel Dillon in terms of affectionate
regret, saying she knew the whole family well in
Ireland, and could tell the count many anecdotes
connected with their history, which she had
learned during her early intercourse with them in
her childhood, and which she was sure would in
terest the count much, from the great regard he
was known to entertain for the late colonel.

The count protested the most devoted friend
ship, but would have willingly made the anecdotes
a present to his satannic majesty ; but so well did
Ellen feign great interest in the recital, that he
was bound to hear without the opportunity of
saying one gallant thing till supper was announ
ced.

"Now," thought Saxe, "my time is come," as
he offered his arm to mademoiselle, and led her
from the drawing-room, while Voltaire held the
delighted Madame Jumillac. proud of the poet's
attention, one of the last to leave the salon.

The count seated himself at supper most favor
ably foi his purpose, and was studious in his at
tentions to Ellen, who, having worn out the Dil
lons bethought her of a new subject. She, after
some preliminary asking of thousands of par
dons, et cetera — hoped the count would excuse her
if, as he had already spoken of the brigade, and
so far touched on public affairs, he would allow
her to mention the cause dearest to her heart.

The count here edged in some speech about
hearts in general, and her heart in particular, at
which Ellen only smiled, and said a woman never
could make use of the word " heart," but the
gentleman beside her thought it his bounden duty
to mn.ke love on the spot. "But I absolve you
from that duty, count," said Ellen, "you know
the cause / mean is that of my king — what think
you of his prospects ? brightly I trust."

Hereupon she engaged the count on (he busi
ness of the Pretender during the whole of supper,
that is to say, the eating part of it, when people
are so engaged in their own immediate interests

IRISH HEIRS.

that they care very little about their neighbor's
doings, and, therefore, such a time is the most
propitious to a tender tete-a-tete., when well-
managed by a practised cavalier ; but so quickly
did Ellen put question after question, and suggest
fresh and sensible matter for discussion, that all
the " soft uonsciue," the count had hoped to utter,
he was forced to keep to himself. The business
of supper advanced — the champagne circulated
—conversation grew brisker — laughing more fre
quent, as if mirth and champagne had been
bottled together, and every cork that popped out
emancipated hilarity. And now, what sharp
ringing laughter comes from the other end
of the table! 'tis the tribute to the pleasant
ries of Voltaire, who, in endeavoring to en
chain the attention of Madame de Jumillac
(quietly though he does it), enchains the at
tention of all besides — for madame's laugh
ter attracts notice — 'tis something Voltaire l>as
said has made her laugh — who would not like to
hear Voltaire's bon-mots ? — all became attentive
by degrees. The count now thinks his time has
arrived — he makes a desperate dash at compli
ment, and hopes to have Ellen all to himself;
but she, with a well-acted air of innocent rude
ness, turns to him and says, "Oh, count — pray
don't talk now — I want to hear Monsieur de Vol
taire," — then suddenly stopping, as if she recol
lected herself, she said, "Marshal, I beg your
pardon — I fear I have been very rude."

" By no means !" said Saxe, with a smile,
though he really was very much stung — wished
Voltaire where the whole catholic church wished
him — and vowed in his inmost heart he would
never call upon a wit to help him when he want
ed to make himself agreeable:

Voltaire had now every eye and ear devoted to
him, and after a brilliant hour, the petit souper
broke up.

Saxe handed Ellen to her carriage, without
having advanced his position one step since he
handed her out of it.

" Well," said Voltaire, as he drove away with
the marshal from the house, "how have you
fought your battle ?"

" Never was so beaten in my life," said Saxe.
"That girl is either the most innocent, or the
cleverest woman I ever met."

CHAPTER XVI.

THE day following, when Madame de Jumillac
and Ellen met at breakfast, the latter complained
of head-ache. This was true, but not quite to
the extent that Ellen feigned. The excitement
of the previous evening was sufficient to account
for the throbbing; of her temples, but the pulsa
tion under ordinary circumstances would not
have been sufficient to make her forego a very
gay fete champitre given that day in the neigh
borhood of Paris; but, ns she had heard over
night that Marshal Saxe was to be present, she
made her headache serve a good turn for once,
and excused herself on that score from being of
the party.

" My dear child, the air would do you good,"
said Madame de Jumillac.

"Not to-day, dear madame; I feei it is too
bad a pain to play with."

"And such a charming party too!" added
madame.

" So charming," said Ellen, with a sweet smile
of sulfering, " that they won't miss me."

"Dear girl, half my pleasure will be gone if I
have not you with me."

" I am sorry, dear madame, to deprive you of
any pleasure, but pray enjoy the other half with
out me."

It was in vain that Madame de Jumillac urged
arguments, or persuasions, or coaxings. Ellen
would not go ; and, therefore, when in due time
the carriage was announced to be at the door,
Madame de Jumillac was destined to be the sole
occupant, and drove to the fete cfiampetre alone.

On arriving at the tasteful chateau where the
fete was held, Madame de Jumillac was accosted
by many a gallant cavalier, as she sauntered
through the shady walks !tnd gayly dressed bos
quets of the pleasure-grounds, and the salutation
graciously tendered to her always finished by an
inquiry after mademoiselle, whose companionship
in the dance was ever held a high favor. On
hearing that a slight head-ache was the cause of
her absence, there were a thousand " pities !"
uttered ; some hundred were " very sorry ;" and
about fifty "in despair;" nevertheless, they all
contrived to enjoy themselves. It was when she
was almost wearied out with the eternal regrets
of all her friends at the non-appearance of her
protegee, that Madame de Jumillac saw the Mar
shal Saxe passing through a crowd of distinguish
ed persons to make his respects. After observing
all that courtesy could desire to a lady of her
time of life; in short, paying the octroi that is
due at the gates of the chaperon before you can
deal for the goods that lie within her circumval-
lation, the count made a polite inquiry after
Mademoiselle de Lynch, and Madame de Jumil
lac thought he exhibited more real emotion when
he heard that poor Ellen was all alone at home,
than any person who had heard of her indisposi
tion. And true it was that the count did exhibit
more emotion; but it was emotion arising from
very different causes than those for which Mad
ame de Jumillac gave him credit — 'twas ar emo
tion which his quick spirit of stratagem excited ;
for, in this circumstance, he perceived a chance
of obtaining a tete-d-tcte with Ellen, and deter
mined at once to act on the suggestion of the
moment; therefore bowing and smiling his way
toward the point of egress, he seized a favorable
opportunity to retire, and finding his carriage
himself, without making the iclat of having it
called, he was driven back to Paris with aU
speed.

Ellen, in the hours of Madame de Jumillac's
absence, had devoted her time to reading a heap
of old letters, some of which (in the accumula
tion that time will bring) it became necessary to
destroy; as, in the rambling life she was forced
to lead by her father's occupation, the most port
able lugsage was of importance. Perhaps there
is no sadder occupation than reading old letters
— particularly where you are obliged to burn
some of them. Sometimes their words recall
pleasures of the past — such pleasures as you feel
you may never taste again; sometimes assu-

f d.

ranees of affection, or some expression cf sym
pathetic endearment which you are loath to de
stroy, and which you read over and over again
before the paper is given to the flames ; some
times a trait of unlooked-for friendship — of dis
tant kindliness that has cheered when most we
wanted, and in some desolate hour had made us
feel we are not forgotten. S-uch are the things
that render old letters dear, and make the burn
ing of them painful. The ancients used to keep
the ashes of the dead in urns. Might we not do
the same by letters ?

It was in the midst of such employment — her
mind attuned to the tenderest pitch of sentiment,
that Ellen was startled by the loud rattle of a
carriage and a commanding knock at the door;
and in a few seconds afterward, the door of the
sitting-room she occupied was thrown open, and
a servant announced Marshal Saxe, who ap-
rroached Ellen with the most courteous ceremo
nials, but at the same time with a devotion of
manner far above the level of common-place po
liteness, and which no woman could mistake.

" Mademoiselle," said the marshal, " I have
hurried hither from a scene of pleasure, where I
went in the hope of seeing you ; you being ab
sent, it was no longer a scene of pleasure to me;
and I came to throw myself at your feet, and tell
you so."

Ellen was so taken by surprise at this sudden
avowal, that it absolutely took away her breath,
and she could not answer , while the count, prof
iting by her silence, poured forth a voluble flood
of passionate protestation. At length Ellen, re
covering her self-possession, though still pale
with mingled alarm and indignation, answered ;
her voice, though less sweet, retained all its
clearness, and fell with that cutting distinctness
which irony imparts.

" Count," she said, " I must suppose you have
been at a masquerade ; and, retaining the spirit
of the scene you have quitted, have come here
but to mock me."

" No mockery, by Heaven !" exclaimed Saxe,
" and you know it, lovely one ! Did you not see,
last night, how I was watching for one look of
tenderness at the theatre, which you refused to
grant ? Did you not see, in the midst of all that
engaging scene, my thoughts were wholly yours ?
Why were you so cruel 1 Could you not afford
one kind look ?"

" Sir," said Ellen, " in the midst of that scene
of your triumph I should have thought it a vain
and unseemly intrusion had so humble a person
as I am dared to claim your attention."

" Humble person ! — scene of triumph !" ex
claimed the count, echoing the words, " yours is
Nature's nobility; and as for triumph, I swear
to you, by a soldier's honor, that, in the midst cf
all the flattery showered on me last night, I had
no thought but you. The applauding shouts of
all France would charm me less than one sigh of
yours, if I might win it."

He fell on his knees, as he passionately uttered
these words, and seizing Ellen's hand, impressed
several kisses upon it.

After a momentary struggle she disengaged
her hand, nnd the tone of irony was instantly
changed to that of dignity; and as her 'loble
brow was slightly knit, and'her bright eye dilated

with emotion, she said, " \ o& Aave spoken of 8
soldier's honor, sir — remember, I am a soldier's
daughter, and that his honor is involved in mint
I hope I need say no more." She. was rising to
leave the room, but the count, again seizing her
hand, retained her in her seat.

" You must not leave me thus ! not tvithout
some word of hope to me — "

"What would my father say, sir, if he caw
you kneeling at my feet ?"

" It is not what your father would say I want
to know, but what his daughter would say," re
turned the unabashed marshal ; " by Heaven,
you are the most enchanting creature in tlu
world ! my angel — my goddess — my — •

Thus was the marshal pouring forth his rap
tures — attempting to kiss Ellen's hand between
every two words, when she became alarmed at
his impetuosity, and bethought her of a strata
gem to relieve herself from her painful predica
ment. Feigning a new apprehension, she held
up her finger in token of silence, and exclaimed
softly, "Hush!" affecting then to listen for a
moment, she muttered quickty, " 'Tis he ! — I am
lost ! — Oh, count, if you would not have my fu
ture prospects utterly destroyed, pray conceal
yourself for a moment ; if you are seen here I
am ruined."

" Where shall I hide ?" exclaimed the count,
springing to his feet.

" Here !" said Ellen, opening the door of t
china closet.

"Oh, you rogue!" said the count, laughing,
and looking archly at her, as he obeyed her com
mand, and entered the open portal.

" You dreadful man !" said Ellen, with a co»
quettish air, as she" was shutting him in.

" Remember you owe me something for this,*
said Saxe, popping out his head.

"Take care!" said Ellen, affecting alarm,
" Be quick !"

Saxe entered the closet, and Ellen locked the
door upon him, and withdrew the key. Then
throwing a light mantle round her, and casting a
veil over her head, she hastened down stairs, and
entering the marshal's carriage, which stood at
the door, ordered the coachman to drive back to
the chateau where the fete was held. Here she
was soon enabled to find Madame de Jumillac,
to whom she communicated what had happened,
briefly relating the Bruges adventure, and giving
her reasons for the silence she had observed on
the subject. " But now," said Ellen, " I am
convinced nothing will cure him but to make a
scoff of his gallantry : he is locked up in the
china closet — here is the key. I leave his expo
sure to you, madame, the sanctity of whose roof
he has dared to set at naught."

Madame de Jumillac was deeply indignant at
the marshal's conduct ; and quite approving cf
the punishment Ellen proposed, bethought her
how she could make it most severe. She deter
mined his own particular friends should be the
witnesses of his discomfiture, as well as hers t«
bear evidence of the affair, and with this vie\(
she sought for Voltaire and Poterne; for any
thing in which Voltaire bore a part must beccim
celebrated; and Poterne was the man of nil men
to give currency to a piece of scandal. Having
found them, madame promised them a piece of

IRISH HEIRS.

the richest ridicule they ever witnessed if they
would come with her ; and so successfully piqued
their curiosity, that the wit and the talebearer
joined her party back to Paris, whither they
speedily drove. ,

In the meanwhile, the gallant Saxe remained
locked up in the china closet — not the first, by
many a dozen, he had been in — exulting in the
success of his bold move : for the moment a
lady proposed to conceal him, he was sure he had
triumphed. He looked upon a china closet as
the very citadel of love, which having carried, it
was his to propose the terms. Not that he
imagined- the lady in this case would have yielded
so soon. He thought her the very slyest person
he had ever encountered, and set her conduct
down as one of those strange varieties of the
sex, of whose caprice he had such extensive ex
perience ; but this example, he admitted, sur
passed by fur any he had hitherto met; and he
laughed to himself at the sudden turn affairs had
taken. She all honor and indignation ; and then,
• in a moment, is proposed a china closet. " Capi
tal !" thought Saxe — " capital ! — to be sure, she
would not have yielded so soon, I dare say, iT she
had not heard her other lover on the stairs, and
dreaded my being discovered. Good ! — her other
•over — and she playing injured innocence all the
time — and at a word proposes a china closet!
Oh, woman ! woman ! ! woman ! ! !"

Such were Saxe's reveries (though they have
act appeared among his published ones) while h ;
was awaiting liberation and love. He began to
get very impatient, however, toward the end of
his imprisonment ; and it was with no small sat
isfaction, after the lapse of a couple of hours,
that he heard a tap at the door, and Ellen's sweet
cautious whisper outside. After some soft mum
blings through the keyhole, the key is employed,
the door is opened, and forth pops the count, ex
pecting to embrace a charming girl, when, to his
horror, he sees a group of his particular friends,
who are as much surprised as he, for Madame
de Jumillac had not told the nature of her piece
of ridicule, nor the name of the principal actor.

Madame de Jumillac advanced with an air of
serious dignity, and said —

" Marshal, I hope this lesson will prove to you
that there are some virtuous women in the world.
That you should offer an aifront to a young lady
under my protection, at once grieves and sur
prises me; and I think your violation of my
house justifies the severe revenge I have taken
in thus exposing your defeat to the world."

Saxe looked first very foolish, and then very
angry, as he saw every one grinning ridicule
upon him, and knew the story would be all over
Paris next day. Poterne was the only looker-on
who did not enjoy it ; he was really sorry to be
made an unpleasant sight to a great man, and,
advancing with a cringe toward the count, re
quested him to believe that he had no idea he
was the person engaged, or he would not for the
world have been of the party.

The count only pushed him aside, with a half-
muttered malediction, as he passed toward the
door, near which Voltaire was standing looking
on in ecstasy.

" My dear count," said Voltaire, with a smile of
malicious delight, and a tone which clearly im

plied he did not mean a particle of what he said,
"you may be certain 1 will not mention one
word of this affair."

" Of course not," answered Snxe in a corre
sponding tone. " I dare say I shall have an epi
gram at breakfast to-morrow."

" Unless you would like it better at supper to
night," replied his friend.

" Plague take you !" muttered Saxe. "As foi
you, ladies," he added, with a severity on his
brow that seldom sat there, " since you have
chosen to play at lock and key with me, I beg to
remind you that two can play at that game, and
perhaps my locks and keys may be stronger than
yours." He left the room as he spoke, and the
spirit of jest was chilled under the terrible in
fluence of his words. An involuntary shudder
passed through the heart of every woman in the
room ; for Saxe, hero as he was in the field, was
known to have been, on occasions, very unscru
pulous about the means of indulging any and all
of his passions, and the fearful lellre de cachet
had been employed by him more than once to ac
complish his purposes. With such reminiscences
on the minds of all, the reconnoitring party of
Madame de Jumillac broke up suddenly, and with
that embarrassment which the dread of something
unpleasant produces ; and the affair of the china
closet did not turn out so good a joke as was
expected to the parties who made it, though Paris
laughed at it considerably; and Saxe's prediction
was fulfilled by his receiving a note next morn
ing, containing the following epigram :—

" Love's empire is celestial ! — Yes !
And so is China. Count, confess."

CHAPTER XVII.

IT is necessary, now, to return to the fortunes
of Ned and Finch, whom we left in London, after
assisting in the escape of O'Hara and Kirwan,
who, it has been seen, got out of England in
safety.

The rescue of prisoners from the Swiss guard
made a great commotion in London. It gave a
color to those who wished to carry high-handed
measures, for the exercise of the law in its great
est severity against all those who had the misfor
tune to fall within its compass ; and tirades were
uttered by the upholders of government against
the daring disaffection of the limes, when state-
prisoners were rescued in open day from the
king's soldiers. At the moment the circum
stance occurred, the Privy Council were quite
taken by surprise, on hearing of so bold a move
ment of the mob, and they instantly set meas
ures on foot to inquire into the circumstances
of the case, and punish the guilty, if they could
be discovered. Knowing that some sailors had
been the instigators of the riot, and that they had
issued from a certain tavern, an order cf the
council was despatched to the magistracy, tc
make diligent inquiry at this house of entertain
ment, touching the offence and its perpetrators.

It was not long, therefore, ere Mrs. Banks had
a domiciliary visit from Sir Thomas de Veil (an
active magistrate of that day)> and' a posse of;

£ s. d.

ronstables, who searched the house, high and
low, for any against whom suspicion could rest, of
Having taken part in the riot. Mrs. Banks, of
course, knew nothing about any of the party ;
they were, according to her account, a pack of
iioisy sailors, not one of whom she had ever seen
before, and devoutly hoped never to see again.
She would have been the last woman, so she
would, to let an enemy of the king, God bless
him ! Into her house. She harbor rebels ! — no,
no — she knew better than that ; — what would
become of her license if she would permit such
goings-on !

In the midst of her torrent of eloquence, the
officer who commanded the guard, and who had
accompanied the magistrate, caught sight of
Phaidrig, and pointed him out as having been in
the window of the tavern while the affair was
transacting, at which he seemed in great delight,
and that he was playing on his pipes at the time,
as if to encourage the rioters, and yelling forth
some most unearthly cries, enough to make one's
heart sink in their bodies.

The fact was, Phaidrig had been lilting one of
the wildest of the pipe war-tunes, and shouting
the battle cry of " Kierawaun aboo," during the
fray ; and when this fact was brought home to
him before Sir Thomas de Veil, all Phaidrig had
for it was to mystify the magistrate as much as
possible.

v What were you playing on the pipes for,
sirrah ?" asked Sir Thomas, fiercely.

" That's my business, your honor."

" You had no business, sirrah, to be playing
when rebels were impeding the king's officers."

" I beg pardon, your honor. I had no business,
it's thrue for you ; and when I said business, it
was all through modesty."

" How do you mean modesty, sir ?"

" Why, your honor, I said business, when, in
fact, I should have said profession, and that was
all through modesty ; for mine is a profession, I
being a musicianer."

" You're an Irishman," I perceive.

« Faix, I am."

" Then you're a papist ?"

" No, sir — I'm a piper."

" No quibbling, sir : a piper must have a re
ligion."

" Excuse me, your honor — pipers never has
any religion at all ; they must make themselves
plazing to all companies."

" Then are you a heathen, you vagabond ?"

" No, your honor — I'm only a pagan."

" Dare you acknowledge yourself a pagan in
my presence, sirrah ?"

" To be sure, your honor : there's no law
agin pagans ; it's only agin Christians the laws
is."

"But there are against unbelievers, villain !"

" That'll do me no harm, your honor, for I
believe everything."

Here some persons among the many who were
listening to Phaidrig's examination, laughed,
which was all Phaidrig wanted; for nothing
alters the features of a serious examination so
much as a hue of ridicule cast over it.

" But you were of the party of the sailors,
bowever," said Sir Thomas. « Did he not come
-with them .?" added he, addressing Mrs. Banks.

" To be sure I did," said Phaidrig, befc/ic she
could answer.

" Silence, sirrah ! I did not ask you— but the
woman of the house."

" He did come with them, »your worship,"
answered Mrs. Banks.

" See there !" exclaimed Phaidrig triumphantly,
" I towld you so ; do you think I want to tell you
a lie ?"

"Then if you came with them, you must know
something of them," said the magistrate. " Who
are they ?"

"Not a one o' me knows," returned Phaidrig.

" How did you come into their company ?"

" I did not come into their company at all. It
was they took me into their company agin my
will."

"How did that happen ?"

" Why, your honor, it's a long story, but I'll
make it as short as I can. You see they are
wild divils of sailors that was out looking over
the wide ocean for the Spaniards to rob and mur-
dher them, accordin' to rayson, as yeur honor
knows, is only right and proper, and so comin'
back, they were dhruv in by hard weather to
Galway bay, which is the finest bay in the world,
and came into the town of Galway, which is the
finest town in the world, barrin' this town of
London, of which your honor's glory is a chief
governor, and long life to you. Well, I must tell
you, sir, the Galway people is very proud of being
descinded from the Spaniards, and they are al
ways braggin' of it evermore, and by my sowl,
when the wild divils o' sailors heard the Gahvay
people, one and all, saying they wor Spaniards, the
sailors swore they would thrate them as sitch.
And sure enough they lived at free quarters, and
robbed right and left, and not a thing in the town
they took a fancy to they wouldn't take, without
have your lave, or by your lave ; and among
other things, sure they took a fancy to me, God
help me ! and took me a prisoner, and made me
play for them mornin', noon, and night, and divil
a penny they paid me ; and not contint with that,
nothing would sarve them but to carry me off in
the ship with them all the way here, sore agin
my will, and when I said I wouldn't play for
them, they said they'd hang me — and 1 b'lieve
they'd ha' kept their word, for I don't think any
thing is too hot or too heavy for them."

"Well then," said Sir Thomas, hoping to in
cite Phaidrig through personal motives to disclose
all he knew, "you have a heavy charge to make
against these men ; and if you can only bring all,
or any of them to justice, they shall be punished,
and I will endeavor to obtain for you ample com
pensation for the loss you have sustained."

" Long may you reign, my lord !" exclaimed
Phaidrig ; " it's the first word of pity or justice I
have heerd for many a day."

"Then you'll swear against them for this ol-
fence ?" said Sir Thomas.

" I'll swear sthrong agin them !" thundered
Phaidrig.

" You know their names, I suppose ?"

" 'Twould be hard for me to forget them, for
they had the queerest names I ever heerd of with
cat or dog. One fellow was called ' Bumbo,' and
another 'Nosey;' and there was 'Dasher," and
' Slasher,' and ' Smasher.' "

IRISH HEIRS.

«* These are not surnames," said Sir Thomas.

" No, your honor, but they had very fine sur
names with them for all that. There was ' Alex
ander.' "

"Alaxander is a" Christian name," remarked
'he magistrate.

"Xo, your honor, beggin' your pardon, this
Alexander wasn't a Christian name, but an owld
anstiint name — it was Alexander the Grate they
meunt all the time, together with Pompey, and
Saizer, and Nickydemus."

" But these are not surnames. Were there not
among the crew some one of the name of ' Smith,'
' Brown,' or ' Jones,' or some such name ?"

" No, your honor ; I never heard sitch a name
at all. There was only one smith aboord, and
he "

" There., now, you are contradicting yourself,"
said Sir Thomas, hastily. " You said you never
heard such a name on board as Smith, and in the
next breath you acknowledge there was a Smith
on board."

" Yis, your honor," returned Phaidrig, in a
most soothing tone of voice, " so there was a
Smith — that is what I was going to tell your
honor; but that Smith was a blacksmith, that
they had to make and mend iron things when
they wor broke with fightin', or storms, or the
like."

" Then you never heard regular English sur
names among them ?"

"No, indeed, sir. My own private opinion is,
they thought it better to leave their names be
hind them when they went to seta, for their doings
there was not likely to do their names any credit ;
and inaybe they thought it would be saving the
magisthraits throuble to make themselves as little
known as possible."

" Ah — I see — each man was provided with an
alias."

" I can't say I ever heard of sitch a thing
among them, sir."

" I mean they all had nicknames."

" Faith they had ; and owld Nick himself never
gave his name to more desarving childhre, for
they are the greatest set o' divils I ever came
across. Oh, your honor, won't you do me justice,
and sthrive and nab them, and get me my lawful
due agin them ?'

" What can I do, when you can give no clew ?
You don't know anything of them."

" That's thrue, your honor ; and I wish I knew
less. Oh, weira, weira ! — ruined I am. Maybe
it's your honor could give me a thrifle o *noney
to take me home to Ireland ?"

Sir Thomas did not relish this proposal, and
asked, had the piper no friend in London ? He
answered, by asking, how could he have one in a
city where he had first set his foot that morning ?
The magistrate asked by what conveyance .he
came to London ? Phaidrig answered, " By the
river." The functionary demanded the name of
the ship. Phaidrig replied that the desperadoes
had quitted their own ship a long way off, and
came up the river in a smaller one, the name of
which he did not know. To various other ques
tions tending to find a clew to the sailors, Phai-
dr.g pleaded his blindness, as preventing his
making the observations other men, blessed with
a sense of vision, could; and continued, by his

seemingly simple and queer answers, to baffle all
the efforts of the magistrate to implicate him in
the transaction, or to make him implicate others,
Sir Thomas de Veil and his satellites departed,
and left Phaidrig to the care of the kind widow,
who was right well pleased when she saw the
authorities recross her threshold, and charmed
with Phaidrig for his address throughout the
affair.

" You are stanch and true and right honest !"
said Mrs. Banks, " and it is a pity so clever a
fellow should want his eyes."

" 'Tis a loss to me, ma'am, certainly," said
Phaidrig, with an air of gallantry, " since it de
prives me of the pleasure of seeing you."

" Ah, you rogue," said the widow, " you have
a tongue worth more than a pair of eyes. Isn't
it enough to have talked over Sir Thomas de
Veil, without palavering me ?"

" Veal, is it, you call that janius ?" said Phai
drig. " Faix, he'll never be veal till he's dead."

"You mean, he's a calf while he's alive,"
said Mrs. Banks.

" Mrs. Banks, ma'am," answered the piper,
" you're a mighty purty-spoken, sinsible woman."

Here their conversation was interrupted by the
entrance of Finch and Ned, no longer in their
rough sailor's trim, but rather handsomely dressed
in laced coats, embroidered waistcoats, and the
rest of their attire correspondingly beauish.
Mrs. Banks was rather surprised at the sudden
metamorphosis, which Finch readily explained.

" You see, mother, the sooner I cast my sea-
skin the better, after the row ; so I took the loan
of a handful of doubloons Irom one of the Jacks,
and at a respectable establishment of cast-off
finery, rigged myself and friend afresh, and un
der our new canvass the sharpest thief-catcher in
England would not know us."

" But you do look handsome, captain !" ex
claimed the widow.

" Yes, the clothes are not much the worse for
wear — they'll do well enough for a turn on
shore."

" And the young gentleman, too, becomes the
fine clothes well — my certie ! but he has a nice
leg of his own."

" Hold up your head, Ned," said Finch, laugh
ing, " here's money bid for you ! And now,
mother, a word with you in private : this day's
rough work is like to turn out well for me, if I
can make all things requisite fit. A few of these
bold dogs, who left you to-day in such a hurry
without paying their score, are going to fit out a
slashing privateer to cruise against the Spaniards,
and if I can lay down some rhino in the common
stock, I can have a share, and then my fortune's
made — now, mother, you told me you can let me
have the cash I lent you — "

" And a hundred more I told you, if you like.'

"So you did, mother, like a good soul as you
are ; but the matter is, can you spare it ? — not
but that I'll pay it back again all safe to you, but
do not inconvenience yourself for me — that's
all."

" Lor ! captain, wouldn't I lay down my life,
let alone my money, for you ! But consider, my
dear captain, this fighting work is very terrible,
and maybe you may lose your precious life, and
then what's all the money in the world to you —

£ *. -a.

or to me either, indeed ? for I should break my
heart, I think, if anything happened to you."

"As for that, Mother Banks, have no care.
Thrashing the Spaniards is simple work — just as
easy as paying out cable."

" But a bullet may reach you as well as
another ; for somebody must be killed in these,
aflairs."

" 1 may get a hole in my jacket, certainly,
mother, but I might get run over on shore — or
my head split with a falling tile from a housetop ;
or my windpipe slit by some of your city Mo
hawks as I'm going home some night. We must
all die, mother, some time or other ; and I'd
rather have a bullet out of one of those nice
long smooth Spanish guns — "

" Lor ! don't talk so, captain !" exclaimed the
widow, writhing as if she felt a bullet had gone
through her.

"I'd rather die at sea than ashore any day;
and if so be in fighting the Dons, all the sweet
er. I hate 'em ! Zooks ! I could eat a Spaniard
without salt. And as for plundering them on
the high seas, I think it a good deed."

" No doubt of it, captain, as long as you come
home safe."

"No more of that palaver, mother; I don't
think my yarn is qaite spun yet. The money I
can have, you say."

'• Whenever you like, captain. May Heaven
preserve you !"

"Fiddle-de-dee, mother! — come, Ned, we'll
have a jolly day of it ; I'll show you a good
week's sport on shore before we go afloat again —
for afloat we do go,* lad ; it's all right ! — the
mother here, bless her" — and he gave her a
hearty kiss as he spoke — " she'll furnish the
cash, as I knew she would ; so we're before the
wind again, hurra!" He snapped his fingers
above his head gleefully, and tucking Ned's arm
within his own, forth they sallied on the town to
have surfeit of amusement.

. CHAPTER XVIII.

IN about a fortnight after their London adven
ture, Finch and Ned were at Portsmouth, where
the privateer lay, in which they were going to
seek their fortune. In playing this game, in this
particular way, many hundreds of Englishmen
were at the moment engaged ; and even some of
the Irish ports sent out cruisers against Ihe Span
iards, so infatuated had the whole Kingdom be
come with the spirit of privateering. In Eng
land-it was a perfect rage at the time ; scarcely
a port that had not her little cruiser out to har
ass the enemy in detail along their coasts, and
make them suffer in their minor merchant
trade, while many a dashing craft of heavier
metal scoured the ocean in search of larger and
more valuable prizes. In this pursuit, not mere
ly the love of gain inspired the undertakers ; a
deep and rooted hatred to the Spaniards render
ed them more energetic in their measures, and
the British* pride, so long wounded by the ritrht
of search, which Spain, in all her treaties, con
tinued to enforce along the coast of South Amer
ica, found balm in this opportunity of wreaking

vengeance on an arrogant foe, now that the
king had declared war by the reluctant advice,
of his ministers, who were almost forced 'by
popular clamor to that measure, the public indig
nation being roused to its highest pitch of fever
by the accounts constantly brought home by al
most every British ship that traded to the West
Indies, of the insults and cruelties exercised up
on them by the Spanish Guurda Costas in those
seas.

It sounds strange to English ears, in these
triumphant days of our navy, to hear that right
of search was ever submitted to by us ; but the
fact was, that our ships-of-war were then very
inferior to those of other powers — particularly
those of Spain, at that day the first in the world ;
and the scientific writers of England on the
subject lament the inferior build and power of
our vessels which, in all their classes, were so
weak in comparison with the enemy's, that it
was overtaxing the valor of British seamen to
expect them to cope with such fearful odds
against them ; and though they kept the British
flag of that day untarnished, yet they could not
add many laurels to the national wre-ath of glo
ry, inasmuch as that in some instances, when
an English ship had absolutely beaten a Span
iard, she was not strong enough to take posses
sion of her, from sheer want of the proper powei
belonging to her class.

This was a cause of much national vexation,
and was attributed to the love of having an army
in Flanders on the part of the king, instead of
triumphant fleetsat sea. And when the activity
and courage of privateers were so successful,
these deeds of daring on the ocean were welcom
ed by the people with a rejoicing, which, in
other times, might not have been given to such a
questionable mode of warfare; and the taint of
piracy which, to a certain extent, must ever tar
nish privateering glory, however brilliant, was
overlooked at the time when vengeance upon an
enemy was the predominant feeling.

So thoroughly did this sentiment pervade all
the seaports, that the crew of a privateer were
held rather in more repute than a man-o'-war's-
man, and the chances of rich plunder held out
to all able hands engaging in the service,
brought the most dashing fellows flocking to the
privateer flag; insomuch, that if a group of par
ticularly fine seamen were walking up the main
street of a seaport town, it was reckoned certain
a privateer was in the harbor. Then, while all
the men of the port liked them for the cause
they were engaged in, the women admired them
for their good looks ; and the little boys, who are
always glad of any excuse to make a noise,
used to go hurraing after them up and down.

Thus it was that Finch and Ned and their
companions were greeted as they paraded Ports
mouth in very trim attire ; and when their equip
ment was complete, and their beautiful craft, the
Vulture (a snow), had her " blue peter" flying,
swarms of boats put off from shore, and cheered
her as she made sail. Thus it was, that with
the good wishes of all England, and a favoriag
breeze, Ned was afloat again, and yet he was
not <f,.ite happy. He could not divest himself of
the idea that privateering was only a sort of li-
cc'iiwd robbery, far worse than smuggling, which

IRISH HEIRS.

was illegal. Whatever is wrong in smuggling,
its evil effects are not so immediately apparent,
and are spread over a wider and less tangible
surface ; whereas, in the case of the privateer,
the success of the victor can only be based on
the immediate loss — perhaps ruin — of some very
few : and thus, the wrong being more apparent,
i« more startling, particularly to a nature like
Ned's, where sensibility and want of reflection
•»vere so dangerously blended. But the old temp
tation lured him on : — the phantom which love
prompted him to pursue. " Riches and Ellen,"
cried hope. What chance had a whisper of con
science after the " voice of the charmer 1" So
bracing himself up for the consequences he had
determined to dare, he bade conscience be silent
— he looked onward over the bows of the bound
ing bark, that was cleaving her way into those
" blue waters" of which Finch had spoken, when
first he fired Ned's brain with the love of ad
venture ; he was going to share in the excite
ment and peril of battle, in which he was yet
untried, and that thought strung his nerves
with new fortitude. With clenched hand he
smote his breast, and muttered, " Conscience, be
silent — I must be a man!" When his watch
was over, and he slept, he dreamed of a Spanish
galleou of enormous magnitude — they board her
— he sees her deep hold crammed full of treasure
— in the heat of the fiijht he tumbles amid the
ingots and doubloons, which open, like water, to
receive him, and he sinks into the metallic mass,
xvhich closes on him, and he feels himself crush
ed to death by Ihe enormous weight of the wealth
he has won. Hestarled and woke, butsoon slept
again, and Ellen smiled on him in his second
dream, and his waking in the morning was
happy.

Every depressing thought was cast to the
wind — to the wind that gave them wings, and
sped them onward on the path they hoped to
make golden. Onward they ploughed into the
deep Atlantic, and the bold and merry hearts of
tbe treasure-seekers expanded in revelry every
night over the " flowing can." There was one
joyous fellow in particular, who was the life and
soul of the company. He abounded in anecdote,
though now and then a dash of bitterness w;is
perceptible in his sallies, which his companions
attributed to his having been engaged in literary
pursuits, wherein men get so used to '• handling
the Toils," that they can not help hitting their
frien'ls now and then to keep their hands in
practice. He had been to a certain extent sour
ed bj1 some of his early experiences. Born in a
small town, the paltry jealousies which beset
any aspiring man, who offends his brethren by
trying to do more than they can, stuns; young
Tresham, and gave an occasional uriamiable turn
to his thoughts. Having left his native tosvn in
disgust, he proceeded to London, and won some
literary reputation. He became a contributor to
the Gen toman's Magazine, and wrote pamphlets
for par'iament-men, who wic'.ed to have the
credit of wielding a stinging pen. But his love
of pleasure ran him into difficulties, from which
his literary pay could not extricate him ; so he
joined the privateering speculations of the time,
and had already done something in the small way
near the coast. Ned admired Tresham extreme

ly, and Tresham sufficiently liked Ned, only he
said he was too sentimental by half. " You are
always talking," he would say, " about you:
' native 'and,' and all that sort of thing, xvhich
is pure nonsense, believe me. Excuse me, my
dear fellow, for the word : I don't mean it offen
sively — but nonsense it is. Now, I am of the
pure cosmopolite breed, that's the thing — noth
ing like it — cosmopolite for ever ! — "

Notwithstanding such discourse, however, Nee!
persevered in his love for his country, and was
not ashamed to avow it — nay, he even would sing
it; and one night, while enjoying their grog, as
songs were going round the board, Ned, in his
most sentimental vein, gave the following : —

2Lobe a

Xattbc

When o'er the silent deep we rove,

More fondly then our thoughts will stray
To those we leave— to those we love,

Whose prayers pursue our wat'ry way.
When in the lonely midnight hour

The sailor takes his watchful stand,
His heart then feels the holiest power

Of love, and home, and native land.

II.

In vain may tropic clirnes display

Their glittering shores — their gorgeous shells :
Though bright birds wing theT dazzling way,

And glorious flowers adorn the dells ;
Though nature there prolific, pours

The troasures of her magic hand,
The eye — but not tho heart, adores :

The heart still beats for native land.

Tresham only laughed at Ned's sentimental
ity. " You Irish fellows are the most incurable
patriots in the world — there's no curing you.
Now I'll volunteer a song on a native subject,
gentleman, if you allow me."

" Bravo ! Bravo !" exclaimed all.

" It is not about my whole native land, for
that is too extensive a subject for my limited
genius : it is only the thumping heart of an
Irishman can entertain so gigantic an affection —
I am content with a town." Then of!' he dash
ed as follows : —

Nattfae 2Toton.

We have heard of Charybdis and Scylla of old ;
Of Maelstrom the modern enough has been told. ,
Of Vesuvius's blazes all travellers bold

Have established the bright renown :
But spite of what ancients or moderns have said
Of whirlpools so deep, or volcanoes so red,
The place of all others on earth that I dread

Is rr.y beautiful native town.

II.

Where they sneer if you're poor, and they snarl if you're

rich ;

Tlu-y know every cut that you make in your flitch :
If your hose should be darn'd, they can tell ev'ry stitch ;

And they know when your wife got a gown.
The old one, they say, was made new— for the brat •
And they're sure you love mice — for you can't keep a

cat;
In the hot flame of scandal, how Mazes the fat,

When it falls in your own native town.

s. d.

nr.

If a good stream ?1 blood chance to run in your veins,
They think to remember it not worth the pains,
For losses of caste are to them all the gains,

So they treasure each base renown.
If your mother sold apples— your lather his oath,
And was cropp'd of his ears — yet you'll hear of them

both,
v IT loathing all low things they never are loath

In vour virtuous native town.

II tne dangerous heights of renown you should try

And give all the laggards below the go-by,

For fear you'd be hurt with your climbing so high,

They're the first to pull you down.
Should Fame give you wings, and you mount in despite,
They swear Fame is wrong, and that they're in the right,
And reckon you there — though you're far out of sight,

Of the owls of your native town.

Then give me the world, boys ! that's open and wide,
Where honest in purpose and honest in pride,
You are taken for just what you're worth when you're
tried,

And have paid your reckoning down.
Your coin's not mistrusted — the critical scale
Does riot weigh ev'ry piece, like a huxter at sale ;
The mint-ma: k is on it— although it might fail

To pass in your native town.

Before a word of comment could be made
upon the comparative merits of the two songs,
the report of " a sail" from the deck soon cleared
the table, and all rushed to join in the look-out.
It was soon agreed she was a merchantman ; and
the most experienced made her out to be a
': Spaniard for sartin," so all sail was made in
chase. For some time the stranger seemed to
take no notice ; but soon it was perceived her
course was altered, and sail crowded upon her,
and this made the pursuit more urgent. The
evening n iw was closing ; but before sundown,
they found they were gaining on the chase ; and
ere darkness settled over the deep, they had
neared her sufficiently to be convinced she was
" foreign," and to prove they could outsail her ;
so vigilant look-out was kept during the night,
that they might not lose her before dawn, as in
case they could but have her then within view
they could run her down before night. Fortune
favored the privateer. With every effort of nau
tical stratagem to get away during the darkness,
the Spanish ship was visible in the morning, and
an anxious chase ensued during the day, which
caused beating hearts on board both vessels. At
last the Spaniard saw she must fight, and she
prepared for action. She was a large merchant
man, well armed and ably manned ; but the su
perior sailing qualities of the privateer enabled
her to choose her position, and her better-handled
guns gave her a decided advantage, the results
of which were soon apparent. The Spaniards,
nevertheless, defended their ship gallantly ; and
it was not until a large proportion of her men
lay deid upon her deck that she struck. Then
what a thundering shout arose from the priva-
tear . how eagerly pushed off the boat to take
possession of the prize ! She was found to be a
rich one ; a large amount of treasure and a valua
ble carso secifred to the captors ample reward for
their enterprise. The bullion was at once removed
to the privateer, together with a portion of the

crew of the Spaniard ; while a draft of men from
the victorious ship was put on board the prize,
leaving a portion of her own people free, under
the armed control of the captors, for the purpose
of working the vessel ; and the few passengers
on board were allowed to remain and enjoy the
conveniences of their berths, but under the au
thority of the person put in command.

That person was Ned, who had behaved most
gallantly in the action, and who, from his sea-
manlike reputation, was accounted the fittest per
son to intrust with the prize, as Finch could not
be spared from the privateer, where his presence
was indispensable.

The first care was to repair on both the ships
the damage done in action ; and after the requi
site "fishings" and " splicings" and "knottings"
were completed, they both made the best of their
way in company toward England.

The prisoners were let up on deck by turns,
and it used to go to Ned's heart to witness their
dejected looks. But one of the passengers in
particular excited his deepest compassion. He
was an old man, of venerable aspect, on whom
an Indian climate had set its mark, rendering the
traces of time more decided ; but since the taking
of the ship ten years seemed added to his age ;
and the sunken and lustreless eye, now and then
cast up to heaven, as if accompanying some in
ward prayer for pity, but chiefly bent downward
despairingly, as he paced the deck, bore heart
rending evidence of suffering. Up and down
that deck would he pace with slow and tottering
footsteps, occasionally uttering such heavy sighs,
as though'his heart were breaking.

The Spaniards called him Don Jerome Carco-
jas, but the old man spoke English so fluently
that he would not have been taken for a foreigner
by his accent. Ned sought every opportunity to
exercise little acts of kindness toward the old
man, who seemed soothed by his attentions, and
sometimes entered into conversation with Edward,
who did his best to divert his melancholy by the
most amusing anecdotes he could recal ; and by
degrees he so won upon the captive, that their
conversations lengthened daily, and the poor old
gentleman at last used to leave his confinement
below, less for the sake of the refreshing breeze
of the deck than the society of Ned.

One very beautiful morning, as the captive
made his appearance, Ned was pacing the deck
with a light and joyous step, and singing snatches
of sea-songs. In short, Ned was in great spirits.
The ship was going swiftly through the wsiter
before a favoring breeze ; the sea sparkled
brightly; all external things were calculated to
dice'' ; and Ned was anticipating how many hun
dreds he should have for his share: and it must
be owned, that in the frequent indulgence of this
thought of late, it was wonderful how fast he
was getting rid of the conscientious scruples that
suggested themselves when he first set sail on
the expedition. As he turned lightly on his
heel to pace forward on his beat, he caught sight
of old Don Jerome, and instantly ceasing his
merry carol, accosted the old man in a gentler
tone.

"Yes, you are all life and merriment," said
the old man, sadly. "Ah! there is one about
your age, as light of heart as you are now—

IRISH HEIRS.

Sight of heart in expecting me, and in anticipating
riches in my coming, who, if he could see me here
i captive, and berefl of all my wealth, would
hang his head, and maybe weep."

Ned attempted some words of comfort, which
the old man heard with a silent shrug.

" Comfort to me !" he exclaimed, after some
minutes' silence. " I will tell you with what
hopes and intentions I was going homeward, and
then you yourself may answer how a poor disap
pointed and ruined old man may ever hold up his
head again. But God's will be done! 'Man
proposes, but God disposes.' Many years ago I
left my native country. Indeed, I ran away
from it ; abandoning parents and friends in a
wild and wilful, spirit that possessed me in my
youth : and maybe this heavy blow in my old age
is but a punishment intended by Providence for
the waywardness and disobedience of my early
years."

The old man paused and sighed, as if recollec
tions of the past brought with them bitter regret,
and Neu, in thus witnessing the gray-headed re
gret for youthful disobedience, bethought him of
his own infraction of parental authority, and
abandonment of the course wherein his father
had ordered him to walk.

The old man resumed : " Years and years
rolled on, and I never heard of home or kindred ;
but, in the bustle of young and active life, I j
thought nothing of that ; and as I prospered fast j
in worldly affairs, and not only all comforts, but
pleasures, were at my command, the present
hour always drove both the past and the future j
out of my head. But when age began to creep
on me, I had no one to care for, nor to care for
me, and then regrets for past ties began to steal
upon me, and self-reproach for early heedlessness
used to disturb my hours of solitude. At last, by
a chance intercourse with a trader, I learnt that
my brother was still alive in his native land, and
had a son, the prop of his age — a blessing I did
not possess, and I took the resolution of goin?
back to Europe with all my wealth. I converted
everything into treasure — the treasure which you
took, and is now on board your ship — and was
returning in the hope of embracing my brother,
and my nephew whom I intended to make my j
heir, and in the enjoyment of kindred to end my
days, with the hands ->f one who should love and ,
honor me to close my eyts, when it should please j
Heaven to call me away, not to be left in the i
last hour to the cold care of heartless hirelings
in a strange land. Such were my intentions ;
but worse is before me than the death I wished
to shun ; for where I expected to go back a wel- '
corned benefactor, I shall return but a burden I
and a pauper."

Tears trickled down the. old man's cheeks as
he spoke, and he sunk down exhausted on a gun-
carriage.

" 'Tis a sad tale," said Ned, laying his hand ;
gently on the old man's shoulder — " a bitter
tale !" — and he wished in his heart he had not
heard it.

" You are compassionate," said the old man,
" and compassion to the wretched is much.
There is kindness in the tone of your voice that
is welcome to me — an accent belonging to the
*ind-hearted land you came from."

Ned was surprised at such a remark upon ac
cent coming from a foreigner, and asked him to
explain himself.

"Are you not Irish 1" said Don Jerome.

"Yes."

" No wonder, then, I recognise the accent of a
countryman," returned the old man.

" I thought you were a Spaniard."

" I lived among them in their American pos
sessions for forty years, and in the course of that
time have become like one of themselves."

" And how comes your name to be Don
Jerome Carcojas ?"

" It was only a slight alteration which the
Spaniards made, to accommodate my real name
to their pronunciation — which is Corkery."

Ned started-J^asped for breath, and had he
not laid hold of the bulwark, must have fallen
upon the deck.

CHAPTER X.X.

WHAT a confused rush of contending emotions
whirled through Ned's brain, as, gasping for
breath, and his heart thumping against his ribs, he
held on for support, and cast a fearful gaze upon
the old man, who, with one word, had made him
so miserable. Poor fellow ! his case was a hard
one. He saw before him his own uncle, of whose
wealth he himself was the intended heir ; and of
that wealth he had helped to despoil him. The
compunctious visilings of conscience he experi
enced before he entered on this course of pillage
had been disregarded in his greedy desire for
wealth, and they all recurred to him at that mc~«
ment, adding weight to the blow which had fallen.
He Tell the chastising hand of Providence was
upon him ; and that, when he went forth in
violence to plunder others, the bitter retribution
was ordained that he should despoil himself.
Then in what fearful relation^ he stood to this
new-found relative ! His heart prompted that
he should embrace him ; but how could he dare
acknowledge himself his nephew — he who was
among his captors and his plunderers ?

The old man looked up, and Ned could hardly
fortify himself against the kind expression of his
glistening eye, as words of thanks were given to
him for his sympathy.

"You are a good-natured fellow," said the
sefior — " God bless you !"

The benediction was worse than curses to
Edward's ear, and he writhed under it.

" Do not think me a poor, weak old driveller,
because I droop so. I would not grieve so much
if the boy had not heard of it ; but 1 lately sent
home word of my being alive (for they thought
me dead), and of my wealth, and good intentions
toward my nephew ; and of course he, sood boy,
is full of joy and hope : and when he knows the
result, 'twill he hard for him — hard — hard! It
is crushing in early youth to receive a blow so
heavy."

Bitterly the truth of these words was felt,
while the unselfish nature of the old man's re
grcts increased Ned's anguish. " Wretch that I
am !" thought he, " that all this solicitude shou'j
be entertained for the worthless fellow who has
helped to work his ruin ; and these kind consid-

£ s. d.

sratwns be given to one wKom lie imagines far
&way, while the miscreant is at his side !"

" / liave not long to live," said the old man ;
" the grave will soon shelter me from worldly
•wo; but lie, full of youth am1 health, has long
years of regret before him for this mischance."

" True," was the response, uttered with a
pang,

" While with the wealth I could have left him,
Le nad a future of enjoyment in prospect."

A heavy sigh followed from Ned .

" Proudly might he have claimed the girl of
his heart."

These last words were as coals of fire on the
head of poor Edward, who could endure no more,
but rushed from the spot, and, hiding himself in
his berth, gave vent to the comrilsive feelings
with which his heart was bursting.

When these had run their rapid and violent
course, calmer musings succeeded ; and then it
was that Ned saw his case presented one point
of consideration which was downright ludicrous.
He was a brilliant specimen of an Irish heir, who
had destroyed the fortune to which he was to
succeed. He was his own cut-purse. — He had
come forth to shear, and was returning shorn. —
He dare not confide his case to any one. — Finch
would only laugh at, while his uncle would abhor
him ; therefore must he be doomed to imprison
the fatal secret in his own bosom, saddening his
heart, and gnawing at his conscience. What
prolonged misery he endured, on the homeward
passage, as day after day he was forced to meet
his uncle, and experience frequent repetitions of
his griefs, his thanks, and his yearnings toward
Jus nephew ! This became at last insupportable ;
it was a load his conscience could no longer bear,
and he fell it would be some alleviation of his
misery 10 confess the relationship at once, and,
by the voluntary exposure of his shame, make
some atonement for his transgression. But this
he found was no^ so easy. Often he essayed,
but, as the words of confession were rising to his
tips, hi.s courage failed, and pride was stronger
than conscience — he could not so humiliate him
self. But as the old saying hath it —

" Continual dropping will wear a stone."

And one day the expressions of affection for his
nephew, on the part of the old man, were so fer
vent, so full of thoughtful tenderness, that Ned
could stand it no longer — he felt almost choking;
his eyes glistened with rebellious tears, and ask
ing the sefior to follow to the cabin, he there
" made a clean breast of it," relating his adven
tures from the time he left home — love, smuggling
and all, and finally disclosed his name and rela
tionship to the old man, who, when the first shock
of astonishment was over, folded Ned to his
bosorn and wept over him.

" Can you forgive me ?" said Ned.

" Forgive you ?" returned his uncle. " My
poor fellow, you are more to be pitied that I am,"
were the only words of reproof the generous old
man uttered, and Ned wrung his hand with
gratitude.

*•' What I blame you most for is your not
writing to your father."

" I thought he would have disapproved of my

course of life," answered Ned, " and 1 did not
like to give him unhappiness."

" No unhappiness like uncertainty about those
we love," said his uncle; "you should kr.ow
that from your own experience."

« Oh, as for my love," said Ned, sadly, « I tc'jfl
you of it because I determined to confess all. Of
course you think it a wild and absurd vision — as
it is : nevertheless, it has led me to all I have
dared."

" Where will not love lead ?" returned the old
man, with a sigh, and a tone of tenderness in his
voice, and his sunken eye lighted with a gleam
that Edward never had marked before. " What
will it not make us dare ; what will it not make
us hope ! Think not. I blame you for entertaining
a love so much above your station. You could
not help it — I know it, boy — for I could not help
it myself. I loved as you have, Ned. But don't
fear an old man is going to prate of his love — no,
Ned, no. Love is for youth. I have s^id it,
boy, only to show you I could not blame you.
My days and hopes are past and gone, but the
thoughts still lie here — here !" and he laid his
attenuated hand on the slowly-beating heart,
which still carried in its lessened current the un-
lessened tenderness of an early and hopeless pas
sion. " Ah, Ned !" he added, with an expression
of the deepest longing in his voice, " would to
God my fortune had been yours — that you might
have claimed your love — that I might have seen
in one of my own kin, at least, the happiness that
was denied to me ; it would have been making real
before my old eyes a dream of the past to me !"

Ned suggested that their present* conference
must cease, as too protracted a tete-a-tete might
create remark on board, and remark excite ques
tions ; " and I would not for the world they should
suspect our relationship," said Ned. " How the
rascals would laugh ! and, though I have borne
the shame of avowing myself to you, I could not
bear the humiliation of being the jest of these
dare-devils."

" The laugh of scorn is a sore thing," said the
old man ; " but the humbleness which repentance
makes is consoling — do you not feel the happier,
Edward, for your confession ?"

" Oh, so much happier !" said Edward ; " but
to what merciful ears I confessed ?"

" Boy !" said his uncle, solemnly, " remember
that repentance ever begets mercy. And now let
us part for the present — fear not discovery from
me."

With these words they separated, and met no
more for that day; but every four-and-twenty
hours affprded them the ordinary meeting, and
uncle am1 nephew enjoyed the interchange 01
affection.

Ned's spirits returned as soon as he had un
burdened his conscience, and, without saying a
word of his intention to his uncle,- he had deter
mined that, whoever his share of the prize
should be, he w^'uJ hand it over to the old
man ; and, though ihis placed as wide a gulf
as ever between him and the object of his love,
it brought peace to his conscience, and the in
ward conviction of doing what was right prov
ed, as it ever must, a great consolation.

The ships were now nearing the snores of
Europe, and, one morning, Ned was usiced bf

HUSH HEIRS.

liis undo for a few minutes of secret conversa
tion. " Be sure there is* not a creature within
ear-shot of us," said the old man.

Ned took his opportunity for obtaining the pri
vacy his uncle required, and the old man told
nun he had a secret to reveal which might in
some measure retrieve their fortunes.

" It sometimes happens," said he, " that, when
^hips are taken by privateers, some stronger-
handed plunderer, under another flag, may wrest
the prize from the first captor ; and this has hap
pened so often of late, that privateers make it a
rule to seize upon all the treasure they can find,
and convey it on board their own bottoms, in
case ot tho worst; and that, however ships and
cargoes ma/ slip through their fingers, they, at
least, will make sure of the pieces of eight. Now
my boxes of xreasure have been so served by your
friends, and are on board the privateer yonder,
b'lt, when I kft the main, in case of accident,
I—"

The old man paused, and cast a look of alarm
toward the door.

" Did you not hear a noise ?" said he, in an
under tone, to Ned.

Ned answered in the negative ; and, opening
the door to see that no one listened, his uncle
was reassured, and continued.

" In case of the worst, I — " again he paused,
looked round, and, lowering his voice to a whis
per, continued, " I concealed no inconsiderable
sum of gold in the bags of snuff which are among
this cartro."

" Well," said Ned, breathlessly, "what then?"'

* If you can only procure some trusty agent on
snore to buy all this snuff when the cargo is put
up for auction, as it will be soon after we get
into port, then — "

"We should possess the gold," interrupted
Ned.

" Exactly."

" Uncle," said Ned, after a moment's pause,
and with a heavy sigh, as if he regretted what
he was forced to say, " it would be dishonor
able."

" Dishonorable !" exclaimed the old man in
surprise. " Talk of honor*with thieves like
these ?"

"Yes," said Ned, "the principle has passed
into an old saying —

* Honor among thieves ;'

and I will not violate it ; I am of them — I came
out with them, as we all came, to risk our lives
for gold — banded together in daring and in dan
ger; and though the fates have been unkind to
me in the venture, nevertheless I can not recon
cile it to myself to play this trick upon my ship
mates."

"You are a romantically-honorable fellow,
Ned !" sni 1 his uncle. " I would not have you
obtain wealth if you have a scruple about the
menns."

"If you think of any way in which you your
self coull manage to procure an agency for this
purpose," saidNe:!, "I will say nothing about it;
though I am not sure if that is not a breach of
tru^t: and question if I am not bound in strict
honor to tell them this."

"I can not have such an agency," said his

uncle ; " that is quite out of the question, utter
stranger as I am in England; but, as for telling
them, Ned, do not tell them yet ; they have not
got us into port, and there are slips ' between the
cup ard the lip.' France and Spain have their
privateers and ships-of-war as well as England,
and, if a Spaniard should retake us — "

The old man became suddenly silent, for a
hasty step was heard 'descending the companion-
ladder; the door of the cabin was opened, and
the mate popped in his heaJ *o say the privateer
was making signals.

Ned hurried to the deck, a.id, glass in hand,
was on the alert to answer his consort. The
signals gave notice of a strange sail, and also
told the prize to keep closer company. To
achieve this, the privateer shortened, while the
prize made all the sail she could ; and when a cou
ple of hours had brought them sufficiently near,
a boat was ordered from the Spaniard to the pri-
vateeer, where Ned received orders how to man
age the ship through the night : for the night was
approaching, and so was the strange sail, whose
aspect was not pleasing to the company on board
the Snow, for it looked ship-of-war-ish, and not
friendly; and though the privateer might be
equal in sailing, the prize certainly was not. It
was debated for some time whether the two ships
in company might be able to beat off the enemy,
should she prove such ; or if it would not be more
advisable to throw overboard the guns of the
prize, which, thus lightened, might have a better
chance to run for it. It is scarcely necessary to
say which way the question was decided. When
did the question ever lie between fighting and
running, that the British seaman did not thro.w
up his hat for the fight ? Ned was sent back,
therefore, with orders to keep close to the priva
teer during the night, and, in case of an attack
from the strange sail, to make a good bull-dog
defence of it. while the privateer should take ev
ery advantage of position, and make her shot
tell. That the prize might be the better able to
keep her colors to the mast, an additional draft
of men was given for the working of her guns;
for, hitherto, as she sailed under the protecting
cannon of the privateer, she only numbered hands
enough to work the ship, without any view to
fighting; but, now that danger threatened, this
necessary supply to her guns was afforded, while,
at the same time, Ned received the order to make
a possible sail he could during the night to
avoid the necessity of hostile collision. Rever
sing the order of the noted sea song, which
says —

' We'll fipht while we can — when we can't, boys, we'll
run '."

Ned's duty was precisely the reverse —

"We'll run while we can — when we can't, liovs, we'll
fight '"

As the boats rowed to the prize, the last red
rays of the sun tipped ench wave with crimson,
and seemed to forbode blood. At least, so fan
cied Ned, who went back silently and full of
thought. The announcement of a stiange sail
at the very moment his uncle suggested such
a chance, struck him as remarkable, and was re
ceived with the superstitious reverence of a sail-
or. Then, if the sail should turn out to be

•
74

£ s. d.

Spanish, that he should be intrusted with the
d<- tcnce of a ship which, for his uncle's, and for
his own conscience's sake, he should wish to be
retaken, was an embarrassing circumstance — for
here were wishes divided against duty ; and, in
such a frame of mind, what man could wish to
fight ?

With a depression of spirits rare with Ned, he
stepped on board and resumed the command of
the ship, whose deck he never quitted through
out the whole of the night ; during which gloomy
forebodings overcast his spirit, when the inter
vals of the anxious duty he had to perform gave
thought a moment's liberty. A presentiment that
he was doomed to fall, haunted his midnight
watch; and when, as the dawn revealed the
cold dead level of surrounding waiters, the strange
sail loomed larger in pursuit, he felt the fight
was inevitable, and braced himself with the
manly determination honestly and resolutely to
defend his ship.

The sun now rose above the horizon, and
morning, with its freshness and its brightness,
sparkled over the waters. In another hour the
pursuing ship fired a gun and showed French
colors. The privateer and her prize took no no
tice. In half an hour more the chase-guns of
the Frenchman were opened on the flying ships,
and, every ten minutes, as Ned looked over the
taii'rail of the Spanish merchantman, he saw the
shot falling closer astern.

CHAPTER XX.

THE affair of the china closet had' spread over
Paris rapidly, and the defeat of so able a strate
gist as Marshal Saxe was looked upon as too
good a joke to be laid on the shelf; the conse
quence, therefore, was that the redoubtable count,
hitherto invincible in love and war, felt so much
of ridicule attach to the adventure, that he quit
ted the capital and retired to his chateau. But
before he withdrew he prepared a terrible retal
iation upon Ellen, fully in the spirit of the threat
with which he quitted the house of Madame :]f
Jumillac on the day of his defeat. He procured
lettres de cachet against Ellen and her father, on
the ground of their being in reality nothing bet
ter than English spies, while they were appa
rently attached to the cause of the exiled Stuart.

Lynch, it was his intention to consign to the
Bastile, where he would be irrecoverably beyond
all means of counteracting the marshal's designs,
and protecting his beautiful daughter, whom the
count destined for an imprisonment not so dis
mal, but more detestable than that of the Bastile
itself.

It was not the first time the count had availed
himself of that most iniquitous engine of all tyr
annies, the Ic.ftre de cachet, for the accomplish
ment of his Hberiine desires; and he was not the
only one who m ide it serve other purposes than
those for which it was supposed to be intended.
This unquestioaed measure of imprisonment, for
whose exercise n<. one in the executive was re
sponsible, indented to uphold the despotism of
the crown, was toe frequently used to serve the

purposes of a licentious court ; and the person
whom the leltre de cachet dragged from the bo
som of home, was not always consigned to the
J3astile. That place served for troublesome fa
thers, husbands, or brothers, while the surround
ing chateaux of the voluptuous capital more fre
quently were the prisons of ladies who fell within
the grasp of this secret instrument of unscrupu
lous power.

This seems almost incredible now, when the
tyranny that disgraced France has been sub
verted for ever, and popular privilege based on
the ruins of regal oppression ; but, in the days
of which our story treats, the crown, its minions,
and the seignorie of France, held undisputed
power over all the lives, liberties, and honor of
the people — that people who, driven at last to
desperation, rose in maddened masses on their
tyrants, and took swift and terrible vengeance —
a vengeance so bloody, and so fraught with hu
man suffering, that we shudder to remember ; but
at which, if we consider the provocation, we can
scarcely wonder.

The marshal had retired, we have said, to his
country retreat. It was the celebrated royal
chateau of Chambor, which had been present*!
to him by the king as a mark of his favor foi the
brilliant services of the soldier ; and the gift was
the more prized by the gallant count, that it had
been a favorite retreat cf one whose name stands
highest in the list of chivalry. Here Francis I.
had enjoyed his voluptuous leisure; and this
palace, built by the gallant king, had been since
dedicated by many a monarch to pleasure, and
was not likely to have its celebrity impaired, in
that respect, by its present occupant. Saxe had
determined to make a double capture of father
and daughter; and, armed with his terrible war
rants for their arrest, waited till Lynch should
return to Paris before he should consign him to
a dungeon, and carry off' Ellen to the ch&leau.

At last that moment arrived, and Saxe was
awaiting the arrival of an emissary he had sum
moned, in that very chamber which, doubtless,
had often been the scene of intrigue — that little
room which yet bore evidence on its window-
pane of the presence, in by-gone days, of the
gallant founder of the fabric, whose hand had
traced there the well-known couplet — •

" Convent femme varie
Ma! hubil qui s'y fie."

The count was not alone. Voltaire, who was
then on a visit with him, had just risen from the
breakfast-table, and was scanning the couplet on
the glass with his keen eyes, marking the form
and cut of every letter. In the meantime the
servant of the marshal's pleasures entered, re
ceived some sealed pacquels from his master to
be delivered in Paris, together with strict in
junctions to be sure and swift in the matter of
which he before had received the private com
mands of the count.

The emissary, with the assurance that "mon~
seigneur might depend on him;" bowed low, and
left the chamber on his fearful mission. The
marshal flung himself back in his fauteuil, and
watched Voltaire as he was still looking ot tha
couplet of Francis.

"That seems to fascinate you," said Saxe

IRISH HEIRS.

u Is it the autograph or the sentiment you ad
mire ?"

" I am amused,'' said Voltaire, " at the vanity
and conceit of the royal rhymer."

" I can not see either in the lines," said the
marshal.

" The man," said Voltaire, " who puts a coup
let thus en evidence, thinks his production very
clever ; and I do not see any great exercise of
ability in discovering what he has taken so
much pains to engrave."

" But is it not true ?" returned the count.

" Certainlv ; but I only said it was not
clever."

" Yet the saying is known all .over Europe ;
and that which has lived two centuries has some
claim to distinction."

" It has lived because it is true," said Voltaire.
" Truth is immortal. At the same time it must
be avowed this is a very common-place truth,
and derives its immortality not from Francis : for
I doubt very much if a king had not written it,
and written it thus, that every sight-seer in Eu
rope might tell, on going home, he had seen the
celebrated writing on the window of the Chateau
de. Chamber, that the lines would have survived
his reign. No; its immortality may be derived
from a more respectable antiquity than two cen
turies, for women were much the same two thou
sand years before as two hundred after Francis."

" All I pretend to say is," said the marshal,
" that Louis now might just as fitly and truly
write those lines as Francis."

" Yes, my friend," returned Voltaire ; " and
BO might Pericles have written of Aspasia, or
Ca?sar of Cleopatra ; or, to go back to the begin
ning, I believe, if there had been another man
in the world immediately after the creation,
Adam might have carved the same saying on the
tree of knowledge."

The count laughed at the conceit, and Vol
taire smiled at the success of his sally ; and, ac
cording to the tactics of wits by profession, who
are glad to retire after saying a " good thing,"
he made the excuse of being obliged to write, to
make his bow for awhile ; and, after these two
skeptics in human virtue had amused themselves
at the expense of the oft-abused gentler sex, the
marshal, settling himself into a position of greater
ease in his chair, dropped into a luxurious doze,
and dreamed of La belle Irlandaise.

It was the third day after, that the marshal's
messenger was approaching Paris, and about the
same time Prince Charles Edward and his ad
herents were holding council at his little court in
its neighborhood. The French cabinet had re
fused open aid in his cause, and seemed disin
clined, if not unable to give him anything more
than good wishes : these were at his service in
abundance — but good wishes will not supply the
sinew? of war. Many of his adherents went so
far as to believe that the professions of the French
government were all hollow ; and that the desire
for peace with England made them hesitate in
making any movement in favor of the young pre
tender.

Lynch was most indignant of all. He had run
the extremity of risk in extensively recruiting in
Ireland for the Irish brigade in the service of
France, believing (as he was led to believe), that

the entire brigade would be given to the service
of his "rightful king," as he called Charles, and
believed him to be : but when he found that this
was not to be the case, his indignation was deep,
and partook of that disgust which honest and
earnest natures feel at breach of faith.

" Did they think," he would say, " that I wov.ld
have made myself a recruiting officer for Louis 1
Did they imagine I would enlist Irishmen to shed
their blood for French quarrels and French glo
ry ? Insolent ! — I enlisted my countrymen for
the cause of their king — to strengthen that gal- •
lant brigade which I fondly hoped should have
the largest share in placing him on his rightfu.1
throne ; and what is my reward 1 I see not only
their swords refused in that holy cause, but even
worse ; many of the brave fellows I enlisted have
not been enrolled in their native brigade, but
drafted here and there into French regiments, in
utter violation of the understanding with which
I embarked in the desperate cause of enlistment
in Ireland. Curse them ! And he, their great
marshal — gallant and able though he be, staining
his laurels by a profligacy so unblushing, tha»
even the honor of a soldier's daughter, which
should be sacred in his eyes, is held as nothing!
Oh, the profligacy of the time and place disgust
me, and I long to be quit of the infected land !"

While debating the affairs of the prince, he
would say, " Strike at once ! — While the terrors
of Fontenoi still hang over Geqrge, make a de
scent on Scotland."

This he had repeated more than once at the
present council held by Charles Edward, and the
prince declared himself to be of the same opin
ion.

"If I go alone'" exclaimed Charles, with en
ergy, " I will show myself in Scotland, and trust
to the loyal hearts there to rally round their
prince."

"If we could even get a thousand regular
troops," said Drummond.

" The happy time is more to be considered
than men," said Charles.

"And if we bring arms, we'll find men to bear
them," added Lynch.

"True," said Charles. "And some expert of
ficers will accompany me, who will soon teach
them discipline."

"The arms you can have, prince," said a se
cret agent of the government.

"And a swift brig of eighteen guns lies this
moment at the mouth of the Loire, ready for your
highness's service," said Lynch.

" And 1 will venture to promise," said the gov
ernment agent, " that one ship-cf-war shall sai\
in your company, and give protection ; while a
portion of the officers of the Irish brigade can be
allowed leave, and may join the expedition. So
far the government is willing to wink at the aid
rendered ; but, under existing circumstances, any
more open demonstration in your cause, prince,
is impossible."

After some further debate, in which details
were entered into unnecessary to particularize
here, it was agreed that the adherents of Charles
should proceed to the mouth of the Loire, and
hold themselves in readiness for embarknticn, for
which the arrival of the promised frigate should
be the signal. Lynch informed the prince thai

X s. d.

Walsh, the Bourdeaux merchant, was already at
Nantes, and had three thousand gold pieces at
his highness's service, and also a house there
ready for his reception.

Lynch was called from the conference at this
moment, at the urgent desire of a messenger,
~yho had manifestly ridden hard, for his horse
was reeking and dripping wet, as he stood at the
door panting for breath. The messenger handed
him a note; he broke the seal hastily, and
read —

"BELOVED FATHER,

" As you value all that is dear to you
and to me, return here instantly. Your own

"ELLEN."

The urgency of the note made him contract his
brow as he read; he cast an eager glance of
inquiry at the servant, Who answered the look by
words.

"Mademoiselle desired you should take my
horse, sir."

In another minute Lynch was in the saddle,
and riding at speed to Paris. On reaching the
house of Madame de Jumillac, and asking for
his daughter, a servant told him he would con
duct him to where mademoiselle was, and, open
ing the hall-door, led the way to the street.

"Has she been taken from the house, then?"
asked her father in alarm.

"Mademoiselle left the house suddenly, mon
sieur, with madarne and another lady in a car
riage."

Lynch's uneasiness was somewhat appeased at
the thought of Madame de Jumillac being still
in Ellen's society; but he "-"pd the servant to
speed, and, walking at a rapid pace, they were
not long in reaching a handsome house ; there,
on Lynch presenting his name, he was imme
diately ushered to an apartment, where, amid
objects of taste, which adorned the chamber, and
furniture of the utmost elegance, a quantity of
shabby-looking clothes were strewed about the
floor, or hung upon the chairs, making a contrast
too startling not to be observed by Lynch, whose
wonder was increased by seems; Ellen standing
amid a heap of boddices, petticoats, caps, and
jerkins, of all fashions, she herself wearing a
peasant's costume, which was nearly completed,
the finishing touches being in the act of comple
tion at the hands of a very lovely woman. There
was one remarkable trait in this affair ; it was,
that, though engaged seemingly in preparing for
a masquerade, which usually inspires mirth, there
was rather a serious and business-like air about
the whole proceeding, and an expression of anx
iety shadowing every face.

On Lynch's entrance, he was receive:! by the
beautiful lady who was acting tyre-woman, with
an air of supreme elegance; and, as he was
taxing his memory to recall where he had seen
her before, Ellen advanced to her father, and,
hastily expressing her delight at seeing him in
safety, begged to present him to Mademoiselle le
Couvreur.

An involuntary expression of something be-
.ween surprise and displeasure passed across his
face, as Lynch saw his daughter thus engaged in
offices of intimacy with one whose reputation

was not stainless; and Madame dt
with all the quickness of a French -woman, ad
vanced, and said —

" You know not, Monsieur le Capitainc, hew
deeply we are indebted to Mademoiselle le Couv
reur."

She then commenced an explanation of I he af
fair to Lynch ; the purport was, in brief, this :
Adrienne had, in some way which she did not
think it necessary to explain, got information of
the Count de Saxe's infamous design; and she,
though herself not a model of purity, had, never
theless, enough of a woman's sympathies remain
ing to shudder at the thought of the marshal's
plot, and hastened at once to the house of Mad
ame de Jumillac to give warning of the impend
ing danger, and suggest a mode of escape.
Adrienne, aware there was no time to lose, hur
ried Madame and Ellen away instantly irom their
home to her own house, where she ordered the
superintendent of the wardrobe of the theatre to
be in attendance, with a choice of peasant cos
tumes, both male and female.

It so happened that the day was the octave of
the feast of Corpus Chri.iti, on which day the
Bastile was always thrown open Tor public in-
spection, and was visited by the surrounding
peasantry of Paris in thousands, who were anx
ious to see the interior of this prison-fortress,
whose name carried with it so much of mystery
and terror. Adrienne, therefore, suggested that
Ellen and her father, in the disguise of peasants,
should visit the Bastile ; and, wandering about
there all day amid the crowd, find safety, by be
ing in the very spot to which there was a gov
ernment order to convey them; judging, truly,
that, of all places in Paris, the Bastile must be
the last where they would be sought for, and that
in the evening they could pass the barriers se
curely among the groups of country people then
quitting the ci,y.

Ellen's disguise was now completed ; the only
difficulty Adrienne experienced being to keep
down her beauty as much as possible. Contrary
to all the regular rules of the toilette, her object
was to make the lady look ugly instead of hand
some; but, witli all the skill of an experienced
and accomplished actress, used to the artifices 01
personal disguise, this was more than even Ad
rienne le Couvreur could accomplish.

When Lynch heard of the infamous design on
foot against him and his daughter, his indigna
tion knew no bounds ; he lost all patience, and
burst into a fierce and terrible invective against
the marshal, clutching the handle of his sword
at intervals, as though he longed for the extre
mity of vengeance, and even suggesting the pos
sibility of his hastening at once to >!ie libertine's
retreat, and demanding satisfaction at the point
of the sword. From such fruitless passion and
vain actempt he was at length cooled down and
dissuaded by the persuasive words of the ladies,
who now retired from the chamber with Adri
enne, she promising to Lynch the immediate at
tendance of the theatrical wardrobe-keeper, whc
would do as much for him as had been accom
plished for Ellen.

"Observe," said Adrienne, "I have made
believe that all this masquerading is but for the
fulfilment of a little bit of private fun: so cleai

IRISH HEIRS.

your brow, monsieur, and seem to treat the
atl'air as a bagatelle."

With these words she retired, asd the dramat
ic dresser made his appearance, and in some
twenty minutes the captain of the Irish brigade
was converted into a rustic, and might have
. passed for the " Antoine" or " Basil" of some
pastoral farce.

When the ladies were allowed to return to the
room, Adrienne gave some finishing strokes to
the " making up" of Lynch, and father and
daughter were prepared to go forth on their pil
grimage. The next point of consideration was,
whither they should fly when they were passed
the barriers, for concealment for any time near
the city was impossible.

" Opportunely," said Lynch, " I was on the
point of departing for Nantes, and this only has
tens the journey a few days."

''Your road thither lies directly toward Cham-
fror," said Madame de Jumillac, in alarm.

" All the better," said Adrienne. "When it
is found that ihe birds are flown, none will sus
pect they are flying toward the net of the fowler."

It was then arranged that Madame de Jumil
lac should drive to Prince Charles Edward, tell
what had occurred, and ask him to procure a
passport as if for one of his own adherents, who
were were in the habit of being permitted to
travel under feigned names ; and that, under fa
vor of night, they should meet at a safe place
of rendezvous near Paris, named by Adrienne,
and thence Ellen and her father hasten to the
coast. Such necessary preliminaries being ar
ranged, Ellen uttered unfeigned and touching
thanks to Mademoiselle le Couvreur ; and re
ceiving in return kind wishes for the success of
the plot, father and daughter, as Basi' and An
nette, went forth upon the streets, and ^weeded
to the B:istile. As they approached tr fortress
they mingled in the crowd of peasantn, and as
similated themselves as much as possible to their
gait and manner, and imitated the upturned looks
of surprise and gaping wonder which were be
stowed on the lofty and ponderous towers. They
crossed the drawbridge, and as they passed un
der the low-browed arch, and Ellen felt herself
within the prison, she shuddered at the thought
of discovery, and clung closer to her father. An
admonitory look, and a whispered word of cau
tion, recalled her to self-possession, and she af-
iected an ease to which her heart was a stranger.
Sometimes they stopped to hear the remarks of
some spokesman of a group, who pointed out
something worthy of observation, or made some
remark in a levity of spirit ill-suited to the
place, which made his hearers laugh.

" Heaven pity the poor captive," thought El
len, " who hears the thoughtless laughter of
• those who come to see the place of his misery !
How bitterly must a laugh sound to him !"

Ellen observed a turnkey eying her intently ;
the Jjaze was,'1 in fact, attributable to the brute's
admiration, but to her it seemed as if he sus
pected her, and, with the cunning peculiar to
his craft, saw through her disguise. Her heart
sunk within her; and as her arm touched her
father he felt her shudder. Asain his words
were used to reass ire her, but she took occasion
to point out the turnkey to his observation.

" How that man looks at me !"
"Because he thinks you are pretty, Nell, no
moro. Steady, my girl, and fear nothing." The
turnkey approached, and chucking her under the
chin with as galliard an air as the savage could
assume, said, —

' There's a pretty girl ! — you're pretty enough
for a lady, my dear."

' Pretty enough for a lady ! — Could he mean
anything?" — Ellen attempted a smile, but it
was very faint. The turnkey thought it was
shyness.

" You are too pretty to be bashful, my dear,"
he said. " I should think you have soft things
said to you too often to be surprised. This is
your father, I suppose, with you."

" Yes sir," said Ellen ; " but he is deaf; and,
as he can not hear what is said, he never speaks
much." .

She said this to exonerate her father from the
necessity of speaking, for his accent had not
that purity which hers possessed, — a purity
which could deceive a native ; — besides, her
power of imitation was such, that she could
mimic the patois of many districts, and dreaded
not present discovery on the score of language.
"Then, if he is deaf I may say what I like
to you, — eh / — that was not a bad hint of yours,"
said the fellow, with a wink.

Ellen shook her head, as much as to say he
must not go too far.

" You're the prettiest girl in your village, I'll
be sworn. Where do you come from ?"
" Lonjumeau, sir."

" Lonjumeau ! — ah, I like the girls of Lonju
meau well. Do you know Etienne Barollus
who lives there ?"

" No, sir," replied Ellen, sorry she had hit on
a village in which he had acquaintances.
'•'I expect him to-day."
Ellen devoutly hoped he would not come.
" But, as he has not arrived, I'll wait no mor'
here, where I promised to stay for him ; and Ir.
show you the whole place, if you like."

Ellen thanked him for his orler; and? grw
I of peasants taking advantage of this su'-lar.^
won through a pretty face, were r-crroIdeJ, a*
asking leave, to join the ]>a«^/, of vfni'-.h LHcc
was quite the queen; antf no peasants c»'er had
such satisfactory sight-seeing in the Bast lie as
that group that day. TTnere was nothins deser
ving of notice neg'.ee' _'d by the turnkey ; the nar
rowest spiral stair of its topmost tower, and the
lowest and mo'.l noisome depths of its -switter~
rains, were exhibited in the truest pride of a
showrrsn, »vho cared little whether it was their
| kneej or their hearts, he made ache, so he ex-
| cited their wonder; for the more they wondered
the greater man was he; and as the greater
nian, of course, the more acceptable to the pretty
girl for whose sake all this was done. Occasion
ally, a halt was obtained, by his stopping at
some particular place to point out where a stone
had been once ingeniously removed, or an iron
bar cut through, to achieve an escape ; and such
recitals made within the walls of this terrible
prison, whose very stones seemed to deny the
possibility of the tale, added such wonder to
these stories, that they surpassed the marvels of
(airy lore. The turnkey, seeing thf incredulous

£ s. d.

looks sometimes cast upon him, and sometimes
even called upon to answer doubting querists,
who would venture to question the janitor in
that peculiar excitement which an interest in an

which makes a restorative so desirable, aud
therefore gladly accepted the proffered hospital
ity ; and though the wine was but poor stud, it
was most welcome. After giving another i,>Ia;-9
to her fathe'r, the turnkey pledged them both in

escape from bondage always makes, would beg to her father, the t

to remind them that only few,, very few, had ever a brimmer himself; and as he smacked his la

succeeded in such achievements. " No, no," he
would say, "when once people get in here, they
don't so out in a hurry. There, for example,"

protruding lips, assured Ellen a girl might dc
worse than marry a turnkey. This was sai'i
with a very significant look of admiration at

and"he banged his ponderous bunch of keys j her, and a self-satisfied grin, which showed that

against a door as he spoke—" inside there is a the gentleman stood on very good terms will

himself.

" I can not often

prisoner who has never been out of his cell for
thirty years!" What a chill' the words cast
over his hearers ! As for Ellen, she felt it to
her heart's very centre, and put up an inward
prayer for God's special mercy over her father
and herself in that day of danger, and prayed
that, with the shades of evening, his guardian
spirit might descend to shield them through
their many perils. This thought for self-preser
vation once passed, her gentle nature winced
as her imagination reverted to the poor captive
within that door whereon the crash of those
ponderous keys had fallen. What did he think
of that startling noise ? — was it the executioner
come to claim him ? — was the hour arrived
when death should relieve him from his misery ?
— did he hope so ; or did the love of life still
exist in the withered heart of that poor captive ?
— or did he remember that this was the day when
his prison was open to public view? Did he
rejoice in hearing the hum of human voices —
this evidence of the presence of his fellows,
even through his prison-door ? — or did the con
trast of their freedom with his captivity make
bondage more bitter ? Or was some remnant
of human pride still left to be wounded at the
thought that his door was pointed out, like some
cage in a menagerie, as containing some special
monster demanding heavier bars, and peculiar
watching?

Link after link of such heavy thoughts weigh
ed down her spirit till she almost wept, while
the turnkey thought he was doing the most ami
able thing in the world, and making himself
particularly agreeable.

Passing along one of the broader and more
airy passages, he stopped at another door, and,
shoving i* open, said to Ellen, " You may look
in there,'"' and pointed the way. She hesitated ;
her ordin&ry courage was subdued by the appal
ling influ< rces with which she was surrounded ;
and a thought shot through her brain, that, if
she entered within that door, it might be shut
upon her! She shuddered at the terrible ima
gining.

" What are you afraid of ?" said 'the Cerbe
rus, laughing. " 'Tis only my own room ; come
in !" and he led the way, beckoning Ellen and
her father to follow, while the crowd remained
outside.

The chamber seemed to be nofhing more than
a hollow in the thickness of the wall, but was
made as comfortable as such a place could be.
Its owner opening a little cupboard that hung in
a corner, produced a bottle of wine, and a glass,
which he filled, and offered to Ellen, remarking
that sight-seeing was tiresome work, and that
there was yet much more to be gone over.

Ellen had experienced that sinking of heart

jet leave to go out," sai;l he
: but the first time I can go to Lonjumeau, I \\nj
call and see you."

Ellen assured him it would give her and hei
father much pleasure.

" Whereabouts do you live there ?"
This was rather a puzzler, for Ellen had named
Lonjumeau on the spur of the moment, when he
asked her where she came from^and knew but little
of the place; she therefore was obliged to shelter
herself under fresh inventions every step she
took, and, for the present, said she knew but little
of the village, as they had only removed to it
within a few days.

Oh, new comers," said the turnkey. "But
then you know where your own house is."

" Oh yes," said she, " to be sure. I am not so
silly as not to know my own house, though I am
only a country girl."

" No, you don't look much like a fool," said
the turnkey.

" La ! how ready you gentlemen of the city are
at making compliment," returned Ellen.

" Why, who could be uncivil to you ?" said he,
with a smirk. "But where do you live ? — tell me
that."

" You low the post-house," said Ellen — that
being thvrJy place in the whole village she her
self knev anything about, and only knowing that
by having changed horses once in passing through.
" To be sure I know it," said the turnkey.
" Well, as you pass the post-house, there is a
turn down to the left."

" I know it," said the turnkey — " there's a
grocer's shop at the corner."

" I believe there is," said Ellen ; '• but I have
such a bad memory, and have been such a short
time there — but turn down at that corner, and
there are some houses — "

" A great many," said the turnkey.
" Well, there's where we live," said Ellen.
" But in which ?" said the turnkey, who was
determined on making a visit.

" Do you remember any palings there ?" asked
Ellen, fishing for knowledge.
" To be sure I do — on the left."
"Just so!" said Ellen. "La! how clever
you city gentlemen are ! you know everything, if
you only see with half an eye."

" Oh, I remember quite well," said the turn
key, stimulated to further description, "some
small houses with vines on their front."
"The very houses," said Ellen.
" There is a house near," pursued he, " with
a remarkable chimney."

Ellen, afraid of engaging too much in particu
lars, said she was not sure.

" You must have seen this chimney."

IRISH HEIRS.

"I'm not sure about the chimney, sir, but I am
certain I have seen smoke," said Ellen, with
well-affected simplicity.

" Tut ! you pretty simpleton," said the turn
key, " your eyes are too good not to make better
use of them."

" 'Tis the I »urth house, sir," pursued Ellen.

" The fourth. Very well, I'll find you out."

" You can't miss it, sir."

" But, in case of accident, you may as well
give me your name, too, that I might inquire in
the neighborhood."

" My name is Annette Claudet, sir," she an
swered; and her admirer, satisfied with his in
quiries, and promising a visit the first opportu
nity, offered another glass of wine, which being
declined by father and daughter, he played turn
key on the bottle ; and having locked it up again
in his corner cupboard, pursued his course of ex
hibition over the prison.

There was a garden he showed, where the
more favored prisoners were permitted to take
exercise. To Ellen it seemed as if the few sick
ly flowers were languishing for liberty, and could
not bloom in bondage; and the weakly trees ap
peared to have outgrown their strength in stretch
ing upward, in the hopeless endeavor to get a
peep over the wall at the nature outside, for
which they pined. "What melancholy reflec
tions," thought Ellen, " is this garden calculated
to excite in those who are indulged in the use of
its walks, if they look on it as I do !" Thus
every fresh object she saw impressed her more
And more with a sadness approaching desponden-
£j; and though she knew the place afforded her
temporary concealment, she longed for the ap
proach of evening, which, would place her once
more outside its walls, and permit her and her
father to pass unsuspected amid the peasant
groups beyond the barriers of that city, where,
even now, they were sought for by the myrmidons
of power.

The wished-for time at length arrived ; the
Bastile began to pour forth the gaping crowds of
idlers ; and among the earliest of the departing
groups were the disguised fugitives, who had the
good fortune to pass the barriers in safety, and
breathed freer as they found themselves on the
open road ; and when half an hour more placed
them among quiet hedges, then Ellen, taking her
father's hand, and ut^ring a fervent ejaculation
of thankfulness to Heaven, ventured to express
her belief that they were now in safety. A walk
of a few miles brought them to the appointed
place, where they might expect to see their
friends ; and as they approached the house, they
saw one of its windows open, which commanded
a view of the Paris road ; and, peeping from be
hind its curtains, the lovely face of Adrienne,
beamed with a benevolent joy as she caught the
first glimpse of the fugitives, and knew they were
safe. AfW waving a welcome to them, she re
tired from the win-low; and by the time they
reached the little entrance gate, the hand of Ad
rienne herself had drawn its bolt, and father
and daughter were received in a pretty little par
terre, and gratulations were warmly exchanged
among the party.

"Is Madame de Jumillac here?" inquired
Ellen.

" No," answered Adrienne. " But. before you
ask any questions, you must sit aown, and sub
mit to regular eating and drinking; for neither
you, nor Monsieur le Capilaine, can have had
any refreshment for many hours, and remember,
you have a long journey before you."

Ellen and her father obeyed the hospitable
command, given with so much grace and kind
ness, and partook of an elegant repast prepareJ
for them ; after which Adrienne told them how
matters had fared since they had parted in the
morning. It was not long after their disguise
had been completed, that Madame de Jumillac's
house was visited, and strict search made foi
Lynch and his daughter; which, failing there,
was pursued into other quarters, the rank even
of Prince Charles Edward not screening his re
tirement from invasion.

"Under these circumstances," said Adrienne,
"it was impossible that madame, or even the
prince, could be of the slis,.Uest use in conduct
ing the affair ; therefore you must pardon me if I
undertook to act in the place of your friends, and
I hope you will not think me intrusive in thus
becoming an agent in your safety ; but you must
perceive at once, that any passports obtained
through those channels would have put your pur
suers on your track, and, therefore, I advised
Madame de Jumillac to let me procure them, and
further entreated her to forego the desire she had
of bidding you farewell. Here is a letter she in
trusted to my care for you, mademoiselle," hand
ing Ellen a note, which was hastily opened, and
read with suffused eyes, as the expressions of
touching tenderness reached her heart. "And
here, monsieur is your passport. You had better
look over it to see under what name you travel ;
and then the sooner you both cast your disguise
and prepare for the road the better, for a post-
chaise will be here anon, and it is needless to
counsel speed under such circumstances."

Her advice was followed ; and when Lynch
and Ellen had resumed their proper attire, and
returned to the apartment where they had left
Adrienne, they found her engaged in packing up
a little basket, which she handed to Ellen, saying
that as they must travel all night, she had put up
a few confitures, and some little restoratives,
which might be agreeable in the morning, when
she would feel exhausted after her night's fatigue.

"How thoughtful! — even to such trifles as
these — you have been for my sake, dear madame,"
said Ellen, offering her hand.

Adrienne pressed it tenderly touched at the
earnestness of her manner ; and the word "dear,"
so uttered, and coming from such pure lips,
sounded to her sensitive soul little short of a
blessing.

" Let me kiss your hand !" said Adrienne, re
spectfully, and as if she felt she asked a fnvor.

The gentle soul of Ellen was touched at this
proof of an erring woman's sense of her loss of
caste — and that at a moment when so much wag
due to her. With all the warm heart and en
thusiasm of her country, Ellen threw wide her
arms, and, while heaven-born tears sprang to her
eyes, she exclaimed, " My hand ! — how can you
ask for my hand only ? — come to my heart !"

In a moment they were locked in each other's
arms; and Lyoch, stern tnough he was in his

£ s. d.

morality, blamed not the noble nature of his pure
child in thus mingling her embraces. He looked
on in silence, through which the sobs of the two
women were audible, and for some minutes nei
ther could speak.

At length Adrienne assumed her self-command,
and, clearing the tears from her eyes, gazed on
Ellen for an instant with a look of admiration
and gratitude. "You are a noble creature," said
she, " and worthy of all that could be done for
you."

" And what have you not done ?" answered
Ellen, " preserved to me my father I"

" And deeper still my debt," said Lynch, " you
have preserved to me a daughter.

" We must part," said Adrienne. " The car
riage waits, and time is precious. Come !" She
led to the entrance as she spoke; and as they
jtepped out into the parterre the soft beams of the
moon shed a soothing light on all things.

"And now, farewell, and Heaven speed you !"
she said, turning to Ellen. The moonlight fell
full upon her fair forehead and deep and lustrous
eyes, and Adrienne thought she seemed more like
n being of heaven than earth.

"You are like an angel," she said, with al
most devotion in her voice, " and those soft sweet
eyes beam peace into my very soul." She stoop
ed and plucked a stem from a rose-tree ; " I will
keep these roses," she said, " in remembrance of
this hour ; and whenever I see them they will re
call the benign look of those angelic eyes, and I
can fancy that a seraph for once looked kindly
on me."

" Give me one of those flowers," said Ellen,
" 'twill be precious to me as to you."

They divided the stem between them ; and af
ter a few last parting words, and a fervent bles
sing from Adrienne, Ellen and her father entered
the carriage, and started on their toilsome and
perilous journey.

For many miles they were silent ; both were
occupied with their thoughts — those of Ellen re
verting to the scene in which she had been en
gaged, while Lynch's were cast forward to the
journey before them, for the accomplishment of
which one serious consideration pressed upon
him, namely that he doubted if the money he had
about him would be sufficient to carry them
through. He entered into conversation with El
len on this point at la'st, and they held a gloomy
council of war as they drove through the dark
ness, for by this time the moon had set. It was
decided at last that they should exert themselves
to pass Blois as soon as possible ; for, until then,
while between Paris and the seat of the marshal,
they must run the risk of encountering his emis
saries, should they be delayed at any intermediate
post. A calculation of miles versus money was
entered into, and Lynch, on reckoning up his
cash, almost doubted being able to accomplish
this object. They dare not write to Paris for
money, as a letter might tend to trace them,
therefore they must send a letter all the way to
Nantes to obtain supplies. It was in such anx
ious debate the night was passed, and horses
changed throughout the darkness at the succes
sive posts; and the dawn besan to break on the
sleepless travellers, as they approached the town
of Etampes. There is something peculiarly grate

ful to the senses in the return of day, when yon
have been journeying for many hours through
darkness ; and to spirits like those of our travel
lers, overcast with anxieties for the future, that
darkness was yet more drear. It was with pecu
liar welcome, therefore, that they saw fhe first
rays of the sun burst from their purple bondage
in the east, and sparkle on the dewy vineyards
through which they now were travelling. Pleas
ant slopes, too, here and there, were stretching
down to the river Juine, and the sweet aspect of
smiling nature shed balm on Ellen's spirit. The
spires of the town appeared in the distance, ri
sing among its surrounding meadows, and the
morning chimes of the bells of St. Martin floated
on the refreshing breeze ; the postillicn cracked
his whip with more energy, and the jaded hacks
pricked. their ears, and seemed to step cut more
cheerfully, in expectation of the rack and man
ger of the hostelrie. In half an hour they were
entering on the skirts of the town, and Lynch
suggested to Ellen that she should refresh her
self with breakfast, but assuring him she i'elt no
inclination as yet for the morning meal, they
merely changed horses and pursued their jour
ney. The truth was, Ellen was anxious to spare
their purse as much as possible, and had deter
mined that the little basket of confitures should
satisfy any craving of nature until she had passed
Blois. On reaching their next post, however,
her father again urged her to take some break
fast, but Ellen commenced unlacing her little
basket, and told him, with a significant nod, thai
breakfast, dinner, and supper, for the next two
days, were in that little basket.

Lynch understood her motive in an instant
and urged her to be sure she was not overrating
her strength ; but Ellen, with a sweet smile of
assurance, bade him be content on that point.
He called her a brave girl, declared she might
give even an old soldier a lesson on prudence,
and, acting on her suggestion, said he would 'sub
sist on an occasional crust and buvelte (as a hasty
cup of refreshment was called) until their point
of danger was past. He quitted the post-chaise,
and entered the little inn to call for a cup of light
wine, for Lynch, being an old campaigner, was
not afraid of that beverage in the morning. As
a pretty lively grisette was handing him the drink,
Ellen suddenly entered the house, her face beam
ing with excitement, and having ordered the girl
to bring them breakfast directly, took her fathers
arm, and led him into the parlor of the inn.
Lynch could not account for this sudden revolu-
lution in Ellen's determination, and her change
of manner.

"Oh, father!" she exclaimed, while the flush
of emotion restored the color to her cheek, "that
noble creature !"

The words would have been unintelligible, but
that she opened the little basket as she spoke3
| and there, lyinsr among the confitures, vi&s a pnrst
well stored with gold.

Lynch could not speak, nor Ellen utter anoth

er word, but with trembling lip and disteninp

eye she stood looking at her silent father till hei

heart was full to overflowing, and, unable ]rn<rer

! to repress her emotion, she threw herself on hi?

! breo?t and wept.

i Ellen was not a crying lady, by any means :

IRISH HEIRS.

but her tears on this occasion may be pardoned,
when we consider the sudden revulsion of her
feelings. At this point of need, when, to save
a few livres, she was willing to abstain from
needful sustenance, and opened her little basket,
content with the slender support it contained —
heedless of hunger in the mc*e necessary desire
for flight, at such a moment to see a full purse
was enough to make a full heart, and a stoic only
could be calm ; the difficulties and dangers which
beset them were lessened by this timely supply.
and the demon AVant, that so lately threatened
to be in league with their enemies, was over
come.

The smiling grisette now made her appear
ance, the table was soon spread for breakfast,
and cheerfully did father and daughter sit down
to their morning repast.

" What is the name of this village, my girl ?"
inquired Lynch. ,

" It is called Montdcsir, monsieur."

" An appropriate name," said Ellen to her fa
ther, " for the place where we have found what
was so much to be wished for; d Montdcsir fai
trouvc rnvn dcsir."

" Come !" said her father, " I am glad to
see you are merry enough to make a calem-
bourg."

They both, however, displayed renovated spir
its ; and he was as willing to listen to as she to
utter lively sallies — for lively she was. She had
quite shaken off' the gloom which oppressed her
overnight; for it seemed f her that fate was in
clined to favor their esc «, and Ellen augured
well of the remainder of eir journey. No time
was lost, however, in p' oiins; it ; fresh horses
were ordered, and now . at they had got those
golden wings which can transport the traveller
with accelerated speed, a trifling douceur in the
stables always secured the best pair of horses,
and a bribe to the postillion pushed them to their
best pace, so that the next fifty miles were much
sooner passed than the former, and they were en
abled to dine at Orleans. Here Lynch ofTered
Ellen a few hours' rest; but she preferred the
prosecution of their journey, and another ni?ht
of travel was undertaken. The next morning
saw them approaching Blois ; this, the point they
were anxious to pass, was reached in safety; and
now they were within twelve miles of the man
who sought their capture : little did the marshal
know how near to him was the prey his myrmi
dons were then seeking in Paris. This proximity
to their enemy made Ellen very anxious, how
ever, and she besjged her father to make no fur
ther delay than change of horses required. Even
at Chousy and Veuve she refused any refresh
ment; and it was not until reaching Haut Chan-
tier that she took a slight breakfast. On they
sped again, and reached Tours in time for din
ner; which Ellen enjoyed more than her break
fast, as her courage rose in proportion to the
distance placed between them and their enemy.
Her father suggested some rest at Tours ; but as
there were still some hours of the day available,
Ellen declared herself stiong enough to pursue
the journey further. Fresh horses were therefore
ordered ; and now, leaving the southern route,
they struck ofl to the right, westward, making
for the coast ; and having achieved two posts
6

and a half, Ellen was content to give the night
to sleep, and they rested at Pile St. Marc.

CHAPTER XXI.

IT was one morning, early in July, 1745, tnat
a large merchantman was seen, under jurymasts,
making what sail she could up the Loire, assist
ed in ascending the stream by being in tow of a
handsome French corvette, whose prize she
seemed to be. On reaching Port Launai they
dropped their anchors, as the sands prevented
vessels of their burden proceeding higher.

A boat was lowered from the corvette, and
the captain went on shore to report himself.
Being congratulated on bringing in a prize, he
replied, the prize was not so very much, as
she was a Spaniard, retaken from an English
privateer ; and, therefore, as the vessel of a
friendly state, they could only claim salvage upon
her.

" To judge from her masts," said the officer
with whom he spoke, " you did not get her with
out blows."

"No; the Englishmen fought like devils, and
a great number were killed ; such as there are I
will send up to Nantes when the tide makes. By-
the-by, that is a very pretty brig that lies in the
river ; do you know what she is ?"

" It is suspected she is meant for the service
of the Chevalier St. George. You know whom I
mean !" ,

" To be sure I do. Wasn't I at Dunkirk when
the troops were embarked in his cause, and didn't
I barely escape going on the rocks ? Parbleu !
I shan't forget that gale in a hurry ! So he has
got something in the wind again ?"

" So it is rumored here."

" Well, I wish him better weather than he had
last — that's all — good by !"

As the naval officer was returning to his boat,
he was accosted by a gentleman, who held out
his hand, and claimed acquaintance.

" Do you not remember me ?" said the stran
ger.

" I have a recollection of your features, and
yet I can not recall where it was we met."

" You don't forget Dunkirk ?" inquired the
stranger.

" Ah ! I have it now. The Irish brigade — you
were on Tsoard my ship — "

" The same."

" Glad to see you," said the sailor, shaking
him heartily by the hand. " But you arc not in
uniform now, that is the reason I did not remeiu
ber you."

" Is the corvette here, captain ?" asked the
stranger.

" Yes, there she lies yonder."

" Might I speak a word in private with
you ?"

" Certainly. I am going on board this moment,
will you come ?"

"Willingly."

" Something brewing, I suppose," said th<i
captain, with a significant nod, and pointing l«
the pretty brig.

£ s. d.

" We will speak of that when we get OR
board," returned the stranger.

With these words he followed the captain to
his boat, and they were rapidly rowed to the
corvette; and as they passed the prize, which
was lying close alongside, a voice shouted loudly,
" Captain Lynch ! Captain Lynch ! !"

Lynch — for the strange companion of the na
val commander was he, looked up, and, with no
small surprise, saw Ned leaning over the bul
wark of the merchantman, and waving his hand
as he called to him, saying he wished to speak
with him.

Lynch explained to the Frenchman Ned's de
sire, which the captain said should be gratified,
as he would send for him to come on board the
corvette. " 'Tis a strange chance that yon
should meet here," said the Frenchman. "Do
you know him well ?"

•' Not intimately," said Lynch. " But all I
know of him I have reason to like, for he has
laid me twice under obligation — once deeply so.
He is a very spirited young fellow."

" I'll swear to that," said the Frenchman ; " for
I never saw a man fight a ship more gallantly."

" But what brought him fighting on board a
Spanish ship ?" inquired Lynch.

" That is a most extraordinary piece of ro
mance, which I can't pretend to tell you, but
which of course he can enlighten you upon when
you see him. His uncle, who is owner of the
ship, and a Spanish subject, interceded with me
not to confine your young friend with the rest of
the prisoners, but to grant him parole ; and as I
had proved^ him to be a gallant fellow, I made
the old man happy in acceding to his request.
And now for this private affair of your own," he
added, as he led him into the cabin of the cor
vette, and pointed to a seat.

"You are right in your supposition about the
brig yonder," said Lynch.— « I need say no
more,— for the less said about secret expeditions
the better; and however you may receive what
I have to propose, you, of course, will affect to
know nothing about our designs. We are all
ready on board, but we dare not, in so lightlv-
armed a vessel, venture to sail in British waters.
We hove been led to expect, in an underhand
wa/ (for the government will do nothing for us
openly), the protection of a sixty-gun ship but
she is not yet arrived, and we may be disap
pointed in the end, while every day's delay is
detrimental to our cause. Now, as you are
cruising in the Atlantic, could you not just as
well take a turn with us to the northward, and
I am prepared to promise the prince would not
be ungrateful."

The captain said he dare not act without or
ders ; that everything connected with the marine
was cavilled at in those days — that no commander
might risk the slightest overstepping of duty.

Lynch continued to tempt the sailor, suggest
ing many modes whereby he might excuse or
justify "a Wj!e n.vi toward Scotland." "For
distance," he said, " could you not suppose, yon
saw a sail, and say you chased tt ?'v

"You forget, my 'friend, that there are other
eyes than a captain's on board ship, and that
there are accounts kept of our doings. I dare
fcot comply with your request."

Lynch finding it vain, gave up his attempt,
and returned to the deck, where he found Nee
had already arrived, and cordial was the greet-
ting he gave him, reminding him they had not
seen each other since the night they parted at
Courlrai.

" And that you presented me With a sword/'
said Ned.

" Which I heard you made brave use of," re
turned Lynch.

Ned hereupon ventured to hope Ellen ^;,s well,
coloring so deeply as he spoke, that it was plain
the inquiry was not uninteresting to him.

Lynch answered in the affirmative; and said
she would be glad to see him if the captain
would extend his parole to a visit on shore ; " for
I hear you are a prisoner," said he, "and that
there is some very strange piece of romance about
this affair in which you have been engaged."

Ned owned it %vas so, and that he should be
delighted to relate to him the circumstances of
the adventure, if he would favor him with a
visit on board the meitbantman.

Lynch consented, and Ned was delighted, for
he had many objects in view in getting Lynch on
board. In the first place, though he would not
join in practising a deceit on his shipmates re
garding the gold concealed in the snuff, he had
no such scruples about Frenchmen, and hoped
to obtain through Lynch an agency by which
this money might be recovered. In the next
place, he wished Lynch to understand that he
was his uncle's heir, and was anxious to set be
fore the eyes of his fair one's father the wealth
to which he should succeed. Great was Ned's
joy, therefore, when he saw Lynch set his foot
on the deck of the merchantman, and presented
to him Senhor Carcojas, for he still assumed the
Spaniard, while Ned retained the name of Fitz
gerald.

After giving a rapid account of his privateer
ing adventure, Ned then confided to Lynch the
secret of the hidden gold, and the means where
by it might be saved, concluding with asking
Lynch's assistance.

Lynch paused for a moment, and, after some
consideration, said he knew a little of the cap
tain of the corvette, with whom he had once
sailed, and though he should be glad to oblige
Ned, yet, for the interest of a gentleman to
whom he had only just been introduced, he
would not like to interfere in such an affair.

"Allow me on that point, sir," said Ned, "to
set you right. — My uncle's generosity permits
me to say, that what is his — is mine ; therefore,
in giving us your aid in this, you oblige me
rather than him."

" Well, that alters the case," said Lynch,
" and as I owe you my good offices, perhaps I
may assist you."

" Ah, sir !" said old Jerome, — " do not say
perhaps, — say you will. Did you but know the
ardent desires that have, ,»ut this boy of mine on
his adventures, I am sure you would sympathize
with him. He has been acting under the do
minion of a romantic passion, which spnired
him to seek sudden wealth in desperate adven
ture., in the doing which he unconsciously de
spoiled me, his uncle. Chance le;l hire to dis.
cover this, and though he might have kept the

IRISH HEIRS.

secret, his conscience would not let him ; he hu
miliated himself in repentant acknowledgment
before me, and that act of grace won him
lasting favor in my eyes. Since then, the hon
orable spirit to his companions in adventure,
which urged him to defend this ship to the ut
most, against his own interest, has raised him in
my esteem, and therefore I beg to repeat to you,
sir, that whatever is mine is iiis; and as I have
told you the love of a lady has been the prime
mover in all his afl'airs, I may as well be candid
with you, and tell you also, that not only what
ever is mine is his — but is also — your daugh
ter's — if she will do him the honor to share it
with him."

Tli is was a most unexpected proposition to
Lynch, who was silent for some minutes, during
which Ned, who was rather " taken aback" by
his uncle's out-speaking, hung down his head,
dared not look at Ellen's father.

When Lynch broke silence, it was in a ques
tion to Ned. — " Does my daughter know you
love her ?" said he.

" She does."

" Is the love returned J£'

" I dare not hope that," said Edward. — " It
was in those few hurried moments of danger at
Bruses, which you alluded to, that I had the
hardihood to throw myself at her feet."

" And what did she answer ?"

" Nothing, in fact," said Ned. " She did not
encourage — but — I may say — neither did she dis
dain me."

" Fairly answered," returned Lynch ; "and I
will as fairly tell you my intention for her is an
other alliance.''

Ned could not answer in words, but there was
an expression of despair in the look he cast up
on Lynch more eloquent than language, — so el
oquent that it touched him. And he continued,
— " At the same time I must confess she has
given no answer on the subject ; and on a sub
ject so serious, she shall never be controlled by
me to accept — however I may consider myself
justified in the authority to object, — or, at least,
delay."

Peculiar emphasis was laid on the last word ;
and it was painful to watch the changes that
passed over Edward's face as the sentences fol
lowed each other.

" Now I have two propositions to make," con
tinued Lynch. " There is an expedition under
taken to replace the rightful king c° England on
his throne ; in that expedition we want brave
men and ready money. Now, sir," said he, ad
dressing the old man, " if I get your valuable
snuff out of jeopardy, will you advance a loan
of a thousand pieces to Prince Charles, to pro-
ture arms and ammunition, which we need ?"

" Willingly," said the old man. « I wish his
cause well."

" And will you," he said to Edward, " give
the aid of a bold heart and able hands to the
cause, as the price of my consent ?"

" With all my heart !" said Ned.

" I must make this additional proviso," added
Lynch, " that until our expedition has struck its
blow, no word of love must pass between you
and m^ daughter."

This damped Ned's rising spirits ; but it was

such a brightening of his hopes to have his pre
tensions entertained in the least, that he agreed
to the condition, but hoped he might be permitted
to see her.

Her father consented to this, and Ned's heart
bounded with joy ; but a sudden difficulty pre
sented itself to him in the recollection that he
was a prisoner.

" That is difficulty easily got over," said
Lynch ; " offer to enlist in the Irish Brigade, and
the commandant of Nantes will be ready enough
to give you your liberty ; and, when once en
rolled, it will be easy to manage that you join
the expedition.

Lynch set out for Nantes at once, where Ned's
liberation was effected ; and the secret of the
gold was confided to Walsh, the merchant, who,
in consequence, became the purchaser of the
snuff when the cargo of the prize was offered
for sale, which it was in a few days. This val
uable lot of tobacco was sent off to a private
store, where the peouliar virtues of the snuff
were extracted ; and though, in modern times,
much is asserted in flaming advertisements of
the rare qualities of certain eye snuffs, we ven
ture to affirm that no snuff was ever so good
for anybody's eyes as that proved to Don Je
rome's.

The thousand promised pieces were f.anded
over for Charles Edward's service, and a com
mission promised to Ned in the first regiment the
prince should raise on his landing.

Ned was now among the most impatient of all
for the arrival of the promised convoy ; he longed
to embark in the expedition, which, by engaging
him in the honorable profession of arms, would
elevate him at once to the rank he desired — a
rank entitling him to the company of a peer, or
the hand of a lady. But as yet he had not seen
Ellen, though her father assured him he should
before they sailed ; day after day passed, how
ever, without this promised pleasure being ful
filled. At length the Elizabeth, a ship of sixty-
seven guns, was reported to be waiting at Belle-
isle, to convoy the brig ; and the stores were at
once forwarded to the man-of-war, and the prince's
adherents given notice to hold themselves in
readiness for embarkation on the morrow. In
the meantime they were all invited to an enter
tainment that evening, which the prince gave be
fore his departure. There were a few young
nobles and men of rank who had followed him
to Nantes — some to join him in the expedition,
some to witness his departure, and breathe good
wishes for speed and safety to his sails. Among
this goodly company were some noble ladies ; and
his fast friend, the young'Duke de Buillon, graced
this gallant little circle. Hitherto, all these gay
people, as well as the prince, observed great qui
etness while waiting for the arrival of the con
voy, wishing the intended expedition to be as
little bruited as possible ; but now that the hour
of departure had arrived, one brilliant meeting
was agreed to, where hopeful hearts might cheer
the ad /enturer with parting gratulations, fair lips
whisper blessings on his course, and brimming
glasses foam to the heartfelt toast of success to
the throne-seeker.

There are times w.hen the great find it their
interest to be gracious"; and at this parting r«

£ s. d.

onion given by the prince, there were no excep
tions made among his adherents. Walsh, the
merchant, was there, and Ned, as the young gen
tleman who was to have a commission, was pre
sented to the prince ; and his uncle, who had ad
vanced the thousand pieces, was also a guest.
It may be imagined how Ned's love of gentility
was gratified by being presented to a real, live
prince — joining in the same party with noble la
dies, and a whole duke, to say nothing of some
clippings of nobility that were scattered about.
But beyond this was his joy at seeing his lovely
Ellen once more. She received him with a most
gracious smile, and spoke with him for a good
while; sharing her conversation, however, with
Kinvan, who kept near her, and seemed studious
in his attentions. "Ah!" thought Ned, "there
he is again." It was manifest her father favored
the suit of Kirwan ; and the promise under- which
Ned was bound placed him at a sad disadvan
tage — he was pledged not to speak one word of
love ; but Ned, however, could not help looking
it ; and he met Ellen's eyes two or three times
in the course of the evening, in a way no wo
man could misunderstand. She — La belle Irlan-
daise — received the choicest courtesies of the
most distinguished men in the room ; her foot
was lightest in the dance, her lip most eloquent
in repartee, though fair forms and quick wits
were there. Brightly passed that evening ; every
heart seemed wrought to its highest bent ; and
flashing eyes and brilliant smiles met Charles
Edward on every side, shedding hopefulness over
his spirit, and seeming to prognosticate triumph
to that expedition which ended so fatally.

" Brightly then, to Fancy's seeming,
The wily web of Fate was gleaming ;
The warp was gold, of dazzling sheen,
But dark the weft she wove between."

So wrote one in after years ; one who then
was present, and smiled and hoped like the rest.
And sweet voices were there, and lays of the
gallant troubadours were sung, as befitting such
a meeting. One beautiful girl gave an old ro-
maunt of Provence — one of those strang* con
ceits which breathe of love and chivalry. We
shall try a metrical version of the quaint old
thing, which was called —

(Slobc.

" To horse ! to horse !" the trumpet sings, midst clank

of spear and shield ;
The knight into his saddle springs, and rushes to the

fieid !
A. lady looked from out her bower, the stately knight

drew near,
And from her snowy hand she dropt her glove upon his

spear.
He placed it on his helmet's crest, and joined the gal

lant band ;
* The lady's glove it nc w is mine, but soon I'll win the

hand !"

ir.

Ibore the plunging tide of fight their plumes now

dance like spray;
tad many a crest of note and might bore proudly

through the fray ;

But still the little glove was seen the forcmott of the

band ;
And deadly blows the fiercest fell from that fair ltdy'i

hand !
Before him every focman flies ; his onset none can

stand ;
More fatal e'en than ladies' eyes was that fair lady'f

hand !

And now the trumpet sounds retreat, the foeman drops
his crest ;

The figlit is past, the sun has set, and all have sunl to
rest —

Save one, who spurs his panting steed back from the
conquering band ;

And he who won the lady's glove now claims the lady's
hand.

'Tis won ! 'tis won ! — that gallant knight is proudest in
the land ;

Oh, what can nerve the soldier's arm like hope of la
dy's hand !

The song, of course, was received with enthu
siasm, where so many soldiers were present ;
and as the exclamations of " brave," and " cliar-
inant," ran from lip to lip, Ned was curious to
know what the meaning of the song was which
pleased so much, antt inquired of Ellen, who
hastily gave him the point of the romance.

Ned was quite charmed with the idea, which
inspired him with the notion of making it serve
himself a good turn. He had promised not to
speak of love to Ellen, but to "give her a hint"
now lay so fair before him, he could not resist it.
Bowing low beside her chair, he said in a voice
sweet with lovingness, " Do you know >.hat I
have got a glove of yours already ?"

" A glove of mine 1" said Ellen, in surprise,
and blushing at the obvious implication.

" Yes," he said, and was going to tell her how
he obtained it, when Lynch approached, and he
could say no more. She was soon led again lo
dance, and Ned had no further opportunity of
exchanging a word with her. Supper soon after
was announced, and a bright last hour was
spent ; foaming pledges of champagne passed
round the brilliant board; and, at last, the part
ing toast of success to the expedition was given.
The glasses were drained, and flung backward
over each man's head, that their brims, so hon
ored, might never bear a toast less precious.
The ladies rose and waved their handkerchiefs,
and tears of excitement glistened on bright checks
that were dimpled with smiles of gratulation.
The joyous party broke up, and soon the dawn
appeared of that busy day which was to see the
adventurers on the water. Port Launai was a
scene of bustle at an early hour : .a swift cutter
lay ready to bear the larger portion of the prince's
adherents on board the Elizabeth, which lay out
side the harbor of Belleisle, while a chosen few
should bear the prince company on board the
Doutelle. Among these were Lynch and his
daughter; and before Ned embarked on board
the cutter, he had the mortification to see Kirwan
hand Ellen into one of the Doutelle's boats, and
seat himself beside her, followed by her father
and Walsh, who sailed on board his own brig, to
do the honors to the prince.

Thus was he separated again from Ellen, while
his rival had the advantage of bearing her com
pany. Ned was unsrullont enough, however, to
make a very horrid speech to himself. " She'lJ

IRISH HEIRS.

be sea-sick," thought Ned, "and won't be in
much humor for love-making- that's a comfort."

Oh, fie ! Ned.

He, at the same time, felt a pride in being on
board the ship which should protect the bark
that bore his " ladye-love ;" and when, with fa
voring breeze, the two vessels in company stood
out to sea, there was no eye watched the beauti-'
ful Doutelle so eagerly as Ned's.

For three days they thus kept company, and
were unobserved by the British cruisers ; but on
the fourth, a ship bearing the English flag hove
in sight, and bore down on them. Under present
circumstances, to avoid a hostile collision was de
sirable : therefore, every effort was made to get
ofl' without an action ; but from the point the
wind blew, the Englishman had the power to
force them to battle ; and though inferior, by ten
guns, to the Elizabeth, determined to engage her,
and the bris of 18 as well. The French man-
of-war cleared for action, and took a position be
tween the enemy and the DouteUe, whose men
were at their quarters also, ready to assist her
consort, and annoy the British ship, who now
opened her guns, as she bore down gallantly
against such odds. The Frenchman returned
the fire with promptitude, and the shot soon be
gan to tell un both sides ; in ten minutes more
the Lion and Elizabeth were hard at it, pouring
broadsides into each other with murderous effect.
And now it was that the Doutelle might have
done good service ; though her weight of metal
could not have damaged much so large a ship as
the Lion, yet her guns, well used, might have
annoyed her considerably, while engaged with a
vessel of superior force ; but, shame to tell, she
sheered off, and made all sail, in a disgraceful
flight, leaving her consort to sustain the whole
brunt of the action, which was fiercely main
tained for six hours ; after which, both ships
were so damaged, that they mutually gave up the
contest. The Elizabeth was in too shattered a
condition to keep the sea ; therefore she returned
to her own shores — a fatal mischance for Charles
Edward, for she bore all the military stores.
How drooped the hearts of his adherents on
board as they thought of the unprovided state in
which their prince would reach Scotland, should
he dare to continue his course ! But heavier
drooped the heart of poor Ned, who saw himself
again separated from all that was dear to him on
earth, without the smallest chance of knowing
where or when he might ever see her more.

CHAPTER XXII.

WHILE Ned was grieving for his separation
from Ellen, Finch was regrettin? the loss of Ned.
The gallant fight Ned sustained in the merchant
man enhanced his value in Finch's eyes ; and
when the overwhelming fire of the corvette
drove the privateer from the support of her
prize, and forced her to seek in flight her own
safety and that of the treasure she had already
secured, Finch was moved to a deeper regret for
Ned's mishap in falling into the enemy's hands
thaft his nature was often susceptible of enter
taining; while in this mood,, and while Ned's

gallantry was fresh in their memories, Finch
proposed to the crew, that, in the division of their
booty, when they should return, Ned and his
gallant companions in the prize should not be
forgotten, but their shares allotted and set aside,
in case they should survive and return to En
gland to claim them. This, with that generosity
which characterizes seamen, was readily agreed
to, and the privateer having suffered considera
bly in the action, it was considered advisable to
return to port, to secure what they had already
got, and refit before they should seek more, un
less some small prize should fall in their way.
Their good luck prevailed in this respect ; they
picked up a little French merchantman after a
run of a couple of days, which raised the spirits
of the adventurers, and greatly consoled them
for the loss of the Spaniard. They should have
the satisfaction, too, of " lugging something after
them" into port — a great joy to Jack, — and
when, after much vigilance to keep clear of the
swarm of privateers, both French and Spanish,
that hovered about the mouth of the channel,
they caught the first glimpse of their own cliffs,
where security awaited them, how the heart of
every seaman bounded ! There is no one has
the same delight and pride in his native land as
a sailor, — it beats that of a landsman hollow ; —
nor can we wonder at this if we consider the
circumstances that engender the feeling : — Is it
not most natural, that, after long and dangerous
absences on the waste of waters, the sight of
his own shores should touch the seaman's heart?
— that he should rejoice in the coming pleasure
of embracing those who wept his departure and
shall smile at his return ? —

" 'Tie sweet to know there is an eye to mark
Our corning — and grow brighter wheu we come :" —

and though the thought could not be so beauti
fully expressed by the rough tar, still is it felt as
deeply. In anticipation he pictures the bright
glance of joy with which his wife or his sweet
heart will rush to his embrace, — he opens his
arms on empty air, and folds them on his breast,
— he fancies the loved one is within them, and
in the delusion of the moment exclaims, " Bless
her !"

Even such gentle emotions stirred some of the
hearts among the dare-devils on board the pri
vateer; and as they filled the cup to drink
** Welcome home to old England," Tresham
found a ready echo in every bosom as he raised
his voice in praise of the " white cliffs." Never
was song hailed with louder welcome, nor joined
in with heartier chorus, than these careless
rhymes which picture the vessel returning " from
foreign," lowering her boats over the side, and
bearing the islanders to their nati.'e strand : —

THE boat that left yon vessel's side

Swift as the sea-bird's win?,
l).»tli skim across the sparkling tide

Like an eiirhantrd tiling !
Enchantment, there, may bear ft pftrt,

Her mi-jlit is in each oar,
For hive inspires eacli island heart

That ncars its native snore ,

£ s. d.

And as they gajrly speed along,
Tbe breeze before them bears their song- :
"Oh, merrily row boys— menily '.
Beud the oar to the bounding skiff,
Of every shore
Wide ocean o er,
There's none like our own white cliff '."

Through sparkling foam they bound — they dart-

The much-loved shore they nigh —
With deeper panting beats each heart,

More brightly beams each eye !
As on the dowded strand they seek

Some well-known form to trace,
In hopes to meet some blushing cheek,

Or wife, or child's embrace ;
The oar the spray now faster flings,
More gayly yet each seaman sings:

"Oh, merrily row, bojs — merrily '.
Head the oar to the bounding skiff,
Of every shore.
Wide ocean o'er,
There's none like our own white cliff '

Before sun-down the privateer had dropped her
anchor in a native harbor, and the scene repre
sented by the fancy of the bard was enacted in
reality. The shoreward boats — the plashing
oars — the eager eyes and expectant friends — all,
all were there ; and the sailors flushed with
prize-money, anJ their friends willing to spend
it with them, made the town boisterous with
their festivity ; and

Midnight shout and revelry,
Tipsy dance and jollity

ruled the " small hours" of the four-and-twenty.

Finch came on shore, but did not join in such
rude mirth. He proceeded to London, prefer
ring to spend any spare time he could afford,
there ; and really anxious to tell the good-heart
ed landlady the luck of his adventure, and re
turn the sum she had lent him. On reaching
the capital he proceeded at once to his old haunt ;
and the first object which attracted his attention
in the bar, was Phaidrig-na-pib petting the land
lady's little girl on his knee ; and the familiarity
of the child with the blind piper indicated that
Le had something like a family position in the
establishment.

Finch hailed the piper.

" Arrah, is that yourself, then, so soon back ?"
exclaimed Phaidrig.

" You know me, then," said Finch.

" To be sure I do."

"What's my name, then."

" Sure I heard you spake more than once,
Captain Finch ; and once is enough for me.
Why is not the young masther with you." He
meant Ned.

" How do you know he is not with me ?" en
quired Finch, in surprise.

" Oh, by a way of my own : — where is he ?"

" I am sorry to tell you he is a prisoner."

" Oh, my poor fellow .'" exclaimed Phaidrig,
in distress, clapping his hands : " A prisoner !
— Who cotch him ?"

" The French."

" The Lord be praised !" said Phaidrig, as if
kis mind was greatly relieved.

Finch, in surprise, asked why be gave thanks
for his friend bein:,' taken prisoner by the French.

" Bekaze I was afeerd it was the English had
him," said Phaidrig.

" And would you rather he was prisoner ia
France than England ?"

" Faix, I would ; sure he might meet with
some friends there. The Sr.gade is there, and
if all fails, can't he list ? Thr, th, that Brigade
— .my blessin' on it — is as good as a small estate
to the wild young Irish gentry. Besides, if a
sartin person I know is in France, and knew of
the lad being there, he'd give him a lift, I go
bail."

" I guess the person you mean."

" Throth, you don't :— how could you ?"

Finch whispered a name, and a few secret
words, in Phaidrig's ear, to which the piper re
plied by a long low whistle ; and, turning up his
face, and fixing his sightless eyes as though he
would look at Finch, exclaimed in a suppressed
tone, " Tare-an-ouns — how did you know that ?"

" Oh, a way of inr own — as you said to me
just now."

" Come up, come up," said Phaidri?, rising
and leading the way : " Come up to the little
room, and we'll talk — we mustn't spake in the
bar here."

He led the way up-stairs, and Finch and he
were soon seated in a snug little bed-room, where
Phaidrig's hat and pipes, hanging against the
wall, indicated the apartment to be his own.

" You seem quite at home here," said Finch.

"Oh yes," answered Phaidrig; "the misthris
is a kind crayther : — Afther you and Misther
Ned went off in that hurry, she took pity on me,
as a dark man, without friends, in a strange
place, and offered me shelther till it plazed rne to
go back to Ireland ; so the few days I was resting
here I used to play the pipes below-stairs to rise
the money for the journey, and, by dad, the peo
ple used to like it so well — (the pipes I mane)
— that they came twice to hear me, and brought
a frind with them, so that when I was thinking
of making a start of it for Ireland, Mrs. Banks,
the darlin', comes to me, and, says she, ' Fay-
drig,' says she, for *he English can't get their
tongues round the fine soft sound of our lan
guage, at all, and does be always clippin' it, like
the coin* — the crayther could no more get the
fine mouthful of soft sound, than climb the moon
— she couldn't say Faw-dkrig for the life of her;
but she has a fine soft heart for all that ; and
says she, < I wish you'd continue playing in the
house,' says she, ' for you are bringing custom
to it, and to make you as comfortable as I can,
and not give you the throuble of groping your
way along the streets,' says she, ' you shall have
a room in the house, and share of the best that
is going.' "

" I suppose the end of all this is," said Finch,
" that you have married the widow ?"

"Oh, no, captain," said Phaidrig, laughing;
" faix I never tried to get at the soft side of her
heart; and I'll tell you why — because it might
gel her into throuble — as you'll see, when I tell
you all in a minute or two more — and I wouldn't
hurt or harm her for the world, for she's as fine
a hearted crayther as ever breathed the blessed
air of life."

"That she is, indeed," said Finch.

" Well — I stayed when she asked me — and,

• Coin-clipping was a common offence at the te-ioiL '

IRISH HEIRS.

somehow or other, there woi many genthry came
ubout the house when they heerd an Irish piper
was here, and among them, from time to time, I
got the ' hard-word'* that there were warm hearts
here in London for one that was ' over the wa
ter,'! an<l ^ey used to ask me to private parties
to play, ' by the way ;'| but it was probing me
deep, they wor, about the hopes 'of the ' black
bird' in the bushes in owld Ireland ; and I have
seen more than one noble lord about the malther."

" JUors, I have uo doubt," said Finch, with em
phasis.

•'What do you mane t" inquired the piper.

"Put a Barry to that," was the answer.

"Wow, wow!" ejaculated Phaidrig; "I see
you know more than I thought. Well, my Lord
Barrymore hears from Scotland regular; and we
ore towld that we jaay be expectin' somethin'
there afore long."

" I have no doubt of it," said Finch.

" All then, now, captain," said Phaidrig, "don't
be' angry if I ask you one question" —

" Not if you ask me fifty," said Finch.

"How comes it, that, being in with our side,
you go on the sea and attack the French and
Spaniards, that would help us ?"

" A fair question, Phaidrig ; and I'll give as
fair an answer : when I was engaged in the
' free-trade,'§ as we call it, I had occasional com
munications with the adherents of 'Somebody,'
and was always willing to give a cast across the
water to gentlemen in distress ; and I don't say
but I would as soon see the man who ' sits in
Charley's chair5 out of it; for, to be candid, I
care very little for either of them ; but, as in
those great affairs, poor men, like me, seldom
come in for anything but blows, and the profits
are only for the lew, and the rich, I don't see any
harm in making my fortune in my own way, and
feathering my nest while I may ; and while the
war is a-foot, and English privateers will go out
and seize French ships, I don't see why I shouldn't
pick up my crumbs as well as others, for which
ever side is uppermost won't care a curse for me
when peace is made ; therefore, though I would
not betray any man engaged in this political
game — and perhaps go as far as to wish them
well — neither will I join in it, but get on as fast
as I can in lining my pocket with French and
Spanish prize-money — I don't care which."

" But suppose you wor made a captain of a
man-of-war, where you would have prize-money
all the same, and honor and glory into the bar
gain?"

" But where's the man-of-war, Phaidrig ?"

" Sure, we'll take them !" said the piper.

" Easier said than done, Phaidrig."

" I wish you'd talk to Lord Barrymore — maybe
it's an admiral you'd be ?"

Finch laughed at the sanguine expectation of
the Irish piper.

" You might as well have a word with him —
I'm going there to-night."

Finch declined, and expressed his wonder that

* Secret intelligence, or signal.

(•The well-known phrase indicating the Stuart

t A pretence.

$ In one of the early chapters of tms work, the term
" free trade" was objected to by a critic, as an anachro
nism : but it is frequently found in the writings of tho
time.

PhaiJrig should have anything to do with such
desperate aifairs, more particularly under the
privation of sight, which rendered him so help
less in case accident should tlirow him into the
hands of his enemies.

" I can't help it," said Phaidrig, " though I
have no eyes, I have a heart all the same, and it
beats for the rightful king — and whenever the row
begins, I must be in it."

" You don't mean to say you'll join the fighting
parties ?"

"To be sure I will. Won't him I love best in
the world be there — the bowld Lynch I mane —
and wont I folly him to the death ? — and one
comfort is, that though I am blind, and worse off
than others in that regard, I'm not worse ofT in
another, and that is — I can die but once."

" But you run greater risk ; for should danger
hem you in you could not escape."

" That would be an advantage ; for when I
could not see to run I'd stand ; and don't you
think many would stand with me ? for who, with
a heart in him, would desert the poor blind man
in the front of the fight ? and it's there I'll be
(plaze God !) lilting away for them, rousing the
blood in them ! — Hurroo !"

He waved his hand wildly above his head as
he spoke, and Finch looked in admiration upon
the heroic blind man, who, unable to restrain his
enthusiasm, jumped up, hastily reached down his
pipes from the peg where they hung, and began
playing a wild battle tune. The noise of the
music in the house attracted attention, and in
two or three minutes the door was opened, and
Mrs. Banks made her appearance ; her joy and
surprise were great at the sight of Finch, who,
as usual, saluted her heartily; and Phaidrig,
hearing the smack, cried out —

"Ah, captain, you divil, you're at it again."

" Don't object, PhaiJrig — she's not yours yet,"
said Finch, who saw in the heightened color his
words called up to the cheeks of Mrs. Banks,
that his suspicions of the favor in which Phaidrig
was held, were not unfounded.

CHAPTER XXIII.

NOT many days after Finch's arrival in Lon
don, rumor, with her thousand tongues, began to
whisper alarm to the timid, and hope to the dis
affected. Rambling reports reached the capital
of a descent upon Scotland, and at last it was be
yond doubt that Charles Edward was landed. I*.
was true, the adventurous prince had dared to do
this with seven devoted men, trusting .to the well-
known attachment of the Highlanders to his cause
for further support; but the horror-mongers of
London had strengthened him with a Frencn
army of ten thousand men, and the old women
were in hourly dread of the capital being sacked
by the wild Highlanders. The town was in a
ferment. The proclamation warning the papists
not to come within ten miles of London, was
posted up afresh in all the public places — the
guards were doubled — the corporations met and
voted addresses, assuring the king of the attach
ment and unshaken loyalty of his good city of
London, though these addresses were not passed

£ s. d.

without opposition, some being found stout enough | Loud cries of "Bravo!" and "Hear, hear r"
to dispute that England had no right to prefer the resounded in the hall.

existing government to any other, unless they " Yes," said Heathcote, " you cry^bravo ! when
would promise a redress of grievances, curtail- your own prelate puts himself at the head of a

ment of. expenses, and consequent reduction of
taxes rendered necessary by the king's passion
for foreign wars, and desire to aggrandize
his Hanoverian subjects at England's expense.
* Where is he now, for instance '}" exclaimed
Alderman Heathcote, in the common council.
" He is at Hanover, this moment, w aich he seems
to think more of than his goodly kingdom of
England, invaded during his absence. Why is
he not on the spot to guard his throne and people?"

" As for his people," exclaimed a second, '•' he
does not concern himself much about them — how
ever danger to his throne may alarm him."

" Let him look to it, or lie may lose it," said
Alderman Heathcote.

"Order! order!" was loudly exclaimed by the
loyalists.

" Take down his words !" cried a hanger-on of
che court party.

"Do!" cried the alderman, "few words utter
ed here are worth taking down ; they make a
pleasant variety. I am an Englishman, and love
my liberties ; and I do not see any difference in
being under the evil dominion of a Gueiph or a
Stuart. We are taxed for the benefit of foreign
ers — the interests of England are sacrificed to
the interests of Hanover. Are the many to be
sacrificed for the few? The navy is going to
ruin, though the only force we can depend on.
Where is our army ? Abroad, to fight the battles
of strangers ; our petted army is reduced, year
after year, in numbers, in wasteful, useless, and
costly campaigns. Dettingen and Fontenoi are
wet with English blood; the one a worthless
victory, the other a disastrous defeat. On whom
ore we to depend for the safety of our own
shores ? On Dutch and Hanoverians ? In the
good old days of England's glory, Englishmen
had hands to defend their own heads, and needed
not the aid of foreigners. Who decided the
battle against us at Fontenoi ? The Irish bri
gade. Why should we deprive ourselves of the
natural ai:l of such brave brotherhood ?"

"They are papists, and not to be trusted,"
said Finch's friend, the liberal Mister Spiggles.

" But the government refuses to trust even the
Insn protestants," returned the alderman.
« No, no !" cried the court party.
"I repeat it," cried Heathcote. "The Earl
of Kildare offered to raise a regiment, at his own
expense, to support the government, and was told
the king did not need his sen-ices;* while Eng
lish lords, who offer and are allowed to raise resi-
ments, demand also that they shall be put on the
government establishment, like the rest of the
army — there's a contrast for you ! Our eovern-
ment refuses the loyal Irish earl's disinterested
offer, while it accepts the bargain-and-sa,e loyal
ty of your English whig lords. Not one of tnem
has offered to raise a regiment gratis.

The Archbishop of York," replied one of the
court party, "has organized a body of armed men
Without asking government money."

himself at

* Pict Hist. Eng.

warlike movement ; but how often have 1 heard
my protestant brethren blame a Romish prelate
Tor the same act! Wrhy do you praise the act in
in one churchman that you blame in another?
Because you rave under the influence of a popish
fever."

Thus spoke the independent alderman, and
many were of his opinion, though the pressing
emergency of the times prevented their outspeak
ing; and the clamor of the court party carried
the address with very big words. But it is eas}
to be courageous and talk boldly on the side of
" the powers that be."

With all this show, however, of the court
party, they were, in truth, uneasy at the signs
of the times — there was an apparent apathy in
those who did not oppose them, as if they did
not much care which side won. It was said at
the time by one whose words were worthy of
noting, " We wait to know to which of the lion's
paws we are to fall." Another a member of the
administration, writes, " We are for the first
coiner ;" and asserts that five thousand regular
troops would then have decided the affair without
a battle, so unprepared was the government, and
so disaffected the people. These apprehensions,
therefore, produced extraordinary measures. The
rich merchants subscribed a sum of 250,000/.,
for the support of additional troops ; and the
more rich, who always dread political changes,
were, in self-defence, obliged to enter into a fur
ther subscription for the support of the Bank of
England, for public credit was shaken, and a run
on the bank had already begun. Great vigilance
was exercised for the security of the city ; guards
were everywhere doubled; the Tower was
watched with p. caution almost ridiculous ; the
city called out the train-bands, and watch and
ward was kept night and day ; the city gates
were shut at ten o'clock at night, and not re
opened again until six in the morning. The
proprietors of public places of entertainment,
such as jelly-houses,* taverns, and the like, were
ordered to beware what persons they harbored,
and were restricted in their hours ; and all
suspicious-looking persons were taken up in the
street, without anything more than their looks
against them. It was at this period of distrust
and excitement, that, one night, some time alter
Mrs. Banks had closed her house, a cautious tap
was heard at the door, which at such a time she
dreaded to open, for spies were about, endeavor
ing to entrap the unwary into opening their
doors by some specious story, and then giving
them up for a fine to the authorities, which fine
was pocketed by the informer. Mrs. Banks
would not open the door, yet still the knock was
repeated ; and if caution and solicitation were
ever expressed in such a mode, the present tap
ping at the door was a case in point. To
Phaidrig's fine ear it pleaded so powerfully, that
he begged to be allowed to go to the door and
endeavor to find out who sought admittance.

" Don't be afeerd. — I'll make no mistake,"
said the piper ; " none but a friend shall get in."
* Favorite places of resort at the time

IRISH HEIRS.

He *rent to the door and addressed a word to
Jhe person outside, who answered. — The first
word of response was enough for Phaidrig — the
bolt was drawn, the door hastily opened, a person
admitted, and the door as quickly shut. Finch,
who was in a back parlor with Mrs. Banks,
heard the voice of Phaidrig in great delight in
the dark hall, through which he led the belated
guest to the apartment, and both landlady and
Finch were startled with astonishment when, in
the person of the new-comer, they beheld Ned.
With what wondering and hearty welcome did
they receive the man who was supposed to be a
prisoner in France, who absolutely reeled under
the sudden rush of questions which assailed him,
as to the manner of his escape. When." one at
a time" was content to be answered, he replied
that the story was too long and intricate to be
entered into at that moment, and that he would
reserve for Finch's ear on the morrow the entire
account of his adventures in France. For the
present, they must be content to know that, ob
taining his liberty, he trusted to a fishing-boat
for the means of crossing the channel ; that,
tinder cover of night, he had landed unobserved,
and had made his way up to London without
difficulty, and did not know, until reaching the
city, the risks a stranger ran after nightfall of
becoming the prey of the watch, and that he had
had a narrow escape of being picked up by these
worthies, into whose hands he must have fallen,
but for the timely opening of the door. Mrs.
Banks, like ? " sensible woman," saw, after some
time, she was one too many, so. leaving plenty
of creature-comforts for their benefit, she took
her leave, and left the three men to discuss
among themselves that which her natural quick
ness told her they did not choose her to be a
party to. As soon as she retired, Ned confided
to his companions the part he had undertaken as
regarded the Pretender, and declared his inten
tion of proceeding immediately to Scotland.
Ph&drig recommended him to communicate with
certain influential persons in London he coild
mention, before he started, as he would be all the
welcomer at headquarters for being the bearer
of confidential intelligence. Finch coincided in
this opinion, and Ned agreed to wait for an in-
Vrview with the Lords Barrymore and Boling-
brokc, with Phaidrig promised him the day follow
ing. They continued to discuss the exciting
topics of that momentous time with an energy
and interest sharpened by the sense of personal
langer which attended those who had determined
to engage in the struggle, and they did not separate
until the pale dawn, breaking through the chinks
of the window-shutters, told them how heedless
they had been of the passing hours.

At all times the lisht of returning day seems
to look reproachfully on those who have passed
in watching, the hours which Nature intended
for rest ; and the pure dawn shames the dull
glare of the far-spent candle which burns near
the socket, itself worn out by over-taxed employ
ment : but when such hours have been spent in
secret and dangerous conclave, the vigil keeper
starts at the dawn with something like a sense
of detection, and hurries to the bed which the
fever of excitement robs of its accustomed re-

Thus felt Finch and Edward, who each took
a candle and withdrew to their chambers ; while
Phaidrig, unconcerned, found his way to his pal
let, unchided by the light he had never enjoyed.
The blind man, for once, was blessed in his
darkness.

The next day, an unreserved communication
was made by Ned to Finch of the entire of his
adventures since they parted, and the romantic
meeting of the uncle and nephew starucd the
skipper not a little ; though, as Ned guessed, he
laughed heartily at the notion of a man commit
ting a spoliation on himself, as our hero had
done, and, so far from being angry at the success
ful trick of the concealed gold, was delighted
that so much had been got " out of the fire,"
and told Ned of the additional sum he would
have in his share of the plunder the privateer
secured.

" But the old gentleman, ypur uncle/' said
Finch — " what has become of him ?"

Ned told his friend that it would ha-'e been too
great a risk for the old man to run, lj dare the
chance of a debarkation from a French fishing-
boat on the English shore ; that, therefore, he
had proceeded to Spain, where he hoped, in fami
lies of some of his mercantile correspondents, tc
find friends, which he could not expect in France,
where he was an utter stranger, and whose lan
guage he could not speak ; and that it was agreed,
on their parting, should Prince Charles be suc
cessful, and a consequent peace with Spain en
sue, the old man should return to Ireland ; while
in case of a reverse, Ned should seek an asylum
in Spain.

After being engaged in the exchange of this
mutual confidence for some time, they were inter
rupted by the entrance of Phaidrig, who came to
conduct Edward to the interview he promised
him ; whereupon the friends parted for the pres
ent, and agreed to meet again in the evening ;
for Finch, as Ned had avowed his determination
to set out for the north the next day, pledged him
to join one merry bout before their parting.

How one in Phaidrig's station could obtain
the confidence of men of rank, and be so trusted
in dangerous affairs, may seem at first startling;
but let it be remembered that the old saying,
" Distress makes us acquainted with strange bed
fellows," peculiarly applies to all associations of
a revolutionary character. In such movements
the highest may have their most confidential
agents among the lowest, as under that unflat
tering denomination w generally class the poor,
though, to their honoi *e it spoken, experience
proves that the betrayal of companions in such
dangerous enterprises has rarely been chargeable
to them, though their betters (so called; have
not been above temptation. Ned souarht not to
know the sources of Phaidrig's 'uriuence; but
certain it was. that confiden. :._• was not only re
posed in him, but that his word was taken for
the faith of another ; for after driving a few
miles to a house in the neighborhood of tne
Thames, Edward, on the piper's introduction,
was admitted to an audience with the Lords Bo-
lingbroke and Barrymore, and many communica
tions of great trust and importance were made
between them touching the interest of the Stuart
cause. Edward was urged to speed on his nor-

£ s. d.

them journey, and the most earnest desire ex
pressed for the immediate descent of the prince
and his adherents upon London, as, in the present
unprepared state of the government, with a
scanty exchcquei, a shaken public credit, a want
of troops, and a widespread disaffection, the tri
umph of their progress would be certain. In
the course of the conference, which was long,
extensive promises of aid were advanced, and
numerous names and places, and plans of co
operation, were read to be communicated to the
prince.

Ned suggested that Avhen so much had to be
communicated it were best to commit all to wri
ting; but the noblemen started the objection of
papers being dangerous instruments in the hands
of enemies, in case the bearer of them should be
arrested. Phaidrig here smoothed all difficulties,
by assuring them that his memory was " as good
as writing any day," and that anything repeated
iwice in his hearing would be retained with
accuracy.

He gave evidence of this on the spot, by re
peating, word for word, the contents of a docu-
•nent read to him, and having proved himself so
jnfailing a register, the desired communications
were confided to the tenacity of the piper's recol
lection.

" It is all here now," said Phaidrig, raising
his hand to his forehead — " here, in my brain ;
and seii ch-warrants wouldn't find it, though the
seekers should blow out the brains that hold it."

" I don't think killing men is the best way to
make them speak," said Lord Bolingbroke, c-mi-
ling, as he noticed the bull Phaidrig had made.

" Oh, my lord, remember I'm a musicianer,
and most of them make no noise till they're
dead."

" Well answered, Phaidrig," said Lord Barry-
more ; " and then their strains live in glory."

" Faix, then," returned Phr.idrig, " that's
more than them that made the strains ever did,
for you know, my lord, what ' pipers' pay' is —
' more kicks than halfpence.' "

After a few more words of good-humored rail
lery with Phaidrig, he and Ned were dismissed
with a parting injunction to make all haste to
Scotland, and our hero almost wished he had not
promised to spend the evening with Finch, for
though the day was far spent, still some miles
intent have been accomplished before night.
Phaidrig comforted him, however, with that good
old Celtic assurance which is made to reconcile
so many Irish calamities, "maybe 'tis all for
the bqst," and held out the prospect of an early
start on the morrow, and a long day's journey.

On returning to town, Ned found Finch await
ing him at the tavern, and having deposited
Phaidrig safely at home, the two friends sallied
forth to spenu a iolly evening as they agreed.
They first saunteitd into one of the principal
coffeehouses, the resort of the bloods and wits
of the day, expecting to hear something piquant
on the existing state of affairs; bat there was
little of a political nature handled : it seemed as
if men were indifferent about Hanoverian inter
ests, and, of course, no word implying favor to
the other pnrty would be uttered in a promis
cuous company. The coffeehouse not proving
su attractive as they hoped, Finch proposed a

visit to Vauxhall, and they strolled down to the
river's side, where they engaged a boat. As
they stepped aboard, the waterman, touching his
hat, hoped they would not object to "the young
woman," pointing as he spoke to a girl who was
sitting in the bow, indicating grief by her atti
tude, and whose eyes betrayed recent tears.
Having pushed from the wharf, and being fairly
engaged in pulling, the waterman commenced
explaining the cause of the woman's presence.

" She's my sister, you see, your honors, and in
trouble because her husband is a sojer, and is
marched away to-day to Scotland to join the army,
and she's in such grief, that I didn't like leaving
her at home alone for fear she'd make away with
hersel'."

•' Oh, don't 'e, Tom, don't 'e," said the girl, in
an under tone.

" Why, you said you would, you know," an
swered Tom over his shoulder. " Well, your
honors, as I was telling of ye, I thought it better
to bring her out with me here to keep her com
pany, for you see she's not long married — there's
where it is, and is a fretting more nor reasonable
for a raft" of a sojer, 'cause she's not tired of
him yet."

" Now don't 'e, Tom !" said the girl again.

" Why, you know it's true, and it was agin
my will that you ever had un, and you can't say
no to that. But it's nat'ral, as your honors
know; at the same time, she'd be sorry."

" Of course," said Ned. — " Have many sol
diers marched ?"

" Lor, no sir, there's where it is, just a hand
ful, and they've no chance, and they say them
Highlanders be mortal vicious ; I hear they en v
their enemies sometimes."

" Ah, don't 'e, Tom !" cried the girl piteously

" Why how can 1 help if they do ?" said thfe
strangely good-natured brother ; " besides, if they
do kill un, you know my partner Dick will have
'e, and well for 'e if it was so before ; a water
man's better than sojer."

" S'lielp me God, Tom !" exclaimed the girl,
somewhat roused, " I'll throw myself out o' boat
and drown, if 'e don't ha' done."

" Better not !" said Tom, "water's deep here,
and I can't stop t' save you, for the ge'men's in
a hurry."

" Who commands the troops ?" said Ned.

" Oh, some o' them outlandish chaps ; we ha'
nothing but outlandish chaps now in all good
places. Its well for watermen theirs is hard
work, or I s'pose we'd be druv off the river."

" But of course you wish the king's cause
well," said Finch.

" To be sure I do, sir, as in duty bound : not
that it makes any difference to the likes o' me,
for whoever is uppermost, they'll want boats on
the river, and there won't be a tide more or less
in the Thames, and so I say, on all such matters,
it's no affair o' mine, but God's above all, and
them's my principles, sir."

" Excellent principles," cried Finch, " and
becoming a Christian."

" Oh, I am a Christian," said the waterman,
" that I am, and wouldn't be nothing else. I
have no chalks up agin me at the tap ; no, no !
and loves my fellow-creaturs — all 'cept the Hano
verians ; and as they are so plentv in al] othei

IRISH HEIRS.

p.'aces in England, I do wish, I will say, thu
some o' them as couldn't swim were in the mid
dle o' the Thames, without a boat under them
and a strong ebb tide a running."

" You think that would be good for the coun
try," said Finch.

" Sure of it," said the waterman ; " only the
river would be dirtier with them."

As they rowed up toward Vauxhall, they found
in the course of their chat with the waterman,
that not only he was no lover of " the Hano
verians,'-' but gathered from his conversation that
ihere was no great affection for them through
out his class ; and this, together with learning
the popular impression that there were not suf
ficient troops for defence, was good intelligence
for Ned to have picked up, and in thankfulness
for the same, when they arrived at their destina
tion, he gave an extra sixpence to Tom.

The gardens were not as gay. as usual — not for
the want of the ordinary routine of entertain
ments — thest went on as ever; but there seemed
wanting that air of careless cheerfulness which
characterizes such public places. The fact is,
the body politic, like the human body, is not fit
for enjoyment when something not easy of diges
tion lies in the system, and impending events of
an important and dangerous nature, however
much people may affect to be unconcerned about
them, partake of this character, and the public
mind is not attuned to mirth. The bold may
bluster, and the silly vent the empty laugh, but
even with them, amid the swagger of the one
and the folly of the other, the spirit of the mo
mentous hour will sometimes assert her sway,
and bring all within her power.

Thus it was at Vauxhall ; the rope-dancer did
not bound an inch lower than usual, the singers
were as great favorites as ever, and sung as fa
vorite songs; the fireworks burnt as brightly,
and people paid as much for invisible slices of
ham as usual ; but still there was an indescriba
ble dulness about it, which so affected Finch
and Ned, that they left it Ions before the accus
tomed time. Engaging a hackney coach, they
Were driven to the suburbs of the town, and
there they alighted to pursue the remainder of
their way on foot. As they were passing through
a narrow and ill-lighted street, they encountered
a person just under the rays of one of the few
lamps, and the imperfect light sufficiently reveal
ed to Finch the person of Spiggles, shambling
along as fast as he could, but Finch intercepted
him, and tempted by the opportunity of giving
Spiggles a fright, he laid his hand on his shoul
der, and said he was delighted at the pleasure of
the meeting. Spiggles trembled from head to
foot, and begged to be released, pleading his
desire for haste, and the lateness-of the hour.

"Tut, tut, man," exclaimed Finch. "Old
friends must not part so; I want a few words
witli you, and you must stop;" and- he jammed
him against the wall at the words, while the
wretched miser shuddered, fear depriving him
of the power of calling for the watch, which he
would have done if he could. Finch upbraided
him with his want of gratitude, and reminded
nim of his refusal to lend him a small sum.

Spiggles, dreading violence, protested he had
on money about h.un

" Miserable niggard ."' cried Finch, " do you
think I want to rob you ? No, no, others will
save me that trouble, for I do rejoice to think how
you will be plundered by the Highlanders when
the city is sacked, which it will be in a day or
two. The clans are close upon you. I rejoice how
you will be fleeced — how your ill-gotten gold
will be rummaged." Spiggles groaned at the
thought, and trembled, while Finch ordered Ned
to take the old sinner under the other arm, and
walk him along with them. Spiggles would have
refused, but was unable, and borne by Finch on
one side, and Ned on the olher, lie shambled on
between them, while continued volleys of llueats,
plunder, Highlanders, and throat-culling, were
poured into his ears on both sides. This jumble
of horrors, which the two friends made as lerri-
ble as they could for the benefit of Spiggles, be
ing spoken rather loudly to increase the effect,
was overheard by a party of the watch which chan
ced to be unseen in a dark -entrance ; the party
passed, and f!ie guardians of the night, following
stealthily, and hearing what they believed to be
"flat treason," they fell suddenly on the trio,
and having secured them; took them oil' to the
round-house.

They were charged before the constable of the
night with uttering of. treasonable language, and
as persons of evil intent, and were ordered to
be locked up for the night. Spiggles protested
that lie was a peaceful and worshipful man, a
man of substance and good repute in the city,
and that a round-house was no place for him to
spend the night with rogues and vagabonds.

" Rogues and vagabonds, indeed !" exclaimed
a virago, in a fury, who had been just commit
ted, but not yet locked up. She rushed at Spig
gles and boxed his ears, calling him all sorts of
foul names, and belaboring him until she was
laid hold of by the constables and dragged away.
Finch uttered not a word in defence, and Ned,
by his advice, also maintained silence. To all
the appeals of Spiggles, who said the gentlemen
n whose company he was walking could explain
t all, Finch only shook his head, throwing doubt
more and more on the miser, whose ill-favored
aspect, further disfigured by fear, was anything
3Ut prepossessing.

Before being locked up, the parties were se
cretly informed by a watchman, that a message
could be carried to their friends, if they were
willing to pay for it. On inquiring the price,
mJf'a guinea was named, which Finch readily
gave, and sent to Mrs. Banks, requesting her
>resence early in the morning. Spiggles, of
course, refused to pay so much, and was content
o wait nil the magistrate should order a messen-
er to go for any person to whom it might be
necessary to refer. This saving of half a guinea,
>y depriving him of evidence at the moment of
need, laid him open to loss, through a device of
he skipper's.

As for passing a night in durance, Finch
nought nothing about it, as it was nol the first
ime; nor would Ned, but for thedelay it occasion
ed. Finch whispered him not to make himself
uneasy, as he would manage their speedy libera-
ion, and hoped to make Sniggles pay dearly lot
he frolic; and, afterward, in some private
words with the miser, he threatened that if, it

£ s. d.

his deface, he cast the smallest blame on him
for the affair overnight, he would make certain,
disclosures respecting him that would cost him
dearly. Spiggles, knowing he was in Finch's
power, and supposing him to be in desperate cir
cumstances, promised to cast no imputation on
him, and the skipper then insisted, in assurance
of his ffood intentions, he must permit him to
make their common defence in the morning, and
that he would get them out of it bravely. Spig
gles was forced to consent to these conditions,
and then groped his way to a corner. The
prisoners were all huddled together in utter
darkness;, those who could find a seat silting,
others stretched on the floor, whose curses were
evoked, as some lively gentlemen danced over
them. Some were moaning and crying, while
others were laughing at the jokes cracked on
the misfortunes of their fellow-prisoners. Spig
gles had sunk into a melancholy trance, -wjien
he was roused by a shrill female voice exclaim
ing near him, "I wish I could clap my claw on
the old rascal that said rogues and vagabonds. —
Come out, if you're a man I" shouted the vira
go, " and I'll fight you in the dark for a dol
lar !"

Spiggles sneaked as far away as he could, and
when the morning peeped into the cell, he
shrunk behind Finch for concealment and pro
tection.

Mrs. Banks, as soon as admittance could be
obtained, was in attendance to render Finch
what assistance he needed. He merely desired
her to go to the ship-agent who transacted the
affairs of the privateer in London, and request
his attendance before Sir Thomas de Veil. This
was done, and when Finch, Ned, and Spisgles,
were charged, an'd called on for their defence,
the skipper became spokesman.

He admitted that they had been speaking in
the 'street of an attack on London, and of High
landers, and cutting throats, but that it was only
in dread of it they spoke, not in hope.

Here the watch deposed that they spoke as
if with knowledge of the movements of the
rebels.

" Ha ! ha!" said Sir Thomas, " knowledge ?—
what say you to that ?"

" Please your worship, such a knowledge as
we all have from report, no more."

" But they spoke fieree and loud, your wor
ship," interposed the watch, " like suspicious
perjons."

" Now, your worship, ' said Finch, " does it
not stand to reason that persons to be suspected
would be the last to speak loud, but would, on
the contrary, be secret and silent ? Speak loud,
indeed ! Well might this worthy and weaHhy
gentleman speak loud in the fear of his riches
being swept away by these wild Hishlanders ;
and the best proof your worship can have of his
loyalty is, that he was going to Garraway's yes
terday to subscribe to the merchant's fund for
raising troops, but was prevented by urgent busi
ness."

" It is true, so help me God !" said Spiggles.

'* But as he intends doing it to-day," continu
ed Finch, " and it would be troublesome to send
to the city to obtain proof of his respectability,
the shortest way to evince his loyalty is to hand

your worship his check for two hundred pounds,
to be forwarded to Garraway's."

The rniser gasped, as if he would have spo
ken, but Finch, fixing his eye on him with a
meaning he could not mistake, said, " Do you
wish I should say any more ?"

Spiggles quailed under the threatening glance ;
and supplied by Sir Thomas at once with pen,
ink, and paper, he wrote the check with an ag
ony little short of the bitterness of death.

"As for myself and my young friend here, so
far from being favorers of the Pretender, we
have been privateering against the ships of
France and Spain, and that does not look like
disloyalty."

The ship-agent came forward in proof of his
words ; Finch and Ned were at once discharged,
and left the office in- company with Spiggles,
who looked more dead than alive at the loss of
his money.

"A word in your ear," said Finch, taking the
miser under his arm, and walking apart with him.
" Now I have had a sweet bit of revenge on you
for your cold-hearted ingratitude to me ; I would
not wring money out of you for my own purpo
ses — I would scorn it, — but as you were base
enough to refuse me a loan, which should all
have been returned, I rejoice in having plucked
you of a couple of hundreds, which you will
never see again ; and in case you ever meet in
the course of your worthless life another ser
vant as useful and faithful as I have been, use
him better than you did me, and remember Finch
and the two hundred. And now farewell — I've
done with you — I wish you a good appetite for
your breakfast; — don't eat eggs, nor fried ham 5
— don't be extravagant ; try and make up in
saving the loss of this morning — perhaps your
high character for loyalty may throw something
in your way — eh, skinflint ! — but I think your
loyalty is the dearest bargain you have been let
in for, for some time. Good by, — remember
Finch and the round-house !"

So saying, he turned the old wretch adrift, and
went off in an opposite direction with Ned and
the agent, while the steps of Spiggles were
tracked by a secret agent of the police, despatch
ed after him by Sir Thomas de Veil, that he
might be traced in case the check should turn
out a hoax. But the document was proved true
in another hour, and the money of Spiggles con
verted to public uses — the first of his that ever
found its way into so good a channel.

Through Finch's influence, the agent advan
ced Ned a hundred guineas on account of his
prize-money, and after a hasty breakfast and a
hearty farewell to the skipper, he started on his
journey, accompanied by Phaidrig, who did not
leave the tavern without some applications of
the corner of Mrs. Banks's apron to her eve.

CHAPTER XXTV.

WHEN the young pretender embarked in the
daring enterprise of regaining the throne of his
fathers by force of arms, one of the elements of
success on which he counted was an immediate
rising in Ireland so soon as it should be knowt

IRISH HEIRS.

iis banner was unfurled in Scotland. But it so
happened, that the one particular year he select
ed was the only one for many before or after in
which Ireland would .not have joined in the re-
beUion.

The cause of this absence of disaffection in
Ireland, while there was anything but a well-
grounded loyalty in England and downright re
volt in Scotland, was attributable to one man —
that man was Philip Stanhope, Earl of Chester
field, chiefly known in England for his trifling
letters to his son, but remembered in Ireland by
all readers of her history as the most enlighten
ed, benevolent, and successful of her viceroys.
On assuming the reins of government in that op
pressed and distracted country, he declared that
he would be influenced by no dictation of minor
personages there, but would " judge and govern
himself."* Acting firmly on this resolution, he
discarded the counsels of severity and injustice
under which the great mass of the Roman catho
lic people of Ireland had been suffering, he ad
ministered the laws in the spirit of justice, and
he won the confidence of the nation — a confidence
not only won but maintained during a period of
peculiar peril to the British crown. He is thus
spoken of by an Historian not particularly favor
able to popular Irish interests'^ " The short
administration of Philip Stanhope, Earl of Ches
terfield, was a kind of phenomenon in Irish his
tory. This highly accomplished, liberal, and
judicious nobleman, to whose character such in
justice accrues from the posthumous publication
ol' his letters, intended for a peculiar purpose,
by no means for general adv'ce, was appointed
at a dangerous juncture, when in the midst of an
unsuccessful war against France and Spain, an
alarming rebellion had been raised in Scotland in
favor of Charles Edward Stuart, son of the Pre
tender. Vested with ample powers, this viceroy
acted from his own judgment, uninfluenced by
the counsels of those who, to prevent an imagin
ary, mizht have excited a real rebellion by violent
measures against catholics, the bulk of the iia-
tion. He discountenanced all party distinctions/*'
In another history he is spoken of as governing
Ireland " with rare ability, and a most rare liber-
ality."t

After all, the successful government of Ireland
at this momentous period is less attributable to
ability, than to a pure spirit of justice — a gift
much rarer in statesmen than talent. Actuated
by this spirit, he received no tale on the ipse dixit
of the tale-bearer — he would have proof. Alarm
ists were peculiarly odious to him ; he sometime:
got rid of them playfully, as in one case when a
person of some importance assured him the " pa
pists were dangerous," he replied, he never hac
seen but one, and that was Miss , a partic
ularly lovely woman.

This lady, as well as many other catholics
.won by Lord Chesterfield's liberal policy, flock et
to the castle and graced the viceregal court with
an accession of charms to which it had Ions been
a stranger. The particular beauty in question

• * Liber Mnnerum Publicorum Hiberniae. Report of
B.owlpy L:\scelles.

t Hist. Irel. Rev. .TameR Gordon, rector of Killegny
in the diocese of Ferns, and of Cannaway, in the dio
c»jse of Cork.

t Pict. Hist. Eng

was so delighted by Lord Chesterfield's noble
onduct, that on some public occasion, to mark
.ow thoroughly she could overcome political pre-
udice, she wore a breast-knot of orange-riband ;
tie earl, pleased at the incident, reqiiesting St.
.iCger (afterward Lord Doneraile), celebrated for
is wit, {o say something handsome to her on
lie occasion, whereupon St. Leger composed the
ollowing, not generally known, impromptu : —

" Say, little tory, why tliis jest
Of wearing orange on thy breast,
Since the same breast, uncovered, shows
The whiteness of the rebel rose ?"

An alarmist one day asked him, in a very myste-
ious manner, if he knew that his state-coachman

t to mass : " I don't care," replied the earl,
' so long as he don't drive me there."

But when the landing of the Pretender and the
raising of his standard in Scotland was announced,
he alarmists became bolder, and besieged the
iberal lord-lieutenant with tales of terror; he
lad no peace of his life ; he was continually
>aited with buggaboos fabricated > the heated
maginations of partisans, whom he was unwil-
ing to dismiss unheard, and whose cure he hoped
o effect by a courageous incredulity.

The rumor of a popish plot soon brought
lown upon him one alarmist after another, who
.11 were much discomfited at the coolness with
which he received their reports. The first, one
morning, was Alderman Watson, who arrived
while his excellency was at breakfast, and, send-
ng in his name with an importunate assurance
,hat he had intelligence to communicate which
was of the deepest interest to the state, was im
mediately admitted.

There was a striking contrast between the
ease of the accomplished Lord Chesterfield and
:he fussy embarrassment of the alderman. The
cool and accomplished courtier almost felt hot to
look on the flushed face of the civic dignitary,
who was mopping it with a snuffy pocket-hand
kerchief, while he assured the lord-lieutenant he
tiad come in a great hurry.

' That is manifest, Mister Alderman," returned
my lord ; " and may I ask the cause of all this
hurry ?"

" I have it, your excellency, on undoubted au
thority—

" I beg your pardon, Mister Alderman," return
ed Chesterfield, smiling; "but I can not help
telling you that all the wild reports I hear are
universally accompanied with the same assu
rance."

" On undoubted authority, your excellency. I
have it from the fountain-head — "

" Whose head, do you say ?"

" The fountain-head, my lord," said the alder
man, betraying some displeasure.

te oh — I beg your pardon," said the viceroy,
with provoking suavity; "pray proceed."

"I came to tell your excellency that there is a
plot — a popish plot — "

Here he was interrupted by the sudden en
trance of Mr. Gardner, the vice-treasurer, who,
in great perturbation, and scarcely observing the
common courtesies of salutation in his hurry,
exclaimed, " My lord, the papists of ConnaughJ
are to rise this day!"

"That's the very plot I came to tell you, my

£ s. d.

Icul,1' said the alderman; "remember, I came
first to give the alarm."

To this intended " alarm" of the alderman,
Lord Chesterfield's calmness was intensely pro
voking. Taking his watch carelessly from his
pocket, lie replied, " It is nine o'clock, and cer
tainly lime for them to rise.'"
. " I see, my lord, you make little of my inform
ation," said Gardner.

»'• My good sir," said Chesterfield, "I can not
make it less than it comes from your own mouth.
You offer a most startling piece of rumor, with
out any name, place, or time, direct fact or cor
roborative evidence of any sort — you make a
naked assertion, assuring me it is on ' undoubted
authority,' and from the ' fountain-head.' Would
to heaven these feverish loyalists had heads like
the fountains — cooler and clearer."

" Your excellency must allow me to say, that
loyal men might expect to meet more encourage
ment in the head of the government," said the
alderman.

"That is a very smart saying of yours, indeed,
Mister Alderman; but you will allow me to say,
that you corporation gentlemen seem to have a
very strange notion about loyalty. You are de
voted to government as long as government does
all you wish, and believes all you say, and will
back you through thick and thin ; but the mo
ment government entertains a view superior to
that — ventures to look beyond the civic bound
aries in which your illiberality confines you, your
loyalty is of a very doubtful character; for, in
short, the self-made charter of your loyalty is
simply this — ' As long as the government lets us
do what we like, we will support the govern
ment.' "

The alderman protested he was the most loyal
man in the world.

" I am so wearied with these eternal tales of
plots and risings," continued Lord Chesterfield,
" that I am in the condition of the shepherd in
the fable, to whom the idle boy cried 'Wolf!' so
often, that I know not when to believe .the cry ;
therefore, I am obliged to depend on my own
sources of information — and allow me to assure
you I have them, Mister Alderman, and can de
pend upon them ; and have also the means of
repressing any rebellious movement that may be
attempted, but of which I have not, at this mo
ment, the slishtest apprehension."

" May divine Providence grant," said the al
derman, piously, " that your excellency's confi
dence in the present deceptive calm be not ill
placed ; for what should we do in case of a rising
at this moment, when your excellency has sent
away so much of the army to reinforce his maj
esty in Scotland ?"f

* Liber Munerum Publicorum Hiberniie. Report of
Rowley Lascelles.

t Pat. Gordon's Hist. Ireland.

There is singular resemblance between Lord Chester
field in 1745, and Lord Nonnanby nearly a hundred
years lat?r. Both men of fashion, suddenly grappling
with a difficult government, and elevating their reputa
tions by the largeness of their policy. Both essentially
exclusive— the men of a coterit in private life, were
nobly above such influence in dealing with public af
fairs. They legislated not for the few, but the many.
Both inspired with a spirit of justice to, and confidence
in the people, found ready obedience to the former,
while the latter was never abused. They wrye th"
tnlj vicerovs who could spare troops out of Ireland.

" I have as much military' force as shall be
wanted while / am here," said Lord Chesterfield,
smiling.

" It is fortunate, my l<jrd, thai the city has
done its duty in furnishing forth the militii.
And further, my lord, we have offered a reward
of six thousand pounds for the heaJ either of the
Pretender or any of his sons — dead or ulivc."*

"I should be sorry to interfere, sir," returned
the sarcastic lord, " with the bargains of the cor
poration, however injudicious I think them ; for,
in my opinion, the heads of all three are not
worth the money."

An official now entered to inform his excellen
cy that Governor Eyre sought an audience.
Hereupon the disappointed and indignant Alder
man Watson retired and the governor of Galway
was introduced.

Eyre was a fierce old soldier, whose only no
tions of law or government were derived from
drum-head court martial, or the rule of a regi
ment, and his horror of " popery" was as absurd
as that of a child at a " bugsjaboo." Frequent
written communications he had u.ade to the lord-
lieutenantf were not treated with as much con
sideration as he thought they merited, and he,
therefore, went up to Dublin 16 make his repre
sentations in person. The courteousness of his
reception by the polished lord softened the as
perity of temper with which he entered the pres
ence; and though he came prepared to throv
shot and shell, he was forced to exchange sa
lutes.

He entered on his business, therefore, with
calmness and precision ; but as he was disturbed
in the course of his representations by some
searching question of the viceroy, his irritability
was roused, and he began to warm thoroughly to
the subject of his complaint. Like all other
complaints of the time, the blame for every mis
fortune was laid at the door of the poor and
powerless Roman catholics. According to Gover
nor Eyre, the safety of Galway was not worth a
day's purchase ; and after detailing anticipated
horrors enough for a dozen of the darkest ro
mances, he besought the lord-lieutenant to grant
him additional powers to keep down the "pa
pists."

" My dear governor," said Chesterfield, in his
blandest manner, "I do not think my views con
cerning the ' papists,' as you call them, and yours,
can ever agree."

" Do you not grant they are very dating, my
lord, to assemble and celebrate mass, in denance
of the law ?"

" Governor, people will say their prayers in
spite of us ; and I can not wonder they wou'l i
rather worship God than man. It is we who
are wrong in making laws which it is impossible
to enforce. It was but the other day an old
house in a secluded street fell down from the
overcrowded state of one of its rooms, frhere the,
mass was celebrated, and many broken limbs
were the consequence.''!

"I hope, my lord, the offenders will be prose
cuted. It may prevent a recurrence of the crime."

It. is to be regretted, there was a lapse of almost a cen
tury between two such governments : " Like angels'
visits, few and far between."

'Gent. Mag. + Hardiman's Galway
t Lascelles" Report.

IRISH HEIRS.

"I don't know any prosecution that wouH
save old houses from falling, governor, but I hav
recommended to the king, and his ministers a
way to prevent a recurrence of such an accident."

" May I beg to ask it, your excellency ?"

"It is to permit the catholics to* build chapels,
and worship in public."*

The governor was thunderstruck. "And
would you tolerate the celebration of the mass ?"
he exclaimed.

"Certainly," said Lord Chesterfield. "It is
wisest to tolerate what we can not prevent; the
laws that can be defied or defeated are soon de
spised — good laws never are."

" Would you trust them, my lord, when they
are ever ready to enlist in the armies of our ene
mies ?"

"I have a cure for that, too," said Lord Ches
terfield ; " I would enlist them in our own."

" Our own !" echoed the governor, in amaze
ment.

"Yes; the Irish are essentially a military
people; and it is much better to have them fight
ing for us than against us — for fight they will.
You know I havejused strong measures to repress
foreign enlistments ; I have issued a proclamation
offering a reward of a thousand pounds for the
discovery of any one who enlists a British sub
ject for foreign service,! yet what has it done ? —
Let Fontenoi answer; 'The Irish brigade is
stronger than ever.' "

"But how could we trust these pestilent pa
pists, my lord — who have poisoned the springs
nil round London to sicken the cattle, and kill
the loyal protestants with foul meal ?"|

"So j'ou believe that vulgar rumcr, do you ? —
Let me assure you that the London physicians all
declare the disease of the cattle to be an infection
imported from Holland. What do you think of
that, governor ? — Holland ! — from our allies !
But I fear the Dutch murrain will stick to us
closer than the Dutch cavalry at Fontenoi.
Their coii-s are more fatal than (heir horse!"

" Would, my lord, that you had seen the swag
ger of the Gal way merchants the other day, when
they fancied that some large ships descried oft'
the coast, were Spanish men-of-war come to help
them !"

"I heard of no such armament, governor."

" No, please your excellency — they were not
Spanish ships, only a portion of the East-India
fleet driven up hither by stress of weather, but
the papists thought they were Spanish, and re
joiced accordingly."?

" Are you sure, governor, they did not rejoice
at the thought of their being East-India ships
coming once more to trade to their harbor ? For
I have had many petitions from the same mer
chants, setting forth that the exorbitant port-
dues, levied by the corporation of Galway, hnve
ruined their trade, and caused a once flourishing
port to be deserted."!!

The governor here entered into an explanation
with his lordship, setting forth, that it was neces
sary for tlie protection of protestant interests
t.iat t'.ie members of the corporation should be
protected by certain privileges and immunities,

• T.ascpti'j' Report. JPiot. Hist. England.

* <Je.it. Mag <> Hardimaii's Gulway.

U ITardiman.

and that many of these imposts were to be avoid
ed if ships were cleared or entered belonging to
members of the corporation.

"Notwithstanding which," returned Lord Ches
terfield, " if I am informed aright, the trade ha«
not increased under such protection to one class
of the townsmen — not even among those it was
meant to benefit."

The governor was obliged to admit this war
true.

" And surely you can not think it beneficial,
governor, that the commerce of a port snould be
limited ? Commerce breeds wealth, and I can
not see any good to be derived from making a
country poor."

"I have written to the East-India company
myself," said Eyre, " requesting them to recom
mend their ships to trade with the loyal protest-
ant merchants of our town."*

" I can not help thinking your efforts would be
better bestowed, governor, in urging the corpo
ration to relax their heavy imposts against their
fellow-subjects, and let trade take care of itself.
In a few years more your port will be ruined,
otherwise. I am informed, that so late as seven
years ago, fifteen ships belonged to the port and
traded on the high seas, but the grinding exac
tions so discourage the merchants, that they are
dwindling away year by year, and the prosperity
cf the town is manifestly impaired,"

" The town is going to decay in many ways,
my lord, I grieve to say. In one point, most ma
terial to me, who have its safe holding in trust ;
the walls and fortifications are in a dilapidated
state, and in many places holes are absolutely
broken through by the audacious smugglers, who,
under cover of night, introduce their goods to
avoid paying the dues,f and I hope government
will look to the repairs, or I can not answer for
the town's safety in case of a rising of the O's
and Macs in the neighboring highlands of lar
Connaught."

" Well, governor, you have certainly made an
ample admission in favor of all I have been say
ing. The exorbitant tolls which ruin fair trade,
produce smuggling. The honest merchant is
wronged — rogues and vagabonds prosper instead.
In despite of you they make holes through your
city walls, rendering the king's defences unsafe,
and then you call upon government to repair the
damage which the blind injustice of your corpo
ration has produced. The town's defences I
shall issue immediate orders to the proper offi
cers to loolc after — for the safety of no part of the
kingdom which my sovereign has intrusted to my
care shall be neglected — but at the same time I
will address a recommendation to the corporation
of Galway to relax their illiberal code of laws;
for be assured, governor, it is far from pleasing
to his majesty that one portion of his subjects
should be sacrificed to the interests of another,
or that any should be oppressed. I should think
it manifest to any capacity, that if you let people
lead quiet lives, and accumulate wealth, the pres
ervation of their own comforts will be »he best
guarantee for their preserving public tranquil
lity; while if you impoverish and oppress them,
you can not wonder they should wi'sh to throw
off your yoke. In my experience of the people

* Hardiruan

t I hi.]

9(5

X s. d

of Ireland, since I have been their governor, I
have found them a generous and warm-hearted
people, sensitive alike to kindness and confidence,
or severity and distrust, easily led by the one, or
provoked by the other. I have tried the former,
much the easier and more gracious mode of rule,
and have found it succeed to admiration ; and I
am proud to believe, notwithstanding all the
tales of the alarmists, that in spite of the conta
gious example of rebellion in Scotland, the dis
ease will not spread into Ireland while a liberal
course of policy is pursued toward her people."
The governor, finding Lord Chesterfield imper
vious to alarms, withdrew, and returned to Gal-
way, with no very pleasing intelligence for the
corporation, who did not include Lord Chester
field's health in the " loyal" toasts of their festive
board, and who paid no attention to his remon
strance against their excessive imposts, which,
as he predicted, ultimately ruined their town. So
rapid was the progress of decay, that instead of
fifteen ships belonging to the port, and engaged
in trading, only three had owners ere long, and
of these only one traded in 1761, and one other in
1762.* So much for municipal monopoly. But
these local plague-spots in various parts of Ireland
were prevented from working a fatal result, in
consequence of the general excellence of Lord
Chesterfied's administration; for the confidence
and good-will inspired by his liberal course of
policy awakened in the people the hope of better
days for the future ; and though some enthusiastic
Jacobites endeavored to organize a rising, they
found it impossible, and were fain to join the ad
herents of the young Pretender in Scotland.

CHAPTER XXV.

ANXIOUS was the watch kept on board the
Doutdh when she parted from her consort, the
Elizabeth. Deprived of that protection, her
own guns were too few and light of metal to
dare an encounter, and all she had to rely on for
the safely of the precious freight she bore was
her speed. This she was obl-iged to exercise
more than once ; and when closing with the
Scottish coast she was chased for many hours by
a British cruiser, whose swiftness put the sailing
qualities of the French brig to a severe trial.
Indeed, at one time it seemed impossible to avoid
an action, but a sudden change in the wind gave
the Dautdle an advantage in a point of sailing,
and soon distancing her pursuers, she doubled a
headland of one of the islands abounding on the
western coast of North Britain, and dropped her
anchor under its shelter. An eagle at the mo
ment swept down from the rocky heights of the
island,.and wheeled in majestic flight over the
Douteile.

" Behold, my prince !" exclaimed old Tulli-
bardine, " the king of birds has come to welcome
you to Scotland."

It was reckoned a good omen, and Charles
"anded, but his rank was not revealed to the is
landers. He whom he hoped to find, Clanron-
ald, was absent, therefore the Douteile weighed
inchor and stood over to the main land, whither
* Com. Jour., vol. vii'

the chieftain had gone. The following day, IB
obedience to a summons from the prince, Clan-
ronald repaired on board the brig, attended by
several of his clan, and Kinlock Moidart bore;
him company.

The chieftains were sadly disappointed to find
but one small and lightly-armed vessel, where
they hoped to have seen men-of-war and a sup
ply of regular troops, and told the prince frank
ly that without such aid a rising would be mad
ness — a hopeless adventure in which they would
not join. Charles urged them by every artful
appeal he could summon to his aid — their hith
erto unfailing affection to his house — their prom
ises, from which the honor of a Highland chief
tain never yet flinched — their proverbial brave
ry, which no odds could daunt; all these stimu
lants were applied to the excitable Celts, but as
yet in vain, and both parties-grew louder in ar
gument and answer as they paced rapidly up and
down the deck. Ellen was reclining under ar\
awning spread above the after-part of Hie ves
sel, sheltering from the noon-day heat, while hei
father and the rest of the adventurers kept aloof
in a group, the prince still Migaged with the
chieftains. How her heart beat as she watch
ed the expressions of their faces and that of
Charles. She could see the conference was
not satisfactory, and she felt for the humiliating
position of a prince suing to a subject and suing
in vain. At this moment .she observed a young
Highlander, who had taken no part in the de
bate, but who, as he caught the meaning of it,
seemed suddenly enlightened as to the real rank
of the person who was engaged with the chief
tains, and became deeply interested. It was
Ronald, the younger brother of Kinlock Moi
dart, who had no idea of the objects of visiting
the Doit.'elle. He had been leaning listlessly
against the bulwark of the ship, seemingly care
less of everything but his picturesque costume,
whjch in every point was perfect. Completely
armed, he seemed the very model of a Highland
warrior; and as he caught the import of the
prince's words, his former listlessriess was
changed to eager watchfulness — his glistening
eyes followed the parleying party backward and
forward. Ellen could see his color come and go ;
his lips became compressed with the energy of
high resolve ; his hand fitfully grasp the hilt of
his broadsword ; and his whole figure heave
with the tumult of emotion. It was at this mo
ment the prince passed over to Ellen, as if he
had spent all his arguments in vain, while the
two chieftains turned on the heel and paced the
deck back again.

" Pardon me, your highness," said Ellen, m
an under tone, " but pray look at that young
Highlander, whose eyes are so enthusiastically
bent upon you."

The prince looked and saw that he had won
the young man's very soul, and suddenly ap
proaching him, he exclaimed, " You at least will
assist me."

" I will, I will !" cried Ronald ; " though no
other man in the highlands shall draw a sword,
I will die for you !" In the wild emotion of the
moment he suited the action to the word ; snatch.
ing his bright claymore from the sheath, the
steel flashed in the sunbeam, as he waved it

IRISH HEIRS.

above his head, and uttered the wild shout of
the Celt.

The enthusiasm was infectious ; the hearts of
sterner men were moved by the impetuous
youth ; there was not a sword remained in its
scabbard, and the clash of steel, and the war
cry of the Mac Donalds, startled the silence of
the smooth bay with a wild clangor, that was
sweeter music to Charles's ear than ever he had
heard in the palaces of kings.

Assured by the adhesion of these bold few,
he landed, and messages were despatched to ev
ery hill and glen to tell that Charles Stuart had
come to fight for the throne of his fathers.
Lochiel was the first to obey the summons of his
prince, but he came to dissuade, not to encour
age him. He, unconscious of the scene that
had fired thje Mac Donalds, represented the mad
ness of attempting a rising without aid from
abroad, and recommended him to re-embark.

" No," said Charles, " as soon as I land what
stores yet remain to me on board the brig, she
shall return to France, and thus will I cut my
self off from all retreat ; for I have come deter
mined to conquer or to perish. In a few days,
with the few friends I have, I will raise the royal
standard, and Lochiel, who my father has often
told me was our firmest friend, may stay at home,
and learn from the newspapers the fate of his
prince."

The blood of the "gentle Lochiel" curdled at
his heart at these bitter words, and his prudent
resolutions were forgotten when his honor was
impeached, and his courage doubted.

" My prince !" he exclaimed with warmth,
u whatever be your fate, be the same fate mine,
and the fate of all over whom nature or fortune
hath given me power. I will love and serve
you while I have life, and follow you to the
death !"

Preparation for a general rising was now rap
idly made through the highlands. Glenfinnin
was named as the point of general rendezvous,
where the Jacobite clans might assemble in de
tail, until their congregated force was sufficient
to make a descent on the lowlands. The glen
was admirably suited for this purpose — a deep
and narrow valley, with a river running through
it; steep mountains guarding it on both sides;
while at either end it was shut in by a lake, thus
preventing surprise from enemies, and rendering
cavalry utterly iseless.

With his few immediate followers the prince
set out for the glen ; on reaching the shores of
tl'e lake a shrill whistle from their highland
gu'de called some wild gillies to their aid, a
corple of small boats were brought forth from
the concealment of some deep rocky creeks and
low underwood, and launched upon the calm
dark waters. About midway across the lake,
the ralley became gradually visible, like a deep
rent in the mountains, presenting the picture of
•ecurity. On landing on the opposite shore, the
party sought the hovel of a shepherd, the only
house within sight, and there leaving Ellen to
rest, for the journey had been somewhat fatigu
ing, the prince and his little band sauntered
about the valley awaiting the arrival of the
clans. For some hours not a sound disturbed
the silence of the clen, and its savage grandeur

and oppressive loneliness began to impart a tone
of melancholy to Charles, who had never till
now behrld the wild and solemn majesty of our
northern hills. But that which made him sad,
gave delight to Lynch, and Kirwan, and Sulli
van (the prince's prime favorite, who was his
companion in all his subsequent perils and wan
derings). They saw in these bold hills and wilil
glens the counterpart of their own dear western
mountains of Ireland; and after the dead levels
of Flanders, and the tame champaigns of France,
on which their eyes so long had rested, the sight
of cliff, and fell, and torrent, brought the features
of home to their hearts, and the memory of early-
days, — when in boyhood they followed their
careless mountain sports, and dreamed not, in
that happy time, of future exile from their native
land, a return to which was risking death !

Oh, happy boyhood ! which sees no joy nor
sorrow, but that of the day in which it breathes ;
or whose future, whenever it dares to speculate,
seldom extends beyond a week. Whose highest
enjoyments are in the whistling whirl of the rod
and line across the lively stream, the sharp ring
of the fowling-piece, and the whir of the flying
covey, the neigh of the impatient steed, antici
pating in the warning tongue of the hound, the
start of the game and the headlong chase.
Happy boyhood ! which can not believe, however
wisely preached, that days will come, when such
joys shall be as nothing; that the mind shall
create for itself a world within more attractive
than the external; that the questions of civil
right and public good shall supersede all private
consideration ; that the present shall display its
attractions in vain against the interest which
the past affords in its historic lessons, and the
future in its political hopes.

To our daring adventurers, the mountains re
vived such images of their boyish sports ; these
mountains that were now to become the theatre
ef their manhood's sterner game. The stream
was valued not for its bounding fish, but as
it might strengthen a position ; the gun was
now to threaten men, not birds ; and the neigh
of the steed was to be roused, not by the bay of
the hound, but the blast of the war trumpet.

The old Lord Tullibardine continued near the
prince, but he became reserved, even to this gal
lant and faithful adherent of his house, and sat
apart upon a rock, seemingly overcast with sad
dening thoughts, and at length leaning his head
upon his hands as if in dark communion with
himself. Did the spirit of divination which gifts
the children of these misty hills then hover over
him ? Did he see the " rally and the rout" of
Dark Culloden? Did he see the royal Stuart
forced to hide his manhood in a female garb, to
wander, hunted like a wolf, to shelter in a sav
age cave, and herd with robbers ?

But soon the visions of the prince, whatever
they were, vanished, like the mist of morn before
the sunbeam ; he was startled from his trance
by a wild peculiar sound which broke the sol
emn silence of the glen. It was the pibroch ot
the Camerons.

Old Tullibardine waved his boniet in the air,
and his practised eye caught the first glimpse of
the clan as its vanward men passed the crest of
the hill, and might be seen glancing here and

there through rocks and heather, with which
their tartans so blended, that none but the ini
tiated could mark their progress. -He pointed
them out to the prince, who, after some time,
could discern them, while louder and louder
rang the pibroch, startling from the cliffs the
eagles, which boldly came forth and answered
with their shout the war-strain, as if they chal
lenged those intruders on their solitary domain.
And now the clan became more visible ; they Iftid
defiled into a mountain-gully, and came pouring
onward, a rush of living men down the path of
a winter-torrent. On reaching the valley they
formed in two lines, each line three deep, and
advanced in good order to where Charles Ed
ward and his little staff were awaiting them.
Lochiel was at their head, and when he brought
them to a halt before the prince, the first rank
opened, and discovered, between the two lines,
a small detachment of English soldiers and their
officer, prisoners.

" Behold, your highness !" said Lochiel, " the
first blow is already struck, a party of my clan
yesterday intercepted a detachment of the red
coats and beat them without the loss of a man
on our side.* So far the game is well begun."

" Your conquest would not have been so easy,
sir," said the English officer, " but for the nature
of the ground, and your peculiar mode of fight
ing."

" As for that," said Lochiel, " we fight in the
way we best understand, and though it may not
be according to your notion of tactics, you can not
deny you were beaten."

" Sir," said the prince to the officer, with his
peculiar courtesy of manner, " I at once liberate
you on your parole. Rest here for the present
after your fatigue, and be my guest for this even
ing ; on the morrow you may return to General
Cope, and tell him I shall soon give him battle."

The prince was surprised to find the greater
part of the clansmen carrying guns, and inquired
of Lochiel how that came to pass, while a strict
parliamentary act had disarmed the Highlands.

Lochiel laughed, and said the Highlanders had
been tiominally deprived of arms by a stringent
la%7 : " But," said the acute mountaineer, " the
sharper the law the sharper the people." He
went on to say that extreme laws were the easiest
evaded : " Fools may give up their arms," said
he, "but wise men Will keep them." And he
protested, that however cunning and vigilant the
officers of the government might be, he defied
them to discover arms among a bold and acute
people, who were determined not to give them
up. " Those who hide can find," said Lochiel ;
" and sign's by it," he added, pointing to his
clan ; for, despite of the Arms Bill, he had brought
six hundred armed, out of his eight, at a short
notice.f

* Fact.

t " By an act of the first of the late king (George I.),
Intituled, ' For the more effectually securing the Peace
of the Highlands,' the whole highlands, without dis
tinction, were disarmed, and for ever foxbid to use or
bear arms, under penalties. This act has been found,
by experience, to work the quite contrary effect from
what was intended by it ; and, in reality, it proves a
measure for more effectually disturbing the peace of
the highlands and the rest of the kingdom. For, at the
time appointed for the disarming act, all the dutiful and
well-affected clans truly submitted to the act of parlia

Then turning to Tullibardine the prince ex
claimed, " Raise my standard, my lord !" Ths
old nobleman received it from Ellen, whose own
hands had worked it ; and is the silken folds of
mingled white, blue, and red, were unfurled, and
lifted upward in the breeze that flaunted the
colors gayly about, a deafening shout arose from
eight hundred stalwart mountaineers, that made
the echoes of Glenfinnin ring again, find onca
more disturbed the eagle in his eyry.

How proudly beat Ellen's heart, as les.ur.g' on
her father's arm she saw the ensign of her king
displayed, and heard it recognised in loyal shouts,
while his royal proclamation was read beneath
it. And yet a shudder crossed her woman-heart
as she thought that gay and silken work of wo
man's hand, in peaceful hour, should muster the
hands of men around it in deadly fight. That
banner which had been her favorite occupation
and companion in the quiet convent of Bruges
and the luxurious boudoir of Paris, should float
for the future amid the thunder of the battle aad
the hardships of war.

How rapt in admiration was Kirwan, as he
marked the enthusiastic gaze of the beautiful girl
upon the standard. He fancied he divined her
thoughts, and approaching her, whispered gently,
" Ellen, while within reach of my sword he will
be a bold foe that plucks that standard down."
And in saying this the lover thought less of his
loyalty to his king than his devotion to the work
of his mistress's hands.

A marble column marks the spot where that
ill-fated banner was raised ; even now we may
stand where the enthusiast Lynch and his gentle
daughter, the devoted lover, the loyal Lochiel,
the faithful Sullivan, and the. ambitious prince,
then stood, and trusted in hopes that were doomed
to be blighted.

Yet why mark with a column that spot of
blighted hopes ? Alas ! there is no spot on earth
which might not thus be celebrated, save that
spot where we kneel and pray in the hope of the
Christian — the only hope that deceiveth not

CHAPTER XXVI.

AFTER the reading of the proclamation the
Highlanders were dismissed from their parade,
and occupied themselves in preparing for a feast;
gathering what would suit for fuel in the glen,
they lit fires, and cooking commenced, in which
they were assisted by many of their women, who
came dropping in at the rear of the clan, carry
ing loads of provisions and kegs of whiskey.
Long wattles were placed in the ground, and
small arcades of successive arches formed, o~?er
which blankets were thrown to make she.lter for
the women and children, for even children were

ment, and gave up their arms, so that they are now
completely disarmed ; but the disaffected clans eithei
concealed their arms at first, or have provided them-

UHS nour. — Lttlitr oj Anarew riercncrt LIWU wiium, jus
tice-Clerk, to the Marquess TwceddaLe Secretary of Staff
I for Scotland.

IRISH HEIRS.

among them ; while shorter sticks, tending in
the form of a cone, and thatched with fern
plucked by the hoys and girls among the rocks,
made a more primitive retreat, and the valley
soijn assumed the air of an encampment. The
shepherd's hut served for the accommodation of
Ellen ; for though it was intended for the prince,
as the best shelter the place afforded, he, with a
courtly gallantry, refused to take it when a lady
was in his " little court," as he playfully called
it, and the hut therefore was allotted to Ellen,
and, as a point of nice punctilio, to her father.

"As for myself," said the prince, «I shall
eleep, like the brave fellows who come to fight
for me, on the heather, in my plaid;" for Charles,
to flatter the nationality of the Highlanders, had
assumed the tartan, and, as he said himself, in
the parlance of Italy, to which he was most ac
customed, '• to lie al fresco was no great penalty
in the month of August."

As the evening advanced, other forces poured
into the valley. Again, the echoes of Glenfinnin
were waked by the pibrochs of Mac Donald and
Mac Leod, and upward of four hundred devoted
men strengthened the force of the prince, who
greeted his adherents as they arrived.

And now the wild feast was spread. Charles
and his little staff and the chieftains were sta
tioned on a gently risin? knoll, which served as
a sort of natural " dais," whence they might be
seen by all the clansmen who were huddled
around without much attention to order. Game
of various sorts served for viands ; and while
eome claret was thoughtfully brought by Lochiel
for the prince, who might not like their stronger
mountain beverage, whiskey was the favorite li
quor of the evening. When all the eatables were
disposed of, Lochiel rose and addressed the as
sembled clans in a speech quite unintelligible to
nun whom it praised and was meant to serve, for
the prince did not understand a word of Erse
(though his Irish adherents could gather most
of the meaning), but, judging from the effect it
produced, it was spirit-stirring in the extreme,
for the Highlanders yelled in delight as he pro
ceeded, and quaffed their brimming cups to the
last drop, as the chieftain wound up his speech
with the toast of " Deochs laint an Reogh .'"*

The pipers struck up the tune of " The king
shall have his own again ;" and as the moun
taineers warmed to the spirit of the scene, the
music had an electric effect upon them, and up
they jumped and began dancing. Those who
could get women to join them, all the better, but
the absence of the gentle sex was no bar to the
rerriment, for the men pranced away among
each other with as much seeming glee as if each
Aad the " bonniest lassie" in all Scotland for his
partner.

The chieftains were not exempted from the
exercise, for two of the women coming up and
dropping courtesies to Lochiel and Mac Donald,
challenged them to the dance.f Forth stepped
the chieftains as ready for the front of the festi
val as the front of the battle. The prince, full

* God save the kin? .

t This custom exi-ts still, I believe, in Scotland, but
certainly in Ireland, at harvest-homes and such festi
vals, where the highest gentleman would be considered
recreant who would refuse the " challenge" of a peas-
tnt girl.

of that "condescension" for which great people
are so famous when they have a point to carry,
wished to join in the common revelry, and offer
ed his hand to El'en if they would play a co
tillon, but the Highland pipers knew no such
outlandish stuff. Lynch, seeing the prince's de
sire that all about him should make general cause
in the mirthful spirit of the hour, said his daugh
ter would dance a jig with " any comer" if there
was a piper present who would play one.

"Hurra !" exclaimed .a voice, not unknown to
Lynch. " Faith, then, it's I will play the jig for
the masther !"

Lynch turned to the spot whence the voice
came, and beheld, to his astonishment, Phaidrig-
na-pib led up to him by Ned.

"Here's the music, sir," cried Ned to the cap
tain ; " and may I," he said, with all the humility
and devotion he could impart to his voice, " have
the honor of leading Miss Lynch to the dance 1"

Eilen uttered an exclamation of surprise at
sight of Ned, and eagerly asked what extraordi
nary chance had thrown him there. He told her
he would explain all to her when the dance was
over, and Phaidrig, losing no time " for the hon
or of Ireland," in lilting up the very merriest of
his jigs, Ned and Ellen set to, and won rapturous
applause from the surrounding lookers-on. Ellen
had that sound spirit of nationality, unfailingly
allied to good sense, which made her not slight,
even if she did not love, any customs of her na
live country. She could tread the stately minuet
or lively cotillon with courtly grace, but equally
well could she bound through the tricksy steps
of the merry jig; and the arm a-kimbo, and the

"Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles,"

so peculiarly belonging to that flirty dance, were
never more attractive than in the person of Ellen
Lynch.

Now Ned could dance a jig right well too, and
with the readiness of an Irishman he seized the
occasion of showing off his good point, while he
secured at the same time what he considered the
highest honor on earth. All his exertions were
called forth by the sight of the beautiful girl
whose graceful action even to one who was not
already in love with her might have made him
so; and whether it was the peculiar occasion,
the presence of the prince, or the honor of her
country, it is impossible to say, but Ellen cer
tainly danced uncommonly well; in short, she
seemed to " take share of the jig" with all her
heart.

The bystanders cheered the dance amazingly,
and the point of honor of " who should give in
first," was made more precious every minute.
Ellen strove hard to " dance her ma i down," but
Ned would not be beaten, and whes breathless
and panting his flushed and exhausted partner
almost dropped with fatigue, Ned tripped forward
with the air of a true cavalier, and supporting
his lovely burden firmly yet delicately i.ri his arms,
he led her, amid loud applause, to a gentle slope,
and seated her on a bunch of heather with as
much ceremony as thoush it had been a velvet
chair. As he retired, after thanking her for the
honor of her hand, and receiving in return a gra
cious glance of her sweet eyes, he met the gaz»
of Kirwan, looking thunder.

s. d.

Whether it was thai the fitful light of the fires
imparted an unusual flashing to the eye, that the
ruddy light tinged his glance with an outward
glare rather than it burned from a fire within,
Ned could not at the instant determine, but he
felt it was the most repulsive look he ever en
countered : the more so, as Kirwan's aspect was
generally good-humored ; handsome though he
was, it was the expression of cheerful good-na
ture which rendered his countenance so prepos
sessing, and over such the shade of evil passions
makes its most startling impress. Kirwan, for
the moment, looked almost fiendish, and at the
instant felt an agony of soul he had never before
experienced ; for as the eyes of the rivals met,
there was in Ned's look a joy so bright, a some
thing more akin to the skies than the earth, so
expressive of unlooked-for joy, of hope realized,
that its brightness shot infinitely more of .anguish
to the soul of Kirwan, than At* lowering aspect
did of regret to Ned, in this passing encounter of
their eyes. That glance was but instantaneous,
and yet in that one moment those men felt they
were for ever and for aye, deep, deadly, irrecon
cilable foes.

This was the more painful, because both had
rather desired to be friends. Ned, for Lynch's
sake, would scrupulously have avoided a quarrel
with Kirwan ; and he, on the other hand, could
not forget that to Edward's hand he owed his
life, when he missed his footing in springing on
board the Seagull in the storm. He would have
given the world not to be thus indebted. To owe
a favor to the man you hate is indeed terrible,
and Kirwan all on a sudden thoroughly hated
our hero, for until that moment he had never
dreamed of him as a rival ; but there was an in
definable something about Ellen's dancing which
made Kirwan's heart sink within him. It is true,
he had never been received as Ellen's recognised
suiter ; a long and attached friendship was the
highest claim he ever held to be so much in her
society ; and though Lynch would have been
glad of Kirwan's alliance by marriage, Ellen's
bearing toward him, while replete with friendli
ness and confidence, could never for a moment
be mistaken fo- low

This, however, Kirwan hoped by long devotion
to achieve at last ; but, though the smiles of the
gentle sex were no stransers to him, though a
general favorite with the fair, and often envied
for his ready access to their good graces, he felt
that he had not made impression on Ellen's
heart, though he was conscious of her utmost
esteem. Can k be wondered at, then, that thus
suddenly discovering a rival in a man he was in
clined to consider, if not quite an adventurer, at
least much his inferior in rank, he should look
upon him with peculiar aversion ; that the hopes
he had been long building up being thus sudden
ly overthrown, should as suddenly engender ha
tred for the author of his disappointment ?

Conscious that his aspect might betray the
emotions which struggled within, he turned away
from the group, and walked apart for some time.
On his return he had no greater reason to be
satisfied, for though Ned was not in the neigh
borhood of Ellen, he saw him closely engaged in
conversation with Tullibardine, Lynch, and the
principal men of the party, and even with the

prince himself; and this argued an importance
in his position which afforded fresh cause of un
easiness, for whatever made him useful to " the
cause," would give him interest in the eyes not
only of Ellen, but of her father.

It was immediately after the dance, when Kir-
wan had walked away, that Lynch inquired of
Ned how he came to make so sudden and unex
pected an appeararfce in the glen. Ned gave a
brief sketch of his adventurous measures to join
the expedition, but with great tact abstained
from personal affairs, as soon as possible, and
entered upon the subject of the secret Jacobite
interests as intrusted to him by Lord Barrymore ;
whereupon Lynch praised him much for his zeal
and activity, and led him at once to the prince ;
who, on learning the importance of what Ned
had to communicate, retired with him and his
principal adherents to a neighboring hillock, and
received, with the aid of Phaidrig's memory, such
detailed accounts of the assistance they might
expect in England, that the hearts of the adven
turers, exulting in the hopes before them, opened
in welcome to the bearer of the glad tidings, and
Ned found himself suddenly a person of some
consideration. The prince repeatedly addressed
him, and at the conclusion of the conference
praised him for his zeal, courage, and activity ;
and when the party separated to throw them
selves on their beds of heather, Lynch had some
more parting words with Ned as they walked to
gether toward the hut whither Ellen had already
retired. As they parted at the door, Lynch told
his young friend he should find the best beu he
could for himself on the heather, to which Ned
replied that to one who had often kept the mid-
i die watch in a gale, a heather bed in August wa*
| luxury.

But Ned did not feel himself inclined for in-
mediate repose ; for although he had walked
I many a weary mountain mile that day, the ex-
i citement of the evening countervailed the natural
• desire for rest. His meeting with Ellen and her
gracious bearing toward him, raised hopes which
Lynclrs manner and the prince's condescension
were calculated to heighten, and which Ned had
no wish to drown in slumber for the present, so
he sauntered up the glen which was fast sinkin?
into quiet. The whiskey had done its dutyt tne
Highlanders were stretched in drunken sleep be
side their watch-fires, already beginning to burn
low, whose dull red light, as it glinted upon some
overhanging rock, contrasted in picturesque re
lief to the pale light of the moon, which now il
lumined the silent depths of the valley.

It was the very region of romance; and in
such a region Edward might well indulge his
own. Oh, what living, real romance was there !
A prince had come to claim a croAvn, and with a
daring few had commenced the bold adventure.
Those faithful few, forgetful of all other ties, the
dearest and most real nature knows, clung to that
ideal one which from boyhood upward had held a
secret, and therefore the dearest place in their
enthusiast hearts — the tie of loyalty. They, in
turn, had their followers educated in the blind,
but affectionate and generous motive, to follow
the fortune of their chief, whithersoever it might
lead ; and here were prince, and chieftains, and
clansmen, all sunk alike into th« forgetfulness oi

IRISH HEIRS.

101

slumber ; slumber on the edge of doom ! even
that royal head, which, now resting on the
wild heather, might in a few eventful days lie
beneath the palace canopy or on the scaffold's
block, forgot itself in sleep. The ambitious
prince — the devoted adherent — the reckless clans
men — all could sleep, but the travel-tired lover
tould not repose. No. Naught can disturb the
heart like love — naught else so chase the soul of
rest. Kingcraft and loyalty are of the world's
making; but love is of nature's creation, and
therefore more absorbing in its influence.

Edward had a confused consciousness of all
this around and passing within him, though he
could not have denned his sensations in words ;
but he apostrophized the name of his mistress,
asking himself why he alone should be waking
in that valley, as he walked amidst the sleepers.
He looked toward the hut which sheltered Ellen,
and approached it with the pleasing notion of
making his couch near the place where she
rested.

As he brushed briskly through the heather in
the eagerness of the fond idea, the rustling at
tracted somebody already in the neighborhood of
the hut, who raising himself on his arm from
his recumbent position, demanded, " Who goes
there ?"

"A friend," replied Ned, still advancing.

The challenger sprung to his feet and confront
ed him ; and Ned beheld in the person who bar
red his path, Kirwan.

The moonlight perfectly revealed both the men
to each other, and neither spoke for some time,
but stood gazing silently on each other. Kirwan's
yisage was sad and pale, and it seemed as if he
made an effort to be calm. At length he asked
some vague question, to which Edward returned as
vague a reply ; and after the interchange of some
broken sentences they seemed as much perplexed
how to part as they were startled by their meet
ing. Each knew the other's motive for being
there, as well as if the motive had been his own,
yet dared not hint at such a knowledge. Each
knew the working of the other's heart, as well
as if he were inside it, yet tried to appear as in
different as if they had not a heart between them.
Both the men at that moment would have gladly
seized each other by the throat, and struggled to
the death, or gashed each other with their swords,
yet were forced to assume the formalities of ac
quaintanceship; and when they stumbled on an
excuse for parting, mutually uttered a hurried .
" good-night," while they wished each other at
the d 1.

The following day was full of bustle and ac
tivity. An early council of war was called to
consider the propriety of an immediate march to
the south, but Lochiel and the other chieftains
recommended the delay of one day more at Glen-
finnm for the reception of small straggling par
ties of Highlanders which might be expected,
»nd would be disheartened, or perhaps turn back
if they found no friends awaiting them in the
glen. This being decided on, the remainder of
the day was given up to amusement. Athletic
sports were engaged in by the mountaineers for
the amusement of the prince, while Ellen and a
few who loved the picturesque made a little party
to explore the beauties of the glen. It was after

the fatigue of a steep ascent which they had
made in their excursion, that the little basket of
refreshment was opened, and their simple repast
spread in a pretty sheltered nook of the hills,
where a rivulet, crystal-bright, bounding down
the rocks, offered reudy beverage to the party.
Here it was that Ellen called upon Ned to tell
her of his adventures since they parted at sea, and
by what extraordinary means he had contrived to
follow them. This he did in more detailed form
than the night before to her father, but still with
out making himself offensively prominent in the
story ; and all listened with pleasure to the ad
venturous little history; his contriving to get
away from France, his fishing-boat passage of the
channA his secret landing in England, escapes
in London, and northern journey, which latterly
became dangerous, from the suspicion of the au
thorities in the lowland towns attaching to all
southerns travelling to the north. All the inci
dental questions that were asked him in the
course of his narrative were answered with se
much clearness and good sense that he obtained
consideration among his hearers.

Kirwan was not among these; his duties
obliging him to remain in the camp, much to his
chagrin, as he saw Ellen departing with Ned iu
her train. As for Ned, it was the happiest day
of his life. The beautiful girl he adored listened
with pleasure to the recital of his adventures,
and there was a nameless charm in her manner
toward him which gave him joy for the present
and hope for the future. How lovely did ' she
seem in his eyes, as she reclined in that little
rocky dell upon the short aromatic grass, where
the tiny flowers had crept for shelter. Her fairy
foot was playing with a hare-bell which lay close
beside it, and Ned would have given the world
for the painter's power at that moment to record
the beauty of its arched instep and rounded
ankle.

Young Ronald Macdonald was of the party;
albeit not insensible to Ellen's beauty, and she
called on the young chieftain to arouse them from
their too luxurious quiet by one of those spirit-
stirring songs with which he was wont to gladden
the hearts of the king's friends ; one of those
strains whose fiery poetry roused men to action,
and outlives the cause by which they were in
spired.

The young chieftain poured forth his very heart
in the song, which well suited the genius of the
place, and as he arrived at its burden, —

" Come through the heather,
Around him gather,
You're a' the welcomer airly,"

every voice joined in the chorus, and felt the apt
ness of the strain, for the heather was around
them, and they were " a' the welcomer airly'- —
they were the first of the adherents.

Ellen's foot had kept beating time to the n.elo
dy, and Ronald remarked that if she kept tin e so
well he was sure she could sing, and that hers
truly was the land of song.

She obeyed the call, and sang that exquisitely
plaintive melody called "Limerick's Lamenta
tion," which touched the heart of every hearer;
and when it was concluded, Ronald made her
promise she would teach it to him, as it was one

102

£ s. d.

ef the loveliest airs he had ever heard. " But it
is so sad," he added.

" And well it may be," said Ellen. " It was
written to commemorate the expatriation of us
poor Irish after the violation of the treaty of
Limerick, and hence its name."

" I will learn it," said Ronald. And so he
lid, and the air became ailerward a great favor
ite in Scotland, where it is now known under the
name of " Farewell to Lochabar," for the beauty
of the strain caught the ear and waked the
genius of Burns.

Ned was now called on to contribute to the
harmony of the party, and said he would attempt
a variety in the style of the song he should give.
The others treated of war and exile ; he^phould
deal with a softer subject, which was the unfail
ing contrast to war in the hands of the poets.

"Ay — love!" said Ronald; "you lowlanders
are always thinking of sighing and whining after
your lady's apron string. Oh the mountains for
me, which brace a man's nerves to bolder strains !"

"Softly," said Ned; "in the first place I am
Hot a lowlander — I came from the region of
mountain and lake as well as yourself, and I
never heard it objected to a warrior that he could
play the lover also. Nay, my love-si ng even
shall not treat of the valley, but hold forth the
fitness of the mountain for tender recollections
as well as warlike achievements. Why should
we not

' Come thro' the heather'

at the behest of a lady as well as of a king ?"
and he bowed low to Ellen as he spoke, and then
began : —

Sfjc fountain J3eto.
i.

" By yon mountain, tipped with cloud,

By the torrent foaming loud,

By the dingle where the purple bells of heather grew,
Where the Alpine flow'rs are hid,
And where bounds the nimble kid.
There we've wandered both together through the

mountain dew !

With what delight in summer's night we trod the twi
light gloom,
The air so full of fragance from the flow'rs so full of

bloom,
And our hearts so full of joy— for aught else there was

no room.

As we wandered both together through the mountain
dew !

It.

" Those sparkling gems that rest

On the mountains flow'ry breast
Are like the joys we number— they are bright and few,
For a while to earth are given,
And are call'd again to heaven,
When the spirit of the morning steals the mountain

dew.

But memory, angelic, makes a heaven on earth for men,
Here losy light recalleth bright the dew drops back

again ; ••

The warmth of love exhales them from that weli-re-

membeied glen,

Where we wandered both together through the moun
tain dew."

Even the fiery Ronald admitted that a song
not unworthy of the mountain might be sung to a
softer theme than war, and one after another of
the party gave some snatch of—

" Music wedded to immortal verse."

And right pleasantlj parsed the day, until the
shadows warned them it was time to return and
join the evening feast, which the prince was to
hold again in Glenfinnin. As they descended to
the valley, Ned seized many an opportunity of
tendering his services to Ellen, whose beautiful
hand was often within his, as he steadied her
footstep round some precipitous ledge, or afforded
her support as she sprang from some overhanging
rock, too high to dare a leap from without such
aid. Happy, happy Ned ! — he would have wish
ed the descent to be interminable, but such sweet
moments must come to an end, and he found him
self too soon at the mountain-foot, where prepa
ration for festivity was in active progression.

It was not long till the feast was spread, and
the prince and his adherents (much increased in
number by fresh arrivals) re-enacted the scene of
the former evening. Again to the king's health
did Glenfinnin resound ; again shrieked the pipes
in wild music; again the fantastic dance beat
the ground — but there was no jig. Ellen plead
ing fatigue had retired early, so the jealous glan
ces of the rivals were spared, as well as their
moonlight walk and meeting of the preceding
night, and if Kirwan did not sleep soundly, Ned
certainly did.

CHAPTER XXVn.

THE following morning, at an earl hour, the
forces of Charles Edward started on t; eir south
ern route, and the house of the " gentle Lochiel"
was their next appointed halting-place.

Now, while the Highlanders are on their march,
it may be as well for the author to beckon his
kind companion, the reader, into a by-path, and
have a few confidential words with him about the
march of his story. Let him (the reader) not be
afraid that he is about to be dragged through the
high road of history, with which he is as well,
if not better acquainted than the author himself.
The story of the adventurous prince is too well
known by the world in general, to afford rational
hope to an author that any fresh research, or
"new dresses, scenery, and decorations" of his,
could invest that romantic drama with a fresh in
terest. Therefore, once for all, let it be under
stood that no more of the history of this period
will be touched upon than properly belongs to
the affairs of the persons connected with our
story. In touching on the immediate time and
place of such startling historic events, it can not
be forgotten that the greatest novelist of any age
or country has made the theme his own, and that
while the course of the present tale lies through
such beaten ground, the author feels like a tres
passer, pursuing his game over a manor tkit
must be ever well preserved in the gratelul
memories of admiring millions. Therefore, with
what speed he may, he will hasten his course,
nor venture one step he can avoid in a region it
were literary sacrilege to profane.

And now, so much being said, let -is join the
general march, and halt with the Highlanders
and the " gentle Lochiel."

The gathering of the clans was increased at
the home of the gallant chieftain. MacDonaid o(

IRISH HEIRS.

103

nienco, Stuart of Appin, and the younger Glen
garry, joined their forces to those already as
sembled ; and though, despite the arms bill," they
were wonderfully provided with offensive wea
pons, nevertheless, some hundreds were wanting
'•n that essential point of war, and a council was
nelJ to deliberate on the best mode of remedying
the deficiency.

After the council had broken up, the theme of
its deliberation continued to be the subject of con
versation among the leaders, and repeatedly re
gret was expressed that the prince had come so
ill provided with arms. Tullibardine, Lynch,
and others of the prince's immediate followers,
reminded the chieftains that it was not from lack
of foresight such a want was experienced, but
that the fortune of war had interrupted that
most necessary supply — the ship bearing the
military stores having been intercepted.

Kirwan could not resist this opportunity of
saying something to annoy Ned, and though his
better nature pointed out to him at the instant
he spoke the unkindness and injustice of his
words, the demon of jealousy would not let him
be silent, but goaded him on to wound in any
way he could.

« Yes," said he, " if those on board the Eliza
beth had only done their duty, and fought their
ship becomingly, we should now have plenty of
arms and ammunition."

* Ned, in the peculiar relation he stood with
Kirwan, was quite as ready to take, as the other
to give offence, and instantly retorted, " If the
Doutclk had not deserted the Elizabeth — "

" Deserted !" interrupted Kirwan, captiously ;
"you forget his highness was on board — too
precious a freight to endanger; besides, what
could a light-armed brig do against a fifty-gun
ship ? while the Elizabeth, carrying sixty-seven,
should have been able to beat an inferior adver
sary."

"The Elizabeth," said Ned, "was an old and
inefficient ship, while the Lion was perfect in all
respects ; and I feel myself bound to bear testi
mony to the gallantry of the captain and crew
of the Frenchman. No ship could be better
fought."

" Very possibly," said Kirwan, superciliously,

* I only mean to say it was pity she was beaten."
" She was not beaten," replied Ned, warmly.

* It was a drawn battle, and a bitter and bloody
one too ; there was not a stick left standing in
either shijfc"

" We have lost our arms, however," returned
Kirwan.

" If the Doutclle had used her guns," said
Ned, " we should not want arms ; not only the
Elizabeth, but the Lion too, as our prize, would
have been here."

" Oh," said Kirwan, " it's easy to talk of what
Would have been. I speak of what happened.
Your ship was driven back."

" If you talk of my ship," said Ned, " I must
falk of yours — and I should rather be on board
the ship that fought than the ship that ran away."

" Ran away !" echoed Kirwan, furiously.
" What do you mean ?" and he laid his hand on
his sword.

"Peace! peace!" cried Lynch, authoritatively,
anil restraining Kirwan's arm. "Gentlemen,

this is an unseemly and uncalled-for altercation.
We are too few to quarrel among ourselves — lei
cur swords be drawn on our enemies, not on
each other. I make it a personal request to each
that not a word further pass between you. I am
sure no offence was meant on either side."

A general exclamation of " Certainly not,"
arose among the chieftains, though some sus
pected there might have been ; and Lynch was
quite sure there was, and grieved to think upon
the cause, and not wishing to trust the men
longer in each other's company, passed his arm
through Kirwan's, and withdrew from the group,
which by common consent dispersed immediately
afteward.

Ned's temper, though ruffled, soon recovered
its tone,'from the consciousness that he had re
pelled any affront that was meant, and main
tained his position ; and during the evening, in
the house of the highland chief, he renewed his
opportunities of speaking with Ellen, undeterred
by Kirwan's lowering brow, which, despite his ef
forts to the contrary, betrayed his inward feelings.

The next day, too, while pursuing their route
to Blair castle, the seat of old Lord Tullibardine,
he often walked by Ellen's bridle-rein, as she
sat her rough highland pony down the steep de
clivities of the mountain road ; and though often
obliged to give place to Kirwan, equally arduous
in his attention, yet Ned made a good fight for
the place of honor, and lost no opportunity of
being near the lady of his heart.

This struggle for the honor of "groom in
waiting" between the rivals was not unobserved
by Lynch, who would gladly have prevented it
by assuming the place himself, but that his
presence was demanded in front, beside the
prince, who was in close converse with him on
the subject of the expected share Ireland would
take in the insurrectionary movements, while
Tullibardine was called on for his counsel.

The old lord, who had been actively engaged
in the conference, soon became abstracted, and
seemed scarcely to hear a word that was ad
dressed to him. This absence of mind was ac
counted for to the prince, by one of the chieftains,
who told him they were approaching Blair Athol,
and that Tullibardine's heart was full at the
thought of nearing his old halls after so long an
absence. It was even so. Thirty years had
elapsed since the heroic old man had been in his
native land, whence the same cause had pro
cured his exile that now induced his return, and
his countenance betrayed the varying emotions
that stirred his soul as he drew near the castle.

As they topped an acclivity, the turn of a
sharp angle in the road revealed to the old lord
his ancestral tow»rs — first clear and distinct, but
soon dim and uncertain ; for he saw then, through
the midst of affection which his heart sent up
before his eyes, as he looked on the home of his
childhood. Other emotions were there, too, as
well as those of affection. This stanch ad
herent of his king had received the father of the
present prince in those very halls ; then, on an
enterprise like the present, had proved his fidel
ity, and forfeited his estates ; and now was re
turned, after more than a quarter of a century
of exile, to risk all he had remaining — his life—
in the same desperate cause.

104

£ s. d.

Ashamed to have witnesses to his emotion, the
old man hastened onward, upon the pretence of
being ready to receive the prince at the castle.
When he reached the portal there was a recep
tion awaiting himself. Some old adherents to
the house, who yet survived the ravages of time,
and the still more actively depopulating meas
ures of the law after " the fifteenth," were
ready to receive him at the gate, and hailed him
as the " Duke of Athol," the title held by his
whig brother (or the " fau'se laird," as the
people called him), by way of reward for his ad
hesion to the Guelphic interest.

One fine old man, in particular, whose ^bite
hairs proclaimed age, and on whose face a scar
indicated warlike service, was foremosj in wel
come : calling down blessings on the head of the
old lord, he ran before him into the castle,
shouting, " It's a' your ain again ! — a' your
ain !"

But Tullibardine did not follow. His prince
being close at hand, he awaited his arrival at
the portal, where he received him with loyal
welcome as he alighted, and prayed him to enter
his castle, which tie considered less his own than
his king's. He stood uncovered as he spoke,
and when he had finished his short but devoted
speech, he threw his bonnet in the air, as a sig
nal to the surrounding retainers, whose answer
ing shouts made the walls of Blair Athol ring
again, as the prince entered its gates.

Much confusion was apparent in the interior
appointments, owing to the sudden departure of
its recent occupant; the open doors of closets
and cupboards with emptied shelves, papers scat
tered about, and remnants of valueless utensils,
showed that documents of»any value and all the
plate had been removed. Old Tullibardine, af
ter ransacking every corner of his castle, came
back laughing to the prince, swearing " the loon
had not left as much as a silver spoon in the
house." Rejoicing, however, that the cellar
could not be emptied at a short notice, the brave
oU gentleman set about getting up a feast direct
ly, and all the resou-?es the neishborhood could
furnish were put in - vjuisition for the purpose.
In the meanwhile the prince was conducted by
his host through the castle, much of which had
been modernized, to the great grief of Tullibar
dine, who regretted each innovation, which
made his castle look less like what it was when
he had left it. On entering the garden his
surprise was still greater, to find additions to a
considerable extent had been made in this de
partment ; even to the luxury of green and hot
houses, and the culture of foreign fruits. It was
at Blair Athol, Charles Edward" first tasted pine
apples, which the banquet of that festal day fur
nished. A wild and singular banquet it was ;
the dishes were of a sufficiently substantial
character for the old baronial times ; the exigen
cies of the hour precluded the possibility of the
careful cooking of anything ; while the produce
of the gardens and the cellars bespoke modern
refinement, and were fit for the board of a king ;
but even here the absence of all suitable acces
sories was ludicrous. The commonest ware, and
not much of that, bore costly delicacies ; and
the choicest wines were quafled from horn cups.
But still right j oyous was that wild banquet, and the

ancient hall of Blair Athol rang through the nigbi
with loud merriment, till dawn surprised some of
the carousers at their potations, and the hoarse
exhausted song of the reveller was but a pre
lude to the clear, outgushing melody of the
lark.

That morning melody had awakened Ellen
from her slumbers, which had been deep and re
freshing, far removed from the riot of the hall ;
and she arose to enjoy the early fragrance of the
gardens she saw sparkling in dew beneath her
window. To rove through a garden was at all
times to Ellen an exquisite pleasure, and she
found in that of Blair Athol much to admire. It
seemed as if great care had been bestowed on.
this department of the establishinen', and in her
walk among its flowers the morning passed
swiftly away. As the day advanced, stragglers
running to and fro indicated the stir of life again
about the castle, and the old lord himself was
soon after seen making his appearance upon a
grassy slope, that led from the house to the gar
den. As in this neighborhood there was a beau
tiful bed of flowers, Ellen hastened thither,
doubting not she should find him, but on reach
ing the spot she stood alone amid its bloom and
its fragrance; she raised her voice and called
on him by name, but no answer was returned,
and then, stepping into one of the neighboring
walks, she commenced a search. At length she
caught a glimpse of him through an opening in
an old hedge, whose antiquity showed it to be
an original boundary of the garden, and she fol
lowed to keep him company. As she approach
ed, she observed him looking attentively upon
the trunk of an ancient tree, beside which an
old but flourishing bush of white rose was grow
ing, and he had just taken a knife from his pock
et as if to cut some memento on the bark, which
already bore the rough seams of some former
carving.

On being addressed by Ellen, the old gentle
man turned round and saluted her courteously,
while she inquired how he could choose to ram
ble in that grass-grown and neglected place,
while so beautiful a garden lay so near.

" My dear child," he said, " this was the gar
den. Yonder is the doing of my whig brother,
who loves new kings and new fashions better
than I. This is the place where I stole apples
as a boy, and I would not give this neglected,
grass-grown spot, for ten times the " beautifica-
tions" that have been made at the other side of
that hedge. Do you see that old tree ? I have
climbed it when it and I were younger, to the
terror of my poor mother. It bears a memento,
too, of my hand in manhood — look here !" and
he pointed out to her, as he spoke, the initials
of his name and the date 1715, carved in the
bark.

"In that year," he said, "I fought for th«
royal house which now I fight for. In that year
I planted that white rose, the emblem of our
cause, beside that tree ; and now I return, after
thirty years of exile, and the tree still stands,
and the rose still flourishes ; good omen of suc
cess ! And do you wonder I love this old gar
den better than the new one ? No ! I see you
don't ; by your glistening eyes ! And now I am
going to carve my name and 1745 on that same

IRISH HEIRS.

103

old *ree, A»'hose bark shall bear the record that
fullibardine was ever loyal to his king. Yes !
chat tree and I are older and weaker than we
were when I played among its branches. I am
too old to climb, and it too weak to bear ; but
still, though shaken by time, we are unchanged
in nature. As well might that tree assume an
other foliage as I become a whig. As well
might it desert its roots, as I desert the cause of
Charles Stuart." Ellen's heart swelled at the
enthusiasm of the old man, who began carving
his memorial on the tree, while she commenced
a careful selection of the choicest neighboring
roses, as a welcome tribute to the prince, saying
she was certain the flowers would be doubly wel
come when he heard the history of the tree from
which they had been gathered.

Having culled her bunch of roses, Ellen saun
tered up and down the old garden, waiting till
Tullibardine had finished his carving on the
tree, that he might bear her company ; and as
she approached the hedge she fancied her name
was spoken at the other side of it. She paused
and listened, and distinctly heard her name re
peated, and by a voice which she recognised for
Kirwan's. A reply was returned, but the inter
vention of the fence prevented her from hearing
sufficiently well to know who spoke, though she
rather imagined it was Ned. She caught the
sound of Kirwan's voice again, and in a higher
tone, which seemed to produce a louder reply
than before, at once identifying Edward as the
speaker. There was a peculiar tone in the con
versation, indistinct as it was, that could not be
mistaken for friendliness, and a suspicion flashed
•cross Ellen's mind as to its nature, which, while
it made her heart tremble, also piqued her curi
osity, and approaching still Closer to the hedge,
she listened breathlessly for the next word.

Now Ellen, though the soul of honor, and the
last in the world who would wilfully play the eaves
dropper, could not resist this temptation. But
who could blame a woman for listening under
such circumstances ? hearing her own name
mentioned, and that in an angry tone, between
two persons whom she kaew were her admirers,
and trembling for what the result might be, —
perhaps a deadly quarrel, which it would be her
duty to prevent. She stood in a state of perfect
fascination, as the conversation proceeded, and
the speakers having drawn nearer, she could
gather much of what was said. Kirwan's tone
was haughty and intemperate ; Edward's, though
indignant, more under restraint. She heard Kir-
wan calling Edwar' to account for his over as
siduous manner to herself, which Edward defend
ed as being perfectly within the limit of hom
age which any gentleman may offer to a lady.
This Kirwan denied, and a good deal of what fol
lowed was lost ; but it 'seemed a hurried discus
sion of how far attentions might go without be
ing construed into meaning anything, and Kir-
wan seemed to assume to himself the right of
questioning any approaches to Miss Lynch, an
intervention which Ned did not seem at all in
clined to give way to. Something offensive fol
lowed, implying that Edward was not entitled to
look so high. This was followed by an enthu
siastic outbreak on Edward's part, not in asser
tion of his own deserts, but asking Kirwan who

was worthy of so "divine a creature." Words
ran higher every moment, and at last, in a very
violent tone, Kirwan called upon his rival to
abandon all pretensions to Miss Lynch's notice,
and desist from further " intrusion upon that
lady." Ned replied with excellent temper,
that when that lady's manner made him feel
iiis attentions were intrusive, lie should re
tire, but that he would not receive dismissal from
other hands. Kirwan, in still stronger language,
insisted on his renouncing all pretension to her
society, on the spot. Ned very shortly and in
dignantly gave a plump ^refusal, and Ellen heard
some enthusiastic expression about laying down
his life a thousand times for her. She then
heard Kirwan say, with terrible distinctness,
"One of a thousand will do for me, sir — draw!"

The next instant she heard the clink of swords,
and uttering a piercing scream, she sprang to
the entrance through the fence, and ran into the
garden, where she beheld the two young men
engaged in deadly encounter, and rushed be
tween them. At her presence they dropped the
points of their swords, while Tullibardine made
his appearance suddenly, startled by Ellen's
cries, and following her footsteps rapidly. She,
pale as death, looked silently at the combatants,
who stood mute and abashed before her, while
the old lord, with stern dignity, reproved them
for the outrage they had committed, reminding
them that, while the prince honored the castle
with his presence, it became a palace, within
whose precincts to draw a sword was punisha
ble with death.

" Surrender your swords to me, sirs," said
Tullibardine.

The young men obeyed.

" You are both under arrest, sirs ; and I desire
you instantly to walk before me to the castle,
where you shall be confined till a court-martial be
called.'"'

" My lord," said Ned, " I only beg to assure
you that I was ignorant of the law it seems I
have broken."

" Then, sir, 'tis well if you do not learn an over-
dear lesson," answered Tullibardine, sternly.
" Go before me, gentlemen," he added. i

" Oh, my lord !" exclaimed Ellen, whose heart
sank at the name of a court-martial," for Heaven's
sake pardon the thoughtlessness of these gentle
men, who, I am sure, quite forgot the neighbor
hood of the prince, and are therefore unintentional
offenders."

" It is quite clear they did forget, Miss Lynch,
and so do you seem to forget what is due to your
prince, in interceding for such bold offenders."

Ellen had never heard the old man speak so
harshly before, and hung her head to conceal
the tears which his reproof had caused, and with
a heavy heart followed him to the castle, whither
be advanced, marching his prisoners before him.
On reaching the hall he sent for two armed
Highlanders, and giving directions to a servant
to place Kirwan and Ned within the strong
rooms of the old turret, desired the Highlander*
to keep watch at the door of each chamber.

The prisoners were marched off immediate.y,

and Tullibardine returned to the garden, whither

Ellen followed, notwithstanding the rebuff she

I had already received, to endeavor to soften tht

106

X 5. d.

anger of the punctilious oid nobleman : but she
found him inexorable; all the arguments she
urged in favor of the prisoners were in vain.
Most fitly she suggested the wisdom of not
weakening their small force by the bad example
of letting a quarrel in their own little band be a
subject, of inquiry and punishment, while there
was a common enemy to be fought ; — that at
such a moment, unanimity among themselves
was of more consequence than the observance
of court etiquette ; — and that the probable igno
rance of both, certainly of one of the party, of
the nature of the offence they committed, ought*
to be mercifully taken "into consideration. But
to all these sensible observations the old courtier
was deaf. In his view everything was less im
portant than the respect due to royalty, and the
argument advanced, of the prince standing in
need of friends at the immediate moment, only
made him more indignant with the offenders.

" When our prince is here," he said, " almost
at the mercy of his lieges to restore him to power,
it more behooves us that he shall not have his
royal dignity despised nor abated one jot ; his
very weakness, in this case, makes his strength ;
for what is wanting to him in real power must
be made up to him by the homage of loyal and
true hearts; and though he might not, at the
present moment, be able or willing to assert his
dignity and privileges to the fullest, it is the duty
of his servants to see that they be not infringed ;
and in my eyes, Miss Lynch, an offence against
our ill-provided prince, our royal master's alter
t'go, in this humble Highland dwelling, is as great
an offence as if committed against the potent
Louis in the Tuihries."

Ellen assured him she was not insensible to
the loyal spirit in which he spoke ; it was only
in a prudential point of view she urged him to
be merciful and say nothing about it ; and that
if the secret lay with the parties already in
possession of it, there was no fear of the affair
reaching the prince's ears ; " and then, my lord,"
said she, enforcing her argument with one of her
sweetest smiles, " you remember how truly and
beautifully the poet says,

'• • He that is rohbed, not wanting what is stolen,
Let him not know it, and he's not robbed at all.' "

But Ellen's smiles and quotations were in vain.
She might have smiled her life out, and exhausted
a whole library without moving Tullibardine.
He returned a stern look in exchange for Ellen's
smile, and said : —

" Miss Lynch, the poet there speaks of a purse ;
and would you place money on a level with the
dignity of the crown ?"

"At least, my dear sir," answered Ellen, still
trying to force him out of his severity by play
fulness, " you will acknowledge they are both
gold."

" Or silver," Miss Lynch, returned my lord,
with chilling severity, " as the case may be. Miss
Lynch, rhe subject is not one to treat with levity,
and in oie devoted to your king, as I know you
are, I am Ftirpnsed to observe the temper in
which yoi< disr uss this subject. An oifence
punishalle wi'h death — death, Miss Lynch, "is
committeJ in my garden, and I am not to see the

offender punished, forsooth, because yon can
quote poetry !"

" This is unjust, my lord. In devotion to my
king I will yield to no one, and I only appea.ed
to your prudence and mercy to induce yov to
overlook what is, after all, but a breach of
etiquette, too heavily punishable to make il
Christian-like to prosecute."

" Ho, ho !" exclaimed Tullibardine, getting
very angry. " So, mademoiselle, you first spout
poetry and then preach Christianity to mi,, to
make me forget the honor of my prince ; but
you shaD learn, mademoiselle, that old men are
not to be moved from their duty by lovesick
young ladies."

Ellen felt the phrase " lovesick" severely,
and replied with spirit to Tullibardine : " My
lord, since you so mistake my motives, I shall
take my leave ;" and, making a low courtesy, re
tired with dignity ; but when she was sheltered
from the stern old man's view, tea'rs sprang to
her eyes, and she cried with pure vexi.ion that
the state of her heart should be suspected.

Of this, I believe, a woman is more jealous
than a miser of his gold.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE parting words of the old lord presented to
Ellen a new aspect of the affairs of the morning.
Hitherto her views and motives regarded the in
terests of others : now they assumed a eelfish
form — a rare occurrence with her. The stern
ness of Tullibardine's manner left no doubt on
her mind that he would bring the offenders to
punishment, and the stinging phrase " love
sick" conjured up a host of hateful imaginings
as to the facts that would come out in the course
of the examination. The cause of quarrel would
naturally become a matter of question, and there
fore her name would inevitably be mixed up ia
the transaction, and in a way of all others most
grievous to a lady ; for where is the woman of
right feeling who would not shudder at being
supposed the cause of a duel ? Such were her
thoughts as she wended her way to the castle,
and sought her chamber ; her pretty notion of
presenting the verses to the prince being aban
doned in the serious considerations of the hour.
She began to hope that perhaps neither of the
gentlemen engaged would confess what was the
cause of their quarrel, but what hope was aban
doned in the speedily-following 'belief, that on so
serious a matter they must waive all delicacy,
and answer every question asked. Nay, as sh«
was present, perhaps she herself might be called
on to declare all she knew about the matter, and
then, " what would become of her 7" To stand
the gaze of a court of inquiry, and be forced by
her own word of mouth to declare how important
a share she had in the transaction — it was too
dreadful, and she wrung her hands in very bitter
ness of grief, pacing up and down the chamber,
exclaiming in an under breath, " What is to be
done !" Poor Ellen ! she was in sad perturba
tion, and was long undecided what steps to pur
sue : — whether to let things take their course, or
speak to her father, and telling him all she knew

IRISH HEIRS.

•107

about it, seek his counsel. Yes — she would tell
her father, and her hand was on the lock of the
door to open it, and go forth to seek him, when
the project was abandoned on second thoughts.

She had serious objection to speak to Lynch
on the subject, for she dreaded his blame. He
hid made it sufficiently intelligible to Ellen that
a unian with Kirwan would please him, and
he might, perchance, say, that had she thought
more of his wishes, and accepted one so worthy
in every way, this could not have occurred.
Then again, the quarrel implied that the advan
ces of some one else must have been sufficiently
apparent to arouse the anger of her former suit
er, and therefore there must be a long talk
about love affairs, which to Ellen Lynch was
the most hateful thing in the world, and that
determined her to say nothing to her father.
Such a dislike ever belongs to minds of refine
ment and imagination. Those of grosser clay
may discourse in common of such engagements,
and see nothing more in treating of them than
of others. To love, (if ever they do — and to
marry, which they do if they can), is nothing
more in their eyes than a worldly concern,
which they would as soon discuss as any other
matter; but to a sensitive nature there is some
thing beyond earthliness in all that belongs to
love. It is held too sacred a thing to be the com
mon talk of the world — too precious to be ap
proached by everybody — the very hoard of the
heart, guarded with a miser's care, and bolts
and bars are put upon it that none may pass but
the one who is lawful partner in it. So strongly
does this feeling imbue sensitive natures, that
they have a repugnance even to the imputation
of a love which they bear not. Its very name
touches such chorda in their souls, which the
finger of the jester may not approach. It is then —

" Like sweet bolls jangled out of tune."
To produce harmony, one chosen hand alone
can wake it, and then it doth

" Discourse most eloquent music."

When Ellen had abandoned the thought of
speaking to her father, she next entertained the
idea of seeking the prince, and interceding for
the prisoners at his feet ; but here again she
dreaded her motive might be questioned, and
shrank from the attempt. What, then, was to
be done ? She saw nothing could free her from
her embarrassment but the liberation and flight
of the prisoners; and this idea took final and
firm possession of her mind, and toward its
achievement all the resources of her invention
were called into action.

To reconnoitre the turret where they were
confined was her first object, and this she un
dertook on the instant. She thought it likely
the prisoners would be looking toward the win
dow, if window there was in their place of du
rance ; and she had not the least doubt that if
she made her appearance befor« t.iem, the gen
tlemen would not be unlikeh to approach the
casement to look at her. She put her scheme
in practice, and it answered ad nirably; both her
admirers rusl.ed to the windt ws, as she paced
the grass plat in its vicinity, and she was glad
to find that those casements hy on different an
gles of the turret, so that communications might

be held with one without being under the obser
vation of the other. Satisfied of this fact, she
summoned Phaidrig to her presence, determining
to make him her confidant, and seek strength in
his advice.

All the objections she entertained to speak to
others on the subject, vanished as regarded Phai
drig ; he was an attached adherent of her family,
loved her to devotion, and, as an inferior, would
feel the confidence reposed in him an honor,
binding him to respect and silence, which an
equal might not observe.

" Phaidrig," said Ellen, as he entered her
presence, " I have sent for you to have a con
fidential word with you about something."

" Oh yis, miss, — I guessed you'd be throubled
about it."

" You know, then, what I allude to?"
" To be sure I do," said Phaidrig, who wished,
with that delicate address belonging to the Irish
people, to spare her the awkwardness of opening
the subject, therefore dashed into it himself; his
natural perception leading him at once to the
right conclusion as to what that subject was :
"you mane the scrimage in the garden, this
morning ?"

"Yes, Phaidrig."

" I thought so. Indeed, it is a crooked turn
the thing has taken, Miss Ellen."
" 'Tis most painful, Phaidrig."
" Sure, then, it's a quare counlhry," said the
piper, " where they wouldn't let gentlemen have
their quarrel out their own way."

" 'Tis not for their quarrelling, Phaidrig, — it
is for drawing their swords so near the presence
of the king."

" Musha then, but the ways o' the world is
quare ! Here's half the swoords in Scotland
goin' to be dhrawn in the king's cause, and out
o' them all you mustn't dhraw one in your own."
" Not just that, Phaidrig : it is drawing the
sword within the forbidden limit, is the olfence
— so near the king's presence, you understand."
" Arrah, Miss Ellen, you have too much sense
not to see that is nonsense. Sure you may flour
ish your swoord undher a king's nose, so near
that you've a chance of cuttin' it off', as long as
it's in a battle — and you're a hero for that. But
if you are some perches out of his sight, and
stone walls betune you and him, yea must keep
your blade in good behavior. Isn't that rank
nonsense, Miss Ellen ?"

"You must remember the respect due to the
prince, Phaidrig."

" Faix the man who wouldn't respect himself
first, and back his own quarrel, would have but
little respect for a prince, or be little likely to
stand up for his cause. But, to come back to
the story, as I said afore — it's a crooked turn,
and how can we make it sthraiter ? — for that's
the matther."

" Could w»- not help them to escape from jon-
finement ?"

" [ dare say," said Phaidrig, «• with a little
heai'work. But is the danger so treat as to re
quire it?"

" The offence is punishable with denth."
" Death ! —oh murther ! — Tut, t Jt, Miss El
len" they wouldn't kill them for ttat— don't
thin c it."

108

X S. d.

" The old lord is desperate about it."
ti Yes — I dare say-r-he's a bitther owld pill.
But the prince himself, miss, wouldn't hear of
it ? he'd just maybe give them a reprimand when
he made an inquiry into the thing— and" —

" That," interrupted Ellen, " is the thing of
all others I wish to avoid — inquiry. I would
not, for the world, have the cause of this quar
rel made a talk of. You are an old, an attach
ed follower, Phaidrig — faithful and kind ; and I
don't hesitate to tell you, that" — But she did
•hesitate. "In short," she continued, "to be
candid with you — I mean that sometimes gen
tlemen will — will" —

" Will fight about a lady," said Phaidrig,
slyly.

The words called a blush to Ellen's cheek,
but its pain was spared by the blindness of her
companion. " You are right, Phaidrig," she
said ; " but though yon know that, I would not
wish the world to know it."

" Faix then they'll make a sharp guess at it,
miss."

" Do you think so 1"

« Sartinly."

" Why, gentlemen may fight about many
things."

" Yes, Miss Ellen, after dinner. When the
wine is in and the wit is out, a hot word will
sometime breed a quarrel ; but when gentlemen,
in the cool o' the morning, go seriously to work,
it's mostly a lady is at the bottom of it."

" Do you know, then, the people here are
aware of the cause of the duel this morning?"

" No — I don't know it — but I suppose they
are not fools, and have their eyes and ears as
well as other people ; so, as far as that goes,
take no throuble about it, for I'll go bail they
ore up to it."

"Well, let them!" said Ellen, pettishly,
" let them suspect what they like, so long as
there is no examination — no words about it !"

« Ah ! — there it is !" said Phaidrig, " that's
the way o' the world all over. It's not the
tking we care so much for, as the thing being
talked of. But why would you care, Miss Nel
ly, allarma ; sure what's the shame of your be
ing beloved by two brave gentlemen ? — for in
deed they are brave. The one loves the flowers
you tread on, and the other the ground they
grow out of; the one is an old friend, the growth
of family connexion ; the other a newer one,
turned up by chance in an hour of trial — and
well he behaved in it, and since that same, I hear,
was near you in throuble again. Kierawaun is
good owld Galway blood, and Fitzjarl is a good
name, no denying it, though he may not know
iust the branch he belongs to — but I'd be book-
sworn the good dhrop is in him, for he gives his
money, and keeps his word, like a gentleman;
Misther Kierawaun will have a purty little es
tate one o' these days, and Misthrr Fitzjarl has
a rich uncle at his back ; throth, I couldn't make
a piir's choice between them ; it's only yourself
wild do it, M,ss Nelly; and indeel I would, if
I was you, an-i settle the dispute o it of hand."

" Ah, as ci.nning as you are, Phaidrig," said
Ellen, laughing (for confidences w th inferiors
in rank ar; made easier by mirth), — " cunning
u you think yourself, you shan't find me out.

Besides, my good Phaidrig, remember these are
not times for wedding — the king's cause before
ours."

" Lanna machree!" said Phaidrig, tenderly,
" the cause of Nature is before the cause of
kings, — there is no jewel in a king's crown
worth the pure love of a pure heart."

Ellen was touched with the truth of the say
ing, but still, trying to laugh, told Phaidrig h«
was getting poetical.

" Miss Ellen, I can't help it, sometimes. Sure,
when the truth is strong in us, it will come up,
like a spring, bright and bursting, and flow out
of us, whether we will or no."

" Well, Phaidrig, all the poetry in the world
won't get our friends out of their confinement —
we must consider how that is to be done."

" Then you are still for their escape ?'

" I would prefer it."

"Then your will is my pleasure, miss, and
I'll do all I can for you."

Ellen told the piper how the prisoners were
situated ; upon which he said a rope was all
they wanted for their purpose, by which the
prisoners could lower themselves from their
windows.

Ellen questioned the danger of such a mode
of descent from such a height.

" Tut !" exclaimed Phaidrig, " you forget
Misther Fitzjarl is used to the sea, and a rope
is as good as a flight o' stairs to him."

" True," said Ellen, quite satisfied with the
remark, and made no further observation. But
this incident, slight as it was, furnished the
acuteness of the blind man with a clew to her
feelings.

To give notice to the prisoners of the intend-
ed efforts in their favor was the next object,
and this, Phaidrig promised to effect by means
of his pipes. Led by Ellen to the part of the
turret which fortunately for them lay at a re
mote angle of the building, she desired the pi
per to play the " Cuckoo's Nest," as that she
knew would attract Edward's attention. Phai
drig wanted to know why that air would produce
that effect, to which Ellen replied, that much as
he knew, he must be content not to be in all her
secrets, and cunning as he was, she defied him
to find that out. The fact was, the " Cuckoo's
Nest" was the melody to which Ned had sung
his song at Gleufinnin, and the moment Phai
drig played it, Ned appeared at the window.
What was his delight to see Ellen wave her hand
to him, and point to Phaidrig's pipes, as much as
to say, " observe what he plays." She waited
no longer than to tell Phaidrig Ned was listening,
but her momentary presence was enough to ei
chant the captive. The signal she had chosen
to give him, too, was the air of the song he had
sung to l;er, and his heart beat with transport.
Phai frig next played " The Twisting of tint
Rope ;" nt xt in succession, " The Foggy Dew,''
and then, " Yourself along with Me," aAei
which he ictire'i.

Tiiis language of music Ned thus translated
— " by the assistance of a rope he was to effect
his escape in tin evening when Phaidrig should
call him.'' He was watchful now for every pas
sing circum -stance; no light or sound escaped
him, as he tcld .areful watch at the window.

IRISH HEIRS.

109

Tt was some hours, however, before anything
worthy of observation occurred ; but then he
saw he had rightly read Phaidrig's warning, for
a rope was lowered opposite his window, and he
lost not a moment in drawing it rapidly into his
room. He coiled it up, sailor fashion, and was
looking about the chamber, which was very bare
of furniture, to see where he might stow it away
to escape observation in case his room might be
visited, when he heard a foot outside the door,
and the key turned in the lock.

CHAPTER XXIX.

How the rope was lowered to Ned, lest it
might be a mystery to the reader, or supposed to
be the work of " some sweet little chernb" that
was " sitting aloft" on the roof of the castle, we
shall explain ; for all supernatural agencies we
beg to disclaim in this our truest of histories,
which treats but of human affairs throughout.
Phaidrig having promised to supply the rope
" somehow or other," Ellen carefully reconnoi
tred the turret, and found, by reckoning its bat
tlements, exactly the points where the windows
lay ; and as she had ascended that very turret
the day before, in company with Tullibardine,
who wished to show her a fine view from the
platform on its top, there was no difficulty in her
ascending the tower again for the same supposed
reason, and under the folds of a cloak, it was
easy to conceal the coil of rope, and thus, with
out the slightest suspicion attaching to her act,
she was enabled to supply the necessary means
of flight to her captive friend, though it must be
confessed, fortune presented an embarrassment
in the time of its arrival which was most inop
portune.

In a castle under regular " watch and ward,"
all these plottings and schemes of deliverance
would not have been so easy of design and ex
ecution ; but, with the irregular nat ire of the
armed forces about it, it was no such difficult
matter. The superiors in command were en
gaged in council most of the day contriving their
campaign ; and as for the Highlanders, they
were straggling idly about the hills, or enjoying
the rest the halt afforded, or cooking their din
ners, or, in short, doing anything but taking care
of the castle ; which, after all, there was no
necessity for guarding, save for the two prison
ers, who were too unimportant to excite a care ;
for the prince was in the midst of devoted fol
lowers, no enemy was within scores of miles,
and why should the Highlanders " fash" them
selves about regular military order ?

Ellen had kept close to her chamber all day,
save at such times as she stole abroad in fur
therance of her own peculiar plans. This she
did to avoid the chance of encountering any
question, or being engaged in any conversation
on the business of the morning, and it was not
until late in the day she had a visit from her
father, whose services had been in constant re
quisition for some previous hours in the council.
She feared he would make some mention of the
morning adventure, but in this she happily de
ceived herself. Lynch was equally annoyed at

the circumstance as his daughter, and knowing
besides how painful it would be to her, abstained
from any allusion to the subject. It had already
given him sufficient pain ; he had endeavored to
dissuade Tullibardine from following the matter
up in the spirit of indignation which he first
evinced on the subject, but in vain. The old
punctilious courtier was resolute on punishment,
therefore Lynch dropped the subject as soon as
he could, with him, and depended on the gra-
ciousness of the prince for a more sensible and
merciful termination of the business. After a
brief visit, Lynch left Ellen to the solitude of
her chamber, while he went to join the feast in
the hall.

CHAPTER XXX.

IN the meantime how fared it with Ned in his
prison-chamber ? We left him rather in a dilem
ma. Fortune is a capricious sort of dame, often
behaving like the ill-natured cow, who when she
has given plenty of milk, kicks down the pail,
and Ned trembled for the fate of his rope which
the slippery lady had sent him. By " slippery
lady," we by no means intend Ellen. Heaven
forfend we should give so ungracious a title to a
heroine. Oh no ! — we mean to indicate Fortune
by that epithet, and as no one has ever accused
her of being over steady, our conscience is free
from reproach ; we have not been the first to
take away her character, and we call her slip-
pery without remorse ; whereas a young lady to
be so, particularly when she was on the roof of
a house, where a slip would be a serious matter,
would endanger not only her good name but her
neck.

But to return to Ned and his rope. When he
heard the key turned in the door, and he stand
ing with the aforesaid rope in his hand, where
on depended his hopes of liberty, he thought all
was lost; but, as in desperate emergencies,
thought, stimulated by the spur of necessity or
danger, sometimes suggests a sudden measure of
escape, so, on the present occasion she stood
Ned's friend. In an instant he laid down the
coil of rope close to the hinged side of the door,
which, on being opened, screened the object it
was so important to hide, thus making the
means of discovery also the means of conceal
ment. A servant entered, bearing some refresh
ment, which having deposited on a little rick
ety table, the only one in the room, he asked,
civilly, if there was anything else Ned required;
and Ned, only wanting his absence, got rid of
him as fast as he could, and the door being once
again closed, and the rope safe, it was crammed
immediately up the chimney, until its services
should be required at the time of " the foggy
dew."

That long-wished-for hour at length arrived,
and when the evening shades began to gather on
the hills, and the revel without and within the
castle had unfitted all for guardianship, Ellen
and Phaidrig stole forth, and at the turret's base
gave the pipe-signal. Ellen watched the win
dow anxiously, which soon was opened, — she
perceived Edward emerging from the casement

£ s. d.

and prepare to descend — she trembled with anx
iety as she looked at the fearful height, and was
forced to lean on Phaidrig for support. It was
too dusky to distinguish the rope, and when Ed
ward's hand let go the window-sill where he
had steadied his weight before he committed
himself to the rope, to avoid oscillation as much
as possible, and that Ellen saw him swinging in
middle air, she shut her eyes and held them
closed, until Edward's voice close beside her as
sured her of his safety.

" Dear Miss Lynch !" he said, " how shall I
thank you for this kind interest in my fortunes ?"

" I do not forget," said Ellen, " how much I
owe to you. On the score of obligation I am still
in your debt."

" No, no !" returned Edward, " the pleasure
of serving you is sufficient reward for the service ;
but this present escape of mine — to what is it to
lead ?"

" To freedom, of course," said Ellen. " You
must fly this place immediately, and escape the
consequences of this morning's rashness."

" To me it seems," returned Ned, " that to
break my arrest is a greater offence than the one
for which I was confined. I have no desire to fly
from trial ; but, perhaps, my kind friend Phaidrig
here can explain the matter ?"

" Not a bit," said Phaidrig ; " its all her own
ordering, and so let her explain it herself. Just
walk off a bit there with the young misthriss,
Master Ned, out of my hearing, and you can say
what you like to each other."

The obvious hint in the piper's speech did not
escape Ned, who lost not an instant in seizing
Ellen's hand and pressing it tenderly, at the same
moment leading her away ; but she resisted gen
tly, and said, in a flurried manner, to Phaidrig,
that she had no secrets to communicate.

'tTut, tut, tut, Miss Nelly, don't vex me,"
exclaimed Phaidrig, " go off there, and talk your
little talk together, or by this and that I'll make
a screech on the pipes that will bring the whole
castle about your ears, I will !"

" Phaidrig !" exclaimed Ellen, in a tone ex
pressive of wonder, and implying command.

" I'm in airnest, Miss Nelly, and you know I'm
wicked when I'm in airnest. Go off and talk, I
tell you."

" You surprise me, Phaidrig."

" Faix then I'll astonish you if you don't go."
Filling the air-bag of his pipes with some rapid
strokes of the bellows as he spoke, he laid his
hand on the chanter, and raised it in menace.
" Be off, Miss Nelly, you little stubborn thing, or
I'll blow— I will, by St. Patrick !"

Ned, adding his entreaties to Phaidrig's mena
ces, and enforcing his request by drawing Ellen's
arm within his own and pressing it gently to
his heart, whispered low in her ear, "Pray,
come."

He then led hei unresistingly and in silence,
some twenty paces apart. Both their hearts were
beating -apidly, for Phaidrig's words had prepar
ed Ned to speak and Ellen to hear what neither
had contemplated in this meeting.

Edward was the first to find his tongue; he
prayed her to tell him her reasons for wishing
bis flight.

She answered her fears for his safety, and as

sured him Lord Tullibardine was bent o^ the el •
treme punishment.

" Fear not for my life," said Ned ; " even if the
severe discipline of the old lord urged him to the
uttermost, the affair must ultimately rest at the
prince's option, and I will never believe h«
would, under present circumstances, permit aat-
ters to be carried to extremity ; and I am so
blameless in the occurrence of this morning, that
I have no dread of standing my trial for it."

"No, no! — No trial," said Ellen, "for my
sake, no trial !"

" I see, by your objection, you know the cause
of the quarrel, and can feel your motives for sup
pressing all question about it ; but let me assure
you, I am guiltless of involving a lady's name so
unpleasantly."

" I believe you," said Ellen.

" I was called upon at the sword's point to re
nounce all claim to you — you, who are all my
hope in this world. Yes, Mi«s Lynch, yes ; let
me once for all avow, that without you, this life
is valueless, and I am careless how soon I lose it,
unless it may be dedicated to your service — ser
vice is a cold word — Oh, Ellen ! you are my wor
ship, my adoration !"

It was the first time he had ever called her El
len, and he was startled at the sound himself.
" Pardon me," he exclaimed, " for the liberty
my tongue has taken with your sweet name !"

" Oh, don't talk of ceremony with me," said
Ellen. "So tried a friend as you is more than
deserving of so small a familiarity."

" Bless you !" exclaimed Ned, venturing to
raise her hand to his lips, and imprinting on it a
devoted kiss.

Ellen withdrew her hand suddenly.

"Be not offended, Ellen. This night must
make me hope or despair for the future. In the
first place, let me tell you, your father is awar«
of my love for you."

"Indeed!"

" Yes. On leaving Nantes, my uncle avowed
it to him, and offered to make all his fortune ours
if he would consent to our union. Your father
did not refuse — he only made me promise not to
address you as a lover until this expedition was
over, and candidly avowed he had intended an
other union for you. I guessed it was Mister
Kirwan. Think, then, with what heavy heart I
saw you leave France in his company — led to the
boat by his very hand — his companion on board
the same ship. Think what bitterness was added
to defeat, when, after the furious action we had
sustained, my ship was driven back, while hit
proceeded in safety, bearing off all I pri/'xl *n
the world, giving to my rival the advantage of
such fearful odds, that the chance was he should
rob me of that treasure for whose sake I had en
gaged in the desperate fortunes of Prince Charles.
Oh! did you but know the risks, and trials,
and difficulties, I encountered, to get back from
France to England ; the additional dangers that
beset me there in holding communication with
the disaffected in the midst of jealous and watch-
tul guardians of the law. Did you but know the
obstacles which had to be overcome in following
here with speed — the sleepless nights I gave to
travelling, that I might once more be near you.
Oh ! when I tell you all this— done for 7? ur sake

IRISH HEIRS.

Ill

—and that you remember I kept my promise to
jrour father, and did not plead my love, you must
give me credit for forbearance. But now for
bearance were folly. The time absolves me — I
may — I must speak, and I ask you at once to be
mine ! Yes, adored one, if I am to fly, be you
the partner of my flight ; my uncle will receive
us with open arms — fortune is before us — leave
these scenes of danger and coming war, for peace,
and security, and love !"

" Your ardor hurries you strangely away,"
eaid Ellen, laughing ; " you must think women
made of very yielding materials, to suppose that
the moment a man names marriage, they are
ready to jump into his proposal, and a postchaise
at the same time. Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald! Is
that your opi'iion of the sex ?— those divinities
you so much txlore !"

Ned felt vt/y foolish at this sudden parry of
Ellen, which left him open to her ridicule, and
even through the gloom he could perceive the
mirthful mab ;e which twinkled in her eye, as she
thus suddenly cut him off in his heroics.

Ned was all penitence in a moment for his
presumption ; begged her to consider the urgent
circumstances which betrayed him; prayed her
not to laugh at his folly ; protested that no one
•Muld have a higher opinion of the sex, but as
for their being all divinities, he vowed he never
said anr such thing, and swore she herself was
the only divinity of them all.

" Of course !"" said Ellen, " of course," laugh
ing her.rtily, while poor Ned stamped with down
right vexation, and prayed her not to laugh at him.

" One comfort the poor women have,'11 added j
Edf n, " is, that each one is a divinity to some
body, for a little while, at all events. Grecian,
Roman, and Snub, have their various worship
pers. But now, to be serious, and return to the
business of the night — you must fly."

"Suppose I can not reconcile it to my sense of
duty," said Ned.

" Or suppose that you refuse me so small a
request," returned Ellen, reproachiuiiy.

" No, no !" exclaimed Edward, passionately,
"I can refuse you nothing; for your sake I
would — "

" Well, then," said Ellen, with pecu,iar sweet
ness, " for my sake."

There was an expression in tnat one little
word "my," which went to Ned's very heart,
and dropped balm there; it had tnat peculiar
eloquence especially belonging to women, which
may be called the eloquence of tone, in winch they
are so excelling, that the ear must oe duil indeed
which can not interpret the melodious meaning.

"You will ero now," continued n;ilen, "now
that I desire it."

"To do your bidding in all things is the dear
est pleasure of my life," said Ned ; " your first
biddin? I will obey, but before I go, let your
»econd bidding be, to bid me hope "

*'• Have you no cause, then, to hope already ?"
said Ellen, with mingled sweetness and reproach-
fulness.

"Yes, yes, I have indeed!" said ITed; "but
pardon, if, before I leave you, I would wish to
hear "

Ere he could finish the sentence, the alarum
t»ell of the castle rang out fiercely, startling the

soft silence through which tlicir own wnispere
were audible, and Ellen, uttering a faint cry o!
terror, exclaimed they were discovci ed, and be-
sought Edward to instant flight.

"Say you love me, then!" he cried, "before
I go."

The sudden alarm, added to her previous ex
citement, had so overcome Ellen, that, breathing
a faint sigh, she sank into Edward's arms. He
pressed her to his heart and kissed her, but found
she was quite insensible — she had fainted. He
bore her hastily in his arms to where Phaidrig
had been left waiting, and, followed by the piper,
sought, for the present, a shelter from discovery
in one of the shadiest spots of the garden, while
the alarum bell still kept up its discordant clangor,
calling the inmates 6f the castle to be " up and
doing." It was a sound to make the hearts of
fugitives tremble.

CHAPTER XXXI.

ELLEN, on recovering her consciousness, found
herself lying on a grassy slope, her head resting
on Phaidrig's lap, and Edward kneeling beside
her, bathing her temples — a handkerchief swept
across the dewy grass supplying the cooling drops.
The alarum bell was still ringing, and instantly
recalled her to a sense of passing events.

" You still here ?" she exclaimed, clasping
Edward's hand; "for Heaven's sake fly !"

" Let me see you quite recovered first," he an
swered.

" I am, now," she said, springing to her feet
with surprising energy ; " fly, I beseech you !"

"Do, masther Ned," said Phaidrig, "I will
take care of Miss Nelly."

" Will you not say, then, before I go," said
Edward, in a lower tone to Ellen.

" Hush !" she said, enforcing her word by lay
ing her hand on Edward's breast, and unwilling
he should pursue his question within the hearing
of a third person.

"I know the question you would ask, and to
save tune, now so precious, will answer it with
out your speaking further. I say yes — I do — I

*mi»

" Bless you !" cried Edward, raising her hand
unresistingly to his lips.

" Go now !" she said, " I tremble for your
safety ! — and see, what light is that flickering
about the castle ? — they have lit torches, and are
coming to search the garden, perhaps. Fly, fly !"

" Farewell, then !" said Edward, relinquishing
her hand, " we must trust to chance for our next
meeting."

" You shall hear of us soon," said Phaidrig,
"we are to march to Perth to-morrow, and on
the main bridge of that town you'll find me at
night-fall ; off with you, now !"

Edward obeyed ; and as he passed by the old
hedge, and recognised the scene of his encounter
in the morning. So far from regretting it, he
blessed the incident whose consequences had re
vealed to him the precious secret that to him was
worth all the world. He cleared the fence at
one bound, and commenced his night-march tc
the southward cheerily. Nor staff, nor scrip, not

£ s. d

guide, had he ; but love supplied the place of all.
He faltered not — he hungered not — he found his
path with readiness: for he was loved. This
delicious consciousness gave him a might, un
known before, to conquer all difficulties, to live
through all dangers, for the sake of the bright
reward before him ; for now he knew that Ellen
should one day be his own.

All through that live-long night did Edward
pursue his journey. It was long and toilsome ;
and when the next day he reached the town of
Perth, he gladly entered the first inn which pre
sented itself, and sought the rest and refresh
ment he so much needed. The table was soon
spread with substantial viands, and Ned, after
his long fast, fell to with a hearty will, that did
ample justice to the good things of ;: mine host."
While thus engaged, he had a word now and
then with the bare-footed "hizzie," who was
running in and out of the room ever and anon,
and he found the fame of" Bonnie Prince Char
lie's" gathering had gone abroad — that the gov
ernment authorities were already alarmed at his
approach — while the people, if he mighf judge
from the eye of the attendant girl, were ready to
receive him with open arms, though her Scotch
prudence kept her tongue under proper control ;
and her expressions were, at the most, but am
biguous, though sufficient to satisfy Ned that he
had not fallen into the enemy's camp ; so, having
despatched his hearty meal, he thought the best
thing he could do was to keep quiet within his
hostel until his friends should arrive ; and as the
quietest place therein was bed, and the welcomest
also, Ned desired to be accommodated with a
sleeping-room, and leaving orders to be called in
the evening, gave himself up to the luxury of a
Bound sleep.

He was, therefore, quite refreshed by sunset,
when a hearty shake from the " hizzie" warned
him it was time to rise.

His waking glance met the broad grin of the
lass, who told him, with evident glee, that the
prince, and his highland forces, were in the town,
and that she thought the folk were " a' gane
clean wud wi' joy !" ,

If in the morning it behooved Ned to keep out
of sight of the prince's enemies, in the evening
it was equally necessary not to be recognised by
his friends ; therefore, he waited till darkness
rendered his ap-^arance in the streets less dan
gerous, and, inquiring his way to the main
bridge, he hastened to seek Phaidrig.

The faithful piper, true to his appointment,
was already there, and met Ned with hearty wel
come, desiring a boy, who had been his guide, to
remain on the bridge till he returned. He took
Ned's arm, and retiring to a less frequented place,
told him how all fared at the castle since he had
left it.

" After all," said Phaidrig, " the alarm wasn't
about your escape at all, but some sheds, nigh
hand the castle, wor set a-fire by some o' them
drunken thieves o' Highlanders, in their wild
faisting and divilment, and a purty bonfire they
made, in throth. And, as it happens, it would
have been betther if you had stayed where you
wor, for the young misthiss, you see —

"I hope no unpleasant consequence has en-
•ued to her," interrupted Ned.

I " Aisy, aisy," said Phaidrig, "how you fir off
at the sound of her name, agra ; I was only go
ing to tell you that the young misthiss was out in
her guess about the throuble you wor in ; and
your life wasn't in danger all the time, as big
and bowld as the ould lord talked about it."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Ned, in delight ; "then
I need not fly — I may still remain near her."

" Ow ! ow !" cried Phaidrig, « not so fast,
masther Ned ; don't hurry me, and you'll hear ail
in good time. You see, the prince wouldn't hear
at all, at all, about two gentlemen being killed
on his account, and so he towld the masther —
Captain Lynch, I mane ; but the owld lord was
in such a fume and a flusther, that he was let to
plaze himself with the bit of imprisonment, and
all that ; and it was not until the next mornin'
that the prince sends for him, and tells him he
makes a particular request of him to say no more
about it, and just to be contint with the confine
ment of the gentlemen, and a bit of a reprimand.
So, when old Tully-bo goes to let them out, you
may suppose, Masther Ned, one o' them was
inissin; and I lave you to guess who that was ;
and, my jewel, cart-ropes wouldn't howld owld
Tully-bully, he was in such a rage at his arrest
being held in contempt, and the prison broke ! —
and off he goes to his highness, and says, that as
he bowed to the prince's pleasure in allowing
such offenders to get off so easy, he hopes the
prince will stand by him, in turn, and not see an
owid and faithful servant so abused and held in
contimpt, as for a prisoner to dar for to go out
of his power : and so, the end of it was, to patch
up the owld fool's honor, it was agreed, that if
Misther Kierawaun was to be pardoned, Misthei
Fitzjarl must be punished if ever he is cotch foi
breaking his arrest ; and there it is just for you,
the length and the breadth of it."

" How unfortunate !" said Ned.

" Thrue for you !" said Phaidrig, " you know
I always remarked you had a great knack for
gettin' into throuble."

" So, all Miss Lynch's care for me has only
exiled me from her presence !"

" Just what she says herself," said Phaidrig,
" throth, she's in sore throuble, and blames her
self for not having spoken to her father about it.
for he was in the prince's confidence all the time,
and could have towld her how 'twould be ; an<1
she is angry with herself for her breach of con
fidence to the father, and thinks this is a sort ol
punishment on her for it."

" Poor dear young lady !" exclaimed Nea ;
" and is the captain conscious of her share ro
this adventure ?"

" Not a word has passed about it, but the
masther is too cute not to see how it is."

" And do you think he is angry ?"

" Not a bit. Of the two, I think he's rather
pi a zed."

« Why ?» said Ned.

" Because it puts you out o' the way, and
laves the field open — "

" To Kirwan !" interrupted Ned, anxiouslt.
" True ; true ; he will be near her."

" The divil a much good that will do him, I
think," said Phaidrig.

" Do you think so, my kind, good Phaidrig f
exclaimed Ned, eagerly.

TREASURE TROVE.

113

" To be sure I think so. Don't you think so
yourself '?"

" Oli, Phaidrig, to be absent, and know that a
rival is near the weman you adore !"

" But if you know the woman cares more for
you than him," said Phaidrig.

" May not his presence enable him to turn the
scale?" answered Ned.

"Yes," said Phaidrig; "but it is to turn it
more in your favor, I tell you, Masther Ned, if a
woman has once got the real liking in her heart
for a man, I'm thinking absence is often the best
friend he has ; for he is always remembered in
the best colors, while the one that) is thrying to
throw him over is showing himself up, maybe, in
the worst. When lovers are together they some
times will have a little skrimage now and then:
when they are absent there is no unkindness be
tween them. I hear them say, how soft and in
viting the mountains look far away; while I
know myself how rugged and rocky they are
when you are upon them. And isn't it so with
the best of friends ? They sometimes break their
shins over each other when they are together.
"When we like people, we like in the lump ; just
as the mountain can only be seen in the distance,
the little faults, like rough places, are not per-
saived far off, it is only when we are near we
find them out."

" Perhaps it is so," said Ned. " At least you
are a kind feilow, Phaidrig, to endeavor to make
me think so, in the absence to which I am
doomed : though when a blind man talks of the
visual beauties of nature, to illustrate his argu
ment, it might shake one's faith in the soundness
of his judgment."

"Isn't love blind?" said Phaidrig, with a
chuckle ; " and who so good as a blind man to
know his ways ? Remember the owld sajnng,
' Set a thief to catch a thief.' I tell you, Mas
ther Ned, the lover remembered at a distance is
seen, like the distant mountain, to advantage;
for what is memory but the sight of the heart /"

" True, Phaidrig ; 'tis a good name for it."

" And in that sight I am as sthrong as any
man," said the piper. " Oh, don't I see my
darlin' dog, my bowld Turlough, as plain as if
he was here, while I miss him sore."

"Your dog!" exclaimed Ned, astonished and
half indignant that a brute should be named as
a subject for fond memories at the same time as
his mistress.

"Ay, my dog; and why not? as trusty a
friend as ever man had, bowld and faithful, and
as knowledgable as a Christian a'most ; ah1 he
wants is the speech to make him far above many
a score, ay, hundreds of men I have known in
my time : and when them divils o' sailors took
me away, poor Turlough was on shore, and it's
less for my own want of him I grieve, than
for the fret that will be on himself while I'm
away — poor fellow, he'll pine afther me, I'm
afeard."

Notwithstanding Phaidrig's affectionate consid
eration of Turlough, Ned still disrelished the
juxtaposition of a dog and a lady, and assuring
Phaidrig that he had every confidence in the
merits of his canine friend, still he would rather
he'd change the subject, and return to Miss
Lynch.

"To be sure," said Phaidrig. "Everyman
for his own; you're for Miss Nelly, and I'm for
Turlough. Though, let me tell you, I love Miss
Nelly as well as ever you did, though afther a
different fashion, and would lay down my life for
her, or the masther either. Don't I know all
about them as long as they know it themselves ?
and she, when she was a dawnshee thing, afther
losing the mother — ah, that was the sad day for
the masther, and he was a different man ever
since ; and she, the darlin', as good as goold ever
and always, and, of late times, goin' here and •
there, through hardship and danger, with the cap
tain at home and abroad. Oh, there's not the
like of her in a million 1"

" Now, Phaidrig, there is one question I would
ask you," said Ned, "since you talk of knowing
the captain so well. When first I saw him at
Galway I thought he was a foreigner, and — "

"Yis, yis," said Phaidrig, quickly, "I hear
tell he does look foreign: but sure no wondher,
his mother was Spanish ; besides, he has been
abroad so much himself, it might give him the
foreign air."

" But what I was going to ask you was about
his real rank, for the second time I saw him was in
Hamburg, and there he went by the name and
title of Count Nellinski."

"Yis, yis," said Phaidrig, "I know he has
gone by different names in different places, when
engaged in stirring up interest for the prince ;
and ' the count" passed off well in Jarmany, and
gave a high color to the thing in some places, and
made it not so aisy to thrace him ; though as for
that name you spake of — Nellinski I mane, sure
its nothing but his own and his daughter's put
before it."

" How's that?" said Ned.

"Don't you know that the Irish people in
their own tongue, call Lynch, Linski f and put
Nell before that, and there it is for you. chapther
and verse and plain as A, B, C."

"So it is," said Ned; "that never struck
me before. Then he is really only Captain
Lynch?"

" Divil a more."

" And not noble ?"

" Except in his nature; and not a complater
gentleman ever stepped in shoe leather. A little
high betimes, may be, and given to admire the
owld blood, and that's one reason he favors Mis-
ther Kierawaun; he would like that family con
nexion."

" But you think that she — " said Ned.

" Likes him well, as a friend, but the love
never was in it ; though he tried hard for it, and
I'm sure loves the ground she walks on, poor
fellow ; but it's no use. Och, a woman's heart
is a quare thing!"

" And now, Phaidrig, I am going to ask you
another question ; how comes it that you seem
to favor my cause, though you were a ?tanch
adherent of Mister Kirwan long before you knew
me?"

"I'll tell you, then; it's not that I value Mis-
ther Kierawaun a thraneen* less, but that the
love I bear Miss Nelly would make me go
through fire and watherto sarve or to plaze her;
and I have often thought how hard her place is,
* A blade of grass.

114

£ s. d.

• going about the world in danger and hardship
with the masther, and how much better it would
be she was married and settled. And that same
the father would like himself, — and threw the
Kierawaun in her way always to bring it about,
but it would never do. For, gintleman as he is,
as I said before, the love never was in it. And
I found out the other day, by a sthray word or
two of hers, that you were near her heart ; and
do you know, now, I always had a notion from
the first that she liked you."

" Do you mean to say, from our first meet
ing ?»

" Yis, indeed, that same night in Galway. —
Oh, faix, you did good sarvice that night; without
your help that night the masther would have
been taken, and as sure as he was, he'd ha'
been hanged, for it ' went out on him' that he
was working hard in enlistin? for * the Brigade/
and stirring up the counthry for the 'owld cause,'
and they were 'hot on him.'"

"Oh, blessed chance !" exclaimed Ned, "since
it won me her love."

" I don't say ' love,' exactly," said Phaidrig ;
"but favor you won, no doubt, that ni^ht in her
eyes; she liked the bowldness of you ; the mas
ther, too, praised your spirit, and often I heere.J
her afther that night, when we were hiding in
the hills of iar Connaught, wishing she could
know you were safe, and had not got into trou
ble on her and her father's account. Somehow
I thought, by the way she spoke, that in the little
sight she had of you, you plazed her eye, or she
wouldn't be so busy in thinking about a young
blade getting into a scrape for a sthreet row.—
Well ;— then they escaped out of Ireland ; and
the next I heerd of you and her, was from your
self, when we travelled up here together to Scot
land ; and it was plain to me, from the way you
spoke, that you wor over head and ears in love
with her. So, the first opportunity she gave me,
I thought the best thing I conld do was to make
you both undherstand one another, for, as I said
before, the darling girl is in a sore position, and
the sooner she is out of it the betther."

" Oh, Phaidrig," said Ned, « as you have done
so much for me, could you not urge her to fly
with me at once, and end all difficulties ?"

"I know she would not hear of it," said Phai
drig. « She is too fond of her father to leave
him, and nothing will make him desert the king's
cause. No; your plan is to help the cause as
much as you can, either down in England or
over in France, and that will find you fresh fa
vor in her eyes, and win over the father to you
—for there is where the difficulty lies. I towhl
you he is very high, betimes, and given to the
owld families and big names."

"Well," said Ned, « Fitzserald is a good
name."

" Wow, ow, ow, Masther Ned," said Phaidrig,
shly, « that won't do for me."

" What do you mean ?" said Ned, startled un
expectedly by the form and manner of Phaidrig's
answer ; for he had borne his adopted name un
questioned so long, that he began to think it his
own, and he repeated to the piper. " What do
you mean ?"

" Oh, Masther Ned, Fitzjarl is a good name-
but you know — "

" What ?" said Ned anxiously.

" That it's not your own."

Ned felt confoundedly puzzled; but wishing
to make as good a fight as he could on such ten
der ground, he retreated from assertion by turn
ing querist, and demanded of the piper if
Fitzgerald was not his name, what other name
was.

Phaidrig at once replied by re!urning the ha
ted patronymic — "Corkery."

Ned felt terribly abashed, and on recovering
himself sufficiently from his surprise and cha
grin, asked, with an exclamation of wonder at
Phaidrig's sagacity, how the deuce he found that
out.

" Aisy enough, faith," said the piper.

" You're a deep fellow, Phaidrig."

" Pheugh !" ejaculated the blind man, "there's
no depth in that."

" Then how, in Heaven's > ame, did you dis
cover it?"

"Do you forget the fisherman in the C't-
dagh ?"

" Ah ! now I see !" exclaimed Ned, " he car
ried a letter to my father."

"The very thing," said Phaidrig.

" What a fool I was to forget that !" said Ned,
stamping with vexation.

"Aisy, aisy," said Phaidrig, "don't put your
self in a passion ; and mind, Masther Ned,
you're as good in my estimation as if you came
from the earls of Kildare or the knights of Ker
ry, for you have the rale right feeling and beha-
vjor of a bowld brave gentleman, and a king
could h»ve no more."

" Does she know this ?" asked Ned, careless
of the piper's concluding laudatory words.

" Not a taste of it." said Phaidrig.

" Nor her father ?"

" No. — They went out of Ireland soon afther
that night; and it was not until I went back to
the Cladagh I knew it. And, as I tell you, you
are as good in my eyes as if you were Fitzjarl in
airnest ; only, if you go to talk with the captain
about the blood, you see, Fitzjarl is too good a
name not to be able to tell something about
where it came from."

" What a fool I have been !" said Ned, de-
spondingly.

" Don't fret," said Phaidrig ; " I know very
well what put you on this. You have a feeling
above your station, masther Ned, and that's al
ways throublesome ; and you didn't like the
name of Corkery — 'twasn't ginteel — no orlence
masther Ned."

' No, no, Phaidrig, you're a good kind fellow,
and a clever fellow — you know me as well as I
know myself."

" Betther, maybe," said Phaidrig ; " for I
know those you come from. Your mother came
of a good family ; reduced they wor, like many
a good family in poor Ireland, but her blood was
gentle, I tell you ; and the ' good dhrop' was
in her from both her father's and mother's
side."

"Indeed!" said Ned, delighted. "Then I
have good blood in my veins ; — how do you
know this ?"

' Oh, by a way of my own," said Phai'Jrig;
" but we have no time to talk about UiL'.t now.

IRISH HEIRS.

115

Only remember, the less you get into a ' tangle'
witli the masther about the name, the bettlier ;
and Miss Nelly advises, and I think she's right,
that you should do soipe special sarvice in the
good cause, and make yourself stand so hi«h as
a servant of the prince, that you may come back
here soon and defy owld Tully-bully."

" Does she surest any such service ?" said
Ned. " 1 will gladly do anything at her bid
ding."

" Fairly spoken, Masther Ned ; and now a
last word more with you. Meet me here to
morrow night asrain. Keep close in the mane-
time, though; for, by the powers, if Tully-bully
lays hands on you, he'll mark you. Meet me
here, I say again, to-morrow night, and I'll have
more news for you."

" Remember," said Ned, " there is nothing too
difficult or desperate for me to undertake."
" I know it," said Phaidrig — " good night."
" Phaidrig," said Ned, hesitating — " before
we part, tell me truly — are you certain she does
not. know my name is Corkery ?"

Phaidrig burst into a fit of laughter, which he
could not repress for some time, while Ned be
sought him to desist, strongly deprecating his
merriment.

" Oh, its grate fun !" said Phaidrig, when he
recovered his breath ; " sure poor human pride
is a quare thing. Here's a brave fellow, that all
the dangers of desperate adventure couldn't
daunt, and he thrimbles at the sound of a name !
But don't be afeard, I'll not sell the pass on you
— good night — good night." •

Ned having reconducted Phaidrig to the bridge,
where the boy was waiting, shook his hand hearti
ly, and they separated until the following even
ing, when Ned, at the appointed hour, was there
again, and soon joined by the piper. He, desir
ing the boy, who was his guide, to " go to where
he knew," seized Ned's arm, and followed, whis
pering to him that he was taking him to " Miss
Nelly ;" on hearin? which, Ned started off at
such a pace, that the blind man nearly lost his
footing in Attempting to keep up with him, re
marking, that if " a spur in the head was worth
two in the heel," a spur in the heart was still
better. After thridding some narrow streets,
the boy stopped before a door, which was opened
without knocking, on Phaidrig's whistling a few
bars of the air called " Open the door softly."

Softly and quietly they entered, too, a gleam
from an open apartment at the end of the hall
giving sufficient light to indicate the passage,
and, in another instant, Ned stood in the presence
of Ellen, sealed at a table whereon were mate
rials for writing. She laid down her pen as he
entered, and extended her hand, which he pressed
fondly, and continued to hold, as he gazed in her
face, which was paler and more thought* .1 than
ordinary. They were silent for some ne ; at
length, Ellen, with hesitation, said —

" I fear }rou will think my conduct o/ *ast night
deficient in proper reserve ; but — "

" For Heaven's sake !" exclaimed Ned, " do
not attribute to me so unworthy a thought of you

— you, who are my "

" No more!" said Ellen ; " a truce to all high-
flown speech."
Ned still held her hand and said, " Do you

remember you presented this little hand to me
he first ni?ht I met you 1"

" Did I ?" said Ellen, casting down her eyes
while something like a smile of consciousness
played on her lip.

c Yes," said Ned. " To remember the touch
of that fairy hand was my greatest pleasure for
many and many a day, till chance threw in my
way a more tangible remembrance'. Do you
now what that is ?" he said, laying Jown before
ier on the table a shrivelled up shoeless thing,
impossible to recognise — "That, said Ned,
once bore in its delicate shap» liness a faint
resemblance of this fair hand — for it was your
slove."

" And where could you get my glove ?" said
Ellen, in surprise.

" In Hamburg."

" I never saw you in Hamburg !"

" No, but I saw you ; you were stopping at
the Kaiserhojf there."

" Yes."

" I went to see you there — you were gone. I
asked to see even the room which you inhabited,
and there I found this glove, and made a prize of
it; and it was often the companion of many a
meditative and hopeless hour. It was the only
thin? I saved when I was shipwrecked. Amidst
the horrors of the fiercest tempest I ever witness
ed, I thought of that little glove, and could not
bear to lose it. I secured it next my heart before
I jumped into the sea; and the death-struggling
swim for my life has made it what you see, shrunk
and shapeless, but still precious to me ;" and he
kissed, and replaced it in his bosom. "Do you
not remember, at the farewell supper of the
Prince at Nantes, when the song of ' The hand
and the glove' was sung, I told you I had got the
glove already ?"

" I remember," said Ellen, " though I could
not understand it then."

" The song," said Edward, " prophesied, that
he who won the glove, should win the hand —
and here it is !" he said fervently, as he raised
it to his lips, " it is — at least, it will be mine !"

Ellen looked at him thoughtfully, and said,
" Dark days, and dangers, and difficulties, are
yet before us. Be it enough to know that you
are esteemed — and now, no word moreofromar.ee,
but listen. That sealed packet on the table is to
be intrusted to your care ; — it is from our prince
to Louis of France. It b'ehooves us that the king
should know how far, beyond all hope, our cause
already prospers, and that he should be urged to
lend a helping hand in good time to raise a
brother monarch to a rightful throne. When I
found that you must absent yourself for a time,
it struck me you could not better employ yourself
than in being the messenger to render such good
service — service that will win you honor, and
for which your former pursuits peculiarly fit you ;
and I, therefore, undertook to promise the prince
that I would procure a messenger on whom he
could depend. He did me the honor to confide
in my judgment and prudence in the selection of
that messenger, and, without further question,
intrusted me with this packet. I found I did not
count myself higher in the prince's confidence
than I stood ; and I'm sure I did not make an
empty boast when I promised to find the messei>

116

X s. a.

ger." She smiled sweetly on Edward, as she
spoke ; and he was profuse in assurances that, to
do her behest, was the dearest pleasure of his life,
and in thanks for the honor she had procured him.
But while Ned was talking about " devotion,"
and " honor," it suddenly occurred to him that
he was quite without the proper means of pros
ecuting so important and difficult a service. He
had neither horse, nor arms, nor money ; for, by
this time, Ned's purse had run low, and an op
pressive feeling of shamefaced ness came over
him, to confess this to his " ladye love."

" This letter," she said, as she folded and sealed
•vhat she had been writing as Ned came into her
presence, " is to one you already knew, the good
father Flaherty, who will give you his aid in
Paris. And these," she added, as she put some
documents into an unsealed envelope, "will give
you facility wherever you land in the French
dominions; and now the last word is speed."

Ned wished to tell how he was circumstanced,
Lut could not get out a word.

" You must start early to-morrow," said Ellen.
" Certainly," answered Ned ; though he did
not know how.

" As for the means "

" Oh, don't mention it," said Ned.
"Are you already provided, then ?"

" I can't exactly say I am, but "

"But what ?" said Ellen.
" Oh, to talk to a lady about money is so
horrid !" said Ned, growing quite scarlet.

" To be sure, the bashfulness of an Irishman
is the strangest thing in the world !" .said Ellen,
smiling. " He could not ask a lady for some
few gold pieces, though he has little hesitation
in asking for her heart. Is it less valuable, I
wonder !" said Ellen, mischievously.

Ned gave a groan of denial, and said she must
admit talking about money matters to a lady was
awkward.

" Not when it concerns a commission which
she herself orisinates," said Ellen. " But make
yourself easy on that point — I have provided all;
thanks to the prince."

"The prince !" said Ned, in wonder; "I heard
he hnd not a Louis d'or left."

" Not yesterday," said Ellen ; " but the public
money of Perth was seized to-day, and here is
some of it." She laid a tolerably well-stocked
purse on the table as she spoke ; and going to an
old cabinet in the corner of the chamber, pro
duced a handsome pair of pistols, and a sword,
telling Edward, at the same time, a. horse should
be at his service in the morning. " And now,"
she said, in a voice somewhat low and tremulous,
" farewell — and Heaven speed you !"

CHAPTER XXXII.

WHEN the rumor first got abroad that th«
young pretender had landed, travelling was suf
ficiently dangerous to those who were interested
in his cause ; but now that it was known he was
advancing on the capital of Scotland, the authori
ties were doubly vigilant, and kept a still = harper
eye on all suspicious persons ; and all those
whom government influence could induce to play
the spy, or entrap the friends of the Jacobite
cause, were on the alert to get the promised re
ward for securing and giving up the disaffected.
In numerous instances innocent persons at this
time were involved in trouble, and sometimes in
danger ; how much more, then, did hazard attend
the movements of the real adherents of the Stu
arts, the moment they got beyond the circle which
the prince's armed power rendered secure, or
while they were yet beyond and sought to join
his ranks. To cut off all communication of aid
from the lowlands to the insurgents, or of intelli
gence from the highlands of the northern sue
cesses already achieved, was of importance to
the government; and hence the Forth and all the
roads leading to it were sharply watched, and
bribery employed in some of the small houses of
accommodation by the wayside, to engage their
owners against the Jacobite cause.

Thus circumstanced was the house where Ned
stopped to bait his horse after a hard ride. It
was in a neighborhood where certain flying re
ports had aroused the suspicions of government
touching the intentions of the Drummonds, and
a sharp look-out was kept there, so that, as fate
would have it, it was the most unlucky place
Ned could put his head into, but, as Phaidrig al
ways said, " he had a knack for getting into
scrapes." A rough, short, shock-headed fellow,
in a kilt, who was landlord, answered to the sum
mons of our traveller, and took his horse to lead
to the stable, while Ned entered the house and
ordered a mouthful for himself while the nag
should be feeding, for he had left Perth at an
early hour and had tasted nothing sjnce. The
larder of this roadside hostel was not particularly
extensive, as, indeed, one might infer from its
outward appearance, and the homely fare Ned
was promised was not of a nature to consume
much time in the cooking; therefore was Ned
rather surprised at the length of time he was al
lowed to fast, and to every inquiry he made the
assurance wns so often given, it will be "ready
immediately," that he began to suppose he
should nut get anything, and had made up his
mind to take the road without tasting the delica
cies of •'•' mine host," when his horse had been

Edward having secured his packets, buckled accornmodated ; for Ned was one of those good-
on the rapier, and placed the pistols in his belt, tempered fellows who took things pretty much as
pressed the fairy hand which was presented to they cnme and on the present occasion, as "get-

him to his heart, and would have spoken ; but
•words were difficult, where so many thoughts

ting on" was his principal object, he cared less
for his own comfort than that of the beast on

were struggling for utterance. When and where whose ?Qod gervice so mucn depended. When,
might they meet again when both were involved j on askjn? a?ain> he received the same answer of

in adventures so doubtful and perilous ! At such
a time the deeper emotions of the heart are bet
ter looked than spoken ; and after gazing stead-
"astly upon Ellen for some seconds, he suddenly
drew her to his heart, and alter a fervent and
•ilcnt embrace, hurried from her presence.

" ready immediately," he said he would not^ake
anything, but proceed the moment his horse' was
fed, find that they need not take any farther
trouble about his repast.

To this the host replied, he was sure Ned was
too much of a gentleman to order a dinner and

IRISH HEIRS.

117

not stay to cat it — it. would be using a host hard
to do the like. He was sure his "honor would
stay."

There seemed to Ned something more in this
than what lay on the surface. It struck him
there was an intention existing here to delay
him, and, this suspicion once aroused, he regarded
all that passed since he had alighted through that
medium, and felt a sudden distrust of the^people
about him. He determined to leave the house at
once, and with this view went to the stable to
mount directly ; but what was his surprise and
increased uneasiness to be unable to find his
horse anywhere.

He called the host, who, in answer to Ned's
inquiry after his horse, answered that he had
sent off a boy with him to the neighboring " burn"
to drink.

Ned saw the landlord was telling a falsehood
as he spoke, but, -feigning credence, he returned
to the house with affected indifference, though
filled with serious alarm. After a few minutes'
consideration, his resolve was taken to leave the
place at once on foot, and take chance for his
escape, rather than remain among enemies. But
to do this he must revisit the stable, for there, in
the panel of his saddle, his despatches for France
were concealed, for greater security.

Having seen the landlord re-enter the house,
Ned returned to the shed, by complaisance called
a stable, and soon had his knife at work in rip
ping his papers from the saddle ; b'ut quick and
cunning as he was, the astute Scot was a match
for him ; for, before he had completed his work,
in ran the landlord after him, and just caught
him in the act of pulling the papers from their
place of concealment.

" Hegh !" he exclaimed, "that's a rare pouch
ye ha' got for your honor's letthers. I doubt
they're unco precious, or ye wad na hide them in
your saddle."

" What is it to you where I have my letters ?"
said Ned, very angry.

" Dinna fash, mon, dinna fash, I dinna want
to read them ; I can mak a guess o' the con
tents i" said the fellow with a grin.

" Can you make a guess of the contents of
this?" said Ned, fiercely, ns he drew a pistol
from his pocket, and springing between the land
lord and the door, presented it at his over-curi
ous host.

" Hegh ! ye wad na commit murder," he
shouted in alarm, as he held his hands between
his head and the levelled weapon.

" I would think very little of shooting a
treacherous rascal like you," said Ned. " Tell
me where you have concealed my horse, scoun
drel !"

He swore it was gone to be watered, and
swore so loudly, that Ned saw it was to attract
attention from the house. " Don't talk so loud,"
said Ned, in a very significant under tone, " I
am not deaf. If you want the house to be
really alarmed, the report of my pistol will do it
most effectually; and if you make any more
noise that report is the next thing — and the last
thing— you shall hear."

There was a certain earnestness in the way
this was said that carried belief with it, and re-
iucecl the landlord to obedience. Ned taking a

piece of rope that hung from a ling in the wall,
made a running noose in a moment, and desired
his prisoner to put it over his shoulders. There
was a refusal to comply at first, but the levelled
pistol again procured submission, and when com
pliance was made, Ned, by a sudden jerk, had
the landlord's arms pinioned to his side; in an-
other instant he sprang behind him, and, his
nautical experience had made him so conversant
with Knots and nooses of all kinds, that the
treacherous landlord was bound hand and foot
and laid on his back, in little more than the time
it has taken to relate it. A small wisp of straw,
placed across his mouth and tied down with a
handkerchief, prevented his makinir any outcry,
and Ned was about leaving the shed and making
the best of his way from so inauspicious a spot,
when the clatter of horses' feet startled him;
and as he saw four horsemen trot into the yard
he gave himself up for lost, supposing them to
be the authorities to whom it wns intended he
should fall a victim. Nevertheless he deter
mined to present a bold front, and. if the worst
came to the worst, sell his life dearly. Notwith
standing the desperate circumstances in which
he supposed himself to be placed, he was per
fectly collected ; for his was that determined
courage which bestows self-possession in the
hour of danger; therefore he calmly, though in
tently, observed the motions of the horsemen.
Three of them alighted, giving their nags to
the care of the fourth, who, though not in a liv
ery, seemed t» be a servant. The dismounted
men entered the house, and as the face of the
attendant was turned toward Edward, he had an
opportunity of observing it carefully, and it
struck him he had seen it somewhere before.
Memory suddenly came to his aid. It was on
the race-course of Galway he had met him on
that eventful day when his heart became en
slaved by the fair unknown one. It was in at
tendance on her and her father this very man
had been riding; it was not likely, therefore, he
was in connexion with the enemies of the Stuart
cause. Ned at once approached the servant,
and addressed him, noticing the great beauty of
the horse he held.

To this the servant returned a brief assent,
but did not seem inclined to enter into conver
sation.

" I think I have seen your face before," said
Ned.

" You could not very well see it behind, sir,"
he answered ; Ned recognising, in the quibble
as well as the accent, a countryman.

" Were you ever at the Galway races ?"

" It would be hard for me to remember all the
races I have been at," said the other, evasively.

" If I don't very much mistake," said Ned,
" « of all the birds in the air, and all the fish in
the sea,' you love the blackbird."

The man made no answer, but returned a
searching look.

" If so," pursued Ned, " 'war-hawk !' don't
be afraid of me. You were riding behind Cap
tain Lynch at Galway."

" Are the captain and you great,* sir ?"

" Fast friends," said Ned, " and in the same
cause.'*

* Very intimate.

118

X s. d.

" Ht's very great with my master," said the
Be.' rant.

((May I beg the favor of his name ?"

« Colonel Kelly, sir."

" Of Roscommon ?"

" The same, sir."

" Then I must speak with him," said Ned,
entering the house, and proceeding at once to '•
the little parlor where the colonel was seated in !
iompany with Drummond, afterward created ,
duke of Perth by James, but contemptuously j
characterized by the bitter Horace Walpole, as
the " horse-racing boy," which title sufficiently j
•^counts for the gallant steed Ned noticed.

Apologizing for his apparent intrusion, Ned
told the gentlemen the suspicions he entertained
of the house, relating the manner in which he
had been served, and the measures he adopted
respecting the landlord ; " and, as I have reason
to believe," said he, " that your political opin
ions are the same as mine, I thought it my duty
to warn you."

" Then we had better mount and be off at
once," said a third party, whose name was un
known to Ned.

" You forget," said Kelly, " this gentleman
has lost his horse and can not go, and 'twould
be ungenerous to leave him in jeopardy, after his
friendly warning to us."

" Perhaps a good horse-whipping to the land
lord would procure speedy restitution of the
nag," said Drummond — " we'll see." He left
the room as he spoke, followed* by the whole
party ; but, as he emerged from the house, he
suddenly paused, and cast a quick glance down
the road, as if some object in the distance at
tracted his attention. Shading his eyes with his
hand, he looked keenly for a few seconds and
exclaimed, " There are the red-coats !"

All now looked in the direction he indicated ;
and, winding down a path that led to a hollow,
about a mile distant, a party of dragoons was
visible.

" We must fly instantly," said the nameless
gentleman, putting his foot in the stirrup at the
words.

Drummond uttered a strong negative to this,
and laid his hand on the shoulder of his precipi
tate friend.

" If we fly now," said he, " the loons will see
us going up the next hill, and our apparent
flight will encourage them to follow ; and though
we might outstrip them, and effect an immediate
escape, it would not be safe to ride through the
next town with dragoons at our heels— no; we
must beat them."

" Desperate odds," replied the other.

" Not with such as those," said Drummond ;
" Gardiner gives them more prayers than drill ;
and you'll see how ill they can take cold steel
ant1, lead."

<;Lead?" returned Kelly, "you forget they
are used to Gardiner's sermons" — the devil-
may-care colonel joking in the moment of danger.

" We'll preach to them after another fashion,"
said Drummond.

" Then we had better lose no time in getting
our tpxt ready," replied Kelly.

Their arrangements were soon made. A hole
was knocked through the shutter of a window

which flanked the door ; all the shutters were
then barred, and all the pistols of the party
given to Kelly's servant, to be fired in rapid
succession, when the house should be summoned,
so that the dragoons might entertain the belief
that several were within to make defence, while
the gentlemen should remain mounted, with
drawn swords, concealed behind the shed and a
peat-stack, and make a charge on the troopers
at the proper time. The landlord was dragged
into the inn, bound as he was, lest the entrance
of the soldiers into the shed might put them on
their guard, while the women were taken from
the house that they should not unbind him, and
join in overpowering the solitary man within,
who, as his master told him, was to be " an
entire garrison in his own person."

Mick (the servant) having barricaded the
door, the gentlemen mounted, and took their
post behind the peat-stack, where the women
were also concealed under their surveillance.
They were barely ready in these preparations,
when the distant tramp and clatter of .the troop
ers were heard, and soon they wheeled into the
yard, and the word " halt," brought them to a
stand before the inn.

The officer in command called " house !" but
no reply was returned. He repeated the sum
mons with as little effect ; whereupon Ire ordered
a couple of dragoons to dismount, and force the
door open with the butt end of their carbines.

This was th e signal for the " garrison" to
commence hostilities. Mick delivered two sfci'
so well directed, that a couple of saddles were
emptied, and three more galling fires flashing
from the loop-hole in rapid succession, simulated
a well-armed force more than prepared for the
favor of this military visit. At the same mo
ment Drummond, pointing to the women exclaim
ed with an oath, "Now we'll cut these jade»J
throats !" and affected to put his menace into
ecution. The women set up a terrific screecn,
which was all Drummond wanted, and wl-.^,..
he knew the dragoons would mistake for the
shrill shout of an onslaught of Highlanders.
The four men joined a wild " halloo !" to the
women's yell, and rushing sword in hand on the
rear of the dragoons, filled them with such ter
ror that they fled, panic stricken, and never
drew rein till they reached the next town, filling
it with alarm at the awful account they gave
of a numerous detachment they encountered
— of being betrayed into an ambuscade by a
rascally landlord, who had been bribed into their
interest, as was believed, but who had thus
sold them to their enemies ; and the aforesaid
" rascally landlord" afterward suffered severely
for the consequences of this occurrence ; foi
nothing could clear him in the opinion of those
whose gold he had taken. It may seem incredi
ble that a troop of horse should thus be beaten
by five men ; but the subsequent events of 1745
exhibited still more glaring instances of the mis
erable cowardice of Gardiner's dragoons.*

* At Frew they permitted Charles's forces to pass the
ford without the slightest opposition, the first splash of
the Highlanders in the Forth being the signal for theii
headlong flight. At Colt bridge they lan again, the af
fair being jocularly known to this day as " the canter of
Colt Brigg." They galloped right through Edinburgh,
and did not halt till the city was between them and Uia

IRISH HEIRS.

119

The field being won, " the garrison" was or
dered to open the gates, and out walked JMick
with a cocked pistol, demanding from the dis
mounted dragoons, who could not run away,
their carbines, which they gave up.

Mick then inarched them before him into the
house, and shut them up in durance.

He then gratified himself by a little exercise
with a stirrup-leather on the landlord, between
every three or four whacks giving him moral ad
vice as to his future conduct respecting what
Mick called " tricks upon travellers."

" This is a good day's work," said Ned, " four
horses, accoutrements, and arms — articles the
prince stands most in need of. One of the hor
ses, however, I must take in default of my own
lost one."

" Better take mine," said Drummond. " You
need a sound steed on the enterprise you tell me
you have undertaken ; and here is one that will
never fail you."

He dismounted and handed the rein to Ned, who
., esitated for a moment to accept so valuable a
gift. "Tut, man," said Drummond, "but for
you all our lives might have been lost — this is
but a small return ; besides, 'tis for the good of
the noble cause in which we are all engaged.
Take him — if pursued, there is not a horse in
Scotland can catch him, and there is no leap you
can turn him to he will refuse. And now one
word more before you go. It will be about even
ing when you reach Stirling, and I would coun
sel you to let the sun be well down before you
cross the bridge, for it is right under the castle,
and " the Lion," as the old keep is called, has
sharp eyes, and claws too — so keep clear of them.
Cross the bridge in the dark, and get through the
city as soon as may be, and leave the strong-hold
some miles behind you before you sleep."

Ned promised to attend to the caution, and
having got back his pistols, reloaded them,
mounted his mettled horse and was about to
leave, when he paused and requested Colonel
Kelly, when he should see Captain Lynch, to
tell him he had met his daughter's messenger,
and that he was so far well on his way.

" Is there anything more 1 can do for you ?"
said Drummond. " Favor me with your name,
and for your good service this day call upon me
at any time, and I will not fail you."

" Sir," said Ned, " since you think so well of
my poor services, perhaps you will tell the prince
that Captain Fitzgerald, of his highness's first
regiment, had it in his power to be useful."

" I will," said Drummond, " and more than
that."

" I fear, sir, you are inclined to overrate my
doings," said Ned, modestly ; " but if ever you

enemy. In the night, one of the men falling- into a deep
hole, and calling lor help alarmed the regiment. They
fancied the Highlanders were upon them, and fled, nev
er stopping till they arrived at Dunbar, under cover of
Cope's infantry— that same Cope who was asleep off
the field at Prostonpans, when lie should have been
awake upon it, and whose memory is recorded in the
»~ig of " Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye waukin" yet '" At
Prestonpans tlie disgrace of the dragoons was comple
ted. Their colonel could not induce them to charge.
He died on the field, while they fled without striking a
blow, and, with General Cope at their head, never
cried stop until they reached Coldstream that very
night— a distance of upward of fifty miles— a pretty
juod run.

chance to speak of me to Lord Tullibaidmc," he
added, while a waggisli expression played across
his face, " I don't care how highly you praise
me."

" Ho, ho, " returned Drummond, smiling.
" Some fun, I see — well, let me alone for help
ing a joke. I will play your trumpeter to the
skies the first time old Tullibardine falls in my
way."

" Do ; and you'll see how fond he is of me 1"
said Ned, laughing, and putting f^urs to his
steed, who answered the summons something ia
the way an arrow responds to the twang of the
bowstring.

" That's a mettlesome, sporting fellow," said
Drummond, looking down the road after him ;
" how well he sits his horse !"

At such a pace Ned was soon out of sight,
when his friends at the inn set about completing
their work. The landlord, for the treacherous
part he played Ned, was threatened with hang
ing, a punishment only remitted at, the prayers
of the women, who .were then set at liberty, and
told they might release their master, which they
had some trouble in doing, not understanding the
mysteries of the scientific knots in which Ned
had bound him.

It was at first intended to leave the dragoons
at the inn ; but as the horses were an object,
and it might look suspicious to see them led by
gentlemen, it was determined to make the dra
goons mount and accompany them, while O'Kel-
ly's servant could ride one of the beasts and lead
the other.

The charges of the carbines being drawn, the
inoffensive weapons were returned to the troop
ers, who were made to appear like a guard of
honor to the gentlemen. They, making a dttcur
to avoid a neighboring town, where they appre
hended the presence of the military, soon struck
into a road which lay toward their friends, and
thus the dragoons, seemingly the protectors, were
led captive into Perth by the dashing Drummond,
who made a creditable entry into the Jacobita
lines, not only bringing the service of his own
sword to the cause, but bringing in prisoners.

It was evening when Ned approached Stirling
castle, that most beautiful of embattled struc
tures. The golden teints of sunset lit up its
sculptured richness into bright relief; moulding,
dripstone, corbelle, and mullion, caught the glow
ing light ; the fretted windows flashed back the
red rays, till old Stirling glittered more like a
castle of fairy tale than a creation of this world.
If all the beauty of its interior structure could
not be seen by Ned from the road below, still
there was enough to charm his eye ; the very
cliff whereon it is seated spires up so nobly, the
guardian castle crowns its heights so filly, and
when, as at that hour, its embattled wall and
every " coign of vantage" glows in the nattering
light of an autumnal sunset, where is the trav
eller who would not pause to gaze on Stirling
castle ?

Thus paused Ned, according to order; but
without such order thus would he have paused
to feast his eye with the picturesque enchant
ment of the scene. He waited till the glowing
towers had faded into gray, and shadow and mist
were spreading below, before he dared to pas*

120

£ s. d.

the Forth. When assured the keenest eye of
" the Lion" could not detect him, he dashed
across the long and narrow bridge, and the stony
streets of the royal city rang to the hoofs of his
mettled charger, which soon bore him beyond
the "strong-hold," as Prummond recommended,
and he passed on many a mile before he slept.
The next morning, at an early hour, he was on
the road, and' tiavelled that livelong day; the
gallant horse behaved well, and enabled his ri
der to sleep at the foot of the Cheviots that night.
The naxt day he pushed on for Tynemouth,
where, in his smuggling days, lie had made an
acquaintance who could serve his turn on the
present occasion. His friend was propitious.
The horse was sold, and Ned's purse considera
bly strengthened in consequence, which enabled
him all the sooner to get a cast over the herring-
pond, by the good price he offered for that friend
ly office. In fine, Ned used such diligence in
the prosecution' of his journey, that in ten days
after his quitting Perth he arrived at Paris.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

NED lost no time in repairing to the quarters
of the worthy Father Flaherty, to whose good
offices he already stood indebted for getting him
out of Bruges, and on whom he was now to de
pend for getting him on in Paris. The father
was not at home, but, as Ned was given tp un
derstand, out attending a sick call ; but Ned was
invited to wait till his return.

It was not to one of his regular communicants
the priest was called to administer the last con
solations of religion. He did not even know her
name ; the messenger said a carriage was in
waiting to bear him to the lady who besought his
offices, and the priest obeyed the summons. A
beautiful woman lay within the chamber he was
invited to enter. Sickness had not wasted her
noble form, for the attack under which she was
sinking was sudden ; and the approach of death
did not mar the fine cast of her countenance,
whose paleness only indicated retreating life;
and what the eye had lost in fire, was more than
compensated by the shadowy thoughtfulness which
filled it, and becamf the pallor better than a
brighter look. With a jow, sweet voice she ad
dressed the priest, and giving him an open letter,
asked him, " Did he recognise the handwriting ?"

The father knew it at once for Ellen Lynch's.

" You see to whom it is written," said the
lady.

He referred to the address, and found the direc
tion was to " Mddemof'wlle Le Couvrenr ;" and
then turned his eyes at oi.re from the letter to
tne la-ly.

"Yes," she said, "you see poor Adrienne at
her last hour. I am dying, father, and would
have your holy offices before I depart. I know
my profession excludes me from the benefits of
the chuicn — that the ban of excommunication is
upon me ; b'U I am not an actress now — the
tragic scene of fiction, and the sadder tragedy of
T".a\ life is over with me; I am now but a dying
woman, and your kind heart will melt to the prayer

of a repentant sinner ; you will not refuse hei
confession at this last hour, nor deny her th*
rites of the church, so far as you can confer
them. I would not die like a do?, father."

The father knew how Adrienne had preserved
Eilen from ruin, and the remembrance of that
goodness on her part rose up in all its brightness
before him, his heart was melted, and he said,
"Daughter, may God be merciful to you !"

" Amen !" piously ejaculated Adrienne ; " that
holy aspiration from a holy man is comfort to
me. Give me back that letter, father; it has
been my greatest consolation in these my last
moments, for it contains thanks from that sweet
angelic girl for being preserved by me from ruin.
'Tis the evidence of the best act of my life, and
is a comfort to me in death." She laid the letter
to her heart, and pressed it as she spoke : " Fa
ther, for the sake of that sweet girl whom you
value, give me the rites of the church. If I have
been a sinner myself, at least I preserved her
virtue from pollution."

" I will give you the comfort you seek, daugh
ter," said the kind-hearted Irishman, " and for
tunate I hold myself that I can do so. I am not
under the authority of the diocese of Paris, oth
erwise I might not ; but as it is, I can listen to
the voice of a repentant sinner, and receive you
into the bosom of the church on your humble ex
pression of contrition for the past, and a promise
of leading a regenerate life for the future."

" I do acknowledge my sinfulness, and own
my deep contrition for the past, and I promise all
you ask me for the future ; but, father," said the
noble-hearted woman, " I can claim no credit for
a promise I can never be called on to perform,
for I feel I am dyinsr."

The father received her general confession, it
therefore needed not privacy, and her weeping
attendant stood by Avhile she was shrived.

A brighter and more composed expression
beamed on the face of Adrienne ; and, as the
priest knelt and prayed beside her, and gave the
last office, her fading eye was raised devotionally
to heaven, while she still held Ellen's letter to
her heart, together with the rose she plucked
and divided with her at parting. The sacred
duty of the priest being ended, he rose from his
knees, and sat beside the bed, and spoke of com
fort to her.

" Father," she said, " I die happy ; and when
your own spirit shall be passing away, the re
membrance of this goodness you have shown an
erring woman, perhaps, will be a comfort to you,
as this dear letter is to me. Marguerite," she
said to her attendant, who wept silently beside
the bed, " let this letter, and this flower, be bur
ied with me — place them over my heart : it will
soon cease to beat."

The attendant, strujj^ling with her sobs, be-
soueht the priest to obtain permission for her
mistress to lie in consecrated ground; but this
the father said was impossible.

" It matters not," said Adrienne, " there is a
spot I would rather rest in than in Noire Dame ;
it is the parterre before my country-house —
there, on the spot I parted from her — by the rose-
tree, Marguerite — there it was I felt and said,
when her grateful eyes beamed on me, that I
could fancy a seranh had for once looked kind.il

IRISH HEIRS.

121

on me; and there let me lie. I think I see her

angelic look now — now. Marguerite — your

hand — I am dying — farewell. Father — God bless
you for your charity ! I die happy !"

She spoke no more ; the voice of Adrienne was
silent for ever, and in a few minutes her noble
heart was pulseless : yet the lifeless hand still
held the rose — that treasured memento of her
happiest hour.

The father knelt beside her bed, and prayed
for her passing spirit. His oraison concluded,
he arose, and stepped, with silent tread, from the

chamber. Why do we step so softly near the

dead ? We need not fear to break their sleep.
Alas, we can not wake them.

In a few days after, the mortal remains of the
beautiful actress were consigned to the earth.
Her grave was made, as she directed, near the
rose-tree in the parterre before her own house.
The funeral was, at her own request, private,
but Father Flaherty was present, and he obtain
ed leave for Edward also to attend, who wished
to pay this tribute of respect to one who had
preserved Ellen from destruction. The day was
wet and stormy : it suited the occasion. But
three months since the lively Adrienne and the
merry June were acquainted, and now September
wailed and wept above her grave. The bright
parterre in which she had lived was colorless ;
the rose-tree, whence she plucked the flower now
in her coffin, was reft of its beauty, like the mis
tress who had reared it. The glories of the gar
den had withered, and the beautiful Adrienne
was dead.

It was with saddened hearts that Edward and
his reverend friend returned to Paris, after the
father had breathed a blessing over her grave.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE task is wearisome to wait on men in
office, and seek the favors of a government for a
foreign state. Edward found this to his cost.
With what weariness of body and vexation of
spirit did lie lie down, night after night, fatigued
with profitless days of labor. There was an
eternity of promises on the part of the French
executive; they dealt largely in the future tense.,
but it was impossible to screw their to the pres
ent. It was always " We will."

The first accounts of Charles EdwaH's suc
cess were received with considerable distrust, as
liable to the high coloring of interested partisans ;
bat soon after Ned's arrival the news of the bat
tle of Prestonpans was received on undoubted
authority, and then the friends of the Stuarts, in
Pari?, were loud in exclaiming the time had
arrived to strike. But still the French govern
ment was in no hurry. If, in the foimer case, it
would be imprudent to build hope of success up
on such questionable information, in the, latter
they were inclined to trust the prince would be
the architect of his own fortune without their
aid; the secret motive in both instances being
their own, rather than the Stuart interest. What

ever embarrassed England was gain to them ;
or, to use a phrase then in fashion, and which
continued so down to the time of Bonaparte,
" whatever made a diversion in favor of France"
was enough. Later accounts brought intelli-
• genceof Edinburgh being in quiet occupation ot
1 the prince — next came news of his advance into
' England — the French cabinet pleased to consid
er the game won. Some trifling aid was now
given; a few troops, and many officers of the
Irish brigade, were allowed to volunteer in the
cause, and scramble over to Scotland in wretch
ed transports ; but nothing like effective assis
tance arrived at the right moment. Ten thou
sand men from France would have settled the
I question in the first instance. But no — they
dallied — George had withdrawn his English
I troops and several thousand of his allies from
j the Low Countries to defend his throne at home,
' and left France to reap her military harvest of
! success in the Netherlands, — and this was
' enough for France — the "diversion" was made,
and Charles Edwaix! .vas left to do as best he
might. All through this time how earnestly did
: Ned exert himself! but in vain. He lived in
one continued fever of excitement ; he was
scarcely sane.

But now a change came over the fortunes of
the prince — the untoward retreat from Derby
was heard of, and then France thought it neces
sary to keep up " the diversion" a little longer,
and some money and arms were forwarded ; but
still the cry of the Stuart's friends was for men
— " Send an army," they said.

At length something like such a movement
was intimated, and Father Flaherty and Ned
were in the beginning, middle, and end of all
sorts of machinations ; and finally an order was
given to Edward to start for the Low Countries,
where he was commissioned to communicate
with the chiefs of brigade in all matters of in
formation or assistance they should claim at his
hands in connexion with an expedition to Scot
land ; and Ned, in a delirium of joy, set out on
his mission, accompanied by Father Flaheri»
than whom a stanchc.r adherent of the Stuarts
did not exist. They travelled day and nisVt,
until they found themselves in Flanders, where
they undertook immediate communication with
the military chiefs, who questioned much, and
referred again and again to the capital for fresh
instructions : but still no active measures were
taken.

« And now, news of the battle of Falkirk had
arrived ; — still the prince, weakened as he was,
had beaten his enemies, and Ned besought a
timely aid — but it was not granted, and the chill
of delay was working discouragement to the
cause in all quarters. And now the Duke of
Cumberland, and his foreign brigades, had ad
vanced on Scotland. The prince could no longei
hold Edinburgh — he fell back ori the High
lands. — Alas ! the star of Charles Edward had
set!

A fever had been in Ned's blood for months.
Excitement on excitement had prevented it from
being manifested in the shape of downrisrht mal
ady. It might be said one fever had driven an
other before it, and preserved him from disease.
As long as the chance of achieving good by his

122

£ s. d.

exertions was before him he kept up ; but when
he could do no more, the poison which had found
vent in action became malignant, and a fierce
fever set in.

Fortunately the worthy Father Flaherty was
in his company when it first made its appearance,
and he hastened to have him conveyed to Bruges,
where he got him put to bed ; but not till he
was' in a state of high delirium.

For weeks poor Ned lay in fever, quite de
spaired of. He raved alternately of love and
war. Now he was boarding a ship; anon he was
calling on Ellen, in plaintive terms, to come and
release him from prison. Sometimes he fancied
he was travelling speed to Paris, would grasp
the pillow suddenly and feel it, and, saying "all
was right," put it under his head with much
care. One day however, when the nurse who
attended him left the room for a moment, as he
sunk exhausted into a doze, he suddenly started
up, and getting out of bed laid hold of a knife,
and on the nurse's return she found he had rip
ped open the pillow, tlu feathers were flying
•about the room, and he chasing them up and
down, swearing all the time his letters had been
stolen, and that he would shoot the landlord.
Father Flaherty entering at the moment to in
quire how the patient got on, Ned fell on him,
accusing him of being the villain who had stolen
his letters, beating him with the pillow-case, and
feathering the father's black garments in a
most absurd manner. The priest ran out and
shut the door, and " raised the house" to help
him to restore himself to a respectable appear
ance.

" I darn't show myself in the streets in this
fashion," says the father, " sure man, woman,
and child would be afther me ; and I with a sick
call on me, and can't go out in this figure.
Maybe, nurse, you could get another brush — the
rlivil sweep him — with his pillow. God forgi'
me ! the poor mannyac ! Lord, look down on
me ! — down, indeed ; faith I'm as downy as a
swan, or a goose, I may say. Ton my word I'm
more like a goose than a raven ; raven, indeed,
faix it's he that's the ravin' — that is the ravin'
madman," and the good-humored father laugh
ed at his own bad joke. " Hurry, hurry ! pick
me, brush away ! muslin, I'll never be clane. I
darn't appear in this figure in the streets, they
are so fond of scandal here ; and, indeed, I could
not blame them if they said it. Sure if I was
rowl'd in a bed I couldn't be worse."

Thus went on the father for half an houf,
while half a dozen people were trying to restore
him to his sable state, which, by dint of great
labor they did at last, and then the father was
hastening on his mission — his " sick call." But
here, after all his annoyance, the gentle spirit of
the worthy man displayed itself.

" Stop," he said, " I forgot, the poor boy is
raving about letters ; we must try and sooth
him."

He got some papers and made up a packet,
which he sealed, and was returning to the cham
ber to give it to Ned, when, as he reached the
door he paused, and exclaimed, " By the power.?,
mayoc he'd feather me again — ow, ow ! that
would never do. — Here jewel," said he, handing
the paper to the nurse, " take it to the crayture,

and comfort him ;" and away went the simple
and benevolent priest.

The nurse on re-entering the chamber found
her patient still greatly excited on the subject of
his lost letters ; but when she handed the packet
to him, he became cahn at once, returned to bed,
placed the packet carefully under his head, and
fell into a profound sleep.

Perhaps that little thoughtful act of kindness
which the priest exercised was the, saving of
Ned's life; it may have been the means of pro
curing immediate repose at the ciitical moment.
Ned slept for eight-and-forty hours, and awoke
free from fever.

As it usually happens in such cases, he was
quite unconscious of all that had occurred. The
bed and room were strange to him — the view
from the window was not familiar — where was
he 'I As this question was suggested in his
mind, he heard a peal of bells, and the well-re
membered strain gave him the answer. He
knew he was in Bruges; that sweet chime —

" Most musical, most melancholy" —
recalled the memory of Ellen, and with her, link
by link, the chain of circumstances was remem
bered, until the hour he fell* sick. Here the
chain was broken — what had brought him there 1
He stretched forth his hand to draw the curtain
of his bed, and the trifling action seemed an ex
ertion. His hand, too, was emaciated — the
truth dawned upon him — he had been ill.

His nurse now entered the room softly, but
finding him awake, went briskly up to the bed
smiling, and congratulated him on his recovery.
It was Ernestine, Ned's friend on a former oc
casion ; he recognised her, and asked many ques
tions, but she told him he must be quiet, and
giving him a drink, which he took eagerly, left
him. He soon fell into that soft, momentary
slumber which convalescents enjoy, during which
he dreamed of Ellen. He fancied they were in
the Highlands, that he was helping her to climb
the heather-crowned cliffs ; his arm was round
her waist to support her, until they gained the
summit ; then they sat down together, saying
sweet things. He lay at her feet, admiring the
graceful outline of her reclining figure. She look
ed so kindly on him, and so lovely — oh, so very
lovely ! He opened his eyes, and, instead of
the form his vision pictured, there was fat
Madame Ghabblekramme, squatted beside the bed.

He shut his eyes again, with a feeling of dis
gust.

" Ha — you be goot agen now !" said she, "bote
you foss ferra bat."

Ned made no answer.

" Me clat for dis ; fen youn bien goot, me Via
clat ; and fen youn bin gooter, me bin clatter,
clatter, clatter !"

" Clatter, clatter, with a vengeance !" said
Father Flaherty, who entered in good time to
save Ned from the old harridan's persecution 5
" Madame, what brought you here, at all 1"

" Min come to 'muse him."

« Pretty amusement you are," said the priest

" Ya, Vader Flart, you knew me ver grabble,"
(agreeable she would have said).

"D — 1 grabble you," said Father Flaherty,
losing all patience, " go out o' this, and don't b*
disturbing the boy."

IRISH HEIRS.

123

" Vader Flart, you bin alfays bat mans to
me."

" Go down stairs, and don't make any more
noise here," said the lather, disregarding her dis
pleasure ; " yci^d bother a rookery, so you
would," With these words, he made her leave
the room, she almost crying with vexation, ejac
ulating all the way down stairs, " Bat mans —
Vader Flart — bat mans !"

"What did you let that >ld bother up here
for 1" said the father to Ernestine, who came
running up stairs.

Ernestine said the old woman had taken ad
vantage of her back being turned, and made her
way to the young gentleman.

" Ay, indeed — the young gentleman," echoed |
the priest — "you just said it. The young gen
tleman — bad luck to her, the ugly fat old divil !
she is as great a fool about the young gentleman
as if she was eighteen years instead of eighteen
stone — my heavy hathred to her ! And now,
Ned, my poor fellow, how goes it with you ?
you're awake, I suppose ?"

Ned gave a faint smile, as an answer to the
question.

" Never mind that," said the priest, " now that
you're well, we'll soon get up the strength ; we'll
give you the jelly, and the fish, an<i the soup, and
the nice white mate, and the dhrop o' claret.
Whoo ! — by the powers, we'll make you live like
a fighting-cock !"

CHAPTER XXXV.

FATHER FLAHERTY'S prophecy was fulfilled.
Ned gathered strength fast, even against the de
pressing influence of the evil tidings that soon
came pouring in from Scotland. At last the tragic
drama was brought to a close — the fatal field of
Culloden was fought — and all that could now be
done was 1.0 let friendly ships hover about the
Scottish coast to pick up any stragglers who
might escape the vengeance of the savage sol
diery, stimulated to the most sanguinary and
revolting excesses by the " butcher"* who com
manded them — the atrocious Duke of Cumber
land, whose memory is still execrated in the hills
and valleys he drenched with blood — not the hot
blood of battle, but the cold blood shed in raven
ing vengeance afterward.f Not even the blood
of men would satisfy. Women and children
were given up to carnage and to indignities still
worse than death, j: Nor nge, nor sex, nor rank,

* "He left behind him in Scotland the name of the
Jtutcher. anil the people of England, disgusted sooner
than any other with cruelty, confirmed this title to the
hero of Oulloden." — Pict Hist. Kng.

'• It was lately proposed in the city to present him
wi'h the freedom of some company; one of the alder
men said aloud, ' then let it be of the Butchers.' "—
Ilwace Walpole.

t " In many places the dispersed clans were hunted
down like wild beasts— tracked to their dens and holes
in hill-Miles, and either burnt or smothered by combus
tible materials lighted at the mouths of those crannies,
or compel eil to come out to tall upon the bayonets ami
swords of their pursuers. The duke had declared that
blood-letting was the best remedy— that every man that
wore tfo tartan in those parts was a rebel and traitor,
whose body soul, aud goods, were forfeited."— Pict.
f!"t. Eni>

i "As a last touch U t.ie harrowing picture, we may

was regarded. Every excess that could shock
humanity was in open practice every day ; a li
centious soldiery, foreign and domestic, was let
loose to do their worst — and not only do it witb
impunity, but win favor for their atrocities in the
eyes of their merciless leader.

The instant his strength permitted, Ned em
barked in a French vessel employed in the chari
table act of hovering about Scotland, and afford
ing refuge to the fugitives who could escape their
hunters. In this duty, as he heard from time to
time, from the lips cf eyewitnesses, the recitais
of blood and depravity in course of constant
commission, how his heart was lacerated — how
his imagination heaped horror on horror that
might have befallen those who were so dear to
him ! Had Lynch fallen a victim to vne cold
blooded carnage ? Or was Ellen ? Oh, horror !
— to think of her was to go distracted. He en
deavored to exclude such appalling imaginings
from his mind, but still the fearful picture would
intrude ; he saw her flying from some pursuer
whose hands were red with her father's blcod ;
he heard her screams as the murderer gains upon
her — his ruffian arm is round her waist — she

writhes in the grasp of the libertine 'twas

too much for the mind to sustain. Thus excited,
he would press his clenched hands to his burning
forehead, gnash his teeth, and groan again with
mental agony. He was on the very verge of
madness.

All the inquiries he made of every fugitive
who reached the vessel were fruitless — he could
hear no certain tidings of Lynch and his daugh
ter, and his state of suspense became so insup
portable that he at one time proposed landing
and seeking them himself; but this was repre
sented to him, by those who knew the state of
the country as only a wilful throwing away of
his own life without the remotest chance of ser
ving his friends, and he abandoned so mad a
project. But the exertions he made to get off
all fugitives from the land were prodigious.
There was no risk he did not run with the boats,
whenever tidings were heard of parties hanging
about the shore for escape, in the hope that Ellen
misht be among them, but in vain.

The vessel became crowded with refocees, and
still had Ned to endure the agonies of suspense.
The captain, finding his ship so full, proposed
running to the Flemish coast, landing his pas
sengers, and returning again to the service of
humanity; but Ned prevailed on him to wait
another day. Intelligence was had of some ref
ugees who proposed attempting their escape on
board the Frenchman the next night, and as a
lady was reported to be among them, Ned would
not sive up the chance of finding in this fugitive
his beloved Ellen.

The point being ascertained where the attempt
would be made, the vessel ran in under the land
when it was dark, and Ned, with a boat wtil
armed, pushed off. The signal-light was seen tu
glimmer on the shore; with muffled oars they
pulled silently into an inlet, and tiie hunted ad

mention, what is asse ted on indisputable aiithor.ty
that the highland women were subjected to the last i«
dignity and brutality, and that their children were fr«
ouenilv shot, stabbed, or tarown over the rocks." -
Pict. Hint. Eng.

124

£ 5. d.

herents of the ill-fated Stuarts came from their
hiding-places among the rocks. Foremost of the
party was a wounded man, supported by two com
panions toward the boat, and passed along by the
assistance of the sailors to the stern sheets, where
Ned had charge of the helm ; but how was he
startled, when, in extending his hand to the
wounded stranger, and placing him beside him,
he recognised in his pale and haggard face the
features of Kirwan !

Ned's heart bounded with expectancy ! From
Kirwan's presence 'he was certain the reported
lady of the party would turn out to be Ellen ;
but as yet no lady appeared, though several
persons had entered the boat.

" Push off, now," said the last who embarked.

"Avast!" said Ned, who turned to Kirwan,
and asked, in a voice which quivered with anx
iety, " Is not Miss Lynch of your party ?"

" Yesterday," replied Kirwan, faintly, and
manifestly speaking with difficulty, "yesterday
she was — but — but — "

"But what?" cried Ned; "answer — for God's
sake, answer !"

The answer was, the heavy fall of Kirwan's
lifeless corse upon Edward's breast.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

EDWARD'S feelings were wrought to the last
pitch of excitement. His rival who, when last
they met, had dared him to the death, was now
lying lifeless in his arms ; and she for whom they
fought, perchance, was dead also. If not, her
life was at least in peril ; a wanderer in the high
land wilds, separated from the party with whom
she had been seeking for escape, and hunted by
merciless pursuers. The words of the dying man
yet rang in Edward's ear — " She was yesterday,

but ." Oh, fearful break, that death had

made in the sentence ! What agonizing uncer
tainty left behind ! And, as an appalling array
of possibilities respecting Ellen rushed through
Ned's brain, he almost wished to exchange fates
with his rival ; his agony was over — he died, too,
with her name on his lips ; under such circum
stances, fa; better was the fate of the dead than
the living. " Rather would I die thus than live
without her," was the internal form of thought
beneath which Edwd groaned aloud, heedless
of the calls of the sailors if they should push off,
he being in command of the boat. He heard
them not — his thoughts were with his beloved
one, and so hopeless seemed her fate, that his
brain reeled under its overwrought action, and he
sar.rf backward, insensible as the corse under
which he fell.

Immediate assistance was offered; but the
kindly offices were suddenly disturbed by the ap
proaching clatter of horses' feet and the clank of
arms, showing too plainly, that the dragoons
were upon them, and no time was lost in shoving
the boat from the shore and pulling vigorously
out to sea ; not, however, before the troop had
time to send a volley after the fugitives; but
darkness favoring their retreat, the fire was in
effective, while the flash of the guns from the
beach betraying the position of the pursuers, the

arms of the boat were employed with more efTec
in returning the compliment, while the soldier's
fire could not produce the same fatal result to
them, as the boat was shifting her position every
moment. The well-plied oars, however, soon
placed the enemies out of each other's range,
and the speed, urged by danger in the first in-
stance, was now continued for humanity's sake,
as they wished to reach the vessel as soon as
possible, to obtain the needful assistance for Ned,
who still lay insensible in the bottom of the boat,
a faint breathing being the only indication of life
he retained. Consciousness soon returned, how
ever, under the restoratives employed when he
was placed aboard, and he began to gaze wildly
round the cabin, whither he had been borne.
After asking a few incoherent questions, he be
came fully sensible of all that had taken place,
and inquired if Kirwan were dead or had onlj
fainted from loss of blood. On being answered
that he was dead, he exclaimed, " Then I shall
never know her fate," and hid his face in his
hands. It was with* much persuasion he was
prevailed on to go to his berth ; but he could not
sleep. All through the night he thought of
nothing but scenes of outrage, and when, toward
morning, exhausted with mental anguish he sank
into a doze, it was only to dream of darker hor
rors. He rose, with haggard cheek and sunken
eye, and ascended to the deck, where, at so early
an hour, none but those doing the duty of the
ship were present, therefore he might pursue his
melancholy train of thoughts undisturbed. On
casting a look astern, the Scottish shore was no
longer visible, and a glance at the compass show
ed him they were running down for the Flemish
coast. On exchanging a few Avords with the offi
cer of the watch, he learned that the body of Kir
wan had been committed to the deep at midnight;
and Ned, even under an affliction which touched
him nearer, could not resist the influence of the
passing regret for the fate of the gallant, hand
some fellow, he had left in health and vigor a
few months ago. It flashed upon his memory,
also, that two years before, in that very sea, he
had snatched him from the watery grave to which
he was now consigned ; and there seemed to him
a strange fatality in this coincidence. " He haa
been strangely mixed up," thought Ned, " in all
that has influenced my destiny. He was with
her the first night we met, and his last words
were of her when he departed. He was iny ri
val through life — that thought was my terror and
my torment. In death, his broken answer is a
fresh agony ; leaving me in uncertainty, less en
durable than the worst knowledge I could arrive
at. His rivalry I have outlived, but, ah ! does
the prize for which we contended still exist ?"
He groaned in mental anguish at the question,
and turned from the lieutenant to pursue his
walk in silence. The captain soon after can e
on deck, and handed some papers, found on Kir
wan's person, to Ned, as he seemed the only per
son on board who knew anything of the deceas
ed. Ned anxiously opened them, hoping he
might discover some clew to Kirwan's recent
movements, and thence be more able to infer
something of Ellen's fate; as, from his dying
words, it was clear he had botne her company
but the day before he died. The first documrul

IRISH HEIRS.

125

was a commission in the Irish brigade ; but, on
the fold of a letter within it, Edward recognised
Ellen's handwriting, and eagerly opened the pa
per. He paused for an instant, the internal
monitor — honor — suggesting the question if he
were justified in reading it; but the circumstan
ces of uncertainty in which he was placed, satis
fied his conscience that he committed no viola
tion of propriety by the act, and he read : —

" You complain of my recent coldness, and ap
peal to our long friendship in your behalf, claim
ing, on that score, a gentler consideration at my
hands. Had you been content with me as a
friend, you should have ever found me the same
— unchanged and unchangeable. Even when
taking the extreme advantage of the position in
which my father's favor placed you, you urged
ir.e by a question always painful to both of us, I
never denied you the friendship beyond which I
could not go; nay, I pardoned even importunity,
and abated not my regard ; but when you assum
ed the right to question others on the subject of
their esteem for me, you committed an offence
which you can not wonder I feel deeply.

" To tell you all the pain I have endured at
my name being made the subject of a brawl,
would be to tire you with a repetition of my own
daily suffering. The circumstances under which
it occurred, and the high personage offended by
it, have made it a matter of provoking notoriety ;
such affairs as these tend to lessen the respect
which the unobtrusiveness properly belonging to
maidenhood, is sure to maintain, and which, till
now, I have never forfeited. I fancy I hear my
self pointed out for observation, as ' the girl the
two fellows fought about,' and shrink at the im
pertinent glances of the hot-headed mad-caps who
are about us. Oh, how could you respect me so
little as to reduce me to this ?

" Nevertheless, I forgive you — for my father's
sake, and the sake of old friendship ; but, re
member, it is friendship only. Ask me no more
questions of any sort — if you do, even the friend
ship which I still bear you must cease. For the
future, let there be kindness, but, also, silence
tsetween us on one point. You understand me,
and ought to know me well enough to be certain
I will hold to my resolution. Once and for all,
remember — \vearefricnds; ho\i .^ng we remain
so depends upon yourself. " ELLEN."

The information Ned sought was not here, and
the thought that Ellen, in his absence, was true
to him, while it gave momentary pleasure, but
aggravated the misery of losing a heart so faith
ful. " O"i, why was 7 not there to guard her !"
thought Ned. A passing thought of pity was
given, also, to his departed rival. " Poor fellow,"
he half muttered, " poor fellow, these lines of
hers even though they condemned him to despair,
he could not part with." He now opened the
second paper ; let the reader judge how his heart
Rank as he read the terrible lines.

"DEAR KIRWAN,

"We will meet you at the pass to-morrow, and
run the risk of reaching the coast; better any
thing than this uncertainty of concealment. One

of, even to you — almost too terrible fcr myself to
think of — therefore I write my wish before we
meet. In case of attack from the military our
party will fight to the death, of course, and Ellen
must be under your especial care. For this pur
pose I enjoin you to keep where there is least of
danger during the fight. If we prosper (which
God grant !) it is well ; if not (and the Divine
will be done !) my lovely girl must not survive
defeat. To your hand, then, I intrust this last
and dreadful act of friendship ; as I would have
given her to you for life, so do I for death, if
needful — the more difficult trust to discharge.
But I enjoin you, by every tie of honor and hu
manity, set her pure spirit free. Were there no
other hand to do it, I would emulate Virginius ;
but you will spare me so fearful a task ; I know
you will. God help us ! we live in fearful times,
when a father thinks it virtue to contemplate the
death of his own beloved child — and, oh, how I
love her ! 1 can not venture to write an
other word.

" Remember — I depend on you.

"MARTIN LYNCH."

These dreadful lines scarcely left a hope. The
father's terrible injunction to KLrwan, in case of
disaster, stood fearfully prominent, under existing
circumstances, to the coldest conjecture; what,
then, must the heated imagination of a lover have
conjured up. Defeat was the signal for Ellen's
death — and that defeat had manifestly ensued,
Kirwan's wounds were but too palpable evidence.
Ned burst forth into a passion of grief, which he
found it impossible to control. His actions par
took more of a madman than of a reasonable
being; flinging himself on the deck, he gave him
self up to the wildest despair, exclaiming, in the
intervals of his wailing, "She's gone! she's gone!
gone for ever !" Then would he call upon her
name ; then accuse himself for ever having left
her, and ask, why fate had not granted that he
should have been with her'in the moment of danger;
and, finally, called on Heaven to grant him a
speedy release from his misery, by permitting him
to find an early grave. As this thought of ex
istence being a burden passed through his mind,
his eye rested on the deep waters around him,
and, with an expression of so dark a meaning,
that the captain, who had been seeking to sooth
him for some time, laid his hand emphatically on
his shoulder, and bade him summon his fortitude,
reminding him it had been well said, there was
as much honor to be gained in sustaining the as
saults of misfortune, as in standing unflinchingly
before an enemy's fire. " I know you would
never desert your gun," he said, '* nor must you
strike your colors to evil fortune."

In addition to such good advice, however, the
captain ordered a sharp eye to be kept upon Ned,
for his mind for a period seemed to have sunk
under the weight of his grief, and he scarcely ex
changed a word with one of his companions ;
when he did, it was but to bewail his fate and
wish himself dead.

In the meantime the vessel made Ostend, and
the fugitives who had escaped the slaughter de
barked, and the ship prepared to return to thf
Scottish coast, further to pursue the cause of

thought alone oppresses me, too painful to speak charity in which she had been engaged. The

126

£ s. d.

captain proposed to Edward to continue in this
service, suggesting that he might yet recover his
apparently lost friends, and that, even in case of
failure, the mere occupation would be beneficial
to him ; but Edward refused ever again to ap
proach the land which had proved so fatal to his
hopes ; for he had given himself up to the con
viction that Ellen had perished, and, taking a
sad farewell of the ship and his companions, he
returned to Bruges, and sought his old friend,
Father Flaherty.

Sad was the meeting between the priest and
the lover, for the venerable ecclesiastic loved
Ellen with almost a father's affection, and, in
the bitterness of his grief, Ned had ample com
munion of sorrow. But his sacred calling had
taught the priest to bow, in humbleness of heart,
to the decrees of Heaven, and Edward found, in
the words and example of the Christian minister,
a consolation which soothed his spirit, and made
grief, though not less deep, more tolerable. The
father bade him even not to desgair ; that though
presumptive evidence was strong of the fatal ter
mination of the attempt to escape, on the part of
Lynch and his daughter, yet it was not positively
ascertained ; and, until then, it was but Christian-
like to hope that Heaven might have shown its
mercy to the fugitives, and interposed divine pro
tection between them and their merciless pursuers.
But, while the father exhorted his young friend
pi to hope, his manner showed that the reed, on
which he would have another lean, was too slen
der to support himself. Poor Father Flaherty !
he was too simple to impose upon any one. The
imposition he would have practised on Ned was
an amiable one ; he would have turned his
thoughts to the, future, to make him escape from
the pain of the present. " The poor boy will get
more used to the grief every day," he would say
^> himself, " and in his first bitter sorrow, sure
anything that can cheat him out of it, is a mercy."

But the father's manner could not have cheat
ed a child. It was too plain he thought all hope
was past ; and Ned, when alone, would repeat it
to himself, "Though he bids me hope, he thinks
she is dead." Then would he fall into a revery,
and ask, " Could it be so ? Was she indeed no
more ? The ^beautiful and bright, in an instant
snatched away — the object and motive of his life
that for which he had dared, and hoped, and
struggled, and achieved so much — vanished like a
dream ? Could he be doomed to so wretched a
fate ?" His soul shrunk from the bitter belief,
and the faintest glimmer of hope would be wel
come to his darkness ; she might yet live. Then
would he pursue that phantom, created of his
wishes, till his exhausted heart sunk in the fruit
less chase, and his revery would end, as it had
begun, with the melancholy phrase, "She is
dead !"

This turmoil of the heart and mind was sap
ping the very sources of his life ; yet to this, his
dark revery, must he daily go, and endure the
chain and whip of that mental prison of the
afflicted soul.

^rom such captivity the kindness of his rever
end friend would often lead him forth. Father
Flaherty would insist on having him for the com
panion of his walks, and making him join in the
inquiries he instituted respecting the affairs in

Scotland. They asked daily at the conven, of the
Assumption, where Ellen had told Edward he
would at all times be most likely to hear of her;
but they could give no tidings. When fugitives
from the devoted land arrived from time to time,
they were closely questioned respecting all affairs
most interesting to Edward, but no word of prois-
ise was gathered. It was positively asserted
that the prince was yet in Scotland, hiding in the
wilds with a few devoted adherents — so few that
they could tell their individual names, and Lynch
was not among them. They said, besides, that
very few more might be expected to reach Flan
ders, for few were left to make the attempt. This
was sad news ; but it was told at the same time,
that a good number of fugitives had succeeded in
getting off to Ireland, and this held out some
slight hope to Edward. If Ellen and her father
had been of those who escaped, the mountains of
Galway would be the quarter where they would
most likely have sought shelter, and there Ed
ward determined to seek them; for, though he
looked upon the search as almost hopeless, still
he would not abandon the remotest chance of
recovering his lost loved one. Father Flaherty
thought less of the chance than even Ned,
but he kept that to himself; for, as he thought,
if it did no other good, it would give " the
poor boy" something to do, and " divart the
grief." Ned, therefore, made his arrangements
for crossing the channel — that passage he had so
often made in danger and difficulty, but now more
dangerous than ever ; and taking a sad, but affec
tionate leave of the kind-hearted priest, commit-
ted himself to the waves, followed by the father's
prayers and blessing.

^CHAPTER XXXVII.

As our hero is on his way to Ireland, a brief
glance at its political position at that moment is
necessary. I think I hear the reader say, " The
author forgets he had a chapter a littls while ago
on that very subject — all about the liberal Earl
of Chesterfield." Softly, gentle reader — so I had;
but that was a year ago — a year of tranquillity
and justice in Ireland — things too rare and pre
cious to let Ireland have too much of, so the
liberal Earl of Chesterfield was recalled, and
poor Ireland flung back into the state of brutali
zing thraldom, from which his enlightened policy
would have led her forth to take her place among
the nations.

The word of an Irishman is naturally regarded
with suspicion when he alludes to the wrongs
under which his country has suffered ; it is well,
therefore, to guaranty the statement with the
voice of history, and the historian who speaks is
a protestant pluralist clergyman.* From such a
quarter no one need apprehend a flattering color
ing in favor of Irish affairs. And what says
the Rev. James Gordon when speaking of Ches
terfield's departure? — "The boon to Ireland
of such a governor, as it had been extorted from
the British cabinet by the necessity of circum
stances was recalled as soon as that necessity
ceased. Nine days after the total rout of the
*Rev. James Gordon.

IRISH HEIRS.

la?

rebels in the battle of Culloden, which was fought
on the sixteenth of April, 1746, the amiable
Stanhope departed from this kingdom, deeply re
gretted by the nation, who, as a mark of grati
tude, placed his bust, at the public expense, in

the castle of Dublin.*

On the Earl of Chesterfield beinc

withdrawn

from the Irish administration, the foulest sluices
of political rancor, pent up for a time and be
coming more pestilent from their stagnancy, were
reopened, and deluged society. The cry against
the catholics became fiercer than ever; and the
rising just quelled in Scotland having been in
dustriously branded by the ministerialists in Eng
land as a popish rebellion, advantage was taken
of the anti-popish prejudice thus excited, and
every violence permitted by the penal laws was
resorted to by the dominant party in Ireland. At
the head of this party was the primate George
Stone, a man so utterly regardless of every moral
and religious obligation, that nothing can be
stronger proof of the prostration of public opin
ion in Ireland at that day, and the outrages on
propriety a government might then commit, than
the fact of such a man being at the head of the
Irish church — a man in whose life, religion, mo
rality, and common decency, were openly vio-
lated.f

Indeed, the then government of Ireland exer
cised a nearly unlimited tyranny. So strong
were they, that the lord-lieutenant ventured to
refuse the commons' house of parliament to for
ward to the king some resolutions they had pass
ed, and an adjournment of the house, and their
declared determination to transact no more pub
lic business until their document was forwarded,
were the only means left them of reducing the
viceroy to his duty

When government ventured to deal thus with
the protestant parliament, it may be supposed
how they trampled on the catholic people of Ire
land. The tone of her rulers encouraged every
petty tyrant to indulge in excess. Every brutal
fellow who could only fancy his own elevation
by the oppression he exercised, swaggered more
than ever over his catholic neighbor; and to
those whose appetites were keen enough for
something more, the amusement of " priest-hunt
ing" offered even blood.

Such was the state of the kingdom when Ned
returned to it. He had been absent now for
some years; and, while witnessing the freedom
and prosperity of other lands, had forgotten
the slavery and wretchedness of his own. In
thus saying "forgotten," it is not meant to ac
cuse Ned of being deficient in love of country —
iir from it. But he had left Ireland too young to

* In onr own days a statue by public subscription was
the deserved tribute paid by the Irish people to th«
memory of Mr. Drummond — that sound statesman, who
promulgated a large principle in a small sentence —
" Property hasi's dntirs ns writ as its rights." At the RS-
scrtion of this undeniable fact a great many landlords
were angry — of course not the good ones. A bad cause
is always damaged by truth.

t Regardless of his pastoral duties, and solely intent
nn politics, he sacrificed religion and morality to the
(raining and confirming of adherents. . . To depreciate
the protestant religion in a country of catholics, by
placing such a man at the head of the church, and em
ploying him as the engine of intrigue, was not consist
ent with sound policy. — Rev. James Gordon'! History of
I' eland

know much about national affairs ; and the vhld
impressions he had received of all he had since
seen in the world, were well calculated to fill the
mind of a young man with new ideas, \vhose
freshness would be likely to throw the old into
oblivion. He left his country when he had but
just stepped out of boyhood, when sports formed
the theme for thought ; that age when the mind
can not properly comprehend the nature of politi
cal degradation. He only knew that going to
mass was a thing to be done in secret, as if it
was some deed that honest people ought to be
ashamed of. Still this hidden thing he had been
taught to love, and it was mixed up with his
earliest recollections of a mother's fondness and
gentleness, and, so far, had a hold upon his
heart ; but it may be remembered that Ned's
early love of gentility made him recoil from the
" low" things of this world, and what could be
lower than the position of a catholic in Ireland
at that period ? And it was not until he had
seen his religion in all its pomp and power
abroad that he worshipped with satisfaction. In
this lapse of time while he had been away he
ceased to remember that a catholic in Ireland was
a degraded being; at least, the fact held no
prominent position in his thoughts, and when he
was approaching Galway no one idea respecting
religious matters troubled Ned. His head and
heart were otherwise occupied ; the features of
the neigboring scenery recalled the memories of
other days ; and these, the closer he got to his
native town, became so multiplied that he forgot
the business of the present hour and lived over
again through the past. He passed the gates and
prepared to meet his father — that father to whom
he had certainly not behaved well — whom he
had left at a time when the old man might have
expected a helping hand from his child ; and Ned,
suffering at the moment under wounded feelings
of his own, was more calculated to sympathize
with the griefs of another. "Poor eld man,"
thought Ned; "I have not acted well by him,
but I will ask his pardon in humbleness of heart
now. God knows how often he may have want
ed the helping hand of a son."

The thought had scarcely birth, when his fa
ther suddenly appeared before him ; but as he
was crossing the street he did not see Ned, whose
sudden surprise took away his self-possession for
a moment, and left him undecided as to what he
should do. His first impulse was to follow, and
at once speak to him ; but on second thoughts
he paused. " I can not, nor ought not, embrace
him until I have asked his pardon," said Ned to
himself; "and as the street will not do for that,
I had better wait till I see him at home." He
followed, however, at a distance, and watched
the old man as he plodded onward toward the
Exchange. He was a good deal altered since
his son had seen him last. His hair had grown
gray, and he had become more bent ; his step,
too, was slower, and less steady, and his whole
aspect had a subdued air about it, which spoke
of suffering. The unpleasant question suggest
ed itself to Ned, " If he had any part in produ
cing this ;" and his heart smote him, and an
inward promise was made that he would en
deavor to make amends in the future for the
j past.

128

£ s. d.

Just then a burly, swaggering person, with a
large gold-headed cane and a laced coat, going
the same road as old Corkery, brushed rudely
by him, and made the old man stagger against
the wall.

" What an insolent ruffian," thought Ned, "to
shove against an old man in that manner. I'd
like to kick him."

The old man against whom the offence was
committed seemed to take the affair as a matter
of course, and plodded on as if nothing had hap
pened. Irtdeed, so lost was he in some melan
choly musings respecting the sad condition in
which old age had overtaken him, without one
of his own blood to all him, that he forgot even
the business of the Exchange, whither he was
proceeding ; and this state of absence continued
even after he had entered that place

" Where merchants most do congregate ;"

for he had forgotten to take off his hat, which,
as a catholic, he was bound to do: none but
protestants having the privilege of remaining
covered in this place of trade.

He did not wail long, however, without some
one " refreshing his memory ;" for the identical
swaggering gentleman with the gold-headed cane
came up to him, and, with a fanciful flourish of
the aforesaid cane, knocked off old Corkery's
hat.

Ned, who had followed his father, arrived just
in time to witness the act. The same bully who
had shoved the old man against the wall had
committed a fresh and grosser offence ; and in
stantly the indignant son rushed upon him, and,
shouting forth the words " Insolent scoundrel !"
he struck his clenched fist into the face of the
offender, and upset laced coat, hat, wig, and dig
nitary (for he was one of the great men of the
corporation), and the uproar that arose on his
fall baffles description.

Old Corkery had quietly stooped, without
one word of remonstrance, to take up his hat,

"For sufferance was the bad5e of all his tribe,"

like the poor buffeted Jew in Venice; but, be
fore he could recover it, he saw the bloated bully
who had abused him struck down at his feet, and
beheld his son in his avenger. But was the feel
ing one of justifiable triumph, as it ought to
have been, that his gray hairs had found a pro
tector in the vigorous arm of his athletic boy ?
Ah, no ! He only saw that his son had laid him
self open to the vengeance of the powerful for
daring to resent a paltry and senseless tyranny;
the law of nature should give place before the
law of Galway ; he had no right to protect

his father from insult : because he was a

catholic.

Here, again, we find the parallel to the perse
cuted Jew of Venice, who, smarting under the
wrongs and indignities heaped upon him, in
passionate pleading, asks, after enumerating
them —

" And for what ? — Because I am a Jew !"

If the Jews first persecuted the Christians,
the Christians certainly returned the compliment
with a vengeance, and it would seem that the
practice of it engendered an enduring love for

the article, for they have been exchanges it
among themselves at various times ever since.

But to return to the uproar on the 'Change.
Several ran to the assistance of the fallen cor
porator, while others attempted to lay hold
of Ned, amid cries of " Down with him !"
" Seize him !" But he, whose thews and sinews
were braced by hardy service, knocked down the
lumbering merchants " like nine-pins," and
strewed the pavement of the Exchange with
wigs and cocked hats ; but, observing the ap
proach of some liveried gentlemen, carrying long
poles of office, Ned saw further fight was impos
sible, so he turned to the right-about and showed
them a fast pair of heels for it. The hue and
cry was raised aAer him — a regular "Phillilew !"
but, intimate as he was with every lane and al
ley of the town, he left his pursuers far behind
him, and soon had perfect choice to go unobserv
ed whither he would. At first he thought of his
father's house; but it was likely that would be
searched : for Ned by this lime remembered
where he was, and the consequences attendant
on his act. He turned in an opposite direction,
therefore, and walked smartly into the fish-mar
ket, where, by the quay side, he could find some
boat to take him over to the Cltdagh, that sure
sanctuary for any gentleman in his circumstan
ces.

While he was thus providing for his safety, the
ferment on 'Change increased ; and, as is usual
in such matters, was increased by the very peo
ple who had least to do with it — the timid, talk
ing folk, who, while the active ones were trying
to capture Ned, called out lustily to encourage
them, shouted, " Down with him !" and inquired,
" Who is he ?" Bui neither ejaculation nor
question was successful, for Ned had got off in
triumph, and nobody could tell who he was.

Nobody but one, and he, of course, would not.
This was his father, who, in the first slance
he caught of him, knew his boy, improved in
appearance as he was, almost beyond recogni
tion. The blusterers crowded round old Cor
kery, and desired him to tell who the scoun
drel was who dared to raise his hand against a
Protestant gentleman, but the father pleaded ig
norance.

"Your'e a lying old crawthumper !" cried
one.

" Not a one o' me knows, indeed, gentlemen,"
said Corkery.

"I'd make him tell!" cried another, "I'd
give him some holy water under the puT.p !"

"Sure, you were all witness I made no com
plaint when my hat was knocked off."

" D n your impudence !" exclaimed a third

speaker. " Complaint, indeed ! What risht
have you to complain ? Of course it was knock
ed offj when you dared to show your Papist face
here with your hat on."

" I beg your pardon, gentlemen — I quite for-
got — my poor owld head was thinking of one
thins or another, and it was a forget, and noth
ing else, that kept the hat on me."

" But you can tell who the ruffian is who
knocked down Mister Simcox ?"

" Not a one o' me knows — 'deed and 'deed !'

" Some o' them Jackybites," cried another
" them ignorant Jackybites, that would support

IRISH HEIRS.

129

mrbitherary power and uphold tyeranny. I
tell you what it is, we'll have no justice, nor
right, nor law, nor freedom in the land until
every thieving papist in it is hanged."

" I b'lieve you !" cried several voices.

" Hats, indeed !" continued the orator. " By
the holy "

"Don't swear, brother," interposed a mer
chant, who was of a puritanical turn.

" Brother," returned the orator, " one must
relieve their mind with an oath now and then,
and by this and that: talking of hats, I say, that
as long as them papists is left heads we'll have
no pace ! God forgive you, Oliver Cromwell,
for that saying of yours, when yon tould them
to go to hell or Connaught. Sure they preferred
Connaught, and signs on it — its full o' them — as
full as a tick — and, until we weed them out,
there will be no pace. Down with them, I
say."

k The cry was echoed by the bystanders, who
were now all protestants; for any catholics who
had been on 'Change thought it wiser to retire.
Corkery alone was left among the knot of cor
porators, who, inflamed by their own words,
looked upon him with evil eyes, the orator in
particular, who at last snatched his hat from him
and trampled it under his feet, crying, " That's
the way I'd sarve you ! that's the way I'd trample

them undher my feet, all the d d papists in

Ireland. Down with them !"

He danced on the hat while he spoke, or ra
ther foamed his words, and, influenced by his
brutal example, some the most violent of his
way of thinking began to hustle the unoffending
old man, and it is hard to say how the affair
might have terminated, had not the mayor chan
ced to come on the 'Change during the commo
tion, and interfered to prevent a breach of the
peace.

As soon as he had succeeded in preventing
further personal violence to poor Corkery, he
called him to a severe account for his " outra
geous conduct," as he was pleased to call it.

The old man opened his eyes in amazement at
•uch an address, after his being cuffed and buf
feted by others, who were not blamed in the
least, and this he humbly put forward to his wor
ship.

To this the mayor answered, that whatever had
recurred he had no one to blame for it but himself,
and that he should summon him regularly before
him to answer for his conduct, in having provoked
a riot and breach of the peace on the hi<rh
'Change of the ancient and loyal town of Gal-
way, by a gross and daring violation of its laws
and privileges, as he was determined to uphold
the same, and let the papists see that they should
not display their insolence within his jurisdic
tion. The 'Change was then cleared by the
mayor's order, the party of the upper hand talk
ing in .inots, as they retired, of the necessity of
some strong measures to keep down the demon
of popery, while poor old Dennis Corkery took
his course home, trembling for the fate of Ned,
in case he should be taken. Many a prayer he
put up for his escape, and when he reached his
home he did not know whether to sorrow or re
joice — his son was not there. Soon, however,
he had reason to be glad, for a search was made

by the mayor's orders, and the myrmidons of ol
fice did it as rudely as they could, with plenty of
insolent words to the old man.

Yet while Ireland was in the slate this chap
ter indicates, England would not admit that she
had cause for discontent. The phrase of the
time was, that " the discontent the face cf
Ireland wore was colored by caprice and fie-
lions"

How capricious !

CHAPTER XXXVITT.

Xi:r>, in the meantime, had made his way
over the river and went to the cottage of the
fisherman, where Lynch had sheltered on that
eventful night which witnessed the initiator)' step
of Ned into the regions of romance. The fish
erman was not at home; but his wife, who was
mending a net at the door, told Edward she soon
expected his return, and Ned proposing to wait
for him, the woman rose, and inviting our hero
to enter, dusted a rude chair with her apron, and
requested him to be seated. A fine little boy
was tying a piece of rag on a skewer, which he
had stuck into a flat piece of wood, the whole
representing boat, mast, and sail, to his juvenile
fancy ; the toy of the child indicatins the future
occupation of the man. The little fisherman in
embryo paused in his work on the entrance of
the stranger, whom he eyed with a furt'vc side
long glance under his little brow.

The mother resumed her work at the door,
but soon laid it down and went away. She
turned into a neighbor's collage and asked her,
would she "just run up to the corner, and watch
for her husband coming home, and give him the
' hard word' that there was a strange gentleman
waiting for him at home ; for sure there was no
knowing whether he would like to see him or
not — because they were queer times, and hard
times." After this precaution she returned to
the door and resumed hf r work. In a few min
utes one neighbor after another came up to where
she sat, and looked keenly into the house at Ned
while they spoke to the mistress, and having re
connoitred, passed on. Ned knew too much of
the habits of the people not to see he was an
object of observation, if not of suspicion ; but,
aware that to betray such a knowledge on his
part would be to confirm their bad opinion of
him, he waited his opportunity for letling Ihem
understand him. This occurred ere long, for a
large-boned, dark-browed man soon came up to
the door, and, after giving the civil word to the
woman of the house, strode into it, with the
words, " God save all here "'

Ned frankly returned Ihe accustomed response
of " God save you kindly !" at which the aspect
of the man became softened, and, after exchan
ging a few words with Ned, he walked out
again.

At last the man of the house himself relurned,
and Ned rose to meet him. The fisherman did
not recognise him, but a few words from Ned
recalled him to his memory. On the mention of
Lynch's name, the fisherman cast a searching
look at his unbidden guest, and said, in an untie*

130

£ s. d.

tone, "Arrah, then, do you know where the
captain is 1"

" No," said Ned, eagerly; " do you ?"
" Me ?" said the man, as if he wondered how
any one could ask him the question. " Musha !
liow would I know ?"

Ned made no observation ; but it struck him
there was something in the fisherman's manner
that indicated the knowledge he disclaimed.
Eager as he was for knowledge on that point,
however, he wisely forebore to urge it, well
knowing it would be of no use, and fearing it
might damage what little interest he might have j
in that quarter, and which he needed to employ. !
Leaving, therefore, the matter as it stood, he re
lated his adventure on the Exchange, and for |
the second time requested the fisherman's good
offices in going to his father, and telling him ;
where he was; adding, that, as it might be un
wise for Ned to go kilo the town, he hoped his ;
father would come over to the Cladagk.

The message was carried, as Ned wished ; i
and an hour did not elapse until he had the sat- ;
isfaction of receiving the old man's welcome
and blessing. As for all the pardon he expected j
he should have to ask, his father cut it short, j
He admitted Ned had behaved like an " unduti-
ful young blackguard," but he hoped he knew
better now ; and " 'pon his soul, he was mighty
well grown, so he was." The fact was, old i
Corkery felt proud* of the handsome person of
his son ; and, though he was rather uneasy as
to the consequences of the affair of the Ex- j
change, yet in his heart he could not help liking
Ned the better for knocking down the bully who ,
had insulted him.

The fisherman and his wife had the politeness \
to make a clear house of it ; and father and son j
being left together an account of Ned's adven- >
tures since he quitted Galway filled old Corkery \
with immeasurable wonder ; but most of all he
wondered how Ned could have the assurance to
make love to a rale lady. At this brightest and
darkest portion of the story, Ned was much ex
cited, and candidly told his father that the chance
of finding her, in case she had escaped the High
land massacre, was his chief business in Galway.
" Faix, then, she has as great a chance of
being massacrayd in Galway, I can tell you, as
in Scotland ; for they are hot afther any one
they suspect of having anything to do with the
rising ; and the divil a much they scruple doing
anything. As for you, Ned, what with your
smuggling, and privateering, and having to do
with the rebels, there's o.s much on your head as
would hang fifty, and I advise you to lave Gal
way ' while your shoes is good.' "
•• Not until I have sought for her?"
" Very well, — you'll have your own way I see.
But, if I was you, I'd make off to Spain as hard
as I could to the uncle. Wow — ow ! — and
there's more of the wondher ! Who'd think of
brother Jerry turning out a great Spanish lord ?
Faix, I'd like to go to Spain rrtyself and'see him,
only maybe he wouldn't speak to a body now
that he's so grate a man."

" Ah, sir, you know little of my uncle !"
" To be sure I do, when I never see him since
be was a boy."
" He has a noble heart."

"And plenty of money you saj. Faix, that'i
where I'd go, Ned."

" Surely, sir," said Ned, somewhat excited,

" you would not have me desert "

" Oh, the young lady, you mane. 'Pon mj
word, Ned — not that I wish to make you onaisy
or wound vour feelin's, but I think that young
lady is in ' kingdom come.' "

Ned buried his hands in his face, and ighed
heavily. His father's bluntness was revolting,
and the conversation after this slackened con
siderably. The little there was of it treated of
immediate affairs ; for Ned seemed to shut him
self up, as it were, respecting the past, and his
father urged him to remove, for the present, from
the neighborhood of the town, however he might
be determined to remain in the county ; for he
assured him the affair of the Exchange had pro
duced a strong sensation in the high places of
Galway, and that if he should fall into the hands
of those in power, it might be as much as his
life was worth.

" My life ?" returned Ned, with an incredu
lous smile. " What ! for knocking a man down ?
No, no, — there's no law for that."

" Who said there was ? — that is, no regular
law. But God help your head ! it is little they
care for any law but what they have power to
do themselves."

" Come, come, father. I know they are ar
bitrary enough, but I can not believe my life is
in danger."

" Can't you, indeed ? Oh, — your sarvant, sir,
— maybe not. See now, Ned. You have come
back from furrin parts, and may know a grate
dale more nor me about imperors, and sultan.**,
and the kings o' Bohaymi, and all to that — anil
about ginteel manners, and counts and countis-
sec,5 — and indeed I hope the young woman's alive,
— but in the regard to a knowledge of the town
o' Galway I'll give in to no man ; and I tell you
my owld heart would grieve to see you in the
power o' the high people o' Galway this night.
God help your head ! its little you know of it.
It was bad enough when you left it, but it was a
paradise on earth compared to what it is now.
We could go to mass then, in a sly way with a
little care,— but now — oh, jewel ! — by my sowl,
it's dangerous to tell your beads beside your own
bed for fear the bedpost would inform on you.
It's little you know what Galway is come to.
The wind of a word is enough to condemn a
man, much less knocking down one o' themselves.
Your life is not worth a sthraw, my buck, inside
Galway gates, and that's a thruth. They'd hang
you as soon as look at you, and no one to call
them to account for it afther. A few months
ago, indeed, they were afraid a bit of the Lord
Liftinnint; but now, as we say in Galway, what
have we to depind on but the heart of a 3'cne.'1*
Thus went on old Corkery, giving, in his OWB
quaint, disjointed way, a melancholy account of
the utter prostration of the bulk of the people
beneath the savage will of the dominant few,
Edward listened heedlessly as far as he himself
was Concerned, but grieved to hear that the place
of refuge, where he fancied his darling Ellen
might have escaped, was scarcely less dangerous
than the den of murder in Scotland. But th«
* The name of the pritnato then al -powerful.

HUSH HEIRS.

131

recital rather stimulated than depressed him; he
would remain, and seek for tidings of his be
loved one, in defiance of the tyranny which his
recent life of freedom taught him to detest and
despise ; but it was clear, from what his father
said, that he must quit the neighborhood of Gal-
\vay; and the fisherman was then summoned to
take part in their council. He suggested that
the readiest mode of putting a good distance be
tween N;d and the town, suddenly and safely,
would be to row up the river and cross Lough
Corrib, on whose opposite shore he would be
perfectly beyond the chance of recognition or
reach of capture. For this manoeuvre the fish-
trrcan prepared, by going above bridge, and from
a friend on the wood quay borrowing a small
boat, which he rowed to a convenient spot, be
yond reach of observation from any of the ram
parts or batteries, and securing the boat to the
bank, under the shelter of some daggers, he re
turned to the cottage, whence, at nightfall, Ned
and he left the Cladagh, and, making a detour to
escape all chance of observation from any of the
guards of the gates, the boat was reached in
safety, and they embarked. Lustily they pulled
at their oars, and headed well against the rapid
stream ; the towers of Menlo and the castle of
the Red Earl were passed, looming darkly over
the waters. Soon after, as the stream widened,
they lost sight gradually of the banks, and the
deep broad waters of the lonely Corrib opened
before .them. The ripple on the boat's side and
the measured stroke of the oar were the only
sounds that broke the silence, save when a brief
question and answer were exchanged between
Ned and his companion. After pulling vigo
rously for about an hour, they approached the
eastern shore, and crept alon? it toward the
northward until a small creek offered a landing-
place, and they jumped to the bank, and made
fast the boat. The ruins of a small castle were
on one side of the creek, and of an ancient
church on the other. To the former the fisher
man led the way, and said he supposed Ned
knew where he was now.

" No," said Ned, " I have never been on this
side of the lake before. What castle is this ?"

" Aughnaaoon, your honor. It's right a gen
tleman should know the house he sleeps in, for
it's here you must sleep to-night, barrin' you
know the road to some visage or town nigh
hand."

" That I don't," said Ned.

" Then you had betther wait till morning will
give you the use of your eyes ; so shut them up
in the manetime here, till you want them." He
entered the castle as he spake, followed by Ned,
who groped his way after him. The fisherman
threw down i couple of large boat coats, telling
Ned these were the only feather-beds the castle
could boast of; " for you persaive," added he,
with a chuckle, " that they keep open house here
for want of a hall door." Ned assured him he
knew what it was to lie hard betimes, and he
would not find him a discontented guest in the
halls of Aughnadoon.

" If you're particular," said the fellow, '•' you
can put a lump of a stone undher your head for
H pillow."

" Thank you, said Ned, " I am not fond ol
luxury."

"Long life to you !" said the fisherman, "you .
have got what is better than beds and pillows
and all the luxuries of the world — you have a
merry heart."

" Not very merry, if you knew but all," said
Ned.

" Well, you're not afraid to look danger, or
hardship, or sorrow in the face, and that's the
right sort," said the fisherman. "I hope you'll
sleep, sir. Good night, and God be with you."
He lay down, and soon his heavy breathing told
Ned he was fast asleep, and ere long he slum
bered as soundly.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

IT was a few weeks previous to the events re
corded in the last chapter, that a man, beyond
middle age and of saddened aspect, was pacing
up and down in a closely-shaded alley of trees,
forming part of the ornamental woods of a noble
domain. His arms were folded upon his breast,
and his eyes cast upon the ground. The sun
was setting, and a beautiful and gently-winding
river, reflecting his beams, could be seen glitter-
ing in the distance through the trees. The as
pect of nature was calm and bright, but seemed
to have no charm for the stranger pacing beneath
the trees^ for he turned from the glittering por
tion of the scene, and looked more congenially
into the deep shadows of the wood. At times he
would glance up the long alley for a while, as if
expecting some one from that quarter, and, as
the shadows of evening .deepened, a man was
seen to cross a close path through a tangled
brake, and entering the alley approach the stran
ger, who advanced to meet him. The new
comer extended his hand and grasped that of his
friend warmly.

" I find you the same as ever, my lord," said
he who had been waiting. " Fast and true to
friendship in the worst of times."

" And worse they could not be," returned the
nobleman ; " our lot is cast in gloomy times."

" Ah !" exclaimed the other, shaking his head
sadly, and looking his companion earnestly in
the face, " and why did you not listen to my
exhortation, and give the bright lustre of your
house's nar*e to dispel the gloom, when it might
have beer dispelled ?"

" 'Tis vain to regret the past," was the r.a-
swer.

" Yes, but one can not help regretting," said
the other, "and what we regret in the past
should warn for the future. I told you you were
dereivin? yourself in your hopes of justice ft> our
country."

" You must admit that Chesterfield's govern
ment was enough to make one trust ; to engen
der the hope that the dawn of better days had
broken, and that a noontide of just and wise
policy was about to shine out at last."

"It did not make me trust. I told you, what
has since come to pass, that they had granted us
that gentle and sensible statesman through ne-

132

£ S. d.

cessity, not choice; fear, not love, was at the
bpttom of it. The moment they can assert their
tyrannous sway — it is resumed — Chesterfield is
recalled, and the country given up to a darker
domination than ever. There is no hope, but in
breaking our chains."
" But can they be broken ?"
"If slaves always asked that question, they
would never be free."

" Come, come, my friend, slave is a harsh
word. You know I love liberty ; I come of a
race whose blood has stained the scaffold in the
cause of liberty."

« Say not stained," exclaimed the other ; " call
not blood that is shed for liberty a stain — it is a
glorious offering !"

" Well, glorious offering let it be — that offer
ing has been made by our house, and would again,
if needful — and when it would not, may it perish !
But see, my friend, it is unwise to strike for lib
erty, unless you have cause to believe the blow
will be successful ; for failure leads but to fiercer
tyranny."

" I defy them to make us worse than we are
now. It is but the other day a priest was butch
ered in cold blood ; that miscreant, Nevil, regu
larly amuses himself with priest-hunting, and his
atrocities but win him favor in the eyes of those
in power. He is a constant sharer in the orgies
of my lord-primate, is the pet of Lord George
Sackville, and so forth, and his scandalous em
bezzlement of public money is connived at by
the government, for the welcome work he does
in his blood-thirsty lawlessness. Are these things
to bs borne tamely ?"

" Certainly not ; I have reason to believe the
various petitions and memorials to the king have
been suppressed by his ministers, while his
majesty's ear is abused on the subject of Ireland ;
but I myself will present to the king a memorial,
now in course of preparation, representing the
Irue aspect of affairs, and I can not believe he
will permit such a state of things to exist longer
in this oppressed land."

"And are you yet so hopeful ?" said the other,
with a sarcastic curl upon his lip. " Do you for
get that your loyal offer of raising a regiment in
his service was spurned ?"

The nobleman's blood mounted to his face at
•-he remembered insult, and the speaker pursued
his advantage.

" Do you forget the patent of a dukedom I of
fered you, by command of our true king, while
the false one withholds the dignity ? Do you
forget Chesterfield recalled, the remonstrances
of parliament despised, the daily abuses before
"our eyes ? James, Earl of Kildare, if I know
your heart, you bitterly regret at this hour you
did not take my offer a year ago, and, emulating
the rfhcient glories of your house, unfurl the ban
ner of independence, and lead your countrvmen
to liberty."

The earl made no reply, and his companion
took silence for consent, and the knitted brow
and bitten nether lip of his friend were witnesses
in his favor.

" It may even yet be done."

'•' No, — the time is past," said Kildare, with a
•igh.

" Oh, for a < Silken Thomas !' " exclaimed his

companion. " With a Geraldine to .ead them,
the people of this country would shed the lasl
drop of their blood to achieve their freedom."

" They would be slaughtered unavailingly,"
replied the earl.

" Better that, were it even so, than live the
life of a hunted beast, and die in the end," said
the other. " But we shall have help, — believe me
we shall. The prince will return with aid from
France or Spain, and then a simultaneous move
ment in Scotland and Ireland must be successful."
" Tempt me not against my better reason,"
said the earl, much moved, — " tempt ne not.
The time is not yet come. When it does, I hope
the Geraldine will be found where he ought."

" Remember, a dukedom is yours at your own
word."

" I need not the fruit of temptation that lies
beneath golde-i strawberry leaves to make me do
what I think right. The love of country, I hope,
will always suffice to stimulate a Geraldine. —
Say no more on this dangerous subject. I will
not give the harpies the plunder of my estates ;
for murder and confiscation must be the inevita
ble result of any movement at present."

" I see you are resolved, therefore I will bid
you farewell."

" Let me conjure you to abandon all thoughts
of violence."

" That's as it may be."
" It can not succeed."

"I am not yet sure of that. Without a pros
pect of success I would not strike."

" In the meantime what risk you run. Re
member, a price is on your head, and they seek
you out with a deadly hate."
" I know it."

" The world goes hard with you, my friend :
would that I could aid you as I wish. To offer
you shelter here I think useless ; we are too near
the seat of power."

" I would not involve you either in so dangerous
a matter," said the other. " Besides, I shall be
safer in the wilds of the west, every corner of
which I know. It would puzzle them to catch
me there."

" I wish you were safe back in France."
"The channel is so swept now that it is dif
ficult to pass it ; and to be candid with you, I
have not money enough to tempt a boat to run
the cisk."

"I thought as much," said the earl, "and
came provided to help you so far. Here is a
rouleau at your service."

" Thanks, my lord, — my kind friend, I will
say, — it may he nseful, and I accept it : and now
there is no need to expose you to greater risk
for to be seen in my company might be the pri.e
of your fair broad lands; therefore let us part
now for the road. Once more, adieu !"

" Farewell," said the earl, as he bore him
company down the alley, now wrapt in darkness.
" I wonder," he continued, " at your daring to
tempt the highway."

" I trust in God and the right."
" A good trust for the next world," said the
earl ; " but as for this, right has but small
chance in it, and God sometimes permits the evil
doers to triumph. Are you well found for youi
journey ?"

IRISH HEIRS.

133

" A stout horse is at the little gate you left
open for me."

" Be swift and circumspect, my friend."

" It is needful, on this side of the Shannon,
but once across that boundary I shall feel tolera
bly secure."

They proceeded in silence for some time through
tangled wood, and at length opened upon clear
space, under the cover of large trees, through
whose foliage the last streak of twilight glim
mered. As they approached the wall of the
domain, some withered branches that strewed
the ground crackled under their feet, and a voice
in advance of them demanded, " Who's there ?"

The earl grasped the arm of his friend in
alarm, -and stopped.

His companion reassured him in a whisper, and
returned to the challenge the word "Sarsfield."

The challenger then gave the countersign of
" Limerick," and the earl and his friend advanced
to the wicket, where a stout peasant was standing.
The earl hung back a little, out of observation,
while the stranger whispered some few words to
the peasant; then grasping the hand of his noble
friend in silence, he disappeared through the
wicket, and the earl heard the retiring footsteps
of more than one horse. In a few seconds he
jooked through the gate, to see who bore his
friend cor.pany, and, as well as the uncertain
light would permit, he thought it was a lady.
The earl locked the wicket, and walked slowly
homeward through the woods, his thoughts occu
pied with the melancholy musings that such
fearful times were calculated to inspire in a
patriot.

CHAPTER XL.

MORNING had not long dawned on the castle
of Aughnadoon when Ned and the friendly fish
erman woke from their slumbers, the nature of
their beds not being calculated to induce over
sleeping. The fisherman remarked that he fear
ed, from Ned's appearance, his resting-place had
not agreed with him; the fact was, that the in
fluence of painful dreams produced a mental
depression upon Ned, against which he could
not contend. The visions of the night had con
jured up forms and words fearfully real and of
woful import ; and though he endeavored to ac
count for this nightly visiting of fancy as the
consequence of the conversation held with his
father on the preceding evening, still he could
not shake off the influence which dreams, despite
the best efforts of waking reason, will sometimes
impose upon us. He thought that Ellen had ap
peared to him, telling him she was dead, that she
had lovingly remembered him in the hour of
death, and visited him thns to relieve him from
the rack of uncertainty in which he lived — that
ehe was at rest and happy, and therefore he
should grieve no more. The dream was so vivid
that he started from his sleep, and, even when
wide awake; xr^j alill calling upon her name.

It was under this strong mental impression that
his brow was saddened, and his cheek so pale, as
to induce the remark of his companion, who, im-
aediately after rising, busied himself in preparing

breakfast. Unfolding a piece of sailcloth, he
drew forth some dried fish, a loaf of coarse breud,
and a mug. Spreading the sailcloth over a large
stone, it served for table-cloth, and having laid
the bread and fish upon it, he went to the lake
and filled his mug, and called upon Ned, on his
return, to partake of the fare, for whose humble
ness he apologized. Ned thanked him for hit
kind thoughtfulness in providing any refreshment
whatsoever, and partook of it rather to gratify
the fisherman than his own hunger, for, in truth,
he felt little inclined to the meal, and ate so spar
ingly, that his host saL u» feared such hard fare
was unwelcome to a young gentleman.

The repast being ended, Ned aiquired the " lie
of the country," and what were the neighboring
towns, and his guide pointed out to him all he
required. " Right before you," said he, " is
Headford — Shrule a little on the left of it. Tuam
you can to by crossing the country over there ;
and up to the north lies Cong — or you can make
over by Ross Abbey toward Lough Mask, and so
on to Ballinrobe."

" Well, you have given me choice enough,"
said Ned, " so I may as well start at once, and
let you go back to Galway. And now, my friend,
here's a trifle in return for the service you have
done me.."

"Tut, tut, sir; do you. think I'd take money
from you ?"

" And why not ? I have taken you from your
occupation, and you should be paid for it."

" Why if you came to me for pleasuring, sir,
and wanted my boat on the lough, or my hooker
on the bay, then, well and good, you might pay
me; but when a gentleman in trouble comes to
my house and puts his trust in me, then all must
be done in honor, and the stain of lucre mustn't
be on it."

"Well, I will not offend you, then," said Ned,
returning the money into his purse, well knowing
the high spirit of the humbler classes of his
countrymen, " and I hope you pardon me for the
offer : and since what you have done for me is
not to be a paid service, but one of friendship,
give me your hand before I say good-by."

He shook the offered palm of the gratified fish
erman heartily, and, leaving the castle, they
walked down to the boat, which soon was bear
ing the honest fellow of the Cladagh back to Gal-
way. Ned stood on the beach looking after him,
and thought how rare, in any other country, is
the noble spirit found among the Irish people,
whom poverty can not teach to be mean or sor
did, nor oppression grind into brutality. No ! —
despite all their sufferings, there is a generous
blood among them that remains untainted.

Ned, as the boat lessened into distance, turned
from the shore, and struck across the country.
He had not made up his mind whither he would
go, but the day was before him, and he had»time
enough to choose; so pushing over toward the
blue line of hills that bound Lough Mask, he
wended his way, filled with melancholy thoughts,
which the stillness and desolation through which
he passed were not calculated to dispel. He did
not meet a human being, and, save the cry of
wild birds that sometimes swept above his head
toward the long waste of Corrib's waters, stretch
ing far away to the dark high mountains in tha

134

£ s.

northwest, he did not hear a sound. A more
lonely walk could not be taken, and the unbroken
monotony of the stony flats over which he passed
was wearisome. It was a relief to his eye when
after some hours he saw the ruins of an abbey
rising in the distance, and to this point he bent
his steps. On reaching it he could not help no
ticing much of architectural beauty that was at
tached to the spot ; and he wandered about the
ruins for some time, insensibly attracted by their
picturesqueness. Many tombs were within, as
Well as without : some whose elaborate sculpture
showed the place had once been of importance.
Many of these bore inscriptions, and he employed
himself in that occupation, so common under
such circumstances, of reading these records of
the dead. The scene, and his immediate occu
pation, were in singular accordance with his
frame of mind and the spirit of his last night's
dream. He was among graves, and he sat down
and mused, and his musings were very sad. His
eye rested on a mural tablet of black marble,
richly ornamented, whose ancient letters still
bore, in their antique cutting, remains of former
gilding.

After a curiously scrolled ©r<ltt, followed the
name of her to whose memory the tablet was in
scribed, with an elaborate statement of whose
wife she had been, his titles and possessions;
next, of her own family descent ; and lastly, her
beauties and virtues were recorded in these quaint
words —

faborett of Bolipe fmttemore beautifulle
£>f<Soule, ne (Easfectte of nejflestbe
Stole by Bethe; nc brnjjftte $rtoel!e jt
ContajnelJ ftatfje bjnc'cobittetic l)»c jje
Hcrtic~ef pastes foe ge Sresoim of

The description was one that suited Ellen
Lynch — " well favored of body, but more beauti
ful of soul ;" and Edward thought of her as he
read it, and then he pursued the thought — " Had
death stolen the casket of that bright jewel, too ?"
His eyes were yet fixed on the tablet while thus
he thought, and as he saw its mouldings fallen
away, its emblazonry defaced, its gilding tarnish
ed, and the very sanctuary, where it had been
placed, open to the rude visitingsof the elements,
a sickening feeling of the nothingness of all hu
man things came over him. In truth, the scene
was a sad one ; the tomb, with its broken tracery
and faded gilding, was a mockery to the words it
bore. This lady of beauty and worth — this rare
piece of mortality, "coveted by Heaven," was
utterly forgotten, as if she had never existed.
He who had loved her and raised this tomb, all
that cared for her memory, had passed away ; the
consecrated temple, where her remains were laid
with honor, was a ruin, and the very faith in
which she died, then in its " pride of power,"
was trampled in the dust — dared not show its
head in the land covered with its fanes, and,
having preached life eternal to others, was pres
ent death to avow.

Edward quitted his seat before the tomb, and
paced slowly across the chancel, thoroughly sad
dened in spirit, subdued to the lowest key-note
of melancholy, when, as he was about to pass
through a shattered porch, he saw a figure, dark-
rj draped, slowly rising from a tomb, and he ='<x>d

riveted to the g ound, struck with amazement,
his eyes fixed on the apparition, ami almost doubt
ing the evidence of his own senses, thinking an
overheated imagination might deceive him. But no
— it moved — it rose still higher from the grave-
he staggered among some rubbish against the arch
way which he grasped for support — the a;»pc.ri-
tion turned its head — and, oh heavens ! wnat
words could tell his sensations, when he saw the
pale features of Ellen Lynch ! A wild, half-suf
focated exclamation escaped his lips, and he sack
senseless to the earth.

It was some time before returning conscious
ness restored Ned to action. When he awoke
from his trance all was lone and silent; nor sight
nor sound was there to startle his living senses',
as, awe-struck, he cast timid glances around, and
listened with painful eagerness. His own em
barrassed breathing was all he heard, and that
almost frightened him. After some effort he was
enabled to gain his feet, but his knees trembled,
and it was by an extraordinary effort he succeed
ed in getting clear of the abbey walls, and, with
out- once looking behind him, he made what
speed he might from the precincts of a spot
where he witnessed a sight so appalling; and,
when his strength permitted (and it increased
with increasing distance from the point of ter
ror), he ran till he gained a road, and the sight
of a beaten track was most welcome, as asso
ciating ideas of human beings and things of this
world. He pushed on rapidly, the body keeping
pace with the wild rush of strange thoughts tha
coursed through his brain. How he would hav
welcomed the sight of a fellow-creature to be»
him company, were he the poorest beggar in Gal
way ! but miles were passed without his seeing
any one, a chilling loneliness was the character-
istic of the entire country he passed through.
On gaining a slight elevation, on whose summit
he perceived that from the road, descending im
mediately at the other side, he should be shut out
from the view of the country he had passed, he
could not resist looking back toward the abbey —
the first time he had dared to do so. He saw it
standing, in stern solitude, in the dreary flat he
had crossed ; it seemed the very place to be
haunted by mysterious terrors, and he shuddered
to remember what he had witnessed within its
walls. He turned and descended the acclivity,
and pursued the road before him, a prey to su
perstitious wonder and sad thoughts, and, after
journeying for a couple of hours, it was a relief
to him to see a town in the distance before him.
He supposed it to be Tuam, and on reaching it,
found his conjecture to be right, as he inquired
from a woman his way to the nearest inn.

" Faix, there's not so many o' them, but you
may find out when you. turn into the highslhreet,"
said the woman, pointinsr the way, which Ned
pursuing, a large sign, swinging from a scrolled
iron bracket in front of a straggling whitewashed
building, indicated where the traveller might find
accommodation. As Ned was approaching the
house, a man alighted at the door and entered,
and, from the glimpse he caught, he fancied he
should know him. He hurried to the inn, fol
lowed the horseman to the parlor, and exclaimed,
on seeinsr the traveller, "It is he! Finch, by ell
that's wonderful !"

IRISH HEIRS.

135

The surprise of Finch was equal at this unex
pected rencontre ; and rapid inquiries passed be
tween them touching the why and wherefore of
their meeting in that remote spot.

" I am right glad to see you, Ned, my lad,"
said Finch, " not only for the regard I bear you,
but for my own especial good ; for of all the men
in the world you are the one for my purpose at
this moment. I saj, how's the lady ?"

Ned grew ghastly pale at the question.

"Hillo, how ill you look; nothing wrong, I
hope. Ned, my lad, pardon me if I've asked an
awkward question : women are queer creatures,
but I thought that was all right."

Ned stiCi continued silent and looking miser
able.

" Come, come !" said Finch, slapping him on
the shoulder ; " don't be so downhearted about it.
There's as good fish in the sea as ever was
caught, if she has proved false."

"False!" said Ned, reproachfully. "No, no,
Finch ; there was no falsehood in her nature —
she was an angel !"

"Then what the deuce is the matter?" re
turned Finch.

" She's dead," replied Edward.

"Dead!" exclaimed Finch, in utter amaze
ment. " Then that confounded piper told me a
lie!"

' ' What piper ?" said Ned. eagerly.

« That Phaidrig fellow." '

« What !— Phaidxig na-pib ?"

"Yes."

« When ?"

" Yesterday."

"Then she is alive!" exclaimed Ned, nearly
ronvulsed with emotion.

"Why, Ned, what's all this? — first dead, and
then alive. Are you in your senses, lad ?"

" Scarcely, indeed, Finch. I'm half mad, and
no wonder. I have been on the rack of uncer
tainty so long that my poor head is bewildered,
my brain is Bedlam."

" Softly, Ned, softly," said Finch, kindly.

" But of Phaidrig — tell me, Finch, where did
you see him? Whatever he says is true — he
must know."

" I saw him in Athlone, two days ago."

" I would give the world to fin : him ! — Was
he stopping in Athlone ?"

" That's more than I can tell. I saw him in
the street, and spoke to him. Asked after you
first, and he said you were in France ; then after
the lady, and he said she was well. I inquired
were you married yet — he shook his head ; and
on my attempting some further questions, said,
in his own significant way, ' the less was said
about people in these times the better;' and al
together seemed disinclined to pursue conversa
tion when he found 1 knew nothing about
you,."

" But he said she was well ?"

« Decidedly."

«•' Thank God!" said Ned, fervently.

" But wherefore did you imagine she was
dead?"

" It wouH take too long to tell you now.
Strong presumptive evidence and my own terrible
imaginings convinced me : but Phaidrig must
know the truth, and I will seek him."

" Remember, it is two days since I saw him in
Athlone ; and it will cost you two days to reach
it; and after that lapse of time is it likely you
will find one of so erratic a life ?"

" A piper is a traceable person," said Ned.

" Yes, if they would let you trace him," said
Finch ; " but all I can say is, that since I have
come into the country I never was in a place
where you can get so little information. I have
heard much of the intelligence of the Irish, but
in my experience everybody seems anxious to
impress you with the belief that he knows noth
ing."

" Oppression has taught them the use of equiv
ocation," said Ned. - " I can imagine their not
giving a straight answer to an Englishman; but
1 would get the truth out of them."

" Well, you know your own countrymen best.
Perhaps it is oppression has done it. On thai
score, I, as an Englishman, can bear witness
that so wretched a state of things I never saw,
If you have not some one to stand godfather for
you as to who you are and what you are doing,
and where you are going, you are suspected and
bullied by the upper ranks — as badly off as a
man without a passport abroad : while among
the lower, there seems so wide-spread a distrust,
that it is difficult to get an answer on any sub
ject."

" You are certain Phaidrig said she was alive,"
interrupted Ned, heedless of Finch's observa
tions.

"Certain."

" Then I don't care about anything else," said
Ned. " I'll start for Athlone at once, and get on
Phaidrig's track."

" And I must bear you company, lad; for I am
engaged on a venture in which I will secure
your co-operation, now that I have found you;
and though a trip to Athlone will turn my back
on the point I want to reach, yet your object is
a more pressing one than mine, and I will wait
your convenience."

" You may assist me, too, perhaps," said Ned.
" At all events your company will be most wel
come. A lively fellow like you is a treasure to
a poor devil like me, who has been grieved near
ly to death."

"I have had my own share of grievances, too,
I can tell you," replied Finch. " I have been
in troubled waters since I saw you."

" I notice you don't look quite so smooth and
spruce as usual."

"No, i' faith. The world has used me scur-
vily o' late, Ned, as you shall hear ;" and Finch
thus commenced a recital of his adventures since
his separation from his friend.

" You left me in London, Ned, full of joy for
past luck, and high in hope of more. While I
was waiting for our prizes being turned into cash
and ready for delivery by the prize-agent, I
dashed away in pursuit of town pleasure, as you
know is my wont, and ran my purse pretty low.
Well, I went to the agent for a supply of rhi
no, for immediate use, but the scurvy rascal said
it was irregular until the accounts were made
out, at which time I should have all my money at
once. I stormed and swore at the rascal, but it
was no use ; he stuck to his text that it was it-
regular, and he would not do it."

13G

" Why, he advanced ine a hundred pieces,"
said Ned, " at your request."

« Yes, and glad I am you had the luck to get
them, for 'tis more than anybody else got out of
him."

" What ! — no return from your prize ?"

" Not a rap, except the coined treasure,
which had been at once divided among ourselves ;
but the cobs of gold, and silver bars, and chests
of plate from the Spaniard, and the price of the
brig and her cargo, which we picked up coming
home, all were swallowed by that land-shark
prize-agent. I went the day after he refused
me to remonstrate, and to threaten I would cer
tainly expose this unusual shabbiness on his
part, and take good care it should be known
wherever I could trumpet it, and that he might
find his agencies not so plenty if that was
the way he used the free-hearted lads of the
ocean. In short, I had made up a fine speech
on the occasion, Ned, fit for a member of
parliament in the opposition, when judge of my
astonishment on walking up to his house to find
it shut/'

" Had he failed, then ?"

" Smashed, Ned ; scuttled, filled, and went
down : sunk with all our treasure aboard, lad.
The rascal had been insolvent for a long while,
but contrived to keep his head above water until
Bucli time as he could make a good haul and be
off witli it ; and we had the luck of it, Ned.
Yes, the rascal pouched the bulk of our prizes,
and made a clean start of it, and we never could
trace his retreat."

" That was hard, indeed, Finch."

" The shabby scoundrel, to leave me on the
flags of London, without even, a rouleau in my
pocket ; if he had even given the hundred I
asked him for — but without a guinea — 'twas
hard, master Ned. Lord, how I cursed him !
Well, sir, when the thing got wind, a mob of
sailors, toward the end of the day, got round the
house, and the wicked speeches they passed
one through the other acted like fire on gun
powder, and a pretty explosion it made at last.
They determined to gut the house, and to it they
set, and were not long about it either. Smash
went the windows, which though well barrica
ded, were no more than cobwebs before the
Jacks. Bang ! scramble they went through
them, just as if they were boarding a ship — such
boarding was never seen in that lodging before
— and, in two minutes after they were in, out
came — flying — tables and chairs, beds, sofas,
looking-glasses, and lustres. ' Heave-o !' was
the word from above; 'Take care of your hats,'
they cried to the crowd below, which, at a re
spectful distance, cheered the work of destruc
tion, and raised shout upon shout as the pile of
demolished furniture increased in the street. At
last they begin to pnll the house to pieces ; the
sashes were demolished, window-shutters and
doors dragged from their hinges, and smashed
into splinters ; and, when all had been demolish
ed that was breakable, they came marching out
with bedposts in their hands, waving the cur
tains, like so many banners, in triumph, and
ehouting like thunder. Just then the authorities
arrived, in time to see they were too late, and
attempted to arrest the rioters ; but you may

suppose what a chance they had against the tart
armed with bedposts. They soon cleared the
street of the constables, to the infinite delight;
and amid the acclamations, of the populace
Well, that was small satisfaction to me, with all
my money gone. I must set to work and make
more, and a wild thing I did, Ned, very soon.
Somehow, talking with you, and seeing the cursed
illiberal things they were doing at headquarters,
gave me a great disgust to those Hanoverian
rats, and, by Jove ! I thought I would make
some money for myself, and do the young Pre
tender a good turn too — and what do you think
I did, Ned ?"

" How should I know ?"

" I'll tell you, then. You know there were
many seizures of arms made by government, and
these cases and casks of arms were stowed
away in some old warehouses on the river-side.
Now what did I do, think you, but compass the
getting hold of these arms, and shipping them
off to Scotland, where I knew the insurgents
would be right glad to buy them up — a good
speculation — eh, Ned ?"

" But a dangerous trick."

" Not at all. Never dreaming of such an at
tempt, the authorities took no particular care ol
these stores, so I started the plan to some wild
dogs I knew down on the river, and a small
craft was got ready for the venture, and lay just
below Greenwich, in a quiet part of the stream.
We then got a lighter barge, and having pre
pared ourselves with ladders and boring materi
als fit for effecting an entrance to the store, chose
a dark night and a favoring tide for our feat ;
and with most perfect ease, and free from inter
ruption, we transferred a large quantity of arms
from the store to the lighter, and dropped down
with the tide to our cutter below Greenwich,
where we shipped our dangerous cargo; and
then it was slip cable, up gaff, and away. At
dawn we were passing Gravesend, and we were
at sea before the trick we played ashore was
discovered. An English craft, and under our
own colors, we held our course uninterrupted
without the smallest suspicion from the cruisers
and privateers that swarmed in the channel,
and got on right well until we approached the
Scottish coast ; but there our movements were
suspected, and we were chased by a king's ship,
and run ashore. We had barely time to avoid
being nabbed by his majesty's blue jackets, who
got into their boats and seized the cutter, and
most likely would have pursued us, but that it
was nightfall, and a chase would have been
hopeless. In half an hour after we saw our
cutter blazing away at a furious rate, and that
was the result of our adventure so far."

"A bad ending, Finch."

" Not ended yet. The cutter being seized and
her name known, would lead to a discovery of
the persons engaged in this affair, so London
was no place to go back to, and Scotland was
not a handy place to stay in neither, as we could
not give a good account of ourselves, and 'look
sharp' was the word among King George's
friends ; so, hearing that they were fitting oat
some privateers in Dublin, we thought it best te
make our *>rtv to Ireland and volunteer for a
fighting " . "

IRISH HEIRS.

137

" I wonder you left it off, when your first
cruise had been so successful."

" Twa? all very well at first, Ned, but there
were soon too many privateers ; besides which,
the king's rhips were thicker on the sea and left
less for privateers to take. Well, to return to
my story. To Dublin I repaired, and there" —

" Hold, Finch !" said Ned, abruptly arresting
the narrative.

" What now 1"

" Did not Phaidrig's manner imply that Lynch
was in trouble 1"

*' Most decidedly — it looked very like as if
the captain was playing least in sight.''

" Then it was herself I saw !" exclaimed Ned,
starting up and pacing the room — " Oh, what a
fool I have been through superstitious terror !"

" How is that 1"

" Finch, I am ashamed of myself, and you
will laugh at me. But indeed the circumstances
were so appalling — the time — my frame of mind
—that"—

" Hollo !" cried Finch ; " what is it you'ie
talking of?"

"In short," cried Ned — " I thought I saw her
ghost."

" Her ghost 1" echoed Finch, in amazement.

" Yes," said Ned, who then related his ad
venture in the abbey.

" I own it was enough to shake one's nerves,"
said his friend.

" Oh, to what miserable straits they have
been reduced," cried Ned, " when a noisome
vault under a ruin is their hiding-place. She
who has graced a court, forced to shelter in a
grave-yard — Oh, horrible !"

" Is it not strange she did not recognise you 1"

** I know I uttered an exclamation of terror
when I saw her, and she, most likely, at the
Bound of human voice so near their hiding-place,
was influenced by fear, more justifiable than
mine, and retreated."

" Then, when you recovered from your swoon,
you did not attempt to solve the mystery."

"No; I confess I fled in horror. But now I
will not lose a moment in returning to the place.
Heaven grant I may find her."

" That is not likely, my friend. They would
scarcely remain after what you tell me."

" True," said Ned, sadly. " Oh, what a cow
ard idiot I have been ! When I might have
clasped her to my heart ! When I might have

joined her, never to be separated ! But I

waste time in words. To horse — to horse,
Finch !"

They were both soon mounted, and rode at a
rapid pace to the abbey. Ned was hastening to
the spot where he had seen Ellen appear, when
Finch warned him not to enter too suddenly.
"'You may produce alarm," said he; " or may
be, get a pistol-shot. Give some signal of a
friend being here."

Edward called upon her name, at the mouth
of the tomb, but no answer was returned. Finch
and he then descended, and, through what had
once b;en a charnel vault, an opening was made
to a sort of crypt, beneath the abbey. It was
.mly lighted from narrow loopholes a little
above the ground; some rude seats, and a plank
resting on stones, by way of table, indicated

that it had served for a habitation, and the yet
warm ashes of a turf fire showed it had net
been long deserted.

CHAPTER XLI.

THE evidence which the vault afforded of
being recently inhabited, coupled with the few
words which Finch had exchanged with Phnidrig,
having satisfied Ned that Ellen was living, — that
it was her real presence and not a spectral ap
pearance he had witnessed, — his mind was re-
lieved-from the harassing doubt which so long
had preyed upon it ; but with that craving of
the human heart for the possession of its whole
enjoyment, never contented with an instalment,
he now was beset with a desire to see the living
object of his wishes, almost as distracting as his
former uncertainty. In the morning he would have
said he should be content if any one could assure
him Ellen was in existence ; but having, in the
course of pursuit, satisfied -himself, by his own
means, she was so, the spirit of the chase was
still warm, and he felt disappointment at being
checked at the point so near the completion of
his happiness. He examined every crevice and
cranny of the vault with vexatious impatience;
repeatedly he placed his hand over the decaying
embers of the fire, and ventured to calculate by
the heat how long it was since it had been fed.
He stood in the midst of the vault, and looked
around him as if he would have questioned the
very stones, to tell him of those whom they had
lately sheltered ; and, thrown hopelessly back
upon his disappointed desires, he turned to Finch
a dejected look, and asked what was to be done.

Finch, whose tact and experience told him
there was no use in trying to persuade a lover
to be reasonable, had looked on patiently at all
Ned had 'been doing in the vault, and had not
made one word of comment ; but when he was
appealed to for his opinion, he said he did not
see any use in staying there, and recommended
a return to the town.

Ned, after some little more lingering in the
place where his beloved one had been, complied ;
and as they retraced the road to their inn, nothing
was spoken of but the possibilities of discovering
her retreat, and plan after plan was suggested by
both for putting in train a likely course of inquiry.
Ned reverted, after all, to his first suggestion of
finding Phaidrig, who would certainly be possess-
ed of any secret connected with Lynch and his
daughter ; and Finch, not seeing anything better
to be done, agreed to go back as far as Alhlonc.,
where the piper had last been seen, ond try to
get on his trail and hunt him up.

The day was now far spent ; it was evening
when they regained their inn at Tuam, and they
retired early to rest, that they might be the bet
ter prepared for an early start and long journey
on the morrow. At dawn they were mounted,
and nothing of particular interest occurred for
two days, during which they made what haste
they might for the shore of the Shannon. On
the evening of the second, they crossed the long
bridge which leads over the airple river to that
old town of so much historic interest, and the

138

s. d.

scene of many a well-fought day ; and having
secured a lodging for the night in their hostel,
they sallied forth, before they retired to rest, to
•oinmence the inquiry for which they had travel
led so many weary miles ; and success so far
crowned Ned's efforts, that he ascertained the
road Phaidrig took on leaving the town, and
Finch rejoiced it was to the west, for in that
direction he wished to journey. So far both
were pleased, and sat down to their supper with
more contentment than hitherto ; and once fairly-
put on the track of the piper, Ned's spirits rallied,
and then, for the first time, he inquired of Finch
the particulars of the circumstance which had
made him a traveller in these western wilds, and
which led to a meeting in which he so much re
joiced.

" The case was this," said Finch. " When I
had cut and run from Scotland, and made my
way to Dublin, one day, as I was strolling about,
looking at whatever was to be seen in the city,
I saw, lying beside the customhouse, a knowing-
Jooking craft that I thougnt I should not be
unacquainted with. On inquiry, I found it was
a smuggler, which had been recently seized,
whose crew were thrown into prison until their
trial should come on ; and, as I calculated the
commander of the craft was an old acquaintance,
I could not resist the temptation of paying him a
visit in prison."

" Under your peculiar circumstances, that was
not over wise," said Ned.

" True," said Finch ; — " and yet, when you
say ' not over wise,' it is not that exactly, either.
You and I, Ned, and those who, like us, have
known adventure, often do rash things, not from
want of wisdom, but from carelessness of conse
quences, which becomes at last so habitual, that
we do, with our eyes open, things that people in
ordinary might fairly set down to want of per
ception rather than want of fear. And, after,all,
I don't know if we are much worse off, in the
long run, than the most cautious. Your cautious
fellow is nibbling away, bit by bit, his enjoyment,
in calculating how far he may go, while your
bold-face attempts whatever comes in his way
by assault, and takes his chance for success or
defeat. They say a ' brave man dies but once,
while a coward dies every day ;' and so it is
possible your cautious gentleman endures more
mental torment in imagining the many predica
ments he is to avoid, than the headlong fellow
who falls into his one scrape, and pays the pen
alty of it."

" It is not impossible," said Ned ; " at least
you have made out a very plausible case for rash-
ness, and, unlike many, your practice coincides
with your preaching. But now to your fact.
You visited your friend in prison ?"

" I did, and, as he was suffering from a wound,
he was in the sick ward. As I passed along
between the rows of beds with which it was
crowded, a pair of dark and anxious eyes were
cast upon me from beneath the coverlid of one
of those couches of double misery, — the bondage
of a prison and the thraldom of sickness. Oh,
God, what a wretchedness to be reduced to ! —
though perhaps, after all, it may be a relief.
The poor devil has a chance ef release,— death
may become head-turnkey, and set him free !"

" You art- getting too discursive and eloquent^
Finch." said Ned, smiling.

" Ah, Ned, by Jove you would not smile iad
you witnessed what I saw. That sick ward, —
Lord, I shall never forget it ! — I think, were I its
inmate I should go mad. — But these eyes I waj
telling you of "

" Well."

" I passed on, and went to the upper end,
wheremy respectable acquaintance, the smuggler,
I lay ; and after I had a few words with him, an
j attendant of the ward addressed me, saying one
of the patients wished to speak with me. I fol
lowed him, and he led me to that bed whence
those anxious eyes had gleamed out upon me.
The sick man was a Spaniard, one whom I had
••- * in a foreign port ; he recognised me as I
parsed his bed, and in his dying need was fain to
intrust to me, a casual acquaintance, a secret of
I which it required a trusty friend to be the deposi
tory. To the end of my life I shall never forget
the anxious look of that haggard face, as he con
fided to me his tale, and enjoined me, by hopes
of the blessings, or fears of the curses of a dying
man, to be true to my trust."

"What was it ?" said Ned, grown anxicjjS by
the romantic nature of Finch's preamble.

" Briefly this," said Finch. " His ship was
wrecked on the western coast ; a large amount
of treasure was saved, and to preserve it, was
buried close to the shore, after which the sur
vivors of the crew gave themselves up as pris
oners, the Spanish captain intending, whenever
peace should procure him his liberty, to raise his
treasure, and remove it to Spain. As prisoners
of-war, they were forwarded to Dublin, where he
fell sick from injuries sustained in the wreck, of
which he was dying when he spoke to me. It
was the fear this money should be lost to his
family which gave that painfully anxious look to
his countenance. As soon as I promised to un
dertake the trust he became calmer, and I had
the satisfaction of smoothing that dying stranger's
pillow. He was liberal, too, in the condition he
made with me, giving me one third of the treas
ure as the price of conveying the remainder to
his family in Spain."

" That was but fair," said Ned ; " for it is a
task of difficulty, danger, and anxiety."

" Greater than I thought, Ned ; for I did not
know the state Ireland is in, and without the aid
of an Irishman I am certain I could never achieve
it; and of all Irishmen, you are the man for my
turn, and I thank Heaven for having thrown you
in my way."

" I will do my best for you."

" For though I am not superstitious in my
nature, I confess I should not like to be under
the fearful vengeance with which that dying man
vowed his spirit would pursue me, were I false
to or neglectful of my trust. 'Pon my soul, Ned,
I almost shudder when I remember that man's
dying'bed, — the anxious thoughts of his far distant
home, and wife and children, and his only hope
of their being placed beyond want resting on a
comparative stranger, whom he sought to bind
by alternate hopes and fears to the interests of
those who were so near to his heart when its
last pulses were beating. Oh, 'twas a fearfu.
scene !"

IRISH HEIRS.

139

"One I should not like to have been engaged
in," said Ned.

•'•' And which I regret," said Finch. " But I
could not resist those dying entreaties."

" Which, with all your good intentions, you
may not be able to fulfil. Fancy the difficulty
of finding a given spot such as you seek, however
accurately described."

" So far I am as well provided as any man but
he who buried it could be. The place is laid
down for me by the points of the compass, ajjcl
witli bearings that can scarcely fail to discover
it." •

" But on such a coast how difficult, abounding
as it does with bay, creek, and inlet, so similar
in detail however varied in their general form ;
cliffs and rocks are hard to be distinguished from
each other, and the sea in one night might alter
the features of the place so as to render it un-
traceable."

" All true, Ned ; but I have a landmark more
distinguishable than any you have named, — a
castle, on the shores of a bay, and in the neish-
borhood of mountains and headlands that furnish
such bearings as the storms of centuries could
not destroy."

" If buried in a castle, take care some one is
not before you in lifting your treasure, for the
peasantry here have such a general faith that
the ruins of antiquity are full of hidden money, i
they are everlastingly digging in such places." j

" Well, 'tis not in — but outside the castle mine
is buried ; so the fears you would waken may
slumber, and you shan't frighten me, Ned. But j
come, we have talked enough of this, — let's to
hed. We wi'l taxe the road together for the
west to-morrow, each in search of his treas
ure."

"Ah, what's your treasure to mine?" said
Ned, with a lover's enthusiasm.

" There's great similarity between them," re
turned Finch.

" How ?"

" Mine is buried, so was yours, — wasn't she
in a tomb ?"

" Yes, but, thank Heaven, though entombed,
alive."

"Not a ghost yet, Ned — eh?" said Finch,
laughing at him.

" Don't be too sure you wouldn't have been
frightened yourself, Finch."

" Then there's another point of resemblance.
I have to take my treasure to Spain: I fan- 1
cy you would like to bear yours to the same
place ?"

" That I would," said Ned, " safe out of this
unhappy coun.ry!"

" Then go a-head, lad ! To-morrow we'll
make sail together in chase, and good iuck to
us ."'

CHAPTER XLII.

THE country through which the of.c of our
travellers lay on the following mori. n:r, is per- j
haps the most unpicturesque in all Ireland; Ex
cept the Shannon, which is, throughout its long
course, always fine, there is little even now, for

many a weary mile, b; t dead uncultivated flats
presenting nothing to interest the wayfarer in
his daily toil, and making the road seem twice its
real length, not to speak of our longer Irish
miles. There is little to indicate, as you look
across the Shannon, that anything in the shape
of temptation lies beyond the monotonous level
before you : no one could suppose that such
charms as those which abound in the Western
Highlands of Ireland lie beyond these forbidding
flats, which, duenna-like, scowl upon you but to
-scare you away from beauty. Over this" road
had Finch to travel, retracing a whole day's
journey, at no time a pleasant thing unless you
have a very Jiarming companion, bu^ particu
larly objectionable when the road is such as we
have described. It is nearly as bad as eating
one's words, to swallow such miles over again.
So Finch thought, and could not forbear telling
Ned it was unfortunate they did not know, the
day before, the course Phaidrig had taken, which
would have spared them such annoyance ; but
Ned, who knew the scenery of the west, told
his friend to be patient, and a few days would
reward him in the display of natural beauty, in
which the Atlantic side of Ireland abounds.

For some days they pursued the road to the
westward, picking up intelligence here and there
about Phaidrig, whom they traced farther and
farther in the same direction at each remove. —
They crossed the borders of Galway and entered
Mayo, and found themselves the succeeding
evening in Ballinrobe, where the piper had been
the day before, and left, still pursuing, however,
a westerly course. Ned and Finch pushed on
ward on his trail, and soon Finch admitted the
truth of all Hfc friend said respecting the beauty
of the country, when the bold yet graceful forms
of the mountains which bound Lough Mask
burst on his view, with the fair expanse of wa
ters they embrace, its woods sweeping down tc
the'indented shore, and its picturesque old castle,
crowning a commanding height above the lake.
It was a truly lovely scene, and Finch paid it
the tribute of the warmest admiration.

" What a lovely country !" exclaimed the
stranger.

" Yet how wretched !" returned the native,
who knew it. " Oh, Finch, it makes an Irish-
man's heart ache to see all that God has done
for his land marred, I may say annihilated, by
man. Its natural resources are matchless, or at
least unsurpassed by any in the world, yet it is
poor and powerless under an iron tyranny. —
When will it end ?"

" Not in our time," returned Finch. " But 1
feel I am prophetic in saying that half a century
will produce a mighty change over the face of all
Europe, and in the general emancipation of man
kind from the present ascendency of despotism,
Ireland must have a share. Her remote position
will retard her progress in the march of freedom
perhaps another half century ; but in 1846 Ned,
your native country, I predict, will hold her
proper place among the nations."

"Heaven grant it!" exclaimed the young
Irishman, with enthusiasm. " Oh, how the men
of that day will look back on these times with
wonder that such Uiings could he as are now en
acted ' When a son, for repelling a brutal as-

140

£ s. d.

Jault upon his father, is obliged to fly his native
town, — when a people can not how their knee to
their God but iu secret and in danger, and the
price set on the head of a wolf and priest is the
same."

" Great Heaven ! and is that the case ?" in
quired Finch.

" It is. — such is the law."
" Ay, but is it ever put in force ?"
" Pru-sts are sometimes hunted for their lives,
even now," answered Ned. 9

" Well," said Finch, setting his teeth hard,
and clenching his hand determinately, " if I
were an Irishman, I would never submit to such
infamous^yranny. All Ireland should rise to a
man, and fight against it to the death !"

While thus they were conversing of the mis
erable condition of the fine country through
which they passed, another charming view open
ed upon them. A large mass of picturesque
ruins appeared, seated on the banks of an ex
quisitely beautiful river, whose clear and rapid
waters swept round the base of the mouldering
walls, reflecting arch and gable and pointed win
dow on its limpid surface, and gushing over an
ancient weir, which had been constructed close
beside the abbey, that its original inmates might
not have far to go for their salmon. Of a verity
the fast days of Cong in the olden time must
have been the feasts of the year, with such fish
as its river could furnish ; but as our travellers
saw it, there were neither feasts nor fasts ; its
walls were desolate, its beautiful sculpture fall
ing to decay ; the place which had been a refuge
and a home to the last king of Ireland, was now
itself, like the king it sheltered, gobbed of its
rights ; its honors were no more, its revenues
were transferred to others, — revenues which had
fed and taught the poor, and reared the elabor
ate architecture which increased the beauty of
the scene in which it rose. And where were
those revenues now ? — Did they feed ? — did they
teach ? — did they build ? Yes, they fed one man,
— the protestant holder of the living. They
taught, through him, the nominal pastor of a par
ish to be at deadly feud with all his parishioners.
They built up an insuperable barrier between a
people and their rulers. He who received the
tithes of that district had not one single soul
with'in his cure, and of course did not live there
— there was no need ; he could spend his reve
nues more pleasantly in England. Why should
he live in a parish where there was no church ?
An answer quite sufficient to satisfy the con
science of any man who makes religion merely
the means of getting money, and in proportion
as he gives no value for his pay, makes it up in
abuse of those from whom it is derived. By
such a rule of reckoning the people of Cong must
have been very well abused by their protestant
.ector.*

*Tliis may seem an exaegerated picture of a hundred
vears ago. hut it can not be. inasmuch as it would serve
I'or a faithful description of many parts of Ireland in
'.he present day. I have been for two consecutive Sun-
davs at a place in Ireland where I could not go to
church, hecnuse the church teas never opened, — there wag
no service whatever, though the tithes were paid. I know
» case of a clergyman holding a living, whose parish
shureh is a small ruin standing in his own lawn, where,
! need not <><id, service is never performed. In the far
*es» 1 kn«- of a union of panshes where there is o

While our travellers paused to bait their hor
ses, they strolled into the ruins, having the pro«
prietor of the little hostelry for their cictrone.
who pointed out the objects most worthy of at
tention, and dwelt with considerable pride on
the fact that Roderick O'Connor, Ireland's Jast
king, was interred there. Having touched on.
this, he launched forth enthusiastically in praise
of the ill-fated Roderick, enumerating his heroic
deeds in the gallant stand he made against the
invader, cursing the treachery that betrayed him,
and mourning his untimely fall. But still there
was more of triumph than* mourning in the tone
of the peasant ; and while his eye gloamed as he
spoke of the g.ories of the past, Finch looked
on with a quiet smile.

Ned, observing it, addressed him. "You think
it odd," he said, "that this poor fellow, in the
midst of want, and in a land of wretchedness,
bowed down by oppression, talks of bygone glo
ries as familiar things."

"By no means," replied Finch. "It is because
the present is so wretched that these people re
fer to the past, and under the pressure of reality
fly to whatever flatters the imagination. But 'the
time will come, Ned, when they will have a
present to be proud of — 1846 — a century will do
it. You stare, Ned — you wonder to hear me
talk thus of political evenls. You think a dare
devil like me, who has lived on the current
stream of the times, is not the person to talk of
the large interest of mankind and the destinies of
nations. But, Ned, my lad, in my erratic life I
have seen much, and I think you do not believe
me to be a man who lives with his eyes shut."

" Certainly I do not, nor with his mouth open.
I don't think I ever heard you talk so ' right an
end' before."

"Why, no — I am an Englishman. We are
not so excitable as you Irish fellows, who, once
fairly on the back of a subject, go very much
like a ' beggar on horseback,' and you know
where he rides to. But get an Englishman screwed
up to speak out, and he'll say it — and, by Jove,
this Ireland is a place that has stirred my blood
strangely."

But, quitting the affairs of Ireland, they turned
to the consideration of their own ; and after con
sulting with their host on the point they wished
to reach, he recommended them to leave their
horses with him, and push across Lough Corrib,
whereby the pass of Mam Turk would be reach
ed with more ease and speed. Acting on his ad
vice, they procured a boat of very rough con
struction, and a boatman to match, and Ned was
once more on the waters of Corrib. As they
stretched away toward the head of the lake a
small island lay upon their left : as they passed,
the boatman bowed his head reverentially.

church at all : the service I have seen perfoimed t» <he
parlor of a resident protestant gentleman ; and I heard
! he clergy man say of one parish whence he derived tithes
{ lying in t'.ie islands off the coast), that not only had he
never vi« rp^ this, his parish, but he did not even know
where it aa H s tithes. I believe, were derivable from
"isli ; so t1-.!.. s far as parish was concerned, he was
more interc"'0 i in the cure of herring* than the cure of
souls. Is such a state of things consistent with commoi>
sense or justice, or can it tend to the honor of Oo-l ? Or car
it be expected a nation will not murmur against snch
flagrant imposition ? The wonder is they have sub
mitted to it so long. — Author.

IRISH HEIRS.

141

Finch, noticing the action, inquired the cause.

" Sure an isn't that Inch a Guila, your honor,
where there is the remains of a church that St.
Patrick huilt himself, and called afther his own
name, Tempul Phaidrig, and no one hereabouts
ever passes that blessed spot without bowin' the
bead to it."

Finch drew from his pocket a small telescope,

and directing his view to the island, observed

some ruins ; the only ascertainable form among

them being a little Roman arch, which stood out

i distinct relief against the sky.

As they passed along, the boatman had legend
and tradition of many a spot in the neighborhood,
and bid them "just wait a bit till they came to
the upper lake, where Caistla na Kirka, or the
Hen's Castle, stood ; and it was called the Hen's
Castle because a mother, in the owld times, built
that same in the middle of the lake, to keep her
boy beyant the grab of a wicked uncle that want
ed to lay howlt cf him."

" Like the children in the wood," said Finch.

" Not a bit like it," said the man ; " for the
divil a bit o' wood is on that same rock, only
stone, and not much of that same."

" You give but a poor account of the lady's
territory."

"And great territory she was in, sure enough;
and no wondher she was freckened, with that
thievin' uncle aflher the babby."

The lake now began to narrow, bounded on
each side by hills of considerable height and
beautiful form, increasing in loftiness and Alpine
character as the boat advanced; while farther
still in the distance the water seemed bounded by
a mass of mountains, forming a perfect labyrinth
of beautiful forms, as their outlines interlaced
one with another, and peak after peak spired into
the clouds.

The scene was of that surpassing beauty which
imposes silence on the beholder, and mutely Finch
and Ned cast their eyes around them, the excla
mation only of " How beautiful !" escaping at in
tervals ; for Ned had never seen this portion of
the lake before, and was in no less admiring
wonder than his friend. From time to time they
asked the boatman to rest on his oars, that they
might dwell on some fresh-opened point of view,
which became more and more beautiful as they
advanced. The autumn had shed her varied
teints on the scene ; and the long wild grass, the
ferns, and the heather, which clad the hills on
either side, were enriched by the contrast of
grand masses of limestone rock, which seemed to
form the frame-work of the structure whereon all
this enrichment had been wrought; and the blue
te.'nt of that labyrinth of hills, still in the distance,
made the golden hues of the foreground more
vivi'I.

Finch thought nothing could surpass in beauty
what he had already seen, but there was a
crowning loveliness yet in store. Where the
lake seemed to terminate, up rose from its tran
quil bosom a conical hill of considerable height,
crowned at its summit, and fringed to its very
edge, with clustering woods of oaks, whose stur
dier forms and thicker foliage were occasionally
relieved by the graceful line, and silvery glit
ter, and waving sjrays, «f the bright-barked
birch.

It was a view to surfeit one with loveliness—
to make one gaze

" Till the sense aches ;"

and it was with such a feeling Finch declared il
the most beautiful scene he had ever beheld
And now they approach the base of the wood-
crowned hill, whose leafy beauty was multiplied
by reflection in the calm waters at its feet — and
here a fresh surprise was in reserve. A narrow
passage between this wooded hill and an adja
cent overhanging height formed an inlet to the
upper lake, whose stern grandeur was startling
— in such sudden contrast to the softness of the
recent view. The inlet was passed and a region
of desolate loneliness struck a chill to the heart.
Stark sterility was there, and a silence that was
oppressive; the scene would have been repellant
but for the noble outline of the overhanging
mountains, which blended beauty with awe in a
singular degree ; but awe predominated. Avast
sheet of dark deep water lay imprisoned within
these giant hills; and, standing in the midst,
was a small castle perched on a rock barely
above the water's edge, and merely affording
foundation for the building. It was Caistle na
Kirka. The thought was painful, that any one
cov.M have been so driven by fear as to

" Dwell in that desolate place ;"
for, truly, to continue the poet's words, who se>
dwelt might have said,

" I am out of humanity's reach."
The only living thing whose dwelling it might
legitimately be, was the eagle, that solitary lord
of mountain wilds, who, in the true spirit of a
marauder, seeks the valley and the plain but for
plunder, and makes his home in the hills.

The place might be deemed the very sanctuary
of silence ; so much so, that it appeared a sort of
sacrilege to disturb its waters with the oar. The
very boatman, the uncultured hind, relaxed his
visror and pulled more gently.

While thus they glided over the dark waters, a
boat suddenly shot forth from the' castellated rock,
and pulled up the lake in advance of our travel
lers. The circumstance attracted the attention
of all, and it seemed the boat ahead was urged
with considerable speed, so much so, as to sug
gest the notion of escape. Finch at once made
use of his telescope, and the fugitives sermed to
be a male and female peasant ; but, as he ob
served more intently, it struck him that, in these
apparent peasants, he discovered the features of
Lynch and Ellen.

" What do you make them out ?" said Ned.

" Look," replied Finch, handing him the glass.

In an instant there was a shout of surprise
from Ned, who exclaimed, " Tis she ! 'tis she ! —
Give way, there ! — pull for your life !" He stood
up in the boat, waved his hat, and shouted at the
top of his voice, but this only seemed to urge the
headmost boat to greater speed.

" Let us take the oars, Finch !" exclaimed Ned,
suiting the action to the word, and seizing one of
them. Finch followed his example, ar^. (he boat
man was relieved of his toil by '.ne powerful
hands that now made the frail b^nt tremble und»r
their strokes, and bound thr^dgh the water. The
effort on beard the chase Deemed also to increase ;

142

£ s. d.

fast flashed the water around her, but still the
rearward boat wa« gainin?. Ned was in a state
of painful excitement. " They fear us, manifest
ly,'' lie said ; " but if we could only gain on them
sufficiently to let them see us, what happiness it
m>uld be for all parties ! Pull, Finch .'—pull for
yc " life, man!-*'

" liy dad, you'll pull the side out of her betune
TOU, if you pull any sthronger !" said the boat
man ; und indeed the crazy craft strained and
shook under each stroke of the oars, and seemed
likely to fulfil the boatman's prophecy — but still
the rowers relaxed not.

Thus, for about half an hour, the chase con
tinued, when the boat of the fugitives suddenly
doubled round some rocks at the upper end of the
lake, and disappeared. Ned's excitement increas
ed at losing sight of her, and he employed great
er exertion himself, and urged his friend to the
same, amid exclamations of disappointment, fear,
and hope. The lapse of time was short between
the doubling of the boats round the point. That
in pursuit came rushing to the shore, and ran
high upon it with her own force. Out jumped
Ned — but the poor fellow had the mortification of
seeing, a few paces further on, pulled ashore un
der the shelter of an overhanging rock, the boat
that had contained his treasure, lying empty.
Ned was almost frantic, and enacted those ab
surdities which men will be guilty of under great
excitement ; he stamped, and ground his teeth,
and tore his hair; and, clenching his uplifted
hand, and casting a look of bitter vexation upon
the deserted boat, swore, in no very measured
terms, that — " it was too bad !"

CHAPTER XLIII.

WHILE Ned was lamenting his hard fate, Lynch
and his daughter were making their utmost en
deavors to ascend the mountain side by a steep
and rugged path, known but to few, leading to a
deep and not very perceptible ravine, where a
small crevice in the cliff afforded temporary con
cealment ; which, having reached, they sat down
to recover breath after their toilsome and rapid
rur.. Neither could speak for some minutes;
Lynch was the first to break the silence.

"Nell," he said — and the affection which
beamed in his eye was the more touching from
the sadness with which it was blended — " this is
a hard life for you, my girl ; would to God you
were anywhere else !"

"Thank God, I am here !" was the answer, as
she grasped his hand, and pressed it to her heart.
" Do you think I could be happy away from you 1
the anxiety and uncertainty I should then endure
would be worse than the toil and privation we
sometimes are forced to undergo together."

" You are a brave girl, Nell, and Heaven will
reward you some day, I trust, for all your heroic
and tcnler devotion ; but if this lasts much longer
I fear you will sink under it — and then what
should I do without you 1"

"Indeed, father, I never felt better in henlth
in all my life; I often remember that beautiful
phrase, 'The Lord tempereth the wind to the
ihorn lamb, and I feel as if I had preternatural

power bestowed upon me to sustain mt thro.urV
our trials, which, with God's help, will SMJII be
over, I trust."

" Amen ! But I am so beset, my girl — watch
ed so narrowly, and hunted so closely, that it a
hard indeed to avoid the toils. Driven but the
other day from the abbey, and now, when I
thought we might reckon on quiet for a few days
in that lonely lake, again disturbed. I may soon
be driven to sword and pistol for personal de
fence, and in that case your presence would but
embarrass me. Would to Heaven you were in e.
place of safety!"

" Think of anything, dear father, but a separa •
tion ! Even if you commanded, I think, in that
case, I should be disobedient, and would not leave
you — I say would not — I had better say, could
not !" And she wound her arm gently round the
soldier necks.

A slight quivering of his lip was the only evi
dence of Lynch's emotion, which was deep never
theless.

"Darling Nell, you must lie down and sleep;
you need to be fresh for the long walk we must
tnke to-night."

" Indeed, father, I need it not."

" Nell, this is not separation ; you must obey
me. I insist on your sleeping."

" I have taken that walk before, father, and
think nothing of it."

" Nell, you'll make me angry I5*

There was a tone in his voice which Ellen
understood so well, that she made no further re
monstrance. The truth was she did want rest,
but liked not the idea of her father being left to
his own gloomy thoughts; for her principal ob
ject in being with him was to endeavor to divert
the melancholy which began to settle on him.
Now, however, in obedience to his will, she went
forth, and plucked the long, seared grass, and
fern, and heather, which grew at the entrance ol
their rocky hiding-place, and, spreading this
simple provision at the inmost corner of the nar
row nook, she drew the large blue cloak of the
peasant garb, in which she was disguised,
around her — and she who had been used to the
downy couches of Paris, lay down patiently on
this humble bed. She could not sleep for some
time, but, to please her father, pretended to de
so. This feigning, made for so amiable a purpose,
soon induced the reality ; and the father found
alleviation of his troubles in kneeling beside his
sleeping girl, in prayer.

I Ned, after looking up and down in the neigh
borhood of the boat, was fain to give up the
chase as lost, and yielded, per force, to the ad
vice of Finch, to continue their course to the
landing, which would place them on the path to
the prfss of Mam Turc. Once more they pushed
off on the lake, and half an hour brought them
to the end of their watery jouiney, where, after
ample directions were given by the boatman for
pursuing the right road, he assured them the
natural formation of the pass would sufficiently
" direct them without any direction at all ;" and
after losin? full ten minutes on this profitless ha
rangue, Ned and his friend started on the double
pursuit of the piper, if he should fall in their

IRISH HEIRS.

143

» ty, or the treasure if they got nearer to that
Lvibre they met with Phaidrig. After they had
tolled over a precipitous mountain, lor three or
four hours, and the shadows of evening were
overtaking them without any visible shelter for
the night within view, though they had already
achieved more than the distance at which the
boatman promised them some shepherd's huts ;
when, in fact, they began to feel rather uncom
fortable at the prospect of passing the night in an
unknown mountain region, with nothing over
their heads but the " canopy of heaven," (which,
though beautifully spangled, is none of the warm
est in the nights of autumn), just then their atten
tion was attracted by the approach of a dog, which
came running toward them at speed, and made a
circuit round them, sniffing in that peculiar man
ner by which the animal makes his acquaintan
ces, and retains a recollection of them. He
sniffed first at Finch, and then at Ned ; but, in
the latter case, one sniff was not enough — he re
peated the action again and again, and uttered
an impatient whine, which spoke 'as plainly as
dog could speak — " Bless my heart, where have
I met you before ?"

" The dog knows you," said Finch.

" It seems so." said Ned, " and yet I do not
remember him."

A louder yelp escaped the animal.

"You see, he takes no notice of me," said
Finch. "You are his object of recognition ; if
his master be near, you are closer to a friend
than you think."

"It might be an enemy," said Ned. "Hgw
ai» we to know he is the dog of a friend?"

" Like master, like dog," said Finch, " and
trat dog entertains amity."

The dog gave two or three snorts, as if to clear
his ducts of scent of all impression they had al
ready imbibed, took a fresh sniff at Ned, and a
short bark . followed.

" By Jove !" exclaimed Ned, on sudden recol
lection, " could it be the piper's dog ?"

"That would be luck indeed !" said Finch.

" I'll ascertain in a moment," said Ned. " I

remember his name was Confound it ! —

why can't I remember ? His name was

What the deuce is this he was called ?"

Finch came to his aid, and ran through a bead-
roll of dogs' names, to which Ned as constantly
returned "No."

"Cresar?"
4 No."
'Buffer?"
'No."
' Potr.pey ?"
'No."
'Prince?"

' No — none of those common names — and yet
it was the name of an Irish prince, too, I remem-
Der — one of the O'Connors !"

"Paddy?" said Finch, with a smile.

"Confound you!" returned Ned; thousrh he
could not help joining in the lau<rn; "what a
name for a prince ! — Paddy O'Connor — Stop I
have it .'" cried Ned, clapping his hands — " ' Tur-
lmi,<rh ." — that's the name '''

The moment the word escaped his lips the dog
bounded toward him, and testified extreme joy ;
while Ned, still calling him by his name, with all

the usual praises of "good fellow," and so forth,
almost hugged him with delight. "Yes, Finch!"
he exclaimed, "Phaidrig can not be iar off."
Then, turning to the dog, he ran through several
sporting phrases, such as, " Where is he, boy ? —
To him, lad ! — Phaidrig, Phaidrig ! — Where it
he ? — Find him out, 'boy !"

The intelligent brute seemed to understand his
meaning perfectly, answering his calls by expres
sive looks and short barks — bounding forward in
advance, then turning round, wagging his tail, and
barkinsr, as much as to say — " Follow me !'; The
travellers accepted his invitation ; and, while
they followed, Ned expatiated on the extraordi
nary intelligence of this animal. "He only saw
me once before," said he ; " and that some years
ago; but the occasion was a remarkable one,
certainly."

"And yet you did not remember him," said
Finch.

" That may be readily accounted for," replied
Ned, " by its having been night when we met ;
and sight fails in the dark, though scent does
not."

" Showing the superior power of that faculty,
in some cases," returned Finch, "though we
speak so contemptuously of people being led by
the nose."

While thus they conversed, lauding Turiough't
intelligence, he, like a modest dog, held his
tongue; for the moment he found himself fol
lowed he went on silently. Suddenly they lost
sight of him, but pushed on nevertheless, fancy
ing he had passed some turn in advance. At
this moment they were engaged in a narrow de
file, with a wall-like barrier of rock on each
side, so perfectly inaccessible as to call forth the
notice of the travellers upon its qualities for de
fence. They turned an angle in the path, but
they could not see the dog before them.; at that
moment, however, they heard his voice, and the
next instant he came running after, headed them,
and barked, as if to turn them back. They
paused, and Turlough retraced his road, and
stopping before a large mass of rock, shivered as
if with lightning, he entered one of the crevices,
whence a small rill was trickling They follow
ed, and soon began to ascend a little water
course, and ere long the sound of a large stream
was heard. Still onward plashed Turlough
through the water, which it soon appeared was
but a small escapement from a mountain stream,
which the dog soon after crossed, clambered up
the opposite side, and stood on the summit, bark
ing his invitation, to his friends below. They
were obliged to strip of!' their shoes and stockings
before they could follow; and wading the strewn,
whose slippery bottom of smooth round stones
needed careful treading, they got safely over,
clambered the opposite bank, and continued to
ascend a sharp acclivity, partly morass, or, where
the ground was firm, covered with long grass, so
slippery from the constant drainage of the hill,
as to render ascent a work of labor. At length
a small table-land was sained, crowned by a
noble group of rocks, which bore a fortress-like
aspect, and to this place the dog ran at his ut
most speed, sprang up its side, and disappeared,
though his bark could be heard when he was no
longer visible. Ned and Finch continued theu

144

£ s. d.

course toward the rocks, but before they had
reached their base they perceived two figures on
the summit, one of whom was Phaidrig. Ned
shouted with delight at sight of him, and called
on his name blithely; the piper clapped his
hands for joy, Turlough, barking, rushed down
the rocks and jumped round Nedj while Phaidrig
•was hastening toward him, assisted by his com
panion, and, when within reach of Ned, the
warm-hearted piper could not resist, in the im
pulse of his joy, hugging Ned to his heart, while
he poured out blessings on the happy minute that
brought him back, mingling his pious ejaculations
with a wild " hurrod" and a fantastic caper now
and then.

" Musha, but you're welkim ! — hurroo! — What,
the divil kep' you so long away ? — the Lord be
praised for his mercies, — sure I knew you'd
turn up some Jay ; — and won't she be alad of it,
the darlin'. Oh, murther, masther Ned, but
I'm the hjippy blackguard this minit ! — hurroo!
Only it's too late, I'd be off and bring yon there ;
but wait till to-morrow ; — we'll rise with the
lark, go as sthrait as the crow, take the wather
like the duck, see the fair swan, and then you
may coo like the dove. Hurroo ! — Where's my
pipes ? By Jakers, I'll play this night till I split
the bag ! And how are you, Captain Finch ?"

" How do you know I'm here ?"

" Don't I hear yon laughing at me ? Laugh
away — my heart is as full as a barn with joy,
and by the powers we'll thrash it out to-nisht.
Come in wid you, I suppose you are tired and
hungry, come in. And how did yon find me out ?"

" We've been tracing you from place to place
for many days," said Ned, " but at last had the
good fortune to meet Turlough, and he remem
bered me, and led us here."

"Signs on him!" said Phaidrig. " Turlough,
ma bouchal, come to me !" The dog sprang to
him, and Phaidrig, stooping, patted his head
while the dog licked his face. Don't be shock
ed, ladies, at the coarseness of this fact ; it is
an author's business to tell truth. " Turlough,
my jewel, you've more gumption than a coun
sellor, and a betther heart than most o' them.
Hurroo ! — Come in, and have something to ate,
and make haste, or there will be none left," and
he dragged Ned along.

" But how came Turlough to be so far away
from you ?" inquired Ned.

" For the rayson I want you to come in, — be
cause we're short of ateables, though the dhrink
is plenty; and so I towld Turlough to go and
pick up a bit for himself, and it was maraudin'
about he was, lookin' for a rabbit or a hare
when he seen you ; but the sinsible craythur, he
knew betther than go huntin' and lave his friends
on the road. Where is he ?"

" He's gone off now," said Phaidrig's comrade
of the rock.

" See that !" said Phaidrig. " Now that he
has done his duty to others he thinks of himself.
Oh, I wish all the Christians was like him !
Come in,— come in now, Masther Ned,— and
you, too, Captain Finch, are heartily welcome."

With these words Finch and Ned were con
ducted up the pile of rocks, and when near the
summit an ample openin?, downward, appeared,
into which they descended ; this natural chasm,

spanned across with boughs of birch and thatcn
ed with heather, forming a rude but not uncom
fortable habitation.

It was a wildly picturesque retreat. In the
recesses of the cave arms were piled, which the
flickering light of a turf fire brought out in
bright touches, sparkling through the shadowy
depth with a Rembrandtish piquancy. Trophies
and implements of the chase were suspended
from the roof, or rested here and there along the
sides of the cavern. Feathers and skins of bird
and beast made a motley sort of tapestry, which
hung fantastically around, and gave a barbaric
air to the place, which some of the costumes of
the inmates tended to increase. The fur of the
hare contributed caps and waistcoats to not a
i few, and other cuts and materials of "ostume
i would have astonished a fashionable tailor.

Some eight or ten pf;rsons were just beginning
a meal, in a remarkably unceremonious fashion.
A jutting rock of tabular form served for about
five of them to " cut their mutton" on, %vhile the
remainder sat where they could, and rested their
trenchers on their knees. The former rejoiced
in the lofty title of the " board of green cloth,"
being covered with a rude matting of fresh rush
es, while the stragglers were named " the boys
of the side table." One in a faded uniform was
called "cook," and was engaged in serving out
broth from an iron pot, his ladle being formed
of a large scallop shell, tied on the end of a
peeled hazel twig.

The party who conducted the new-comers
called a halt to those within. " I say, lads, here
are two hungry recruits come to join our mess,
and, as the commons are short, start fair."

Finch and Ned were received with a merry
welcome, and seats at the board of green cloth
were given up to the visiters, with an expression
of regret that they chanced to call when the
larder was so ill-provided.

Ned requested they would make no apologies,
and reminded them it was Friday, on which daj
it was fit to fast.

" And pretty catholics you find us here," said
one of the party, "eating meat nevertheless."

" Hold yaur tongue, Donovan !" replied the
cook, helping the broth. " I'll swear this is
fasting fare; for whatever comes out of a scal
lop shell must be fish. Isn't that good theology ?"

" The doctors of the Sorbonne could not make
better," said one of the boys of the side table.

" Couldn't make better ?" repeated the cook.
" Is it the theology or the broth you mean ?"

" Both," replied the other.

" Good boy, Dillon !" said the cook. " Hold
out your pannikin, and I'll help you for that."

Dillon obeyed ; and as the cook ladled him his
portion, he said, " There's some theology for
you !"

" I wish there was a little more meat in it,"
said Dillon.

"That would be divinity," returned the cook,
— "you confuse your terms, Master Dillon. Al
low me, sir," he said, addressing Finch, " to help
you to some of this infusion ; I think I can fish
you up a bit of solid,— observe, I saidyhfc."

" Thank you, sir," replied Finch, " but I have
no scruple of conscience on the subject, as I
happen to be a protestant."

IRISH HEIRS.

145

" A prote?tant !" exclaimed the cook. " Oh,
then, sir," said he, with an air of burlesque po
liteness, " pray take the ladle and help yourself,
for that's the protestant fashion in Ireland."

Finch heartily joined in the laugh which the
comicality of the rejoinder excited, while he ad-
mir ;d the address of the man who could utter so
bitter a sarcasm without giving offence ; for the
tact and good humor with which it was done
rendered it innoxious, — the point only tickled, it
did not sting.

" I think it is time you stopped your mouth,"
said one of his comrades, when the laughter
subsided.

" Faith, I think so too," replied he, helping
himself. " I'll stop my mouth like the rest o'
ye."

Thus they went on, cracking their jokes about
the slenderness of their meal and poverty of
their accommodation. Many a sumptuous board
had not such mirth and wit about it; and all
this occurring in a wild mountain hiding-place,
among a set of men whose lives were in daily
jeopardy, struck Finch with surprise and admi
ration. They talked of such and such a hunt:
reminiscences were made, such as " The time I
was living at the hall,"—" The night of Lady
Lucy's rout," — "When the prince went to the
opera," — " The day we dined with the marshal,"
— all these things were remembered in their
present privation without an apparent regret :
they seemed to be just as merry, as light and
bold-hearted, as if their hunts and halls, and
Lady Lucies and marshals, were theirs as much
as ever. They took their present condition as a
part of life's drama they must go through, with
as much nonchalance as an actor assumes the
character of a king or an outcast on the stage,
and leaves it off when the curtain is down. Just
so these daring fellows looked forward to getting
their own again, and resuming their proper place
in society ; but in the meantime were just as
jolly as ever. Many of them were fugitives
from Scotland, after the fatal day of Culloden ;
but though the cause they loved was at a low
ebb for the present, they hoped for fresh aid from
France and Spain, and were willing to " bide
their time" in their present difficulties.

The cook's functions having ceased, another
comrade, under the title of "cellarman," was
called upon ; and his department was in a more
palmy state than that of his brother officer. A
keg of whiskey — the right " mountain-dew" —
was placed in the midst ; the brotherhood gather
ed round, and, basking in the blaze of a turf fire,
which gave, at once, light and warmth to the
cave, the theological cook recommended a dram
after their fish.

The cellarman requested he would confine
himself to his own business, and not interfere
with his department ; and indulged in some spor
tive exposition of the intimate relation between
soul and spirit as he served a dram to each of the
party.

" By-the-by," said Finch, " I am surprised that
there should be any want for fish, in reality,
here. I should have expected there was salmon
in plenty."

" Oh, the salmon is plenty enough, sir," re
plied the cook ; " the matter is, to catch it ; and
10

we have only one fisherman among us — Mastei
Blake over there is our Izaak Walton, and ne
came home empty-handed."

"I had but little luck to-day, I own," said
Blake.

" Little luck !" repeated he of th e ladle ; " yom
fisherman's language always needs translation—
' little luck' means ' no fish !' "

" They would not rise !" said Blake.

" As for rising — they are waiting for the Span
iards, maybe, to do that, like cursives : try a
Spanish fly next time, Blake."

"That would be a blister !" said the fisherman.

" Well, a blister rises — maybe 'twould rise the
salmon, and that's more than you can do."

A laugh rewarded the cook for this successful
hit at the angler, who took it most good-humor-
edly, and only threw back a sportive "Bad luck
to you !" — with wishing him " a blister on his
tongue."

"Tongues are only blistered when pe<j)e tell
lies — and that's truth I told now."

" He has you again, Blake !"

" Come, Ffrench !" said Blake — for Ffrench
was the name of the temporary head of the cu
linary department — " if I can't always raise a
salmon, you can always raise the song; and, bet
ter than the fish, your songs are always in season."

" Songs are not unlike fishes," replied Ffrench.
" A song is the spawn of a poet ; and, wlen
healthy, a thing of life and feeling, that should
increase and multiply, and become food for the
world ! Here is one, that all Ireland, at least,
will heartily digest."

an 38ealac&.*

FILL the cup, rr.y brothers,

To pledge a toast,
Which, beyond all others,

We prize the most :
As yet 'tis but a notion

We dare not name :
But soon o'er land and ocean

'Twill fly with fame !
Then give the jrarne before us

One view holla,
Hip ! hurra ! in chorus,

' an Urnlacij.

ii.

We our hearts can fling, boys,

O'er this notion,
As the sea-bird's wing, boys,

Dips the ocean.
'Tis too deep for words, boys,

The thought we know-
So, like the ocean-bird, boys,

We touch and go :
For dangers deep, surrounding

Our hopes might swallow;
So, through the tempest bounding,

an 3Sealac&.

This thought with glory rifo, boye,
Did brooding dwell,

* Pronounced, Fang a Botta, mraninf
road," or " clear the way."

146

£ s. d.

Till time did give it life, boys,

To break the shell :
'Tis in our hearts yet lying,

An unfledged thing ;
But soon, an eaglet flying,

'Twill take the wing !
For 'tis no timeling frail, boy* —

No summer swallow —
'Twill live through winter's gale, boys,

art Ucitliidj.

IV.

Lawyers may indict us

By crooked laws,
Soldiers strive to fright us

From country's cause ;
But we will sustain it

Living— dying-
Point of law or bay'net

Still defying !
Let their parchment rattle —

Drums are hollow :
So is lawyer's prattle —

art 3$ealacJ).

Better early graves, boys —

Dark locks gory,
Than bow the head as slaves, boys,

When they're hoary.
Fight it out we must, boys,

Hit or rniss it-
Better bite the dust, boys,

Than to kiss it !
For, dust to dust, at last, boys,

Death will swallow —
Hark ! — the trumpet's blast, boys,

ait JJeslacf).

The song was received with rapture, and the
chorus went with a shout. The inuendo of the
early verses pleased every man, who translated
it to his own taste — the very cause why inuendo
is always so successful in pleasing or annoying ;
the individual imagination of every hearer does
more than the most elaborate endeavors of the
poet could achieve.

Even after the song was ended, the men were
humming snatches of it, and the refrain of " Fag
an Bealach" was echoed from mouth to mouth.
The theme stirred their blood, and Phaidrig was
called on to play the " Blackbird" in his tip-top
style.

It was an unusal thing for Phaidrig to be left
so long idle ; one cause of it, perhaps, was that
he kept in the back-ground, engaged with Ned in
earnest discourse about Ellen, while the rest
were employed on more stormy subjects ; but,
once being enlisted in the business of the evening
(and after Fag an Bealach), he knew they
would make a roaring nis^ht of it, so giving Ned
a hint " to take care of his head," which Ned
took occasion to repeat to Finch, Phaidrig
11 yoked" his pipes, and there was no patriotic
strain on record which was left uncalled for.

Meanwhile the cellarman's keg was getting
lighter every moment, and, along with it, the
heads r/f the company, till at last there was such
an exuberance of patriotism, that several gentle
men were singing different songs at the same
time ; while Phaidrig, under the special patron
age of Ffrench. was lilting particularly wicked
tunes auove jicm an.

At last the noise, by degrees, died off; the dry
lairs of forn «md heather, which surrounded the

cave, were occupied by those who were nble to
find their way to them, and the silence ol' sleep
succeeded the loud wassail which had startled
the night wind as it swept the summit of that
lonely mountain.

CHAPTER XLIV.

THE next morning the guests of the ir.i
retreat bade adieu to their entertainers, and
started under Phaidng's guidance. On the road
the piper had been put into possession of the busi
ness which brought Finch to the west, and ar
ranged, in consequence, a double plan of action.
He promised Finch a guide, who should lead him
to a certain point in the neighborhood where his
venture lay, promising thui he and Ned would
join him after having seen Ellen. Their moun
tain track was beguiled of its length and toil by
the interchange of intelligence between Ned and
the piper respecting the various fortunes which
had befallen Lynch and his daughter in Scotland,
and Ned in his pursuit of them. Those of the
former were of painful interest ; their numerous
hair-breadth escapes — their wanderings, conceal
ments, privations, and final escape from Scotland,
formed a romance of more terrible reality than
was ever conjured up by fiction; and their sub
sequent sufferings in Ireland were not less de
plorable, though of a more monotonous character ;
it was an unbroken series of anxious watchings
and hidings to escape detection ; for Lynch had
rendered himself so obnoxious to the authorities,
by the extent and frequency of his former enlist
ments in Ireland, and subsequent endeavors to
foment a rising in the young Pretender's favor,
that a large reward was offered for his apprehen
sion ; but the cupidity of meaner enemies, thus
excited, he had less cause to dread than the per
sonal rancor entertained by some, high in power,
who were straining every nerve to discover and
arrest him.

" Why does he not fly the country ?" said Ned.
" instead of living within this circle of entrap.
ment you describe."

" That's no such aisy matter," said Phafflrig.
" All the passes out o' Galway are watched ; and
as for getting off by the coast, it is so lined with
cruisers, that it would be madness to attempt it,
unless one had some fast boat that could go like
the wind ; and you know we could get nothing
here but a fishing-boat."

" Wait till I have a talk with the captain "
said Ned. "I think I see a way of stealing a
march on the enemy,"

" Musha, how ?"

"If we coiud get him further down to Jie
south, where he does not enjoy so dangerous a
celebrity, an escape might, be managed thence."

" Ay, there's the matter! — but h-rw to get out
of Galway is the murther — for every pass in it is
watched !"

" My plan is this," said Ned : " let a boat be
in readiness on the west bank of the Shannon at
a given place ; we must get a first-rate horse for
the captain; in one night he could cross the
county, get on board, and drop down the river to
Limerick, where an embarkation on board some
ship bound to an English port, could be effected :

IRISH HEIRS.

147

and, once safe in England, I'll engage to Liar.api
a Hitting to France — that's a road I knoyj vvil
What think you, Finch?"

"It looks well; but I don't knew tht raUrre
of the country on «.he river."

" It is admirably suited to the pv.rpose — suffi
ciently wide to give the opportunity, in case of
being threatened from the shore, t-j take tlie
choice of either bank for a landing ; tmd pursui
by water need not be dreaded, for boas are far
from plenty on the river."

"I think you hit if off well," said Phaidrig
" We'll talk to the maslher about it ; and now.
Captain Finch, we must soon part company;
you ought to be seeing some huts soon, forninsl
you, high up a little to the right."

Ned and Finch, on looking in the direction in
dicated, saw some smoke rising from a little din
gle in the hill side; and there, Phaidrig told
them, lived the guide to whose care he intended
to confide the captain. Half o:» hour brought
them to the hut; the goatherd undertook the
trust requested ; a place va^ appointed for their
reunion in a few dayc, e.nd the friends separ
ated.

As Ned and Phnidrlg HOT pursued their jour
ney, they could talK uninterruptedly of Ellen,
tnd she, therefore, formed the theme of their
iiscourse fb1. some hours, as they bent their way
»ack agai/i '.or*ard Comb's upper lake. Ned
nquired of the piper how he could tell where
Lynch hart retreated after leaving the castle.
Phaidiif, v;ith a chuckle, answered, "By a way
«' r^y WA — aisy enough when you see it."

" Bui you are going back now direct for the
place you have left '/"

" Ay, I must first go there, before I can tell
where they are. You'll see all about it soon."

As Phaidrig said, the means were simple enough
whereby he ascertained the course the fugitives
had pursued. On reaching the spot where Lynch
and Ellen landed, the boat was still lying there ;
on hearing this, Phaidrig said Lynch must have
considered himself closely pressed, or he would
have placed the boat in its regular secret haven.
" But now to find out where they are gone !"
Saying which, he groped for a fissure in the rock,
and putting in his arm to its utmost length, drew
forth a little twig of birch. Phaidrig held out
the branch in a theatrical manner before him,
and assuming an air of great importance, utter
ed, in a measured, pompous manner, the follow
ing words, which he addressed to the stick: —

" I command you, upon the vartue of your oath,
to tell me where them you know is gone !" He
then applied the stick to his ear, and gave a nod
of satisfaction, and told Ned it was all right ;
that Lynch and Ellen were about five hours'
journey out of that spot.

Ned laughed at this piece of mock magic, in
which the pipe's sportive humor had indulged,
acknowledging his trick was a good one, and the
means of c >mmunication simple indeed.

" Simple enough," said Phaidrig, presenting
the twig to Ned ; " look at that — do you see any
thing on it ?"

" Yes, several small nicks."

" Count them."

" Seven."

" That's the whole art and mystery of it," said

Phaidrig. " You persaive that manes they are

gone to No. 7. There are many hiding-places

throughout these mountains, such as you saw
lust night, where some hundreds of people are
concealed, and they are all numbered. The
numbers are got of! by heart, like A, B, C, by
these gentlemen in throuble and their followers.
The principal leaders have each some sign of
their own to distinguish them. This twig, you
see, has a forked end to it — that's Lynch's sign.
There are other signals in there." He pulled
forth a straight stick, notched as the other; a
twig twisted into a ring, and marked ; a bunch
of five twigs, tied together with a piece of grass.
" Now all these show that certain men have
been hiding in the castle yondher, and have gone
to each of these different coverts. That twisted
twig is O'Kelly — the straight one Burke — the
bunch is D'Arcy. So I could tell where all o'
them went after leaving this, and so from place
to place follow them."

" But suppose," inquired Ned, " that Lynch
had landed on the other side of the lake, how
could he have made his signal ?"

There is another signal rock at the other
side."

" But how can you tell if they have left long
ago or lately ?"

"By the freshness of the cut. You see the
sticks are all cut at the end. Now Lynch's is
?resh, O'Kelly's is lying here some time, Burke's
s an owld date — quite dry, you see." He hand
ed them to Ned as he spoke, he himself telling
jy touch and smell what Ned's eyes convinced
lim to be true.

" Cleverly contrived," he said.

" And so simple," said the piper. " A notch
on a stick is as readable to a blind man as to
hem who see : and up and down through these
mountains there are signal rocks appointed to
ach hiding-place, for putting the sticks in. We
call them our post-offices."

" A good name, Phaidrig."

" But stop — we mustn't rob the mail," said the
)iper; and he restored all the sticks to the crev-
ce in the rock, after which they left the placf
tnd pushed on for number seven.

" You'll see one of the quarest divils you evei
ee," said Phaidrig, "to-night. He's a sturdy
iwld chap, that always lives in the saycret place
he masther has gone to, and there's but one tune
n the world he cares for, and my heart is broke
laying it to him whenever he lays howld o'
me."

" It is to be hoped the tune is a pretty one."

" Not it, in throth — its only that quare thing,
lee Raw. I suppose you know it ?"

" I do. It is a sort of half drony, half lilting,
monotonous thing," and Ned commenced whis-
ling.

"That's it," said Phaidrig. " That's a nice
!iing to play for hours together."

" For hours !" echoed Ned.

" Ay, faith. He would not let me eat, drink,
or sleep, if he could help it, but keep me ever
more blowing away at that Ree Raw."

They had been walking for about three hr/urs,
hen they reached some very broken ground,
here the blind man's footing seemed more in-
ecure than usual. " I wish I could get on fast-

148

£ s. d.

er, for you sake, Masther Ned. I know you are
burning with impatience to see the darlin' lady ;
and no wondher, and right glad she'll be to see
you, and here you are hampered with the tardi
ness of a blind man." He had hardly uttered
the words when he made a false step, tripped,
and fell down an abrupt bank. Ned ran to his
assistance, and attempted to lift him, but a sharp
cry from Phaidrig made him desist.

" Don't stir me — don't stir me, Masther Ned ;
•ay leg is broke."

" Oh, my dear Phaidrig, I hope not," said Ned,
kneeling down beside him, and supporting him
ii his arms, while Turlough ran up, as if he un
derstood something untoward had happened, and
began to whine.

" This is a cross thing to happen at this pres
ent," said the piper.

"At any timt it is dreadful, Phaidrig. Are
you in much pain ?"

" Yes ; when you stirred me I got a sharp
twinge. Straighten the leg lor me, Masther Ned,
and lay me quiet, with my back to the bank —
that's it : now I have a plan to enable you to
make your road good to Miss Nelly."

" I will not leave you Phaidrig."

" Sure you mast leave me, if it was for noth
ing but to get me help. See now — I hope Tur
lough will undherstand me, and if he does, all
will be right; just untie the pipes, and take
them out and yoke them to me, and I'll thry a
plan. Turlough ! Turlough ! — here boy !" He
began to talk to the dog in his own peculiar
style, telling him he should " go and find him ;"
then he would point to Ned, and tell the dog to
"take him to him." After this he began to play
Ree Raw at a most tremendous rate, and cheer
on the dog with the cry of « To him, boy — fetch
him there !"

The sagacious creature became much excited,
looked up eagerly to his master, as if endeavor
ing to catch his meaning, and Ned regarded with
admiration the heroic disregard to his own suf
fering the blind man displayed, while struck with
surprise at his readiness of invention to supply,
through the intelligence of his dog, the guidance
his mishap interrupted.

His opinion of the dog's intelligence was not
overrated ; the animal uttered » few low short
barks, as if to -express understanding of his
meaning, and, first fixing his eyes on Ned, ran
forward some twenty yards, and looked back, as
if waiting for him.

" He's off," said Phaidrig.

The dog barked —

"He's calling you," said the piper, "'i know
every bark in him; he undherstands my mean
ing, and will lade you clever and clane to the
place."

" I am loath to leave you, Phaidris."

" Sure you must lave me to get help for me, if
for nothing else; and, as it happens, the owld
fellow I towld you of where you are going is the
best bone-setter* in the counthry ; and some <>'
the boys in the hiding-place will come over and
bring a door witb them to carry me. There,
BOW, be off— put your tendher-heartedness in

* The name fbr a rural mender for fractured limbs
among the peasantry.

your pocket, and start, for the sooner you go the
sooner I will have help — there, Turlough is bark
ing again ; go, and God speed you."

" My dear Phaidrig, foi your sake I will urge
my utmost speed. You are satisfied the dog un
derstands ?"

" Depend your life on Turlough, I tell you—
good by !"

" Farewell !" said Ned, running after the dog,
which dashed on in advance, while the wild lilt
of Ree Raw from Phaidrig's pipes pursued them
as long as they were within hearing.

The ground which it would have taken the
sightless Phaidrig two hours to traverse, from
the difficulty of progress its roughness presented,
was crossed by the hawk-eyed and swift-footed
Ned in half the time. The dog led the way to a
rocky rift in the side of a steep mountain, where
some goats were feeding. At the upper end of
this dell a hut was reared against the face of the
cliff, which formed, in fact, its back wall ; its
roof was of fern and heather, and its chimney of
sods, held together by rude wattles woven through
them. More care seemed to be bestowed on thia
portion of the structure than is generally the case
in such a hovel, where a hole in ti.t ~oof mostly
answers the purpose of chimney anu window —
letting the light in and smoke out ; but in this
case not only the outward but inward contrivance
of the fireplace seemed to have been attended to,
for a wide-mouthed flue stood out from the rock
inside the hut, and carried up the blue smoke mer
rily, which, curling along the side of the cliff as it
escaped, was scarcely perceptible at a distance,
from the similarity of its color to the heights
which towered above.

So elaborate a description of a chimney would
be unnecessary, but that it was the most impor
tant part of this hut, — in fact, the hut was foi
no other purpose than a screen to an opening in
the cliff, which led to an extensive cave, to which
this wide flue formed the entrance, while it also
concealed it ; and the chimney-top outside serv
ed to carry off smoke from the principal fire with
in the cave, as well from the bit of fuel burnt
for deception without. The thing was altogeth
er so well masked that an ordinary observer
would never have suspected the trick.

The door was shut when the dog approached
the hut ; he scraped for admittance without be-
in? attended to, and on Ned's arrival his tapping
was equally disregarded, therefore he raised the
latch and made his entrance. Turlough rushed
in after him; and Ned's amazement may be
guessed when he saw him run up the chimney.
Much as his doings had previously surprised
him, this last touch appeared the strangest of all;
and after a short pause, which the oddity of the
feat produced, Ned looked up the chimney after
his friend, but he was gone. He then wont out
side, expecting to see him on the roof — but he
was not there either. He looked up and down,
and whistled for him, and at length called lustily
on his name — but ir. vain. Turhngh was no
where to be seen. While thinking this looked
very like witchcraft, a man issued from the
house, which Ned had found empty, and he be
came still more puzzled. Where the deuce could
ke have come from ? While he was thinking
this, the mysterious person asked him the sam«

IRISH HEIRS.

14S

question in so many words, giving a sort of grunt
at the end of the sentence, which was his hab
it ; and Ned replied, he had come from Phaidrig-
na-pib.

" And why did not Pli&idri$-na-pib come him-
•elf?— liegh !"

"Because his leg is broken."

" Humph .'—What broke it ?"

" Accident."

"I didn't think it was intinshin ! — hegh !
An' is it intinshin or ax'dent brings you ? —
humph !"

" Intention," said Ned, who, amused with the
fellow's grufl' peculiarity, gave answers as short
as the questions.

" There's bad and good intenshins — hegh !"

" Well — mine are good," said Ned ; " and
with such intentions I come to see Captain
Lynch."

" Faix, then, you won't see him here —
humph !"

" I must !" returned Ned, anxiously. " I am
his trusty friend !"

" I dunna sitch a person."

"Yes, you do — he came here last night. You
need not fear me I"

* "Fear you ?" returned he, with a surly look,
that scanned Ned from top to toe, before he gave
his grunt.

" I mean, you can trust me. I wish Phaidrig
was here to vouch for me, and to play you Ree
Saw."

The fellow gave a very interrogatory growl,
and a searching look at the words.

'• You sec I know something about you. Let
me see the captain."

" I don't know him, I tell you— hegh !"

While he was in the act of denial, Lynch em
erged from the hut, and hurried up to Ned, hold
ing forth his hand. A hearty grasp, and a few
words of warm welcome followed.

" Miss Lynch ?" said Ned inquiringly.

" Is well, and here. You shall see her in a
moment. Where's Phaidrig 1"

Ned briefly related the accident; and Lynch,
turning to the gruff" old Cerberus, said no time
should be lost in hurrying to his assistance.

The fellow thrust his fingers into his mouth,
and gave a piercing whistle, and in a few sec
onds after, several men came from the hut.

" Come with me," said Lynch, addressing Ned.
"You will make all right about Phaidrig," he
added — turning to the old warder.

A grunt of assent followed.

'•'Let me see Miss Lynch for a few minutes,"
said Ned, " and I will return with them, and
show the way."

" You needn't mind," replied the growler ;
" them that brought yon here will lead us back
— go in wid you — I towld you I didn't know the
captain — hesh !"

" Come," said Lynch, leading Ned into the
hut, and snowing him the mode of ascent to the
cave within the chimney — a stranee road to a
love-mcetin? — though, after all, it is most appro
priate — Cupid is a climbing boy.

Such a meetin? between friends, after so Ion?
an absence and intervening anxiety, as that
which followed between Ellen, her father, and
Ned, can better b- imagined than described, j

Hours passed by unheeded in their varied and
affectionate communion ; there was so much to
tell and so much to inquire, of the past so full
of painful interest, and the present so fraught
with danger.

Ned ventured, however, to prophesy hopefully
of the future, holding out in their flight to Spain,
a prospect of security and repose. Lynch here,
with an enthusiasm in the Stuart cause which all
his suffering could not tame, declared he would
remain in Ireland as long as there was a chance
of a blow being struck in their favor. " But
you," he said, addressing Ned. — " you must not
attach yourself to my desperate fortunes — for
desperate they are, though I am determined to
dare them."

" I will never desert you," exclaimed Ned,
fervently.

A look, beaming with affection, from Ellen's
sweet eyes — looking sweeter for the sadness
which partly shaded their lustre — was Ned's re
ward for this expression of hearty devotion to
her father. He, grasping the young man's hand,
said, —

" I know you are attached to me — and I know
the cause. You have often served my daughter
and myself at need and — "

He was suddenly interrupted by a loud tap
ping at the outside door, and he rose and left the
cave. In a few minutes he returned, supporting
a wounded man ; on beholding whom, Ellen
rushed forward, exclaiming, " Father Flaherty !
— Oh — dear father — you bleed !"

" I do, my child — but 'tis only a flesh-wound
Lynch, prepare for defence; — they have hunted
me close, and are not far off."

" Are there many ?"

" More than I could wish. Where are the
rest of our companions ?"

" They arc absent."

A look of agony passed across the priest's
features as he exclaimed, " Then God have mer
cy on us !"

" Are you still able to fight ?"

" Yes."

" Here is one who will give us brave help,"
said Lynch, pointing to Ned.

" What, you here !" said the father ; " I wish
we had happier times for our meeting, Ned ; bat
I am glad to see you — make haste— let us stand
by the door and defend it."

" Ellen, so into your hiding-place in case of the
worst," said Lynch, as he took from her hands
several weapons she had brought from a recess
in the cave, and distributed them to Ned and the
priest.

Thus armed, they descended fron the cave to
the hut, and piling several logs agamst the door,
rendering it capable of resistance, • hey stood in
wait for the approach of the prie-l-hunters, in
case they had tracked him to the n <reat. They
soon h-.'ard the tramp of horsemen and looking
out th ough the loops with which tic place was
provided, awaited their comfng wi h deadly de
termination to sell their lives dearl .

" Hold your fire till they are closer," said
Lynch, " we can't throw away a si ot — 'tis well
our powder and ball are in cartri'.ges; we can
load in the dark."

The hunters were now so close as to be visi-

150

£ s. d.

ble, nnd surrounded the hut, swearing violent
oaths, and calling for the priest with a profanity
of expression unfit to be recorded. The answer
was a well-directed fire from the hut, which
caused other yells than those of triumph from
the assailants.

" Force the door !" was the cry from without.
Some men descended from their saddles at the
command, while others came down at the leaden
invitation sent out to them from the hut. A
rush was made at the door — the logs inside
resist ,,-d those without, while Lynch, as they
pressed close to the entrance, plunged the bayo
net with which his gun was armed through a
chink in the door, and a shriek of agony suc
ceeded, with a heavy fall.

" He has it !" exclaimed the captain, with sav
age exultation.

A fresh shout was raised outside. " Burn
the vermin in their nest," was the cry.

It was scarcely uttered, when several flam
beaux, with which such hunting parties were
provided, were lighted, and thrown on the thatch
of the hut, after which, the assailants rode
swiftly out of reach of gunshot, to which the
light exposed them with more certainty — a result
not thrown away on those inside, who sent tell
ing shots after the incendiaries. When quite
out of range, the merciless party turned round
to enjoy the sight of the blazing hut, which they
barbarously imagined was the fiery tomb of their
victims ; little dreaming of the safe retreat the
cave afforded those whom they would have sac
rificed to the flames. Their shouts rose high in
proportion to the height of the blaze, as in fiery
tongue-like form it licked the gray cliff which
stood OMt in ghastly relief against the dark sky.

The glare soon passed — and as the fire was
nearly out, the hunters rode off; but they had not
paid the full reckoning of their adventure. The
party who had gone for Phaidrig, was a strong
one and well armed, and was entering tne dingle
as the first flash of the blazing hut told them
•what had taken place. Laying the piper in a place
of security, they distributed themselves at the
mouth of the pass, in the most advantageous or
der, awaiting the exit of their enemies, who, as
they were retiring in high glee aAer their sup
posed triumph, received a murderous fire along
their whole line. Taken thus by surprise, they
were panic-stricken, — they fancied they were
entrapped into an ambush, and " sauve qui pent"
was the cry, while dropping shots after the fugi
tives, lent additional vigor to their spurs.

CHAPTER XLV.

WHEN Phaidrig heard the hut was fired, and
/ie glen in possession of enemies, he forgot all
bodily pain in the agony of mind he endured lest
the few left behind in the hiding-place had fallen
victims to the attack ; and when, after the flight
of the priest-hunters, his friends came to carry
him to the cave, he besought some of them to
run forward and ascertain the truth.

" Sho at, if They're safe," said he, " for my heart
is on thi; rack till I know — run, boys, run, if you
love me !"

Several complied with his request, and dashed
onward, while Phaidrig was slowly borne along
by the rest. The nature of their burden, the
darkness, and roughness of the ground, retarded
their progress, so that they had not half reached
the end of the glen before their companions in
front had ascertained the safety of the inmates of
the cave, and gave the signal-shout. It was re
turned by those who weie advancing, and by
none more vigorously than the disabled piper,
who mingled thanks to Heaven with his transport.

As it was impossible to remove Phaidrig into
the cave without running the risk of disturbing
the setting of his leg, which had been effected
by the old growler before he was shifted from
the spot where the accident occurred ; a shelter
was made near the warm embers of the burnt
hut, where, under care of one of the brotherhood,
he remained while the rest entered the cave, and
were soon engaged in active council as to the
course most fitting to pursue under existing cir
cumstances. It was to be looked forward to that
the discomfited hunters would return in greater
strength to recover their dead, whom they were
forced to abandon; in which case the present
post would be untenable, and the sooner it was
deserted the better. Some advocated an imme
diate removal to another of their haunts, but the
majority seemed to consider morning would be
sufficiently early for their flitting. While such
matters were discussed within the cave, Ned and
Ellen visited the piper, who found comfort in
the gentle pitying voice of his "darling Miss
Nelly ;" and when she had retired for the night to
an innermost nook of the retreat, which formed a
perfectly separate apartment, Ned insisted on re
maining without to keep company with his friend
Phaidrig, whose requests to the contrary were in
vain ; and thus passed the night.

At the earliest peep of dawn the inmates of
the cave were in motion. Packing up the few
conveniences the retreat could boast of, they
prepared for a march; but before they started,
endeavored by rolling some large stones, and
placing a quantity of heather, naturally dis
posed, in front of the entrance to the cavern,
to conceal from their enemies, who might return
to the spot, the existence of so safe a hiding-
place, to which, after the lapse of some time,
they might again- resort with security. To be
certain of this asylum remaining undiscovered, it
was agreed that one scout should remain behind
and watch from an overhanging eminence the
proceedings of the party which should return
for their dead. Lots were cast for the fulfilment
of this duty ; he on whom it fell took it merrily,
and having obtained three days' rations for his
subsistence, and an extra supply of ball-cartridge,
he bade his friends good-by, and mounted to his
eyry, while they commenced their descent. The
sentinel of the cliff tracked his departing com-
panions with his eyes as long as they remained
in sight, and when left in sole possession of the
mountain solitude, he occupied himself in select
ing the best and safest point for the fulfilment of
his duty, and then engaged in making it as com
fortable as mountain bivouac might be, anrl, when
completed, he threw himself lown within his Inir,
close and watchful as a hare in her form.

Meanwhile his companions were pursuing th- •»•

IRISH HEIRS.

route .o &r.uther of their hill hiding-places, the
bin den of bearing Phaidrig being changed every
half hour among the party, while the wounded
priest leaned on Lynch, Ned having the more
precious charge of Ellen. It was the most de
lightful day they had known for a long and weary
time ; even thus surrounded with difficulties, fly
ing from persecution, the presence of the lovers
lo each other had a charm superior to external
dangers. What dark or dismal thought could be
entertained by him who now looked into the glad
dened eyes of the lovely girl he supported over
crag and torrent ; more lovely, he thought, even
in her simple peasant guise, than in the fashion
able frippery of courts, in which he had adored
her ; besides, he now looked upon her mpre se
curely as his own — there was that in Lynch's
manner which implied consent, and for some
hours of their journey Ned had uninterrupted
care of Ellen. At length a halt was called.
A small defile was approached, in which, should
they be attacked, the party must have engaged to
disadvantage, therefore scouts were thrown out
to the right and left, who, ascending the heights
on either side, reconnoitred the pass, and ascer
tained its safety before the main body ventured
on passing. This having been achieved Ned and
Ellen were again permitted to lag in the rear,
and enjoy distinct companionship; and not the
least of their pleasure was the communion of
admiration produced by the grandeur of the
scenery through which they passed. The lonely
labyrinths of the wilds they traversed presented
eternal changes of the most picturesque form ;
that noK? group of mountains, known as the
" Twelve pins of Bunabola," whose lofty peaks
are among the first landmarks seen by the Atlan
tic navigators, rose right before them; and the
intricate interlacing of their bold yet graceful
lines, called forth fresh admiration as each ad
vance of the travellers presented them in some
novel combination. Lake after lake, too, they
passed, tranquilly slumbering in their mountain-
cradles, but at length one burst upon their view
of surpassing beauty — its waters, reflecting the
dark rich tones of the hills above, gave more
brilliant effect to an uninterrupted belt of lilies
that lay upon, or rather round its bosom, gird
ling it with floral loveliness. Ellen and Edward
paused ; they thought they had never seen any
thing half so beautiful in all their lives, they
gazed and gazed upon it in silence for some
minutes, and looked rather than spoke their ad
miration. He stole his arm round her waist, and
whispered, " Here, darling one, here — could not
we dwell for ever, and wish no happiness be
yond 1" He seemed to feel, by anticipation, all
that the bard of his country, then unborn, so
beautifully expresses of some place

enchanting

Where all is flowery, wild, and sweet,
And naught hut love is wanting ;

We think how blest had been our lot,
11 Heaven had but assign'd us,

To live and die in that sweet spot."

But no — they mi<jht not live, whatever chance
there was of dyin? there; and Ned, as he held his
beloved one to his heart, sighed to think that in
Ji' / native land there was no safety for them,

and that liberty and security were only to be
found in exile.

A shout from the party In advance recalled
them from their fond revery, and they hastened
to follow their friends ; but as they were losing
sight of the lily-girdled lake,

" They cast a .cnginp, lingering look behind."

Their course now tended upward toward the in
nermost recesses of "the pins," within whose
labyrinths lay the retreat to which their steps
were directed, and the scene of loveliness they
had just quitted rendered the savage nature of
the region they began to ascend more startling.
Rugged and precipitous were the paths, often in
tersected by deep gullies, through which the
mountain-torrents foamed and roared, overhung
by toppling cliffs whose projecting crags seemed
almost poised in air — so delicately balanced, that
fancy might suggest the touch of a child suffi
cient to cast them from their misty heights.
Sometimes the echoes were challenged by the
" bark" of the eagle, himself so unused to visit-
ers in this, his own domain, that the presence of
man startled him not, insomuch that the party in
many cases approached within twenty yards of
the royal bird ere he quitted his perch upon the
rock, and even then he spread his ample wing sc
leisurely as to give assurance his flight was not
one of fear, but rather of a haughty retirement
from unwelcome intrusion. What an idea of
solitude was conveyed by this absence of fear
on the part of a wild creature ; had it known
more of man it would have felt more alarm at hii
approach !

How finely this fact is touched by Cowper, in
the expressions he attributes to Selkirk on the
desert isle : —

" The beasts that roam over the plain,

My form with indifference see ;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their lameness is shocking to me."

But in the case of our fugitives, the lameness
was not shocking; it was the evidence of a re
moteness from the haunts of man most welcome.
The ascent now became more difficult as they
advanced, painfully so, indeed, to those carrying
poor Phaidrig, who, in his disabled state, where
rest was so necessary, had borne the rough jour
ney, not only with patience, but even with mirth-
fulness, often interchanging a joke with his
friends on the way. Now the bearers were
obliged to be often changed, and great care and
ingenuity employed to get him up some of the
sharp acclivities, where, often the strength ana
activity of an able man were required to achieve
his own passage. In all those " delicate cases,"
the gruff bone-setter was intendant of the pro
cess, and growled his instructions to the opera
tives under him how to proceed, swearing occa
sionally, if they were awkward or precipitate,
that they would "spoil his work" if they did not
take care. By dint of toil and skill, however.
Phaidrig was safely brought to the topmost step
of this mountain ladder, which the rest of the
party had already achieved, one of their number
having been forwarded to give the requisite sif»
nals to those in possession of the retreat, that

152

£ s. d.

friends were coming. Those friends were heartily
welcomed, and one difficulty alone presented il-
aelf — it was, that there was scarcely accommoda-
dation for so many, even if they were all men ;
but the case was rendered still more awkward
by a lady being of the party. This was soon
obviated, however. All set to work vigorously
to prepare a temporary shelter for her. A heap
of stones was collected close beside the cave — of
these, rude walls were rapidly formed, roofed
over with the same material, the crevices were
stopped with grass, mosses, and heather, and the
interior furnished from the cave with goat and
iheep skins, which, with the addition of a couple
ef military cloaks, formed no bad sleeping-place.
A rougher shelter, by way of guard-house, was
raised beside it, to be occupied by Lynch and
Ned ; and these preliminary preparations for the
night being made, the party entered the principal
retreat, which in its general features resembled
those already described, and where the same
rude fare and careless conviviality were to be
found. The 5plints and bandages on Phaidrig's
leg being looked to by the bone-setter, who pro
nounced all safe, and Father Flaherty's wound
having a fresh dressing, the work of the day was
over, and the evening was given up to such en
joyment as the circumstances of the time and
place could afford.

CHAPTER XLVI.

THE earliest act of the succeeding morning
was the united devotion of the mountain refugees,
as they knelt at the sacrifice of the mass, per
formed by the wounded priest. To many of
those present, the religious exercise was the
more welcome, as it was long since they had en
joyed it — more welcome, because in the minister
who officiated they beheld a human being ele
vated by spiritual influence above the first law
of his mortal nature, which prompts to self-
preservation, and who, in the commission of this
act, rendered his life forfeit to the cruel customs
of the times — more dear, because, as they knelt
is the faith of their fathers, their tenderest sym
pathies and affections were engaged ; but, dear
est of all, from that principle of resistance to
injustice, so deeply rooted in the human heart,
which exhibits increase of fortitude in proportion
to the violence of aggression — that principle
which has made patriots and martyrs. Without
a Giesler we should not have had a Tell, and
piety has ever been increased by persecution.
It matters not in what cause, or in what faith,
this undying principle of human nature is exer
cised : as it was, so it is, and ever will be. The
unmolested English, who for centuries have
walked quietly to church, with their prayer-books
and bibles under their arms, and who have heard
imooth sermons from velvet-cushioned pulpits,
can not know that desperate earnestness of faith
which possessed the covenanter of Scotland and
the catholic of Ireland, who worshipped in moun
tain dells and secret caves, whose prayers might
have for their response a volley of musketry,
instead of the peaceful " Amen !" — whose re
ligion, indeed, might make them think of eter

nity ; for in its exercise they stared death in th«
face.

Ned, it may be remembered, was first im
pressed with a love of his religion at Bruges,
where he saw it in its pomp ; but now. his heart
expanding to higher emotions with his increasing
age, stirred to deeper sympathies than the Gahvay
boy could entertain, and kneeling beside the
woman he adored in the proscribed faith of his
nation, he felt the holiest aspirations he had evei
experienced. What were the lofty columns of
the gorgeous cathedral, compared to the towering
cliffs whose pinnacles hung above them ! — what
the fretted roof to God's own heaven ! — what
splendor of sacerdotal robes so impressive as the
blood-stained bandage of that wounded priest !

The morning sacrifice over, the morning mea<
succeeded, after which a dispersion of the part}
took place among the hills ; some to the waters,
toward their base, in search of fish ; others
amid their coverts, to find gs^r^ ; some to collect
fuel. Lynch, Ellen, and Ned, w.'h the wounded
priest and disabled piper, were left in possession
of the retreat. A portion of the day was spent
in making the accommodation so hastily under
taken the evening before more comfortable, and
then a long consultation ensued between the
three gentlemen as to future movements. In the
course of this discussion, Lynch declared him
self fully as a consenting party to the union of
Edward with his daughter, and even expressed a
desire she could be prevailed upon to quit her
present life of danger, and, under the protection
of a husband, retire to Spain. Ned strove to
influence the father to accompany them, urging,
as an inducement, the unlikelihood of Ellen's
consenting to leave him ; but he was immovea-
ble on this point, until all hope of a movement
in the Pretender's cause should cease.

" The reverend father here," he said, " has
brought over encouraging news ; we may confi
dently look for aid from France, where the prince
has arrived."

" He has escaped then from Scotland ?" said
Ned.

"Yes," said the padre, " all Paris was alive
about him — nothing was talked of but his roman
tic adventures and wonderful escape ; and the
first night he went to the opera, the whole house
rang with admiring welcome."

A shade crossed Lynch's brow, as he repeated
in a subdued tone of vexation, " The opera ! —
the opera ! — Oh, Charles Edward, while you are
enjoying sweet strains at the opera, the wailing
of widows and orphans in your cause rings
throughout these isles !"

" A good many thought the same thing in
Paris, I can tell you," said the father, "though
the senseless mob shouted."

" With all my devotion to him and his house,
I can not shut my eyes to such frivolity,"
said Lynch. — " The opera ! — good Heaven ! — to
plunge into the luxurious dissipation of Paris,
while the heads of brave men are brought daily
to the block in England — 'tis monstrous !"

"And yet you will stay here, sir, for his
cause," said Ned.

'• For the cause," returned Lynch, impressive
ly — " It is not alone for him we fight — 'tis foi
j our homes and faith as well."

IRISH HEIRS.

153

" As for the homes of Ireland," said Father
Flaherty, sadly, "few of them are safe — many
of them have passed to the hands of the stranger;
and of all places on the earth, Ireland is the sad
dest for a true Irishman."

" But our faith stands fast !" returned the en
thusiast, " they can not rob us of that."

" As for the faith, my dear captain," answered
the priest, " you could enjoy that unmolested in
Spain; and I am inclined to be of the same
opinion with my friend Ned, that you might as
well make a start of it along with the young
people, and be off, particularly as you are so
marked a man."

" If the promised aid from France should not
arrive this time," said Lynch, " why then, per
haps "

" You will fly with us," said Ned, joyously.

" Let us wait till the hour arrives," said
Lynch ; " 'twill be time enough to speak then —
for the present we will say no more : let us seek
Ellen."

He rose and entered the cave, where his daugh
ter was sitting beside the couch of Phaidrig,
whiling away the tedium of his confinement by
her companionship. The piper's gayety was un
impaired, he was as mirthful as ever, and Ellen
was laughing at one of his little pleasantries as
her father entered.

" Instead of Phaidrig's being down-hearted
over his misfortune, father, he has been making
«e laugh," said she.

"What's the fun, Phaidrig ?" inquired Lynch.

" Oh, I was only tellin' Miss Nelly, your
honor, that instead of being worse, I'd be the
betther o' my accident."

" How ?"

" Because, I'll soon be able to do with my leg
what I can't do with my hands."

" What is that ?"

" Ulick, the bone-setter, says my leg will begin
to knit in a few days."

Lynch smiled at the oddity of the conceit, and
laid, however much his leg might knit, he feared
it would never make him a pair of stockings.

" Oh, that would be too much to expect," re-
alied Phaidrig — " one leg to work for the other ;
'twould be enough if it worked for itself, and it's
then I'd have a pet leg, like the mayor of Lon-
kmderry."

" I never 'heard of him," said Ellen : " what
«n odd conceit — a pet leg. I have heard of a pet
lamb, or a pet kid — but a pet leg ! — "

" What is that but a pet calf?" said Phaidrig.
" Well, this fellow was a little mad, and used to
dress up his pet calf in all sorts of finery, while
his other poor shin of beef had all sorts of ill
asage. One was decked out in silk, while ragged
worsted was good enough for the other. One
had a fine footstool to rest on, while the other
was knocked about against chairs and tables ;
and the pet leg he called his protestant leg, while
the other he called his papist leg; and sure, if he
was walkin' the road, he picked out the clane
places for his protestant leg, and popped the poor
papist leg into the dirtiest puddles he could see."

" That's one of your own queer inventions,
Phaidrisr," said Ellen, laughing.

"Thruth every word of it, miss; but wait till
you hear the end of it. He wanted to put his

poor papist leg into such a deep dirty ditch onr
day, that he fell down and broke it. Well, lie
was taken home, and the docthor was sent for,
and the leg set and bandaged up, and he was put
to bed; but, my dear, what does he do in the
night, when the nurse is asleep, but take the
bandages off his papist leg, which he thought
had no right to so much attention, and put them
on his protestant leg. The next morning, when
the docthor came, he asked to see the leg, and
out the pet leg was popped, with the bandages
on it; and sure the docthor forgot which leg it
was was broke ; and feeling the leg straight and
right, said that would do, and went away; but,
my jewel, a mortification set in in the poor ill-
used limb before the mad thrick of the high
churchman was discovered, and then there was
nothing for it but to cut it off — and the poor fool
sunk undher the operation ; so that the end of it
was, he lost his catholic limb first, and lost his
lift next, for overpetting the protestant leg."

Ellen's quiet smile at the sarcastic drift 3f
Phaidrig's story was in singular contrast to the
knitted brow of her father, as he shook his head
and remarked how much bitter truth was often
to be found under the guise of a fable.

Father Flaherty observed that the story woull
be more palatable in Paris than in Dublin, where
upon Phaidrig declared that it would be " butther
to his bones" (whereby he meant great pleasure)
" to tell that same story to Primate Stone."

" And you would certainly be hanged for your
pains," said Lynch, "without the archbishop
understanding one word of your meaning. They
are blind now, in very drunkenness of intoler
ance; but, despite their persecution, the day will
yet come when future prelates will be able to
read the moral of your grotesque fable. But, to
leave fables and come to facts — what is the ren
dezvous you have appointed wi»h Mr. Fitzger
ald's friend, this Mr. Finch, whom you have sent
down to the coast somewhere ; for I understand
it will be time to start to-morrow, according to
agreement made at parting ? Can you instruct
a guide to lead our young friend ?"

" Aisy enough. It's a snug little place in the
hills, not far from the Killery harbor; many of
our friends here can find the way ready. It will
be only a pleasant day's walk."

" Then to-morrow you must start," said Lynch
to Ned. " And now, Ellen, come out and take
a ramble with us in the hills ; I will show Fitz
gerald a splendid scene from a neighboring point,
commanding a view of Glen Hohen and Lough
Ina. Besides, I think Phaidrig has been talking
rather too much ; the quieter he can keep, the
better, for some days."

With these words the party sallied forth on
their excursion, and, after a delightful ramble,
reached the point of view Lynch had promised,
which more than realised all he had said. As
they topped the acclivity that opened to them the
long-stretching Ina and its wooded islands, some
red deer, startled by their approach, bounded be
fore them down the heathery steep, giving life
and additional benuty to the scene. Resting in
this beautiful spot, the party enjoyed a pleasant
conversation for awhile. Ellen delighted to see
the sternness and sadness of her fath<>~ unbent
and softened, as he emerged from his habituai

154

£ s. d.

gravity to share in the interchange of livelier
thoughts than of late hj had indulged in. After
a while he arose, and seating himself apart at
aoine distance, took a small book from his pocket
and began to read intently.

" That is a breviary he is engaged upon," said
Ellen, in an under tone to Ned. " My father,
ever strict in his religious duties, is now more
so lhan ever; he says he knows not the hour his
life may be forfeited, and he tries not to be over
taken unprepared. It makes me tremble to hear
him talk sometimes so certainly of such terrible
things as may happen."

Ned here took occasion to urge his suit respect
ing her retiring with him to Spain, as in accord
ance with her father's -vislies ; but she silenced
him at once with a resold 'e " Never."

" No, Edward — I will not desert him : I will
join you in urgent entreaty to induce him to fly
ine country with us — but without him I will nev
er go."

There was an earnestness in her manner which
carried conviction with it, that to shake her res
olution would be impossible ; therefore Ned tried
it no longer, but they consulted on the most like
ly means of inducing Lynch to abandon the Stuart
cause for the present in Ireland ; and sweet mo
ments were passed in inventing arguments in
which their own future hopes fornud a principal
part.

"Perhaps, dearest Ellen," said Ned, softly,
and slily coaxing her hand within his ; " perhaps,
darling one, if we were married at once it might
induce him ?"

Ellen bent her ey^s archly upon him, and with
a significant shake of the head, and a smile full
of meaning, asked him how, in their present cir
cumstances, he could venture to make such a
proposal to any woman whom he thought pos
sessed of three grains of sense. " But, perhaps,
you think all women are fools on this sub-
'ect ?"

Ned protested he entertained the highest opin
ion of thv, capacity of female intellect in general,
and of hers in particular.

" Could I think otherwise of you, my darling !
-my angel ! — my "

Ned's raptures were cut short by the tiny hand
jeing raised with a forbidding action, and a whis
pered recommendation being given not to talk
nonsense, more particularly as her father was
approaching them.

Lynch suggested it was time to ?o back to the
tetreat, where, on their return, they found their
• ompanion who had been left behind to watch
their last asylum, already arrived; and with the
good news which he was dealing round to his
friends, that their enemies had not found out the
secret of the cave when they came to remove
Their dead. That so safe a hidins-place remain-
ad undiscovered was welcome intelligence indeed ;
for not only would it have been the loss of a
choice asylum, but would have, given a hint to
their enemies of the nature of the places they
selected for their abodes, which might have led
to further evil consequences. The arrival of the
sentinel amoni his companions, after fulfilling
his dangerous duties unscathed, was rejoiced at,
and the cave was rather the merrier for the
event.

CHAPTER XL VII.

NEXT day Ned, after a gentle fareweh Trotr
Ellen, was on his way to the Killery harbor, un
der guidance of one of the brotherhood of moun
tain-refugees ; and as evening was closing, aftei
a delightful walk through scenery of the same
class already described, he reached the point
where he might expect to find Finch. The ex
pectation was realized : he found his friend en
joying an autumnal sunset which shed its glory
over the Atlantic, as, glowing under the golden
light, it was seen through the majestic frame of
a mountain-pass, with all the beauty of Claude,
and more of grandeur.

Warm was the greeting of the friends ; and,
ere they slept that night, many an important
move regarding their future proceedings was
planned — and when Finch was one of li>t coun
cil, a thing planned was nearly as good as exe
cuted. But in this case, one of those trivial
circumstances which sometimes tend to mar the
best-laid schemes, interfered with the working
out of the present. It was agreed that the soon
er a remove from Ireland was made the better,
particularly as regarded Lynch; and, as Finch
had previously offered, he again said the treasure
he sought, if found, was heartily at Ned's ser
vice, to get himself and his friends out of trouble.
In search of the point laid down in Finch's in
structions, he and Ned started the day following.
The place, near which the treasure lay, was only
a few miles distant; and a ramble along the shore
of a beautiful bay toward a rocky point which
formed its southern extremity, placed them in
view of a small castle — one of those early struc
tures for defence, a square sturdy-built tower,
machicolated at its angles. As they drew near,
they perceived a great number of people actively
engaged in the neighborhood in the formation of
large heaps of some material obtained from the
sea. On a nearer approach it was perceptibly
sea-weed, which, on inquiry, they found was
burnt in large quantities at this season for the
production of kelp. After the customary ex
changes of civility between the peasants and the
strangers, Finch and Ned commenced their ob
servations to ascertain the true bearings of the
important spot which contained the treasure.
This they were not long in finding, for the peaks
of the mountains in the background, and the
markings of the shore, gave points easily recog
nisable. Having ascertained these, the next
point was to measure the distance from a certain
angle of the castle, and when this was done (and
it was obliged to be done slily, for the peasants
were numerous and close beside them), they found,
to their great discomfiture, that a very large heap
of the kelp-weed lay directly on the spot.

Here was what huntsmen call " a check." In
any case, to have an occupation in progress
which congregated the peasants about the castle
would have been awkward; but here was thf
very spot they wanted for the exercise of their
own peculiar practice in possession of kelp-
bnrners, and, to make the matter worse, manj
more days were yet to be employed in the collec
tion of the weed, and afterward a period required
for drying and bnrnin?. Had they been a fort*
night earlier, they would have found the sams

IRISH HEIRS.

155

fpot in utter loneliness ; but as the weed was
found in great abundance on the shore borderin
on the castle, a gathering of the neighboring
people always touk place at the fitting season to
collect and prepare their kelp, and the old castle
made a sort of general headquarters during the
process.

While this state of th'j.ga lasted, it was mani
fest that any attempt to raise the treasure would
have been dangerous, and there seemed nothing
for it but to wait until the kelp-burning was
over, and in the meantime Ned proposed to Finch
to join the party in the hills.

" You know they are outlaws,-'' said Ned, " and
of course their company is dangerous ; and as it
seems some six weeks must pass before you can
revisit the castle with safety, perhaps you might
as well return to some neighboring town, where
you and I can meet occasionally ; for, of course,
my dear Finch, wherever a ' certain person' is
there will I continue; and nothing can induce
her to leave her father."

" And do you think," returned Finch, " that I
would desire to be in any better place than where
a beautiful girl, inspired with the noblest feelings,
choose." *o harbor in the face of all dangers ?"

"I knew, my dear fellow," said Ned, "you
are as dauntless of danger, when necessary, as
any human being, and under such circumstances
it is I have seen you ; but when it is not neces
sary to expose yourself "

"Pooh! pooh!" interposed Finch. "A hand
ful of danger, more or less, in the course of a
man's life is nothing ; besides, here I have some
thing new to see. I have witnessed adventure
enough by sea and shore ; but fhis mountain
life, of which you have given such a romantic
description, will be new to me, if you think
your friends will not object to my sojourn among
them."

" You know how you were welcomed the oth
er day at the ' board of green cloth !' "

" True," said Finch, smiling at the recollec
tion. " But there is a difference between a
casual courtesy like that and a permanent resi
dence."

"As long as their own residence is tenable
anywhere, I will ensure you a hearty welcome,
and perhaps something aSove the ordinary tem
perature of Hibernian warmth, from the proof
you give of contempt of danger."

The next day proved how justly Ned had esti
mated the feelings of his companions ; for noth
ing could exceed the warmth of Finch's reception
at the cave. Here for many days the novelty of
their mode of life, and the splendor of the sce
nery, were enough to amuse him, after which,
the intimacy which arose between him and Lynch
held his attention engaged. They found in each
other a congenial spirit of enterprise — the inven
tion to engender plans, resources to meet the
difficulties of execution, and hearts to dare every
obstacle. Thus it would happen, that they would
sometimes ramble into the hills together, while
others of the party were engaged in the daily
routine of procuring supplies, as already de
scribed, and, ensconced in some mountain dingle,
or stretched on some hillside among the heather,
hours upon hour* were yasse^ '.~ ^rpnm? of pos
sible adventure, so that at last it became a usual :

thing for Lynch and the guest to set out in thf
morning, remain together all day, and not return
till the evening.

At the same time, another couple of persons
were wont to pair off for a ramble together
through the hills ; and Ned and Ellen, thus en
gaged, were, in nursery-tale parlance, " as happy
as the day was long." Among many haunts, the
most favorite was a small river, which, having
its origin in the hills, bounded wildly from crag
to crag, and made its precipitous road to the liea
by a succession of picturesque falls, one m<.re
beautiful than another. This stream was re
markable for abounding in a species of mussel,
frequently containing pearls, which, though in
ferior in lustre to the oriental, were still of great
beauty, and in search of these Ned and Ellen
passed much of their time. He, as well as his
" ladye love," had assumed the peasant guise (a
practice rather common to the refugees), as thus
they might appear with less chance of observa
tion from evil eyes, when they ventured from *he
security of their mountain retreats, and trusted
themselves toward the plains. In these loose
habiliments, Ned was more free to wade and
search in the shoals of the pearl river for the
shelly treasures which were destined for a neck
lace for his loved one, who, seated on some jut
ting rock, smiled on the labors of her lover, as
she received from his hand the produce of his
search. How many happy days were thus spent ;
happy, in spite of all their doubts, difficulties3
and dangers !

By good luck, however, the retreat remained
unsuspected hy " the authorities," and in the un
molested security of the hills the refugees got on
gayly. Phaidrig's leg, under the growling orders
of Ulick, was mending fast, so much so, that he
could sit up a little, and give his friends a lilt on
the pipes. Lynch found more repose than he had
done for months; and Ellen, freed from pressing
anxiety on her father's account, and rejoicing in
her new-found companionship, recovered all her
good looks, and was never seen in more beauty.
It might be that the delicacy of teint which is es
teemed in a courtly ball-room (which rough, per
force, is sometimes called to light up) was some
what invaded by the mountain air ; but that same
bracing atmosphere brought with it health ; and
if the cheek bore a glow beyond the standard of
haul tan, the clear bright beaming of the eye sus
tained it, and might have shamed the languid
glance of a court belle; while the elastic tread
of the mountain heroine displayed in finer action
her symmetrical form, than could the dropping
of the conventional courtesy or the gliding of the
stately minuet. To Ned she seemed more charm
ing than ever; and in truth she was so; for not
only had the girlish beauty, which first enslaved
iim, become ripened, but the eventfulness of her
ife had called her mental energies into action,
and thus a :r~-e intellectual character was given
to her countenance. How often had her lovei
gazed upon it in all its fitful changes, whether
t beamed with mirthfulness to the passing jest,
or glowed with indignation at some instance of
wrong; or if the eye was raised in hopeful ap-
leal to Heaven, or glistened with the tear some
:ale of pity drew from the deep fountain of sym
pathy which lay within her noble heart; or,

156

s. d

learest < f all, if it met his own enraptured gaze,
ind exchanged that glance of mutual endear
ment, confidence, and devotion, which true and
earnest love alone can waken !

When people happen to be in the aforesaid
condition of our young friends, it is proverbial
how swiftly time passes, and Ned could scarcely
believe, when he was told that six weeks had
elapsed since his visit with Finch to the castle,
and was called upon to join the skipper in a
second exploration of that spot. They set out
forthwith on their adventure, and found a scene
of utter loneliness where before so many busy
people were congregated, and, free from all ob
servations, were able to carry on their operations
in uninterrupted safety. Those operations were
perfectly successful. A considerable sum in
doubloons and pistoles was raised, and our ad
venturers, having provided themselves with
haversacks on quitting the cave, were enabled to
sling the cases of treasure therein over their
shoulders, and in three days from the time of
their departure they returned to their friends re
joicingly, and were received with the applause
due to prosperous enterprise.

An extra jollification wa* held that night in
honor of the event, and the following day a consul
tation of Lynch and his more immediate friends
took place, to consider the safest mode of getting
out of Ireland ; for the captain, at last, on the ar
rival of some disheartening intelligence from
abroad had consented to fly the kingdom. Finally,
Ned's plan of reaching Limerick by the Shannon
was adopted, with such additional stratagems as
Finch and the captafc. himself could bring to
strengthen it.

A fleet horse being indispensible for the tran
sit of Lynch across the closely-beset county of
Galway to the Shannon shore, a trusty emissary
from the hills was despatched to a friend in the
lowlands, naming a time and place where the
steed should be in waiting. Nnv, seeing that in
those days it was against the laws for a catholic
in Ireland to possess a horse above the value of
five pounds, it was not such an easy matter to
procure what Lynch wanted; but as protestant
masters could not do without catholic servants,
the good offices of an underling who kept the
stud farm of a gentleman who bred his own
racers and hunters served the turn, and Darby
Lynch (for that was the care-taker's name) for
so high and distinguished a member of his tribe
as the captain, would have gone through fire and
water for him, and, of course, would make any
horse under his command do the same thing,
though it should cost the same Darby his place
the next day.

This being arranged the next point was to
make a move of the principals toward Corrib,
whose waters were to be recrossed to Augh-na-
doon, as the safest point to progress from ; and
when the hour of parting came, it was not with
out pain and many a heart-tugging grasp of dar-
ng han Is that Lynch could part from his out-
'.awed friends, in whose wanderings, and perils,
and privations, he had been for months a par
taker.

As for Ellen, she wept bitterly, for she knew
that some hearts were left to ache in those moun
tain-wilds, pining for wife, or child, or true love,

from whom their desperate fortunes cut them off
and in the rejoicing at her own release and the
prospect of happiness to herself, the contrast of
the fate of the less fortunate touched her gentle
soul.

As Phaidrig was allowed t» follow the fortunes
of " the master," as he constantly called Lynch,
a chosen few from the retreat set out with the
party to carry the piper over the mountain-pas
ses ; for, though he could manage with the assist
ance of a stick to get on pretty well on level
ground, too great an exertion of the restored limb
might be dangrrous.

By dint of an early start and a long match,
Caistla-na-Kirka, in the upper Corrib, was reach
ed the evening of the first day, and made their
resting-place. They continued on the rocky islet
till the evening of the second, when they re-em
barked for the lower lake. The narrows, through
all that exquisite scenery which had so charmed
Finch on his first entrance to the hills, were
passed during twilight ; when the open lake was
reached, where greater danger might be appre
hended, night had settled over the water, and
under its protecting shadows a safe passage was
effected to Augh-na-doon, where the emissary
who had been despatched from the hills was
waiting, provided with refreshments and good
news for the fugitives. Here, after a hasty
meal, a general scattering of the party took
place.

The refugees of the mountains took their
oars, and went back to their protecting hills.
Finch, Ned, and Ellen, took Phaidrig under theii
charge, to commence at once their journey tow
ard the appointed place of embarkation on the
Shannon, where, by preconcerted arrangements,
a boat was at their service, while Lynch was to
retire to his old hiding-place in the abbey for
three days, by which time the " advanced-guard,"
as he called it, could reach the river, and have all
in readiness to receive him after his midnight
gallop. Ellen fondly embraced her father again
and again ere she parted from him, even then
loath to leave him for so short a time ; but he
strove to sooth her fears, exhorted her to depend-
ance on Heaven's mercy, and, with mutual bles
sings, at last they parted.

Lynch pursued his way alone to the vault,
where the mountam gilly was to rejoin him after
he had guided the others to a neighboring friend
ly hut, where a common car and horse were
ready for their use, as it was still in peasant-
fashion they proposed to pursue their journej
certain that such a mode afforded more security.
Travelling thus, they could stop at the humblest
carrier's inn on the outskirts of each town they
had to pass, where, even if they were suspected,
they misht rely on finding humble friends, 'Tiling
to facilitate their movements; while, had they
gone as gentlefolk, the region of the nrst-class
hostelry might not have been quite so s:ife,
where, if they had even escaped suspicion anJ
betrayal from its owners, they ran the chance of
meetins; some straggling emissary of power.

Having reached the hut, the horse and car
were put at once into requisition, and the giUy
bavin? waited until he saw the party fairly start
ed, returned to Lynch, while the others pushed
on that night as far as Headfort.

IRISH HEIRS.

157

CHAPTER XLVm.

THE road was pursued in safety the following
morning by our travellers, and the third day
placed them under the shelter of a fisherman's
hut by Lough Ree. Earnest were Ellen's pray
ers for the safety of her father that night, as she
knelt in deep and prolonged devotion ere she
slept; for that night was one of toil and peril to
'Tim. He was even now on his dangerous transit
.cross the country, and the storm that was
raging as she prayed, she trusted would prove
but an additional safeguard to him, as fewer
wayfarers would be abroad. She awoke often in
the night, and ever as she woke the storm was
louder and her prayers more fervent. As it ap
proached morning she could sleep no longer, and
arose and called the fisherman, that he might be
on the lookout upon the high road to guide the
horseman through the by-path which led to the
hut. He lit a fire before he departed, and Ellen
during his absence piled up the turf sods upon
it, that a comforting blaze might meet the
weather-beaten fugitive on his arrival.

Finch, Ned, and Phaidrig, still slept, and Ellen
sat companionless by the fire, in that state of
anxious thoughtful ness which ever -possesses the
mind when the hours are pregnant with adven
ture. Ever and anon, amid the heavy gusts of
wind, she would start from her revery, and listen
for the wished-for tramp of a horse. No — it
was but fancy — he comes not yet. Twice thus
had she been deceived, but the charmed third
time deceived her not — it was the foot-stroke of
a steed ; she hurried to the door through whose
chinks glimmered the first glimpse of dawn. She
threw it open, and stood abroad amid the beating
of the thick rain that came dashing heavily in
her face in the rude gusts of the blast; but, oh!
more pleasant than the brightest sunshine she
ever saw was that dim and stormy dawn, for
through its mist she beheld her father speeding
onward — the last turn of the rough path is pass
ed — his printing horse is reined up — he springs
from the saddle and is locked in the close em
brace of his beloved and loving child. They
neither could speak from excess of emotion, and
stood in the storm, heedless, perhaps unconscious,
of its fury. At length the sweet girl spoke —
"Come in, dear father; you are wayworn, and
want rest."

" The horse, Nell — the horse must be cared
for — as gallant a beast as ever carried a soldier !"
and he patted the panting steed on his arched
neck, that was white with foam, notwithstanding
the heavy drenching of the rain.

" He must share the house with us, then,"
said Ellen, "for there is not any other shel
ter."

" And well he deserves such Arab courtesy,"
•aid Lynch, leading him at once into the hut.

The sleeping men were roused from their lairs,
and the beds they had reposed on were scattered
into a lararer " shake-down" for the horse by
Lynch's own hands, before he would think of
any comfort for himself. Then, amid the gratu-
lations of his friends, he took some slight refresh
ment before the welcome blnze of the turf fire ;
and having cast his drenched garments, and
obtained some dry ones, he threw himself on the \

rough couch of the fisherman, and was soon sunk
in the profoundest slumber.

Lynch slept long, for the weather continued
too boisterous to attempt the lake, and his friends
did not wake him until it moderated toward even
ing, and was time to embark. An unnecessary
moment was not lost : the boat was shoved from
the shore, whence they glided under a favoring
wind, with a hearty "God speed you !" from the
trusty fisherman. They passed Athlone in the
night — a point of danger, and then for many a
mile there was perfect security before them : the
air became piercing cold upon the water; and
Ellen felt it so bitterly, that, on reaching Clon-
macnoise, they ran their boat ashore, and sought
shelter in the little chapel of the lesser round
tower that stands on that long-sacred and still-
venerated spot, the second Christian foundation
in Ireland. At dawn they were again on the
waters, and were favored with a lovely day for
the time of year, and without let or hinderance of
any sort they made good way down the stream,
and by night were not far from Bannagher.
Here again they stopped for the night, close un
der the bank, making a sort of awning of their
sail for the protection of Ellen, while the men
kept watch and watch about, anxiously await
ing the light which was necessary for their next
day's navigation, as the river became narrower,
more winding, aud dividing into different chan
nels ere opening again into the ample space of
Lough Derg. The welcome dawn arrived at
length, and the favorable nature of the weather
rendered the beauties of the surrounding scenery
more vivid. The sun came brightly out, and
cheered the spirits of the voyagers. Another
successful day's sail, and much of their danger
would be over ; the prospect of escape was now
so near, it might almost be said they were happy.

The lovely aspect of nature had something to
do with this state of feeling : the beauty of the
river increased at every fresh turn in its tortuous
course ; sloping green banks lay on each side ;
small tufted islets, crowned with beautiful trees,
occasionally rising from the centre of the stream;
the trailing branches of the pendant trees rippling
the calm course of the waters with streaks of light,
which sparkled over the surface until they became
gently lost in the widening waters, which grad-
ually spread as they opened into Lough Derg,
whose hilly boundaries were becoming visible
over the crests of some wooded heights on theii
left, beneath whose shelter rose the remains of
an ancient castle, whose walls had suffered from
war as well as time — indeed, less from the latter
than the former, which, under the guidance of
the merciless Cromwell, left but few specimens ol
castellated architecture unscathed in all Ireland.

Portumna castle, the ancient hold of the earls
of Clanricarde, lay on the opposite shore; and
as the present earl was one active in authority,
and whose power might be feared, the boat was
laid close to the bank which bore the ruined
towers, whence no danger might be apprehended ;
and a favoring breeze just then springing up,
they hoisted their sail, and hoped to win the
wide waste of Derg's dark waters unperceived,
after which all apprehension might be set at
rest. They now laid by their oars, the wind
giving them sufficient speed, and they scudded

158

£ s. d.

merrily along, when their apprehensions were
aroused by observing a flag suddenly displayed
from the top of the ruin as they came abreast of
it, and a shot fired, which seemed to indicate a
u*uiand from that quarter that account should
be -endered by the voyagers ere they cleared
that pass of the river.

" Keep never minding," said Ned ; " 'tis our
only plan, ?nd the boat has good way upon her
now. — We siull be soon out of harm's way."

"They have hoisted the flag again," said
Finch, " as if they were signalizing."

" Perhaps exchanc'ng signals with Portumna
castle, on the opposite shore."

Finch instinctively looked in the direction.

"You can not see it," said Lynch; "'tis hidden
by the woods, but must be perfectly visible from
yonder towers."

They now saw several armed men run down
from the castle to a small inlet that ran up
toward it from the river, and disengaging a boat
from the bank, embark with the apparent inten
tion of pursuit.

The moment this was perceived by the fugi
tives, they instantly seized their oars, which they
plied with vigor to gain additional speed. Their
pursuers were not long in following ; and when
they cleared the inlet and gained the open water,
they hoisted a sail as well, so that there was no
mistaking their desire to overtake the foremost
boat, which seemed to gain, however, on the
pursuers, and was making a good lead into the
lough, which stretched far and wide away, dark
and rough, and crested with spray under the in
fluence of the breeze, which increased every
minute. In this the fugitives rejoiced, for their
boat was stiff, and, standing well to her canvass,
would be sure to outstrip the lighter one that
followed in the rough water. But their joy was
short-lived; for just as they cleared the extreme
point of the right bank of the river, and that
the whole lough was open, they saw a larger
boat than theirs under sail, and stretching across,
apparently with the intention to intercept them.

Not a word was said, but all gazed anxiously
at this strange sail, and then at each other, and
the anxious looks that met too plainly revealed
that evil forebodings possessed the minds of all.
Ned was the first to speak.

" What think you, Finch ?" said he, appealing
to him as the highest authority in aquatic mat
ters.

Finch, clinching his teeth hard, strongly aspi
rated and half growled between them, the char
acteristic reply of a sailor — it was merely —
« D—n these lakes /"

" But what's to be done ?"

"I say, d — n them again! — If it was the
honest sea we were in, lying well to win'ard, as
we are, we might beat them blind; but with that
wall of hills on our weather-bow, we're done.
Curse it — we're like rats in a corner."

" Let us run for it, however, while we can,"
•aid Ned ; " there's no knowing what luck may
do for us yet."

As he spoke, a gun was fired from the larger
boat.

« There's no mistaking that," said Finch.
"We must lower our canvass, or determine to
fight it out."

I " No fighting," said Lynch, in r. calm steadj

: voice. " Against such odds it weiri but waste

| of life. Let them overhaul us — perhaps we

: may be unmolested ; but, at all events, I am

the only one on whom their vengeance can fall,

and if my time is come, so be it. God's will be

done !"

Ellen grew deadly pale as he spoke, and clung
to him.

" Nell, my girl, this is no time for quailing. I
expect from you all your firmness. As you lov«
me, be calm and resolute."

With wonderful self-control, the noble girl re
laxed her fond hold, and assumed an aspect of
composure, though her cheek and lips in their
abated color betrayed the agitation of her heart.

" Let us strike our sail at once," said Lynch,
" and wait for our pursuers."

Ned obeyed the orders ; and then, when he
had no further duty to perform, he seated him
self beside Ellen, and, gently taking her hand,
whispered such words of encouragement as his
ingenuity could suggest at the moment.

Phaidrig, who had been listening all this time,
and had not spoken a word, got his pipes ready,
and began to play.

"What the deuce are you lilting for now?"
said Finch, who was beginning to feel rather
savage at the turn affairs were taking.

"It will look aisy and careless," answered
Phaidrig, "to be playing when they come up
to us."

Finch, though he made no answer, admired the
address of this little manoeuvre, and took it as a
lesson to clear his own brow, which was ratha
severe at the moment.

The boat in pursuit was soon alongside, con
taining some soldiers, and an officer, who que»
tioned those on board the chase who they wert,
whence they came, and whither going.

To these questions answers were returned in
accordance with a previously-prepared story the
parties had agreed upon ; but, as it may be sup
posed, no answer could satisfy the officer, who
only made his inquiries as a matter of course,
and ordered the voyagers to put about, and go
back to the castle until they should be examined.

" What offence, sir, have we committed," in
quired Finch, " that we should be stopped on our
way ?"

" You're an Englishman, I judge, from your ac
cent," was the inconsequent reply.

" I am, sir," said Finch, " and, from your very
Irish answer, I guess you are a native ? — I ask
again, what offence have we committed ?"

" That's what we want to find out, and there
fore turn you back for examination."

"According to that practice, sir, you presup
pose every one guilty ?"

" And a pretty near guess too, in this d d

rebelly place," said the puppyish fellow, with an
insulting laugh.

" I'd have you remember I am an Englishman,
sir ! We Englishmen are jealous of our liberties ,
and take care what you're about."

The impudent coxcomb gave a l«ng whistle,

and exclaimed, " Liberties inJeed !- very fine to

I be sure. Why didn't you stay at home with

j your liberties, and not come here ? We'll give

I you a touch of our law-practice that will enlight-

IRISH HEIRS.

!59

en you;, perhaps, so lose no time in improving

vourseJf — turn back to the castle. I'm d d

rforry to disoblige so pretty a girl; but don't be
afraid, my dear," he said to Ellen, with a dis
gusting her, "we are particularly kind to the
fair sex."

At this insolent speech Ned's eyes flashed fire,
whereupon the puppy became more saucy. "Ho,
ho !" he said, " one fellow is jealous of his liber
ties, and the other jealous of his girl, we'll do
justice to both."

The orders to go back to the castle were < bey-
ed, and no more was said, though the boats con
tinued abreast of each other ; but a succession
of impudent leers at Ellen were continue I by
the insolent soldier, whfle looks of indignant
defiance were returned by Ned. Finch, in the
meantime, observed the larger boat in the offing
had gone about, and bore away to the point
whence she came, as soon as the armed boat in
pursuit had taken charge of the chase, which
now, under guard, was fast approaching the
castle, many of whose military inmates had
strolled down to the water's edge to await her
arrival, and seek in this little event some va
riety in the dull monotony of their lives in so
remote a spot.

On entering the inlet which led from the river
to the castle, the guard-boat shot ahead, and the
insolent coxcomb in command stepped ashore,
and was ready on the bank, when the boat of
our voyagers touched it, to hand Ellen out, hav
ing previously "tipped a wink" to his idle
brother officers in waiting, as much as to say,
" You shall see some fun."

Lynch was the first to land, and waited to as
sist Ellen, but the coxcomb said to the sergeant
of his party, " Pass him on."

"I wish to hand my daughter from the boat,"
said Lynch, laying particular stress on the word
daughter, in hopes that the presence of a father
might tend to procure that respect for his child
which he saw there was not sufficient of true
manliness to insure her at the hands of this in
sufferable puppy.

"Pass him on!" was the repeated order; and
Lynch, making an effort to control his feelings,
made no further objection.

Ned was now about to debark, but Ellen, in a
whisper, besought him to " be calm," and let
her go first. Then, with a dignified self-posses
sion that so often disarms impertinence, she gave
her hand to the fellow she loathed, to hand her
from the boat, but he rudely seized her as she
jumped to the shore, and forcibly kissed her.

Ned had been choking with rage up to this
moment, and with difficulty had obeyed Ellen's
command to let her pass him, but when he saw
the indignity put upon her, he sprang like a tiger
upon the offender, seized him by the throat, and
flung him to the earth with the foulest epithets.

The wretch, thus justly punished, after recover
ing from the stunning effects of his fall, scrambled
to his feet, and, with a hellish expression in his
eye, grasped his sword ; br.t, before it was out of
the sheath, Ned, with the quickness of lightning,
snatched the blade from the scabbard of the ser
geant who stood near him, and met the murder-
ouslv-intended thrust of the infuriated soldier

*ith an able parry. Stung by the personal in- belonged to treachery.

dignity he had suffered in the presence r>( his
brother officers, the coxcomb, in a state o. *-e-
vengeful phrensy, pushed desperately at INrv,
whose fiercest passions being roused by the in
sult inflicted before his face on the woman he
adored, could have sacrificed at the moment a
score of lives to his vengeance, and, therefore,
used his weapon with the deadliest intention.
The officers bystanding drew their swords, aix'
rushed forward to beat down the blades of the
antagonists, but, before their assistance could
avail, Ned had driven his weapon to the very hilt
through the body of the aggressor, who, uttering
a yell of agony, staggered back, fell to the earth,,
and, with one convulsive struggle, turned over on
his face and literally bit the ground. 'Twas a
sudden, terrible retribution — the hot libertine lip
that had violated the sanctity of a maiden's cheek
now kissed the dust.

There was a pause and a silence of some mo
ments, all seemingly paralysed by the suddenness
of the catastrophe. At length the senior officer
present spoke, and ordered Ned to be taken in
charge.

Ned, as he gave up the sword, said, " I appeal
to you all, as soldiers and men of honor, to re
member the act was in self-defence."

" You struck him," said one of the younger
officers, angrily, " you — a prisoner at the time —
struck him."

"And would repeat the act under the same
provocation," cried Ned boldly. "A prisoner,
forsooth ! — For what am I a prisoner ? We are
dragged here, interrupted on our peaceful way,
and a woman grossly insulted — what law is there
for that?"

"You'll know more about the law befow
you're done with it," said the officer, with a
menacing nod.

" I must beg you to be silent, lieutenant,"
said the senior officer, who, turning to Ned, told
him he should have fair play. He then desired
the dead body to be carried to the castle, and
ordered the prisoners to proceed there also.

While all this was going on, Ellen clung to
Lynch, while her eyes were turned on Ned ; and
when he joined the party, she gave him her hand,
and walked on silently between her father and
her lover for she could not speak. Finch and
Phaidrig were in the rear, the sergeant walking
beside them. The sergeant, judging from his
weather-stained face, which bore a scar also,
had seen service, and, as far as manner could
imply, thought Ned had done no more than he
ought.

I think I have seen the elder of those pnscn
ers before,1' said he to Finch in an undertone

"Indeed!"

« I'm sure of it."

" Where, do you think ?"

Phaidrig's ears were alive for the answer.

" Abroad," sard the sergeant.

" You're mistaken," saul Phaidrig ; " he never
was abroad in his life."

" Don't talk so loud," said the sergeant. " I
mean him no harm; I would rather stand his
friend if I could."

Finch looked him in the face as he spoke, and
there was an honest expression in it that neve'

ItiO

£ s. d.

« You are an Englishman," said Finch.
« Yes."

" So am I. Britons do not like tyranny and
oppression."

« No."

" You would help us if you could ?"

" As far as I dare ; but do not speak any more
now. When you are locked up I will see you."

The party now progressed silently to the castle,
on reaching which the prisoners were conducted
up a narrow stone spiral stair to the summit of
one of the towers, where they were placed in a
small strong room, and a heavy door fastened
upon them. After the lapse of about an hour
the bolts outside were gently drawn, and the ser
geant made his appearance.

" You're as good as your word," said Finch.

" Hope I always will be."

" I hear you have seen me before," said Lynch.

" I have, sir."

" I do not remember you."

" It was a crowded and busy place we met in ;
but I can not forget you, sir — for you saved my
life."

" Where ?"

" At Fontenoi, your honor. You we»e an offi
cer of the Irish brigade that hot day."

« Well ?"

" When the Duke of Cumberland's centre was
broken by your charge, and we were routed,
some French regiments came bowling down to
take vengeance for the mauling they got in the
morning; but the Irish lads got between, and
would not allow slaughter, and your own hand,
sir, turned aside a blow that would have finished
me as I lay on the ground ; and I will say, all
the Irish lads were kind friends to the wounded
English that were left on the field that day,» and
I never for°rot it — and never will. You, sir, were
among the foremost in showing us kindness in
hospital, and if, without a heavy breach of duty,
I can do you a good turn, I am ready."

" You are a true-hearted fellow, and I thank
you," said Lynch. « Is it long since you have
been in Ireland ?"

" Not long, sir; and I wish I was out of it. I
don't like their cruel goings on here."

" Did you escape from Flanders, or were ' ju
exchanged ?"

" Exchanged, your honor."

" I don't know, my kind fellow, how you can
help me," said Lynch, musing for a moment.
" One thing alone I beg to remind you of — that
the less you say of the brigade the better."

" Mum's the word, your honor — too old a soier
for that."

" If your honor can't say anything," said Phai-
dn>, " may 7 put in a word ?"

" Certainly, Phaidrig."

"Do you think now," said the piper to the
sergeant, " that there would be any use in asking
lave of that elderly officer, who seems a dacent
sort of a body, to let me go on a little bit of a
message ?"

* This often happened. On one occasion, in particu
lar, though I can not remember the name of the ac
tion, the Irish hrigade. after a victory, went through
the field, seeking the wounded English who suffered in
»be adverse ranks, and showed them the tenderest

C&T6.

" Certainly not ; you are a prisoner."

" I know that ; but I mane to go undher
guard."

" I fear not ; the officer would not like to do it
without authority from Mister Nevil."

" Nevil ?" exclaimed Lynch, anxiously, " Junes
Nevil ?"

" The same, sir."

A shade passed across Lynch's countenance;
it was noticed by Finch.

" That seems bad news," said he.

Lynch did not answer; but in the clasped
hands and upraised eyes of Ellen, Finch could
read woful tidings.

"Well, if I can't go, maybe you could slip a
smart lad across the river, and bid him run to
Portumna for the bare life ; and if the lord is at
home, tell him there's one here may die soon who
has a secret for him that he is behowlden above
all things to hear; and that when he hears it, he
wouldn't for half his estate not have known it :
and if the lord isn't at home, let the messenger
go through fire and wather till he finds him."

" That shall be done," said the sergeant.
" Anything else ? — make haste, for I must not
venture to stay here longer."

" Do that, and 'tis plenty — but do it soon."

The sergeant pointed through a window in
their prison, that looked upon the waters, and
said, " You shall see a messenger cross the stream
in five minutes." He then withdrew, and bolted
the door on the outside.

According to the soldier's promise, the anxious
watchers from the tower saw the boat unmoored
from the bank, and two men embark. The boat
was pulled across the river; one of the men went
ashore, and started at a good pace up the oppo
site hill; he was followed by eager eyes until he
had gained the summit, and was lost in the woods
that crowned its crest, while the friendly boat
returned to her moorings.

Lynch asked Phaidrig what hope he could en
tertain of any benefit from the presence of the
Earl of Clanricarde, for whom he had sent, he
being a stanch adherent of government, and ra
ther severe in the authority he was appointed to
exercise over the province, and further expressed
a belief that Clanricarde was now aware of his
(Lynch's) presence in Ireland, and would be
among the readiest to arrest him, though he con
fessed they might all be careless of anything
that might happen now, being already in Nevil'a
hands, which were the most unsparing into which
they could fall.

" But still I can not see the drift of this mys
terious message to the earl, Phaidrig," added
Lynch.

"Masther! masther!" said Phaidrig, "don't
be asking me any questions about it; only God
send the earl may be here soon, and I've a way
of my own that will melt his heart to all of
us."

The confident assurance of Phaidrig in his
scheme turned the minds of the prisonei s with
painful interest to the success of the messenger;
and many an anxious eye was cast on the spot in
the distant wood where he had disappeared, in
the hope of catching the first welcome glimpse
of his return.

IRTSE HEIRS.

161

CHAPTER XLIX.

As ths presence of regular troops stationed in
a ixunr-i caslle may appear strange to the reader,
il may be as well to give a few words in explan
ation on the subject. Under the wise adminis
tration of Chesterfield, a confidence in the laws
that governed them, and the honesty of the men
who administered those laws, arose in the people
of Ireland, and a tranquillity, rare in that dis
turbed land, was the consequence, and the states
manlike earl was enabled to spare troops out of
the country. But, on the suppression of the
Scottish rising, when means of coercion were
again plenty, the spirit of justice and lenity which
influenced Lord Chesterfield's government, be
came distasteful to those who had been used to
trample on the nation. The amiable earl was
recalled, when justice, lately rendered as a meas
ure of necessity, might be once more dispensed
with, and a more iron sway than ever resumed.
In consequence of this, an increase in the army
was required in Ireland; for though the people
had been held in a state of slavery one wonders
at, still, once having emerged from their bond
age, it was no such easy matter to push them
back into it again. For the thousands of addi
tional bayonets thus become requisite in the
island there was not sufficient accommodation,
and barracks were ordered to be built in various
parts of the countiy . • This job — for it was a job
— was given to one Nevil (alluded to by Lynch
in his interview with the Earl of Kildare), thai
he might plunder the national purse as a reward
for his outrage of national rights. A membei
of the house of commons — his vote was ever at
the service of the government. His malignant
propensities against the people found him favor
in the eyes of Lord George Sackville, and his
general profligacy endeared him to the primate.
In working out his contract in the erection of
barracks, he frequently converted some old build
ing, or a portion of a castle, into a tenement for
the military, at a small expense, while he pock
eted large sums from the treasury as though fresh
barracks had been erected ; and in going his
round of the provinces, in this prominent posi
tion of a government agent, he had frequent op
portunities, and he never lost one, of indulging
in priest-hunting, or any other species of cruelty
he could exercise. His well-known influence at
court gave him a power which few dared, and
none wished to call into hostility, and thus, in
wiany instances, men were made the instruments
of his vile passions who regretted the obedience
they feared to refuse.

It -vas thus the old castle on the Shannon be
came occupied with soldiers, and Nevil himself
being there for a few days, many vexatious things
were done in the neighborhood, and he had a
willin? agent in the unfortunate young man who
was killed — a nephew of his own, and partaking
so much of his' uncle's savage and profligate na
ture, as to render him a favorite with his power
ful relative.

Ned's plight was therefore one of imminen
danger — indeed, the officers and men of the bar
rack looked upon him as a gone man, and felt
Assured that tht moment of Nevil's return to th
castle, and knowledge of his nephew's deal*
11

would be the signal for Ned being hanged ; for

in those days short work was made with the

mere Irish, if a great man willed it so ; a regn-

' lar trial might be tedious and troublesome, find

j the judgment of the law too slow a process for

' the satisfaction of an impatient loyalist.

The anticipations respecting Nevil's course of

! action were proved to be but too true ; for when

! this unscrupulous man of power returned^, and

! heard of the circumstances of the case, he or-

i dered the instant execution of the " rebel scoiin-

i drel" who had " murdered" that " noble young

! man," his nephew, one who would have proved

an honor to his profession, and a support to his

" king and his country," &c., &.c.

The senior officer in command of the troops
represented, that as the act of the prisoner was
committed in the natural desire of preserving nis
own life, it might be as well to give him up to
the laws, which would decide the question how
far a prisoner had a right to defend his life froiij
his captor before being proved guilty.

To this an order was returned to " hang the
rascal instantly."

The officer, though rebuffed, next ventured to
suggest even a court-martial.

This but sharpened" the desire for immediate
vengeance, and, with the overbearing threat of
a man who knew his power, Nevil dared the
officer to refuse to obey his commands.

The soldier withdrew, disgusted, but fearing
to disobey ; and with a heavy heart, the sergeant,
receiving his fatal orders, reoscended the stairs,
and re-opening the door of the prison, addressed
Ned, saying he wished to speak a few words to
him, and beckoning him at the same time from
the room ; for he had not the heart to speak his
message in presence of a woman, and that the
woman whom passing circumstances led him to
believe was endeared to the fated prisoner. But
his caution availed nothing : there was an expres
sion in his face, and voice, and manner, that
alarm«d all Ellen's fears; and with a scream
she sprang forward, clung to Edward's neck, and
with sobs, and tears, and prayers, besought the
soldier not to tear him from her — for mercy's
! sake to spare him yet for a while — with many a
passionate and wild appeal to human feeling and
i divine assistance ; and during this scene of des-
j perate agony all were paralyzed but Ellen, who
I seemed inspired with superhuman courage.

At length, Phaidrig, roused up suddenly into
! action, and calling on Finch, desired him to look
i again over the waters, and see if any help were
i come.

| " The large boat that headed us in the lake is
1 rounding the point now," scid Finch.
i " God be praised !" exclaimed Phaidrig, drop-
: ping on his knees.

The voice of Nevil was heard from below,
i calling in a furious voice to " bring down the
i prisoner."

Ellen but clung the closer to him; and the

kind-hearted sergeant was so agitated, that he

1 was absolutely incapable of action, and could not

i have dragged him from her embrace if he would.

The tramp of many feet was heard asornding

the stair; and when several soldiers appeared at

; the door of the prison, Ellen, overcome by the

intensity of her feelings, swooned in Ned's arms.

162

s. ft.

The soldiers demanded his immediate presence
3elow. Ned uttered no word; but impress;ng
on the pale lips of his beloved one a fervent
caress, he luid her gently in the arms of her
'"ather, whdse hand he grasped firmly for an in
stant, and wit h silent exchanges of the grip of
ellowship with Finch and Phaidrig, he walked
to the head of the stair, where the soldiers
awaited him.

"The boat! the boat!" cried Phaidrig to
Finch — " where is it now ?"

"Touching the shore, and people are landing."

" Is there a fine-looking man among them 1"

" Yes, and in rich attire."

" 'Tis the earl !" exclaimed Phaidrig, in de
light, laying his hand on the sergeant. " Take
me down with you." he cried urgently—" take
me down, and I will save his life yet."

" 'Tis against orders," said the sergeant, hesi
tating.

" As you hope for peace to your soul at your
own dying hour, don't refuse me !" urged Phai
drig.

"Come, then," said the sergeant — "suppose I
am punished ; 1 can not see murder done with
out trying to stop it, and you say you can."

" I can, if I get speech of the earl," said the
piper. " Hurry ! hurry ! — Give me your hand —
help me down the siair." The last words were
spoken as the prison door was closed ; and Lynch,
with the yet unconscious Ellen in his arms, gazed
upon his child with an expression of mental
agony of which Finch had never seen the equal.

When Phaidrig and the sergeant reached the
base of the tower, a rope had been just placed
around Ned's neck. Phaidrig, as he laid his
hand on Ned's shoulder to whisper him some
thing, felt the hempen instrument of death, and
a tremor passed over his whole frame.

" God have mercy on us !" he exclaimed. —
" This is hasty work ; not only death without
trial, but without letting a man say a prayer be
fore he suffers. — Sure, they won't refuse you ten
minutes to ask for Heaven's mercy. " Then, in
a whisper to Ned. he said, " Ask for ten minutes."

Nevil's voice was heard without, ordering the
prisoner to be brought forth.

The sergeant advanced and told him the pris
oner craved ten minutes to pray.

"Not a second!" said Nevil. — "Mynophew
died without a prayer, and so shall he. — Iking
out th« rascal, and hang him up at once. Curse
you, you bunglers ! what are you fumbling at ? —
One would think you never hanged a man be
fore. — Bring him out, I say !"

The Earl of Clanric»rde reached the entrance
»f the castle as Ned was led forth for execu-tion.

" What is this about, Mr. Nevil ?" asked the
Earl.

" Murder, my lord."

"It v.-ill be murder if this young man is
hanged, noble Cianricarde," said Phaidrig, con
fronting the Earl.

"What brings you here, Phaidrig-na-piB ?"
laid Cianricarde.

" The hand of God," said Phaidrig, in a man
ner so impressive, that even Nevil was struck
Hy it.

" What do you mean ?" inquired the earl.

" Will the noble Cianricarde let the poor piper

have a word in his ear to save an innocent life ?*

"Willingly."

Phaidrig advanced to the earl, who permittee
him to whisper ; the words he said could have
been but few, for his lips were but a moment at
the ear of the earl ; but those words must have
been potent, for Clanricardu's iUce was suifuse<i
by a deep flush, succeeded by an ashy paleness.
He gazed at Ned intently, but could not speak.

" Lead on to execution !" cried Nevil, profit
ing by the pause.

" I forbid it !" cried the earl.

" He slew my nephew," shouted Nevil, white
with rage.

"Had he killed yourself, sir," said the earl,
drawing himself up to his full height, and cast
ing a look of disdain on Nevil, " he shall not
die but by the laws of the land."

" Do you forget who I am, my lord ?"

"No, sir — though you seem to forget yourself."

" The lord-lieutenant shall hear of this," saic^
Nevil.

" I will take care he shall," retorted the earl.

"Do you know, sir," continued the arrogant
minion of power, " that boxes of Spanish gold
have been found in possession of these prisoners,
clearly proving their connexion with hostils
states ?"

"That shall be inquired into," said the earl.

" The inquiry shall be conducted at the cast!*
of Dublin," said Nevil, with a menacing air
" and I will be the bearer of this traitorous gok
myself. — Harness my horses, there! — Good-by
my lord !"

" Stay, Mister Nevil," said Cianricarde, with
an air of serious authority — "you seern to forget
that I preside in this district. — You shall not be
the bearer of that gold, sir."

" I have taken it, my lord, and I insist upors
its guardianship."

" Guardianship !" exclaimed the earl, with a
contemptuous laugh — " guardianship of gold b«
Jones Nevil ! — sir,'-' he added, with iron severity
"I presume you are yet ignorant of what my
courier from Dublin has just borne me intelli
gence of — that Jones Nevil is denounced by the
house of parliament, to which he is a dishonor,
for scandalous embezzlement of the public
money."

The words fell like a thuuderbolt on the
hitherto audacious offender, who, overwhelmed
by the suddenness of the terrible charge he knew
to be true, slunk away ; while the earl, entering
the castle, was soon after in secret conference
with Phaidrig.

CHAPTER L.

CLANEICARBE retired to a small chamber in the
castle, where he remained alone for some time,
before he summoned the piper to his presence.
He was aware that Phaidrig's words had taker
him by surprise, and urged him to precipitancy
The instantaneous favor shown to the prison
er, and the contemptuous treatment of Nevil,
were the result of sudden heat, unusual in him,
so long used to command, and which he was
anxious to recover, ere he held further comma-

IRISH HEIRS.

163

nion with an inferior, whose words h»d stirred
his heart so strangely ; for none knew better than
the carl, how much authority is fortified by im-
passiveness — that cold and steely armor of the
great. Moreover, a secret passage of his early
life was laid bare to him when least expected,
and the maturer years of the staid and circum
spect Clamicarde would not derive honor from
such glimpses of the past. But yet the hand
some fece of that young prisoner bore such strong
— such touching testimony to the truth of the
words he had heard, that nature, at last, tri
umphed over the colder calculations of the poli
tic nobleman ; and determining to hear and judge
of all the piper had to tell, Phaidrig, at his sum
mons, was brought before him.

Having dismissed his attendants, the earl bade
the blind man approach, and addressed him in
that undcr-tone which we insensibly adopt in
speaking of secret things, however secure our
place of conference may be.

"This is a strange thing you tell, Phaidrig-na-
pib."

" 'Tis as true as 'tis strange, my lord."

" Are you sure ?"

" I wish I was as sure of heaven."

" Can you tell me how and wherefore ?"

" Aisy enough, my lord, if you'll listen a bit."

" Willingly — proceed."

*" It is now nigh hand forty years, or somr«hing
undher, that a brave young gentleman used to
rove by the woods and wathers of the broad Shan
non, and none abler, I hear, than he was, with
the gun and the rod ; and plenty o' gome fell to
his share. His eye was quick for the rise on the
river, or the bird on the wing — nothing escaped
that quick eye ; for, by all accounts, it was very
clear and bright, and whatever it marked was
his own — the bird of the wood — the fish of the
Bthrame "

"What need to talk so much of salmon and
woodcocks ?" said the earl, impatiently.

"Ah ! but, my lord, there was more than wood
cocks in the wood," replied Paaidrig, insidi
ously.

" Well— proceed."

"And where there's woods and woodcocks,
there must be wood-rangers — that stands to ray-
son."

" Go on."

"And when wood-rangers are for evermore
doing nothing but roving up and down a wood,
surely they get lonely, and want somebody to keep
company with them ; and so they get married,
and then, av coorse, they have childhre — and the
childhre is as likely to be girls as boys ; and when
the girls grow up, sure they will be rovin'
through the wood, lookin' for the wild strawber
ries and the like; and the brave young gentle
man I was tellin' of used to meet a wood-ran eer's
daughter, that, I hear, was as purty a crayture
as ever bent grass undher her foot, and a power
o' grass she bent, I hear, by the long walks she
used to take with that same young gentleman,
who used to discoorse her soft."

"What was her name ?" said the earl.

" O'Brien, my lord — her father came out of
Clare — Kitty O'Brien was the girl's name."

"You are right — that was her nnrue," said the
earl, identifying I imself at once w ;th that "brave

young gentlerr.i.-n," ^'ith whom Phaidrig so deli
cately, as well as artfully, began his tale.

" Well, my lord, when neighbors began tc
spake, poor Kitty was obliged to lave the neigh
borhood, and, indeed, father and mother all went
off, and settled up away there toward Galway, and
there it was that many a year after I lirst knew
that same Kitty's daughter — as sweet adarlin' as
ever was reared. Och ! but my own poor heart
knew love's torment then — I ax your pardon, my
lord, for takin' the liberty ; but, as you bid me
tell the story, I loved the ground she walked on,
an' that's the thruth."

"Then, in short, I suppose this young man is
your son ?" interrupted the earl.

" No, my lord," said Phraidrig ; " though I
loved him full as well, from the very minit I
found out he was the son of my own first love,
my sweet Molly, for she wasn't called afther her
mother, for fear 'twouldn't be lucky, and might
rnn in the family; and, indeed, she had a sort
corner in her heart for myself. But what good
did that do me ? I was only a poor blind pip"
and, though the tendher jewel used to give a wi.
ling ear to my planxities, the chink of a snuf
man's silver made sweeter music for her people ;
and what chance had I agin the rich thrader of
Galway, and a dacent man, too — I own it — but
not fit for Molly — for Molly, I do believe, as far
as her own heart was concerned, w'ould rather
have shared the lot of poor Phaidrig-na-pib, blind
and all. as he was, than be put beyond want in
the warm house of Denis Corkery."

" Then this young man, I suppose, you have
known from his birth ?"

"Oh, no, my lord," said Phaidrig, sadly. "The
minit that I knew my darling Molly was lost to
me, I kept out of sight of her, or any chance of
meeting her, and never went inside Galway if I
could help it, and, indeed, never cared for any
woman afther; for when the love is oncethram-
pled out of a man's heart, it seldom or never
grows up again, and the first love has a grip
with it it never lets go ; and Molly was always
in the way if ever I thought of another girJ — she
stuck as fast as a weed in an owld piece o'
ground. If my heart was ploughed .up ever so
often, the new crop of love was sure to be over
run with the Molly-weed — God forgi' me for
sayin' weed — sure it's the flower she was, and
the brightest and the sweetest — "

" Well, well — to the point — to the point !" cri
ed Clanricarde, impatiently.

"Ah, my lord !" said Phaidrig, tenderly, "don't
be angry with me for praising your own child — "

There was a sudden pause. Phaidrig's sensi
bility told him he had been hurried by his warmth
beyond the bounds of delbacy in speaking of a
pipers love for the offspring of a peer (though
that offspring was even unacknowledged), with-
in tiie hearing of the father, who sighed in bit
terness at this incidental wound inflicted on his
pride* — for we never feel more keenly than when
stabbed through our own sins. The earl felt
the silence to be awkward, and was the first
to break it, by asking how Phaidrig knew Ned
to be the son of the Galway trader's wife.

" By accident, my lord ; and I'll remiud your
self of the time I found it out. Don't you re
* Relations.

164

£ f. d.

member, about six years ago, when theie was a
remarkable day at the Galway races, when there
was a cock-fight, and your lordship's bird, of the
Sarsfield breed, won a main ?"

" I remember well," said the earl ; " and you
were over busy that day, master piper in playing
a certain tune — "

" And there was a row in the town that night,
my lord—"

" I remember that too — and the mayor knocked
down."

" Faix, then, the mayor,! am thinking wouldn't
have been so angry," said Phaidrig, with a smile,
" if he had known it was a dash of the noble
blood of Clanricarde that helped him into the
gutther that night."

" What, this young man ?"

" The same, my lord."

" But there was a clinking of cold steel that
night in the riot ; how came he into an affray of
such quality ?"

" Faith, then, it's himself handled a blade ;
as nate as a fencin'-masther."

" Indeed ? How came a Galway apprentice
by that accomplishment ?"

" That I don't know ; I suppose the blood of
De Burgo was sthrong in him, and he made it
out a way of his own."

Clanricarde was pleased at this proof of da
ring accomplishment in his descendant, and was
silent for some time.

" Silent when glad."

"And what became of him after?" inquired
he. " How, I ask you again, did you discover
him to be the son of the Galway trader's wife ?"

" This was the way of it, my lord. The town
was no place for the youth, that night ; so we
took him over the river with us."

" Oh ! that's the way you escaped. What
were the sentinels about ?"

" As usual, my lord, they were as idle as a
milestone without a number, and the devil a
foot they marked our road, and so we got into
the Cladagh."

" Humph ! — as usual — that stronghold and
refuge for any lawless roisterer. But you said
•we.' Now, who were your companions that
night ?"

" Oh, some friends o' mine, my lord, that did not
like lodging in the town, and preferred the whole
some air of the mountains of lar Connaught."

"I thought as mucht take care, Phaidrig-na-
pib, you don't come under my notice sometime
*r other in a way I can not overlook."

"Oh, you know, minsthrels are held sacred, my
.ord," replied Phaidrig, laughing.

"Not if they play the 'blackbird' too often.
Have a care. Remember the fable of the trum
peter, who, when taken prisoner, asked for mer
cy, because he did not strike with the sword, but
only blew a harmless instrument; whereupon
the conqueror replied, that the trumpeter did
more mischief than any armed man, as he, though
he did not fight himself, inspired hundreds to
fight ; and there lies the mischief."

"Thrue enough, my lord," said Phaidrig
boldly, and brightening up, " and sure there
must be a deep love lying for evermore in the
human heart for such sthraina as can inspire

to bowld deeds, for there never was one of the
mischievous songs or tunes, as you call tnem.
that ever was lost. They live — aye, and live
even in the memory of those who hate them ;
they are thransmitted through friend and for
from generation to generation ; and though the
hands and hearts lie cold and forgotten of thos«
the minsthrel inspired, his words and his strains
are imperishable as long as there is man's cour
age or woman's love left in the world."

"Hillo, Hillo, Phaidrig!" exclaimed the earL
good humoredly, "you are running 'breast high'
now, but I must call you to a check ; try back,
man, and tell me what I have asked twice be
fore. How did you find out this youth was the
son of the Galway trader's wife ? The third
time is the charm, and now I hope you will an
swer me ?"

" Sure, I was answering you, my lord, only
that you—"

" There you go again — running to fault —
steady, steady ! How did you find him out I
answer short."

'•'He sent into the town, my lord, from the
fisherman's hut in the Cladagh, to his father's,
and when I heerd his name, I knew he was the
child of darling Molly, and my heart warmed
to him as much a'most as if he was my own
son — for, indeed, it was a chance I wasn't his
fa'.^er, myself."

" And what has he been doing ever since ?"

" Faith, everything that was dashing, and
daring, and bowld, and like a gentleman — and
won a lady's heart into the bargain — kind kith
and kin for him, faith ; the De Burgo's wor all
divils among the girls as your lordship knows
betther than me."

"A lady's heart?" said Clanricarde, some
what curiously, with a strong emphasis on
' lady.' "

" Aye, faith, as rale a lady as ever s.tood in
satin. Faix, its a quare story, my lord, and
somewhat long, but I will cut it as short as I
can for you, and sthrive to incense* you upon it."

He then gave a brief history of Ned's adven
tures to the earl, who listened with intense
pleasure to the numerous traits of gentle blood
and noble daring on the part of his grandson,
inheriting so strongly the mettle of the De
Burgo race, notwithstanding the plebeian con
tract of poor old Corkery, that the earl almost
wished he could declare him for his own. Praid-
rig, in the course of his history, wisely dwelt
chiefly on Ned's achievements at sea against
the Spaniards, and ingeniously avoided as much
as possible such disclosures as would excite the
political prejudices of the earl. Jacobite affairs
were glanced at as little as might be, and final
ly, he assured his lordship that it was in the
endeavor to leave Ireland, and never again re
turn to disturb the Hanoverian possession there
of, that they had been pursued and taken ; and
the stirring account Phaidrig gave of young
Nevil's insult to Ellen, and the terrible retribu
tion with which it was visited, reconciled Clan
ricarde much toward the prisoner.

" The lady's father is here, too, you said ?"
inquired Clanricarde.

*To give the sense of; to inform

TREASURE TROVE.

165

" Ho is, my lord."

" But, as yet you have not told me his name."

" Then, indeed, my lord, if you'll be led by
me, I think it would be just as well maybo you
wouldn't ask his name at all — for maybe you
wouldn't like to hear it, seeing that in consid-
heration of the happiness of the young birds you
wouldn't hurt the ould one ; and there's no
knowing what names might be objectionable to
your lordship's ear, as governor of these parts —
and so, for shortness, we'll call him ' the captain.' "

Clanricarde was silent for a while, and then
assented to Phaidrig's suggestion; trusting the
piper's judgment rather than his own desire in
the matter, and guessing that the name was one
of which he had better remain in ignorance, if
he wished to pursue his benign intentions to
ward the fugitives.

Clanricarde was right in thus trusting to
Phaidrig's judgment, which in this case, as in
most others was sagacious. He knew that
Lynch's person was unknown to the earl,
though of his name, and the heavy denounce
ments against it he could not be ignorant ; and
he, therefore, threw out the hint to the governor
of the western district that to "keep never
minding," as Paddy says, was the safest course,
or, in more poetic parlance, that "where ig
norance was bliss 'twas folly to be wise."

Anxious as the earl was now to get the
entire party safe out of the country, under the
assurance that they would never return, — thus
at once insuring preservation to those in wlom
he became so unexpectedly interested, and ac
complishing, without bloodshed, a beneficial
move for the crown, under whose authority he
acted, nevertheless, had the too-celebrated name
of " Lynch" reached his ear, he dared not have
disregarded the numerous proclamations "the
captain" had provoked, and must have given
up the father-in-law elect of his own grandson.
Making use of the piper's hint, therefore, and
taking advantage of his present ignorance, his
object was to get such combustible materials
out of his hands as soon as possible, lest he
might burn his fingers; for, though Clanricar-
de's general measures were sufficiently stern to
stamp him as a stanch upholder of the govern
ment, yet the times were such that a wise and
merciful inaction might be construed into trea
sonable activity.

Full of these thoughts, the earl desired Phaid-
rig to hasten to the strong room, and tell its
inmates to be of good cheer, for that he himself
would convey them from their present durance
to his own castle, where they might rely that
no violence should be offered. "But a word
with you before you part," said the earl. " Is the
secret of the mother's birth known to her son?"

" No, my lord, I never breathed it to mortal
till now — nor would not, only for the necessity."

"Well, you may tell him," replied Clanri
carde. " I will be glad to acknowledge so gal
lant a fellow."

Gladly Phaidrig hurried on the welcome mes
sage — blithely he restored them to hope, though
the secret of this sudden change in their fortunes
was not yet revealed ; and while ho was yet
engaged in dispelling from Ellen's mind the ter
ror which the recent scene had inspired, a sum

mons from the earl to attend him, at once, to
his boat, reached the strong room; the spiral
stair of the tower was re-trodden with lighter
footsteps than it had been ascended; in a few
minutes they were on board the boat which
had awakened their well-founded fears ; and the
same sails that had intercepted their flight and
thrown them into the hands of their enemies,
were soon wafting them to a haven of safety.

Phaidrig having whispered Ned that he wished
a few words with him, they were stowed away
together in the bows of the boat, while Finch,
at the earl's desire, moved astern, and gave a
"full and true account" of the manner in which
the foreign gold came into his possession — that
same gold which seemed destined not to reach
the right owner, but which was never in such
imminent peril as when it got into the hands of
Mr. Nevil, whence it had been so timely res
cued. Ellen sat beside her father, retired from
the rest, and felt in the temporary quiet of their
smooth sail, a relief to the excited feelings
which the rapid and startling succession of
events had that day so harrowed up; Clanri
carde from time to time cast a glance toward
her charming face, touched by its beautiful ex
pression, and felt that his descendant had in
herited not only the daring of the De Burgo,
but their appreciation of female loveliness, yet
inherent in that gallant race, as the halls of Por-
tumna can bear witness to this hour, in the per
son of their noble mistress. From Ellen ILS
eye would wander to Ned, whose glance he met
once or twice in counter-gaze, as he seemed to
listen intently to the discourse Phaidrig was
pouring into his ear. The earl felt it was the
secret of his half noble ancestry the piper was
imparting, and that nameless intelligence of eye,
enkindled by sympathy, passed between them,
and seemed already to make them known to
each other.

The boat, meanwhile, was gliding swiftly to
the western shore of the Lough ; on reaching
which, Clanricarde was one of the first to land,
and when Ellen was about to step ashore the
earl offered her his hand.

"Permit me, madam," he said in the blandest
manner. " You have already experienced so
much rudeness to-day, that I would wish to
make you believe we are not all savages here."

" Thanks, my lord," said Ellen, as she ac
cepted the nobleman's courtesy with becoming
grace, and stept ashore.

" And now, gentle lady," he continued, in a
lower tone, and withdrawing her from the bank,
" at once to set your heart at rest, let me assure
you no harm shall fall upon your friends."

''0 my lord I" exclaimed Ellen, clasping his
hand between both of hers, and looking up into
his face with the heavenly gleam of gratitude,
making her sweet eyes more lovely ; " I will for
ever bless your name for this!"

" Enough, fair lady, enough — pray take my
arm ; we have a walk before us to the castle."

" l£j lord, said Ellen, looking at her humble
attire, and speaking with a gracefulness of ac
tion that contrasted strongly with her outward
seeming ; " I am in strange costume to have a
nobleman for my cavalier."

" No matter," replied he ; " the walk is

166

£ *. d.

through my own woodlands ; we shall have no
impertinent lookers-on to make remarks."

As they proceeded he entered into conversa
tion with his companion, whom he found so ac
complished in this respect that ho entertained a
high opinion of her acquirements and good sense
before their walk was over : and he was inclined
to reckon her one of the most charming girls he
had ever met ere they had reached the castle, to
whose hospitable halls he bade her welcome as
he led her through its massive portal.

CHAPTER LI.

THE revelations Phaidrig had made were cal
culated to stir the various parties concerned in
various ways. Clanricarde, it hag been seen,
was impressed with feelings of tenderness tow
ard our .hero, and lie, in his turn, was the sport
of contending emotions. The first feeling on
Ned's part was that of pleasure at having a dash
of noble blood in his veins. This might be ex
pected, from the besetting weakness of his na
ture ; but afterward came the consideration of
that awkward "bar-sinister;" — well, that was
an accident he could not help ; and the blood of
Do Burgo was in him, beyond denial, and on ?tis
birth, at least, there was no blot. But then
came the consideration of what Lynch might
think of this, jealous of honor as Edward knew
him to be. With such thoughts was he busy
•while approaching the castle ; and as Lynch and
Phaidrig kept close together, engaged in earnest
conversation, Ned had no doubt it related to his
newly-discovered relationship. In this he was
not mistaken : but Lynch had no opportunity as
yet to speak to him on the subject, in the midst
of the bustle which the arrival of this unexpected
party produced.

The earl, determined to show them every hos
pitality his castle could afford, set about furnish
ing them with more suitable attire than at pres
ent they wore, and wardrobe and armoire were
put in requisition to furnish forth fitting apparel ;
and it was strange to observe the usually stern
Clanricarde interesting himself in the equipment
of Ned, whom he endeavored to fit to the best
advantage, and was manifestly pleased to see
what a good figure the fellow made in the habit
of a gentleman.

On holding a private conference, much as he
was prepared to like him, he found him sur
passing his expectations. Ned's contact with
the world had rubbed down whatever shyness
he might once have labored under, and pushing
his own way in it had given him a quiet confi
dence. And if some scenes in his life had not
tended toward refinement, love had supplied the
deficiency, and inspired him with the power to
bo acceptable in gentle company.

The earl spoke with pleasure of his approach
ing union with Ellen, and weut so far as to sug
gest their remaining in Ireland, where, under
his protection, they might be certain of security ;
but Edward pointed out the impossibility of El
len s separation from her father, and advanced
10 many other good reasons for his going to
Spam, that the noble earl was satisfied of its be-

1 ing the wisest course, and yielded his wishes to
j his conviction. Being a man of resolve, when
once this was determined upon, he thought it
prudent no time should be lost in their abandon
ing the country, and set about ordering measures
for an early movement the next morning.

While the earl was thus engaged, our hero
was summoned by Phaidrig to a conference with
"the captain;" and Ned had misgivings it would
not be as pleasant as the one just concluded.

On coming before Lynch, Ned perceived his
brow was clouded, and endeavored to conciliate
him by gentleness of manner ; saying, he sup
posed he was aware of the strange history cir
cumstances had brought to light, and feared he
was displeased.

"I had rather it were otherwise," said Lynch.
"I would prefer a pure descent from theGalway
trader, than a stained one from a lord. But
there is something displeases me still more."

"May I ask it, sir?" — though Ned guessed
what was coming.

" You have been guilty of a deception. You
have assumed a name to which you are not en
titled."

Ned hung down his head and colored to the
forehead ; this error, into which an early weak
ness betrayed him, had often placed him in awk
ward predicaments, and caused him some qualms
of conscience ; but circumstances had so involved
him in the temptation to continue the deceit,
that he never had courage to declare the truth ;
but now it seemed the hour was come when his
folly was to recoil upon him with serious conse
quences.

" Though there is a stain in your descent, I
would not object to you for that — that was not
your own act ; but assuming an honorable name
to pass yourself off for something you were not,
is a false pretence, not punishable by law. but
falling under the condemnation of all honorable
minds. "

Ned made a passionate disclaimer of all dis
honorable intentions, spoke of it as a youthful
folly which circumstances tended to confirm, and
made an appeal to Lynch's ear, if Corkery was
not a very horrid name, and one that might al
most excuse his fault. This Lynch would not
admit, and told Ned he had done quite enough
of gallant things to make any name respected.

" Could I have dared to lift my eyes to your
daughter, sir, under such a shabby name ?"

" Using a name falsely was more shabby — and
that's what vexes me, Ned. You, a dashing,
noble-spirited fellow, to have been guilty of a
trick which belongs to swindlers and pickpock
ets!"

"Oh, sir!" exclaimed Ned, writhing under
the words, " do not use so harsh an expression:
and pray do not think it is in a spirit of retort I
remind you of something which may palliate my
offence in your eyes. Remember, my dear sir,
that I first knew you as Count Nellinski."

" I had the authority of my prince for the
title, which was used only in political agencies
in the service of my king, when its adoption
might be useful to him, not to me ; while you,
without any aim but the assumption of a title
;hat tickled your ears, passed yourself off under
a false one. Besides, Nellinski is but a varia-

TREASURE TROVE.

167

tion of my o\va nam? (not that I hold even that
to be strictly right)r while Fitzgerald was rather
a bold flight from Corkery."

" The very baseness and hateful sound of that
name is my best excuse," said Ned. "Now,
sir, be candid : would you like your daughter to
be called Corkery T'

" I would rather she were called the name she
had a right to, than go about, like a daw, decked
in feathers not her own ; and such would be her
opinion, I am sure. Ellen will be angry at
this."

" Oh, sir, if you and she but knew how often
this has been a pain to me — how frequently I
wished to confess all about it, but shrank with a
false shame from the avowal, you would rather
pity than blame me. I hope I can persuade her
to think no worse of me for it — and yon too,
sir."

" Corkery," said Lynch, " a woman will for
give much in the man she loves ; and though
Fitzgerald is a prettier name than Corkery" —
and Lynch laid much stress on the name each
time — " I say, though Corkery "

"Oh I that hateful name !" exclaimed Ned, in
disgust, "must I be called that name? "What
shall I do when I meet those who knew me un
der another ?"

" Meet them with a prouder front, Ned ; for
then there will be no deceit about you. But
come," ho added, feelingly, for a hero's sense of
shame touched him — " Ellen will forgive you as
I forgive you. Ned, for the noble points in your
character and conduct whi?h have endeared you
to both of us ; but remember, my dear fellow,
you have no right to take another man's name ;
it is doubly false ; it is wronging him if you do
it dishonor, and it may be putting on inferior
metal the stamp that will make it pass current
upon the world."

" You are right, sir," said Edward: "and if
to acknowledge and feel sorrow for a fault is, as
I have heard, partly atoning for it, mine is not
as heavy as it was ; and, in truth, I feel happier
for this explanation, though I confess I do hate
the name I must bear."

" Give me your hand ; you have a frank spirit ;
and now, that you are willing to do the right
thing, I will try to help you to a pleasanter
name."

"How, sir?" said Ned, his eyes sparkling
with pleasure.

" In marriage sometimes it is stipulated that
a man takes the name of his wife. Suppose I
make that a condition in your wedding Ellen?"

Ned could scarcely speak, but wrung Lynch's
hand with fervor, and endeavored to say some
thing of the honor of being allowed to take the
name.

" Ned, what that is mine would I not give you
when I have given you my Ellen ? She is to be
yours, with my blessing. Heaven knows how
long I may be in this world — the laws may de
mand me, though Clanricarde will protect you,
without doubt. Take, then, the name and arms
of our ancient family ; you will do honor to
both."

While Ned was expressing hope that the favor
jf the earl would be extended beyond him, their
conversation was interrupted by a summons to

I the hall, where the board was spread in all the
j proverbial amplitude of Galway hospitality, and
afterward the wine-cup circled freely. The po
tations of those times were wont to be deeper
than ours, whoso modern code of after-dinner
laws names half an l^pur as the measure of vi
nous indulgence after 'the ladies have retired ;
and it is likely the rounds of the claret-flask
were not limited to so stinted a period in tho
hall of Portumna that day; but there was no
excess, notwithstanding. In a society so much
higher than he was used to, Finch forbore an
indulgence to which he would have yielded at
an humbler board, and Ned, hearing the notes
of a harpsichord, and Ellen's voice, when tho
door was occasionally opened, longed to be of
that party ; so he and his friend paired off to the
ladies, and left the earl and Lynch together.

For this Clanricarde was not sorry ; he rather
wished a few words in confidence with " the
captain;" and there is much that, in the morn
ing coldness of your private closet would be
harsh and difficult to treat, which the genial
influence of the hearth and the wine-cup render
smooth and easy. So felt the earl, as, pushing
the bottle to his guest, he said —

"I know you will excuse something I am
going to say to you, captain. I am here, you
know, in a high trust; and though my authority
gives me great latitude in the exercise of en
forcing or relaxing the laws, yet if, in the latter
case, I stretch a point, I wish to satisfy my con
science that I do no wrong to my king. Now
captain, as that is the only name I am to kno'w
you by (though the earl's smile suggested the
idea that he guessed a little more), will you
promise me, on your honor, that when you leave
Ireland this time" — and he laid some emphasis
on the words — " will you promise, I say, never
to return to it again, and to abstain from dis
turbing its peace ? and then my conscience will
be at rest respecting my duty to his majesty."

" For the sake of those who are dear to us
both, my lord, I do promise."

" Captain, your hand — I thank you — I am
satisfied ; and, believe me, 'tis better for your
self; the cause of a 'certain person' is hope
less, and the people of this country are besotted
in showing so pertinacious a spirit of resistance
to the laws."

" Can you wonder my lord, they would resist
laws so cruel and unjust ? Surely, the persecu
tions the Irish catholics undergo, sufficiently ac
count for their disaffection."

"I am no friend to persecution," said Clanri
carde, " but I will retort by this question, — Can
you wonder that when protestants have the
power, they use it against a religion which, in
its palmy state, has ever oppressed the protes
tants ?"

" There are bright exceptions, my lord, to the
sweeping charge you make ?"

" Is not the revocation of^the edict of Nantes
yet fresh in our memory?" exclaimed Clanri
carde, "and the consequent persecution of
protestants in France ? Can you wonder if a
protestant power retaliates the injustice of a
catholic one ?"

" Yes, my lord, I do ; and I aver that a wise
protestant power would not, with the example

168

£ *. d.

before its eyes of the consequence of that very
prescriptive act of Louis the XIV. ; it drove
from the land a hundred thousand families of
the best subjects in France ; artisans, who car
ried their industry to other countries, which
they enriched at the expense of their own. It
banded many more thousands in regiments,
which fought on the side of every enemy of
Louis, just as the Irish brigade of exiled Irish
catholics fought on his against the crown, of
which good laws would have made them the
support. But persecution has ever the same
results — and seing those results, I do wonder
that any govermneut adopts a measure, ruinous
in its immediate action, and never succeeding
in the end desired."

"That all sounds very well, captain, as far
as argument goes ; but I repeat it, protestants
can not forget the terrible persecutions their re
ligion has suffered at the hands of the catholics
—St. Bartholomew, for instance."

" No wonder, my lord, that atrocious act
should be remembered ; you can not abhor it
more than I do ; and pray observe, I condemn
persecution of all sorts, and on any side, and
still put forward my argument that it defeats its
own design. Even the wholesale massacre of
that bloody day strengthened the protestant
cause, not only in the indignant survivors, and
their brethren in all lands, but even in France,
where many who then wavered in their opinion,
withdrew in horror of the abominable deed from
the catholic faith, and embraced the reformed
cne. — Is not this history, my lord ?''

'"Tis so said," replied the earl.

"And as for the revocation of the edict of
Nantes, my lord, remember that edict had given
protection for a century to French protestants
— there were never any such laws in England
or Ireland. Do you remember, my lord, that
edict gave to the protestants, not only the exer
cise of their worship, but ensured their ad
mission to all employments ; established, in
every parliament, a chamber composed of magis
trates of each religion; tolerated the general
assembly of reformers, with power to levy taxes
for the wants of their church ; and all this was
done at the time when the utmost severity was
exercised against the catholics in England and
Ireland, who never had one hour's remission
then or since of the most biting penal laws. —
Is this true or not, my lord?"

"I can not deny it," said Clanricarde; "but
all that is revoked now in France."

"It is, my lord; but I remind you of these
things, only to show your lordship that you were
mistaken in saying the catholic religion, in its
palmy state, had always oppressed the protes
tants. The protestants have had large privi
leges, even powers of state, under a catholic
government ; but, I ask you, what has the Irish
catholic had ?"

" Captain, you argue better than I can — but
still — I would say — ." Clanricarde paused, and
after some time Lynch continued —

" My lord, you find it difficult to answer, and
you attribute to my power of argument what
belongs simply to the strength of the facts I ad
duce. Believe me, I blame the revocation of
the edict of Nantes as much as you do, but I

maintain that act is no justification of the penal
laws of Ireland. The commission of injustice
on one side is no excuse for the commmission
of injustice on another. Would to Heaven men
could see that the profession of different re
ligious opinions should not make them each
other's deadly enemies, urging them to the most
disgraceful outrages on humanity ; that a gospel
of peace should not engender strife : and that
to be a Christian, is not of necessity to be a
butcher ! "

" Hard words these, captain," said the earl.

" I hope not offensive, my lord — indeed I did
not mean them to be so. I own I feel deep ab
horrence of all who would persecute in the name
of God. They can profit but little by the ex
ample our divine Master gave us on earth."

"I agree with you there, captain; and, be
lieve me, I do not approve of much that I see in
the rule of this country. The primate I blame
much ; and you know how I treated his prime
favorite and minion this day."

" You have been the savior of our lives, my
lord, and I thank you. Your mercy this day is
the best proof of your lordship's favorable dis
position to the poor persecuted Irish."

" Indeed, captain, I would that their condi
tion were better. I wish they would give us
Chesterfield again for viceroy. He was a wise
and merciful ruler."

"And a sound statesman in so being," said
Lynch. " I know it," he added, with emphasis,
" for I can tell you, rny lord, his gentleness dis
armed more rebels to King George in Ireland,
than all the severities of his successors."

"lean believe it," said the earl; "but," he
added, smiling, " don't make any confidences
with me on that subject, captain. Suppose we
go to the ladies, and have the acerbities of our
political discussion sweetened by some music."

CHAPTER LIL

WHILE the evening was pleasurably spent in
the castle, arrangements had been looked to for
the work of the morning. A boat had been for
warded overnight, by the earl's order, to Killa-
loe, where it might be removed overland to the
foot of the falls, and be in readiness for the voy
agers after they should traverse the lake. That
work had been done, the boat had been re
launched below the mighty roar and rush of
Derg's wide waters, where the variable Shan
non, again confined to its river form, pursues its
rapid course to Limerick and the sea ; and her
crew, after enjoying a hearty meal, were reclin
ing on the river's bank, smoking and telling
stories, when the report of a gun above the falls
attracted their attention. Springing to their
feet, they hurried up the slopes, and saw the
earl's yacht shortening sail, and throwing her
grappling ashore. The earl himself was of the
party that landed ; and among the removals
made from the sailing craft to the barge below
the falls, were some small strongly-hooped bar
rels of unusual weight. When these were safely
bestowed, the earl handed to the boat a young
lady, who seemed to engross his particular at-

TREASURE TKOVE.

tention, and the rest of the party following, the
barge was pushed off, and the rapid course of
the river, and the vigorous pulling of four stout
lowers, soon bore them to Limerick.

Clanricarde, wishing to avoid the publicity
which the lodging at an inn involves, led the
party to the house of a private citizen, where
they were received with welcome. Lynch and
his daughter remained with the earl, within
doors, but Ned and Finch at once set out to find
the quickest and most desirable means of ship
ment. It has been already mentioned, that the
Irish coast then swarmed with king's cruisers ;
therefore, to attempt a passage to France in a
small craft (unless of such sailing quality as was
not to be obtained by chance), would have been
madness, so a passage in any merchantman
bound to an English port was what they sought,
whence the smuggling traffic with which they
were conversant would help them to a cast
across the channel; and, by good luck, a brig for
London was to sail the following day. No time
was lost in striking a bargain, and Finch and
Ned returned to their quarters, rejoiced in having
made so speedy an arrangement.

"When the shadows of night had fallen, and
lessened the chance of being observed, Clanri
carde strolled forth with " the captain." During
their sail that day they had much converse, and
the earl was won upon by Lynch, whose quiet,
though deep, devotion to the cause of his coun
try, found respect in the bosom of one whose an
cestors were often banded in the national cause,
had resisted the tyranny of Stratford; of whose
house one of the noble maidens had intermarried
with Sarsfleld, and some gallant scions had fallen
on foreign battle-fields, opposed to the interests
which the present earl supported, though unwil
ling to support them in the sanguinary spirit of
the time. He wished some parting words with
the soldier who was about to expatriate himself
for ever, and it is more than probable, that his
brief intercourse of two days with Lynch had in
fluence on the powerful peer to direct his atten
tion to the abatement of the severities of govern
ment, and the seeking to procure a more wise
and liberal legislation.

As they passed the foot of an ancient bridge,
in the course of their deep and earnest discussion
of political affairs, Lynch stopped and pointed
to a large block of stone that stood beside the
parapet.

" You know that stone, my lord ?"

" I know what you are going to say," said th'e
earl; "you are about to speak of the broken
treaty."*

" Yes, my lord ; you spoke of the revocation
of the edict of Nantes. But remember, that
treaty was observed for nearly a century, while
the treaty of Limerick was not observed for an
hour after its gallant garrison had marched out
with the honors of war. Both treaties were of
similar import, and if ever one beyond another
was to be observed, it was that of this well-de
fended city. Sarsfield had only agreed upon
terms, which were not yet signed, when a French

* Tradition still murks the stone whereon the treaty
of Limerick, was signed.

fleet sailed into the Shannon with troops and
munitions, which might have made a different
termination to the war; and when some, re
joicingly, told him the town was relieved and
the game their own, the high-minded Sarsfleld
said, • Xo,' the honor of a soldier was superior
to a mere legal technicality, and the act he had
promised he would ratify. My lord, that treaty
never should have been broken. But political
crimes, like all others, bring their punishment.
Had it been observed, Ireland would now be a
peaceful and prosperous country, giving its arts
and its arms to England, instead of being her
enemy in the field and a blot in her history."

"I admit the truth of all you say," said the
earl ; " but I hope before I die to see the dawn
ing of better days for our country. At present
I own they are dark. But let us'return to your
friends ; our theme is an ungracious and painful
one — come!"

" Let me look once more upon that stone be
fore I go into my exile," said Lynch; "that
stone which ought to have been the altar of a
nation's liberties, and is but the memorial of her
wrongs. Farewell!" he almost sobbed — then,
throwing himself on his knees before it hi the
impassioned melancholy of the moment, he ex
claimed, "Let me embrace it! Noble monu
ment of an Irish soldier's honor!" — then, rising,
he added, "And an English monarch's perfidy."

"Come, come^' said Clanricarde, dragging
him away, " I jftar footsteps approaching; your
druidical worsJrTp might get you into trouble
were it obse'/vil."

Lynch and the earl retired hastily, and were
silent for some minutes. The earl resumed: —

" The English monarch, whose perfidy you
blame, happened to be a Dutchman."

" He filled the English throne, however, my
lord."

" And I believe," continued Clanricarde,
" was anxious to do justice to Ireland ; but
could nr>t."

" Could not, my lord ! "What is there "Wil
liam of Nassau might not have done then ?"

" He had many interests to conciliate."

" A monarch should have but one, my lord —
the interest of his whole kingdom."

" In Ireland, particularly, there was a violent
party, who persuaded him they were necessary
to his rule."

" And shame on him, my lord, for listening
to such wicked counsel — a counsel listened to
by all successive rulers. Shame ! shame ! —
Never can this land be prosperous or tranquil
so long as the sovereign of England permits the
petty tyrants of Ireland to trample on so fair a
portion of the realm."

Clanricarde ceased to offer any more plausible
apologies for injustice, as they were all swept
away before the honest indignation of Lynch,
whom he next endeavored to lead from so
stormy a topic, by adverting to the prospects of
Ned and Ellen. As this touched a tender
chord in Lynch's bosom, the discourse assumed
a more harmonious tone, and they held gentle
converse together in their nightly walk, till the
bell of St. Munchin's warned them it was time
to repair homeward.

170

£ a. d.

CHAPTER LTII.

THE same bell chimed an hour the following
morning that warned our voyagers it was time
to embark. The courteous Clanricarde bore
them company to the brig, whose sails were al
ready unfurled, and the anchor being weighed.
The earl took Ned aside, and after some brief
but affectionate words, concluded by saying, that
as there was a long journey before him ere he
could reach his uncle in Spain, he wished to
bestow on him a token of his regard, which
might be useful on the road, and placed in his
hands a pocket-book containing a bill on a Lon
don merchant for five hundred pounds. Then,
addressing himself to Ellen, he begged her ac
ceptance of a small gift, which he hoped she
would wear on the day of her marriage, and
presented her with a Maltese cross set in dia
monds.

"Phaidrig," he said, "has refused my offer
of becoming the piper of Portumna Castle : he
will follow you, I find."

" And the noble Clanricarde won't blame me
for that same," said Phaidrig, " though I thank
his lordly generosity."

" No, Phaidrig ; but, remember, the gate of
Portumna is always open to you."

" And never was shut yet to the minstrel,"
said the piper.

" To you it is open on higher grounds than
that of your craft, Phaidrig; for your fidelity
and affection, and the service you rendered in
saving a life that is dear to me ; and though you
refused my offer of a home, you must not refuse
this," and he placed a purse, with no inconsider
able sum of gold in the piper's hand. — " Not a
word of refusal, Phaidrig: if you will not use
it in the shape of coin, the gold will serve for a
handsome mounting to your pipes."

The " heave-o" of the sailors, and the meas
ured stroke of the windlass had ceased ; the
anchor was up, and the brig began to drop down
the river. The time to part was come ; short
and few, but affectionate, were the words of
farewell. The earl v/ent over the side into his
boat ; the sails of the brig were sheeted home,
and she bent to the favoring breeze on Tier sea
ward course.

The voyage was prosperous, but afforded noth
ing of incident worth relating ; therefore, suffice
it to say, that in a few days a safe landing was
effected in London. A quiet lodging was soon
secured for Lypch, Ellen, and Ned ; Finch say
ing he would be off to his old quarters with his
good-hearted landlady, " Mother Banks," as he
always called her, and suggested that Phaidrig
should join him, and enliven, for the few days
they might remain, the tavern of the kind widow.
This arrangement was thought excellent; and
Finch and the piper (and the faithful Turlough
into the bargain) set off directly. It was be
tween " day and dark," when they reached the
snug house of call, so that it was no difficult mat
ter to slip in unperceived. Placing Phaidrig in
the room of general reception, Finch told him to
have his pipes in readiness, and when he should
give him a certain signal, to commence playing.

" We'll surprise the widow," said Finch.

'• Well and good," answered Phaidrig.

Finch then went into the back parlor, wLoro
Mother Banks had just lit a candle, and much
was the open-hearted landlady rejoiced to ?ee
him. .They talked for some time about the thou
sand and one things that had happened since
they had last met ; and in the midst of their al
ternate question and answer, Finch gave the sig
nal agreed upon between him and the piper, who
opened his chanter directly, and lilted one of his
favorite airs. The moment the widow heard the
first sound of the pipes, she uttered a hurried and
almost breathless exclamation of pleasure ; and
Finch, laying hold of her hand, felt her trembling
violently, while she said, " Poor fellow — poor
dear fellow — he's come back!" and her eyes
filled with tears. Finch saw, in an instant, that,
as he suspected, the widow had a " sneaking kind
ness" for Phaidrig ; so, hastening into the outer
room, he led in the piper, to whom he gave a
hint, by the way, to give the widow a hearty kiss
for a welcome. He executed Finch's order in ex
cellent style ; and the widow seemed nothing loth
for the first salute, but when Phaidrig kept " con
tinually going on," Mrs. Banks, half suffocated,
contrived to struggle out of his arms ; and, when
she recovered her breath, said —

" Well, Master Faydrig. for a dark man, it is
wonderful how well you can find your way."

" Sure, my darlin' !" said Phaidrig, " isn't it
an owld saying, that we can find the way to onr
mouths in the dark 1"

"Not to other people's mouths," said Mrs.
Banks, coquettishly.

"You thought so before," said Phaidrig ; "but
now you know the differ."

" Well, well, but you Irish fellows have an an
swer for everything. I'm sure, Master Faydrig,

never thought you were such a rantipole till
now. Dear ! but my cap is tossed, and my han'-
kercher ruffled 1" and as she made these com
plaints, she was fidgeting about smoothing her
feathers, and declaring Captain Finch was "just
all as bad for laughing so."

" Why, what harm, mother?" said Finch.
"There's another old saying, you know, that
seeing is believing, but feeling has no fellow."

"Except whea a fellow has no feeling,' said
Phaidrig.

11 And there's an excuse for him, you know,
mother," said Finch, " that as he can't see "

"Hold your tongue," said Mother Banks, "I
know you're a going to say impudence, so lia'
dpne. I'll contrive to stop your mouth, I will.
And as Master Faydrig was talking of finding
the way there, the proverb shall be fulfilled in
the true meaning, by my serving up to you as
nice a veal pasty as ever knife and fork was set
in."

"And a bottle of the good old stuff, mother, if
any is left."

"A nice little corner in the bin yet, captain."

" Right, mother ! — ' Fulfil and fill full'' 's the
word for old sayings and old wine."

Mother Banks bustled off; and the larder and
the cellar and the kitchen were visited in her
kindliest spirit : and there was a merry supper-
party of three in the little back parlor that night.
They sat up late, and had much talk afterward ;
and, as she had asked many questions of Finch
about his doings during his absence, he inquired

TRICAR UK TROVE.

171

of her how affairs were moving in London in rlir>
mean time. She told him they went on but sad
ly; that those in power and all who favored
them had got so " hoity toity" of late that 'no
"free-hearted1' gentleman dared say a word —
they must be all as mute as mice now; and, since
they had fears no longer from the north, their
high-handed proceedings were past all patience.
And then the cruel hangings, and quartering,
and gibbetings, to say nothing of aU the lords
they were beheading on Tower-hill — oh. 'twas
fearful ! London was no more the merry place
it was ; it was turned quite into a slaughter
house, and, indeed, sometimes she wished herself
out of it. Finch ventured to conjecture that,
nevertheless, her house went on as well as ever.
She said it was not much damaged, in the main •
but somehow the people did not seem as merry as
they used to be, and she had not half the pleas
ure in the trade she used to have. Most of their
conversation was of a "sad-colored" character;
and the. next day Finch told Phaidrig he ought
to help to gladden the widow's heart with his
good humor, and take up his quarters jn the house
at once as her husband. Phaidrig admitted the
widow was a " nice woman entirely," and that
no man she would take could do better than have
her. Finch expressed his belief the widow would
not say nay to him ; whereupon Phaidrig started
a fresh objection — " He would't lave the rnas-
ther." Lynch he was determined to follow for
the future. In this state of affairs Finch watch
ed his opportunities whenever they offered, to
sound the widow as to how her mind lay toward
matrimony, and was not long in bringing her to
own that the piper was not objectionable. Phai
drig and she were quick in understanding each
other, and the question of the piper leaving
Lynch, or the widow quitting England, alone re
mained to be settled. Phaidrig argued that as
she complained of London becoming so sad, and
as France was a fine frisky place, the best thing
she could do was to go there with him.

"But sure I can't speak French," said the
widow.

" Arrah, but can't I spake Irish ?" said Phai
drig.

"But what good would that do?" said the
widow; " they can't understand either English
or Irish."

" Well, sure," said Phaidrig, " there would be
no disgrace in our not understhanding French ;
and as they only spake one language which we
don't undherstand, and as we, between us, can
spake two that they don't undherstand. the bal
ance would be in our favor ; doesn't that stand
to rayson ?"

The widow laughed at Phaidrig's whimsical
way of settling that difficulty, and after some
few days further pressing on his part, she said,
she " would think of it." Now, as the " woman
who deliberates is lost," it may be conjectured
how the matter terminated. It must be acknowl
edged, however, that the landlady's sympathies
were unfairly influenced by Phaidrig reminding
her what " beautiful brandy" there was in
France.

Of the principal personages of our story, we
say nothing during their sojourn in London ; for
uo incident worth recording occurred. They

| iivi-il as quietly as possible, and with as much of
secrecy as would not arouse suspicion where they
lodged. They frequented no public places, there
fore the great city was at once dull as well as
dangerous; for danger there certainly was to
those who had been so actively engaged in the
Pretender's cause, as long as they remained in
the British dominions. It was with rejoicing,
therefore, they beheld Finch, with a smile on his
face, pay them a visit one evening to tell them
to be in readinese. He, ever since their arrival,
had been casting about in his old haunts, by the
river, to find out when and how a safe run might
be made across the channel, and at length heard
of a promising venture.

" To-morrow night," said Finch.

" To-morrow night" was ecBied in the heart,
of each anxious, listener; "to-morrow night"
haunted their dreams ; to their feverish impa
tience the intervening time seemed of unusual
duration, but the leaden-footed hours at length
brought the appointed moment. That night they
were on the waters.

CHAPTER LIV.

FIVE days afterward, the welcome towers and
spires of Paris rose on the view of a merry trav
elling party, who were posting rapidly toward
that .cheerful capital by the northern road. That
party consisted of our friends, who had safely
passed the perils of the channel.

The earliest business of the- next day was a
visit to the Irish College, for, by one of the fa
thers of that establishment, and within its chap
el, did Lynch desire his daughter should be mar
ried. He and Ned went together, while Ellen
drove to her friend, Madame de Jumillac, to re
quest her presence at the wedding. Much was
madame rejoiced at the sight of her dear young
friend, who, after some maiden hesitation, told
her what was going to happen. Madame won
dered any young lady would be married in such
a quiet fashion — a wedding ought to be a gay
and handsome affair. Ellen said her father dis
liked parade, and, as it was an object to her fu
ture husband to reach Spain with all speed, it
was determined she should be married to-morrow.
Madame hoped the " destiny" was a :< brilliant"
one, worthy one so charming, so admired. Jlllen
silenced the raptures of her friend by giving a
brief sketch of the course of events which led to
the forthcoming result, and madame had the sat
isfaction of knowing that the match, though not
brilliant, was, at least, romantic — the next best
thing to the notions of a Frenchwoman.

" And now, my love," said madame, " you need
not be afraid of your husband being put into the
Bastile, and yourself being run away with ; that
wicked marshal — he is dead."

"Heaven forgive him his sins!" said Ellen,
with unaffected piety.

" Amen, my love. France has lost her great
est general, and decorum her greatest enemy;
for, it must be confessed, his vices were fully
equal to his military glory. Nevertheless, France
niiiy vv-ell mourn the loss of the gallant Count de
8axe."

£ s. d.

Ellen made inquiry -after the unfortunate prince,
whose doings, Madame assured her, were .not
much calculated to increase his popularity in
Paris; where, after the first furor of his recep
tion, as a hero of romance, his frivolity and dis
sipation were debasing him into a person of
mauvais ton. "While thus the day wore away
between Ellen and her friend, her father and her
lover were enjoying an unlooked-for pleasure at
the Irish College. Judge of their surprise on
finding Father Flaherty safe and sound after a
marvellous escape out of Ireland. He had been
hiding with some fishermen (the mountain re
treats having been desperately hunted up), and
was wont to go to sea with them. One night, a
heavy gale drove them off the coast ; and, in the
morning, they decried a vessel of war under
French colors. So providential a means of es
cape was eagerly seized. The fishermen made
signals of distress to attract the notice of the
ship, which bore down, and took the padre on
board. Father Flaherty, of course, was the per
son whose offices were sought for the next morn
ing, and maybe the good father wasn't delighted.

"Faith, luck's on your side, Ned; little I
thought when I was nursing you in Bruges, poor
boy, that you'd ever see the darling girl again.
Oh, indeed, be thankful night and morning, my
dear child, for all the blessings Providence has
showered on you, in preserving you through so
many dangers, and giving you such an angel for
a wife at last I"

Brightly dawned the marriage morning. Sim
ply arrayed in white, with no ornament but the
diamond cross of Clanricarde, Ellen, leaning on
her friend, Madame de Jumillac. and followed by-
her father, approached the altar in the little
chapel of the Irish College, where Ned, with
Finch for his bridesman, awaited her. Phaidrig,
of course, was there ; and Mrs. Banks would not
be absent. The ceremony was commenced by
the kind-hearted Father Flaherty ; and, as Lynch
gave the bride away, there was an eloquent ap
peal in his thoughtful eye, which spoke thus to
Ned : — " I give you all that is dear to me in this
world ; be as fond and gentle a protector to her
as I have been:" and in the open and manly
countenance of Ned there beamed an assurance
which set the father's heart at rest. Ellen and
Ned were made one ; he clasped her to his heart
his wedded wife, and in that blissful conscious
ness he felt all the trials and perils of his life
were a million times overpaid. The priest spread
his hands over them in benediction, and then all
knelt in prayer to ask Heaven's blessing on the
married couple. While others bowed their heads
within their hands, the sightless orbs of Phaidrig
were raised to heaven, while his handsome fea
tures bore an expression of profound devotion,
as his lips moved silently in breathing a heart
felt supplication to his God for blessings on his
master's daughter and the son of his darling
Molly.

As the wedding-party left the chapel they were
surprised to see Madame de Jumillac's carriage
waiting in the court ; for they had driven there
in hired coaches. " My love," she said, as she
kissed Ellen, " you and' your husband must use
my carriage while you remain in Paris. My ser
vants know where to drive you to. I have pre

pared a little surprise for you which I know will
be pleasing ; there, ask no questions — submit to
be taken where I have ordered."

Madame was obeyed ; the carriage drove rapid
ly away and left the city some miles behind. For
a while Ellen did not know whither they were
going ; but some points in a pretty little road into
which they turned at last, recalled to mind the
route by which she and her father had escaped
from Paris two years before, and ere long the
pretty house of poor Adrienne peeped above the
hedges, and the carriage stopped at the little
wicket through which the sweet smile of the
benevolent actress had greeted her. There was
a sober pleasure in coming to this spot, and El
len felt how charming an attention her friend had
bestowed in procuring for her this surprise. Some
delightful days were spent in this pretty, quiet
spot ; and as happy Ned and his sweet wife paced
the smooth turf of the little parterre, and paused
betimes at the resting-place of Ellen's benefact
ress, they hoped her spirit found peace, and might
then be conscious of their happiness, rejoicing
even in the beatitude of eternity over the re
deeming good of her faulty, fleeting life.

While Ned and Ellen were thus enjoying the
first of their honey-moon, Lynch had reported
himself at the war office, and became again at
tached to the Irish brigade, but not on active
duty. *In consideration of his services and in
creasing years, he was appointed to a post which
made Paris his head-quarters ; and the piper had
the satisfaction of fulfilling his desire to be "near
the masther," consistently with his interest, a9
he and his wife (for he married the comely widow)
set up a cabaret in one of the fauxbourgs, under
the sign of " The Blackbird," and it became the
resort of "the boys of the brigade," and every
Irishman who happened to be in Paris; and
Phaidrig and his rib did right well.

But it was requisite that Ned should hasten to
Spain, and Lynch determined to bear the young
couple company as far south as Bourdeaux. Finch,
too, started with them ; and, as they went over
precisely the same ground that Ellen and her fa
ther travelled in their flight from Paris, they
could not help remarking under what different
feelings they prosecuted their journey now.

On approaching Slots, a remarkable incident
occurred. The report of artillery firing salutes
betokened the celebration of some ceremony ; and
on reaching the town they heard the funeral of
Marshal Saxe was approaching. He whose pres
ence they so dreaded at that very spot two years
ago was now no more ; he sought them living —
they met him dead.

He had lain in state at the Chateau de Cham-
bord, with all honors, during which time guard
was mounted with as much regularity as though
he lived. But the stands of arms which adorned
his halls were broken, and his officers put on
mourning. Salvos of artillery were fired every
half hour, and when the time arrived to remove
his body to the place of sepulture, it was done by
order of the king, with all the pomp that funeral
rites could imbody.

This was contrary to Saxe's own order. His
death was worthy of a better spent life, and his
dying words were indicative of a noble spirit.
" Let my funeral be private," he said ; " place

IRISH HEIRS.

my body in quick lime, that nothing may remain
of me in this world but my memory among my
friends."

The procession had already entered the town,
whose streets and windows were thronged with
sorrowing spectators ; the plaintive wail of the
music, the dull roll of the muffled drum, the
drooping banners, the trailing pikes of his own
regiment of Hulans, who guarded his bier, his
favorite war-horse, with empty saddle, following,
all tended to impress the mind with sadness.
Even Lynch, in that hour, forgot his private
wrong; the feelings of the soldier prevailed, and
as the plumed hearse passed by, he lifted his hat
respectfully from his head in honor of the gallant
chief who had so often led him to victory.

When the procession had cleared the town,
our travellers proceeded on their journe3r, and
Lynch, at Bordeaux, took a tender adieu of El
len, who promised to visit him at Paris in the
following spring. Ned and his wife, in all the
glow of honey-moon happiness, passed the Pyren-
nees, whose beauties enchanted them, and enter
ed Spain. Finch bore them company all the way,
for, as luck would have it, his mission led him to
the very place where old Don Jerome resided.
They reached the end of their journey in safety
and Ned's uncle was rejoiced to see him, and
welcomed, with open arms, his lovely wife, to
whose gentle care he owed many an after com
fort. The old Don Jerome was now very rich
for another ship of his had readied Spain, and he
was enabled to have a very handsome house and
establishment. It was one of those heavy portal-
led, small-windowed houses peculiar to the coun
try, with projecting shadow-casting roof, and a
long, stretching, open, arcade-like gallery, where
one might walk at noon protected from the heat.
This connected the dwelling with a sort of airy
summer-house which stood in the garden, and
commanded a view of the sea ; and often in after-
times, Ned and Ellen ccuid watch, /rom its
height, a certain little boy who somehow or other
had liberty to play about the place, and who very
often made an umbrella of Don Jerome's som
brero, to the old man's great delight, and it must
be confessed, Ned and Nelly use'i to enjoy the in

fantile capers of this tiny personage ; the little
fellow when he could prattle, said, " he would
like another little child to play with him," and
his indulgent parents contrived to gratify the af
fectionate wish.

Finch executed his trust like a man of honor;
and as the captain's widow hud a very pretty
daughter, Finch was rewarded with her hand and
heart, and a handsome dowry; and, finally, in
herited all the treasures he had preserved to the
family of his friend.

And now what else is to be said ? Oh — poor
old Denis Corkery, I almost forgot him. He
could never be prevailed upon to leave Irelond.
He said he would die as he had lived among his
old friends in Galway — and so he did. And now
what more ? Why, that a great many more little
people were running about Ned's garden, and
that he and the exquisite Nelly lived long and
prosperously, a blessing to each other, and be
loved by all who knew them. That visits to
Paris were occasionally made, and that the faith
ful Phaidrig often had the pleasure of dandling
in his arms the children of his " darling Miss
Nelly."

I can not lay down my pen without givins,
thanks for the kind encouragement of my serial
works for two years, nor abstain from expressinp
the pleasure I have felt in my monthly intercourse
with an indulgent public. But pleasure may be
too dearly purchased, and I find myself unequal
to support the excessive fatigue of such unceas
ing labor along with my professional engagements.
Those well used to literary occupation complain
of the toil of writing a periodical as large as mine,
but I have had, in addition to the literary labor
that of etching the illustrations, attending at the
same time to miniature-painting during the day,
and frequently song-writing at night.

This would be an overtax on any constitution
for a third year, and I therefore, with thanks foi
past favors, beg to take my leave of periodica
literature for the present.

SAMTJEI. LOVE».

'J> ''*'•• ;-

'M*&M

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